The Middleton Box Set: Regency Historical Romance Series

by Tanya Wilde

  “No, but certainly one better suited for you.”

  Ambrose couldn’t argue that point.

  They sat in silence for a few moments, sipping their drinks.

  Then, unfortunately, Jonathan spoke again. “I wonder . . . have you ever stopped to ask why your wife married you?”

  “To protect her family.”

  Jonathan clucked his tongue. “Do you truly believe one sister would run away without a qualm, but the other would marry you for duty alone? How unenlightened of you.”

  “My wife is more practical than her sister.”

  “Women are rarely practical when it comes to men and marriage.”

  “My wife is an exception. She. . .” His eyes jumped to his brother.

  Absolutely had another motive.

  Willow might not be as impractical as Holly but she was a Middleton. Their actions were never simply straightforward in his experience.

  “Bloody hell.”

  Jonathan’s teeth flashed. “Putting it together, are you?”

  Ambrose muttered a curse. He’d not give him the satisfaction of his panic. He wanted his wife more than he wanted to breathe in some moments, and he didn’t even know her driving motivation for marrying him. He, who prided control, was playing with unpredictable fire. More worryingly, he wasn’t sure that learning her true motive for marrying him—no matter what it may be—would even affect his desire for her at all.

  That should terrify him.

  It did terrify him.

  But he had a feeling it wasn’t going to stop his pursuit in the least, regardless of the danger. He wanted more of her, full stop.

  Ambrose glanced at his younger brother, considering him. “Why haven’t you declared your refusal to wed Miss Middleton, eh? Are you not supposed to be up in arms, refusing to wed the woman who deserted me?”

  “I wager half my savings that Miss Middleton will continue to evade your clutches,” Jonathan’s eyes crinkled, and his lips pulled into a smile, “allowing me to be merely entertained by it all.”

  “And if she doesn’t evade my proverbial clutches?”

  “I’d wager the other half on your wife.”

  “My wife?”

  Jonathan gave an imperceptible nod. “To convince you otherwise.”

  “And if I don’t give in?”

  “Then I suppose I shall run away and live the rest of my days in destitution.”

  “Whose side are you on?” Ambrose demanded, setting his cards aside.

  “You are trying to marry me off like a mother hen, Ambrose, and for no good reason, so I’m not on yours.” Jonathan leaned back in his chair. “Perhaps it is time for you to decide, dear brother, what is more important to you: satisfaction for the slight against you—and let me remind you, I’m a key part of that devilish plot—or your wife, who will most certainly square the accounts should you succeed.”

  Ambrose met his brother’s gaze.

  “Do you want your wife raining hell on you for the next fifty years or do you want to finally let go of ten years’ worth of guilt and fear?”

  Well, when his brother put it like that . . . it was most irritating.

  Ambrose rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  He hadn’t given thought to what his wife might do, hadn’t considered she’d exact her own brand of justice on him. But now that he thought about it, there was never any question—she’d call for his head.

  That didn’t align with his single most desire at all.

  Damnation.

  Holly Middleton had thrown his world on its axis. She’d slipped from his fingers and Willow, who didn’t tolerate his demands, had walked into it. He was losing control by the hour. Did he simply want Holly Middleton forced to his bidding to regain a modicum of control? Or just pride.

  He didn’t know.

  And he didn’t know if he could let it go.

  But he did know one additional fact at the end of this conversation. A truth that had the added advantage of delaying this particular debate a little longer.

  He knew why he married his wife.

  Now he wanted to know why the hell she had married him.

  Chapter 15

  Anger pulsed through Willow’s veins as she prowled the halls of her home in search of her husband.

  Scurrilous beast! Rotten cad! Horrid ogre!

  How dare he!

  One hour after informing her maid she’d be joining her sister for ices at Gunter’s, a missive arrived from her husband—a missive forbidding her the outing. The utter gall of the man.

  It was beyond the pale. Worse still, he had sent a note, a note, to convey the order and, conveniently, he was nowhere to be found on the property—a property she was not allowed to leave.

  Well, she’d see about that.

  More than anything, Willow was at a loss. Today had been one of those days where, had she possessed a diary, there’d be hearts and kisses scribbled all over her husband’s name. Revealing childhood dreams, kissing each other senseless and making off in a mad dash after knocking over a seventeenth century sculpture was the stuff of diaries.

  It was almost impossible to reconcile this cold, infuriating note with that man. Four steps forward and eleven steps back. It was as though Ambrose was purposefully backsliding to a more sheltered remoteness—one where his heart was not exposed.

  And to some degree, Willow understood why. He loathed laying bare any vulnerability. On the other hand, he made her furious. Was it so hard to include a reason? Adopt a kinder tone?

  The answer to that was a resound no.

  “Where is my husband?” Willow demanded as she entered her husband’s bedchamber, startling Benson, Ambrose’s valet. Her gaze swept the room, taking note of the dark furnishings and the large, quite enormous, bed in the center. Her eyes darted back to the valet, who stood ramrod stiff, a look of disapproval on his face.

  Well bully for him. Willow did not rightly care what he thought.

