by Tanya Wilde
Not the act of kissing itself. No, they had done quite a bit of that lately. But the soul-searching aspect. They’d kissed tentatively, flirtatiously, seductively, and lustily before, but never like this. Never like their very lives depended on it.
But it had felt right.
Intrinsically right.
Day by day, moment by moment, Ambrose revealed greater and more intriguing depth to his character. Facets she found deeply appealing. Almost as if he was stepping back into the light, and suddenly, there were more dimensions present, ones she hadn’t imagined he possessed.
He was almost . . . delightful.
“Is he whistling a merry tune?” Poppy asked, the question jerking Willow back to reality.
“I believe he is,” Willow confirmed, having half convinced herself she had to be imagining the sound as Ambrose walked away.
“Well, I for one cannot believe he just kissed you and then walked off as if nothing happened. Are you still going to deny the man is doting on you?”
“Of course I am, because that was . . .”
Lovely. Enthralling. Deeply moving.
Something she wanted to do again.
Something she was sure she’d dreamed up in her mind.
“It’s worse than I first thought,” Poppy stepped up to her side, examining her flushed cheeks closely. “You are doting on him, too.”
Chapter 17
Willow was not doting on her husband.
Poppy was wrong. Dead wrong. Doting implied she adored and worshiped the ground her husband walked upon. And that was not the case. Completely and utterly not the case.
Now, if doting had meant something along the lines of obsessed with or absorbed by him, which it did not, that would have been another matter entirely.
She entered the drawing room where Ambrose awaited her arrival a touch out of breath. They were dining together tonight. Alone. And her heart was beating a hundred beats per second at the mere thought of sitting across a table from him for hours.
Hours.
Her body exploded with heat at the thought. Well, it was time to test whether or not she was as flammable as she seemed.
Flammable she might very well be.
Doting she was not.
Slowing at the entrance of the drawing room, she found Ambrose standing at the window, gazing out into the night. She took a moment to admire the broad expanse of his shoulders. He made an imposing figure, dressed in cream breeches that hugged his powerful legs in a fashion that ought to be outlawed.
The temperature in the room soared.
Willow smoothed her hands over her evening dress of emerald silk, dragging in a tight breath.
Ambrose turned then, his eyes burning as they fixed on her. Intense. They are always so intense. Her chest expanded, and butterflies fluttered in her belly.
“You look lovely.”
“Thank you.” Gooseflesh prickled over her scalp. “I must admit, I was surprised to receive your invitation. You usually dine at the club.”
He inclined his head. “I thought to make up for missing the last one.”
“That is thoughtful of you,” she murmured, entering the room. “I hope I did not keep you waiting too long.”
He smiled lightly, his gaze falling to her lips. “A man is accustomed from a young age to wait on a lady.”
“I loathe waiting on anyone,” Willow admitted. “And I must confess . . . I’m perplexed . . .”
“By?” Amusement colored his voice.
“The Gallery. Gunter’s. Inviting me to dinner. Smiling. You do realize we fled the scene of vandalism?”
“I already reimbursed the Gallery with a generous amount and no charges will be pressed,” he drawled, his steady composure in clear contrast with the turmoil erupting inside her.
“Oh,” Willow said, mortified when her voice came out as a croak.
He chuckled, warm and rich, and the sound sent prickles along her spine. He held out his arm, his grin turning wolfish. “Are you ready?”
“I’m ready,” she murmured, placing her fingers on his sleeve.
That smile.
She found herself grinning back at him.
Excitement stirred within her, a hint of victory in its wake. This was truly progress. And though she knew she should be focusing on convincing him to let her sister be, Willow found herself thrilled for reasons far beyond that. She wanted to get to know this man, understand him. She desired a more meaningful relationship. She didn’t want him to just be a means to an end any longer—a method to get with child. She wanted him to be her husband, in every way, to become her true family.
That did not mean she was doting on him.
He escorted her into the dining room and seated her at the table. A few candles flickered, not as many as she had lit before, but much more intimate.
Wendell appeared to fill their glasses with wine and Willow wasted no time in draining hers, motioning for more.