  “Your Grace, I believe his lordship is to be found in his study.”

  “I just came from his study and have searched every other room in this house. The duke is nowhere to be found.”

  “Perhaps he returned there during your search of him.”

  “Do not be impertinent, Benson. You dress the duke. You know his plans long before anyone else in this house. Where is he?”

  The servant’s lips pinched together. “I cannot say, Your Grace.”

  Clearly, he had no intention of telling her. Well, Willow refused to be a puppet that danced according to her husband’s will. As things stood at that very moment, Benson had more privilege than her. He was free from any strings. He was free to leave the house!

  “I must admit, I am astounded by the ease of which you lie.”

  Benson’s face went slack. Hah! The man was not made of marble after all.

  “Your Grace,” he began.

  Willow stopped him with the lift of her hand. “Are you telling me that the duke does not inform you of his schedule?”

  “That is for his man of affairs, Your Grace.”

  “Yes, but don’t you dress him according to that schedule?”

  A light shade of red surfaced in the valet’s jawline.

  “Well, I shan’t keep you from your duties, then. Do send word to my husband, wherever he is, if he does not present himself to me in one hour, I will leave, and I will not return.”

  She turned away. Let the valet stew on that! Of course, Willow could just disobey his missive and go for ices, but that would hardly send the message she wished to convey—he could not act the prince and then transform into a beast at a moment’s notice. She would not be treated in such a fashion.

  “Are you certain that is wise, Your Grace?”

  Willow pinned the man with her most frosty look. “Do not forget your place, Benson. You may be loyal to my husband and believe yourself to be under his protection, but I am not an enemy you want to make.”

  “I only meant—”

  “I am well aware of wh
at you meant,” she interrupted him. “I am leaving on the hour if my husband does not return. Who do you suppose will stop me? You, Benson? Will you tie me up and lock me in my room?”

  “Of course not, Your Grace,” Benson said, looking affronted.

  “I am pleased to note you are more intelligent than that.”

  Turning on her heel, she stalked from the room, feeling somewhat like herself again.

  She glanced down at the note clutched between her fingers, tangible proof of her husband’s beastly side. She recalled the look on Ambrose’s face when he’d revealed his childhood dream. How she wanted to kiss him right there in the gallery. And then, as if he knew her very soul, he had pulled her aside and kissed her. The world could have stopped at that moment and Willow would not have minded.

  Willow balled her hands into small fists. Something had shifted. At least, something had for her. And sure, the primary reason she’d married the duke was to get with child, and that goal hadn’t changed. But after glimpsing the carefree man her husband had once been, both while waltzing and in the Gallery, Willow wanted that Ambrose to be her husband in all ways, too.

  She wanted the beast and she wanted the prince. She wanted all of him. And since that fantasy had taken hold, it was impossible to shake. She wanted love. She wanted a real marriage. She wanted a child.

  She wanted everything.

  Ambrose tugged at his cravat, staring at the shut door of his wife’s chamber as though it was a hostile party. Benson had sent word that Willow had threatened to leave. He would never allow that. But it still set him on edge. She was his wife, and she was damn well staying with him.

  He was only three minutes late. That did not keep his stomach from twisting into knots. Those minutes had, however, stalled him from entering her chamber. Willow did not make idle threats. And the only reason he hadn’t lost his cool was that the servants would have informed him the moment she left the residence.

  Inside himself, somewhere beneath the light buzz of brandy, Ambrose searched for the cold, controlling counterpart that had served him well these past ten years. The one that would serve him well now in dealing with his wife. How bloody inconvenient that part of him was intolerably silent, leaving him with a horrific case of nerves.

  He gave the cravat one last tug and entered.

  The first thing that struck him was her scent. Remarkably sweet, the aroma of flowers tempted him to toss down his boxing gloves then and there. Not that he planned to spar with her. He did not fight. He ordered.

  That said, perhaps sending a note forbidding her to leave hadn’t been wise. In fact, that had been Jonathan’s exact words. But after being soaked to the bone just hours before, she wished to go for ices? It was deuced irresponsible. She could catch a cold. Which could lead to inflammatory infection. Which could lead to infection of the lungs.

  Nevertheless, he ought to have chosen his words with more care, especially after the morning they had shared—a morning that left his head spinning in all directions.

  Then his brain deserted him and he’d penned a careless note.

  He was a marvelous idiot, yes.

  But did she have to bloody threaten to leave him?

  For a man who thrived on control, he had lost all of his. It had been years since he allowed his emotions to take command of his actions. Then there was the question: Why had his wife married him? What secrets did his little duchess hold?

  She faced the armoire when he entered, hands on her hips, brows pulled together in thought. His eyes missed no detail, from the suitcase at her feet to the dresses scattered over the bed and the low fire burning in the hearth.

  Bloody hell, she really was leaving.

  “You do realize,” he drawled, venturing further into the chamber, “there’s no place you can go where I cannot find you.”

  She swung around to face him, anger flashing in the depth of those stormy blue eyes. Gone was the soft, powder blue he had come to expect from her—gone was the gentle pull of her mouth, replaced by a firm, unyielding line.

  Her chin lifted a notch. “That remains to be seen.”

  “If you are referring to your sister—that is different.”

  “She still managed to slip through your fingers.”

  “Again, not the same. There is no leaving me, love. I will never let you go,” Ambrose murmured, and when she slanted him a scathing look, he lifted his hands in surrender. “Not to mention I did not pin you as a woman who gave up so easily.”

  “Oh? And what sort of woman did you take me for?”

  “The sort that slayed arrogant dukes,” Ambrose said with the lift of his mouth.

  She turned away and resumed her packing. “Is that an attempt at humor?”

  Ambrose shrugged. “You’d have to remain in residence to find out.”

  A snort answered him. “If there is anything to slay, it’s arrogance itself.”

  He clucked his tongue. “Fair point. However, running is not the answer.”

  “I beg to differ.”

  “Then run if you must. Attempt to make it past the front door.”

  “Oh, I will make it much farther than that,” she said without sparing him the slightest glance.

  “Not with me on your heels,” he countered.

  She shot him a glare over her shoulder before fully facing him.

  Ah, now we come to the heart of it.

  “How dare you forbid me to see my sister?”

  “I did not forbid you to see your sister, I forbade you going for ices,” he pointed out, his attention drawn to her lips and their soft, sensual arch.

  “That,” she spluttered, “might even be worse, I cannot rightly decide. But if you refuse me my family, I am leaving.”

  The words had an odd effect on Ambrose. Instead of being angry at her threat, he found himself softening. That alone caused his heart to slam against his chest with punishing thuds. He found himself drawn to her like nothing before.

  “I will never refuse you your family, Willow. I, better than anyone, know how it feels to live without one of them.” His gaze traveled over the scattered dresses before settling back on her. “Your home is here, with me.”

  She took a furious step toward him, high in indignation. Christ, she was beautiful—especially when she was spitting fire at him. She pointed to the crumbled piece of paper on the floor. He grimaced. Not his finest moment, penning that note.

  “I get that your father forced marriage on you and I suppose I can even understand your controlling nature given some of your past. What I cannot accept is your note. If you forbid me the delights of ices, then you can at least forbid me in person. Which, by the by, is ridiculous.”

  “Not after you were drenched to the bone this morning. Not if you can catch a cold.” His words were clipped.

  “I’m much sturdier than that,” she said, holding his dark gaze. “And if that was your concern, why not tell me in your note?”

  Ambrose dragged an exaggerated hand through his hair. “My first reaction is to order. Demand. Command. Relinquishing control does not come easy to me.”

  “I’m astonished you can admit that.”

  So was he. Speaking of admissions. “Answer me this: why did you marry me?”

  She blinked, her mouth parting and closing again. “You know why.”

  “Refresh my memory,” Ambrose drawled.

  Her brows puckered. “To save my family’s reputation.”

  “And yet your sister showed no interest in saving your family’s name from scandal.”

  “As you can imagine, we are quite different,” she pointed out.

  Ambrose took a moment to absorb his wife’s response. Anger colored her features, but not enough to rile a real answer from her. He ought to just kiss her and pry the answers from her with his tongue. But she would probably not appreciate the effort at the moment, so he resisted.

  “You are different,” Ambrose agreed. “There is no disputing that—but you married me aware of the reasons your sister ran off
. What did you hope to gain, other than saving your family? Am I to believe you are a martyr?”

  “I became a duchess. The perks of my title are enough.”

  Ambrose gave a disbelieving snort. “You do not possess a social climbing bone in your body, so forgive me, Willow, if I remain unconvinced.”

  “That’s not entirely true,” she denied. “Every woman possesses at least one such bone.”

  “Mm, then why, since gaining the coveted title, have you shown little care or interest in the responsibilities that come with it?

  “I have not!”

  “Sneaking out in the dead of night?”

  She scoffed. “That doesn’t precisely unmake me a duchess. And what of your misbehavior?”

  “Mine?” The thought was laughable.

  “Your desire to control everyone including your servants.”

  “Hardly misbehavior.”

  “You find pleasure in punishing others.”

  “I assure you, I find no pleasure in punishing anyone.”

  “You threatened to deny my desires if I broke your rules,” she accused.

  “You desire me?” His lips cracked in a wolfish grin.

  “I do not,” she scoffed.

  “Interesting to bring up that particular moment. No mention of toast this time?” Ambrose murmured. “Ah. Is that it then? You married me because you hold a torch for me?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Me thinks my duchess doth protest too much.”

  “I married you to save my family from scandal, that’s that,” she replied hotly.

  His gaze flicked to the sheet of papers lying untouched on her desk. “Still haven’t been tempted to read them?”

  She cast him an unimpressed glower. “I’m quite happy ignoring them, I assure you. In fact, I should just rip them up.”

  “Destroying a piece of paper does not destroy the weight of its content. Or change the man who wrote it.”

  She ignored him and sauntered over to the rules, snatching them up. With a defiant glare, she crossed over to the fire.

  Ambrose arched a single brow.

  “I do not wish to change you, but neither do I want to live by a set of rules copied down on paper.”

  “You aren’t living by them,” Ambrose pointed out.