“Why haven’t you broached the subject of your sister?” He took a sip of wine, his gaze watchful. “Pleaded her case in her absence?”
The question was so blunt Willow almost rocked back in her chair. He wanted to talk about Holly now? She wasn’t at all sure if she was ready for that battle yet. Holly was still in hiding. Willow had time.
“Why have you not pressed me to read your stuffy rules?” Willow countered.
“And deprive you of the utter vexation on my features when you inevitably break them?”
“I’m not sure I appreciate your newfound humor.”
“Not at all my character, I agree.”
Nervous laughter bubbled up through her throat. “Next, you will tell me that you are giving our marriage the benefit of the doubt.”
“Perhaps I already am.” Ambrose lifted his glass to salute her. “To prosperity.”
She raised her own. “Prosperity.”
He swirled his drink in hand, tilting his head to the side. “How do you propose we settle the matters between us?”
Keep on romancing me with swooping kisses, to start.
“I hadn’t thought you’d compromise,” Willow admitted. “With your rules and anger for my sister.”
“I might. If I understood the reason you married me.”
This again.
She sent him her most innocent look. “What happened for you to become such a bloodhound on the subject?”
“You happened.”
“Me?”
“Do I have another wife?”
He sounded so put out Willow laughed.
Then she sobered. “Very well, I suppose there is no reason not to tell you.” Except her fear that he’d judge her too harshly for it, that he wouldn’t understand, that he didn’t want children after all. “I wished to become with child.”
His eyes widened, and a flash of shock crossed his features. “You married me . . . to become with child.”
“Yes.” She emphasized her answer with a nod.
He settled back into his chair and regarded her with an unfathomable expression. His eyes were dark pools, impossible to read.
What was he thinking?
Her nerves pushed the next words out of her mouth. “Shocking, I know, especially given how I then proceeded to bar you from my bedroom.” She laughed nervously. His expression shifted then, but she still couldn’t read it. “But in truth, I’ve always wanted children and there you were, standing at the altar, and I—”
“It’s not shocking,” he interrupted. “Just . . . unexpected.”
“Why? Did you think I had some other devious motivation?”
“I do not believe you to be devious.” The corners of his mouth lifted. “An opportunist, perhaps, but not devious.”
She lifted a shoulder. It was a fair assessment. “I suppose I am that.”
He gazed at her a moment longer and she realized she was holding her breath.
“I am not opposed to children, Willow.”
Something in her chest loosened at his admission. The fear she’d
been carrying melted away.
Oh, good.
“I may have been opposed to marriage, but now that I’m married, I’m happy to give you all the children you wish.” His lips curled into a mischievous smirk. “Even happier when I think of the process that leads to them.”
Heat flushed up her spine instantly as she recalled their . . . process. She needed to change the subject. Immediately. Before she made a fool of herself by rising from her chair and throwing herself at her husband to initiate that very process.
“So now that I’ve confessed my secret, tell me, why did you follow me to Gunter’s?”
“Would you believe me if I told you I found myself bereft of your company?”
“Please, give me more credit than that.” She took another sip from her glass. “Much more credit.”
“It was worth a try,” he drawled with a lazy smile. “The truth is I myself am not sure why I followed you. All I could think about was kissing you.”
Gooseflesh broke out on her arms.
Lust. Not doting.
“I. . . You . . . That is . . .”
“Rather unsettling?” he suggested.
Her eyes met his. “Unexpectedly so.”
“No more for you than it is for me, I assure you.”
“Is that why you haven’t drawn up another set of stuffy rules?”
His lips twitched. “As you have not read them, you can hardly call them stuffy, now can you?”
“If they weren’t stuffy, you would not be married to me.”
“Then I suppose fate has smiled down on me.”
Willow’s brows scrunched together. “Are you flirting with me?”
“If you are frowning, I reckon I’m not doing it right.”
The man was impossible!
And yet, Willow’s insides fluttered.
Lord save me, I am doting on my husband.
“Why haven’t you drawn up another set?” she pressed, trying her best to stay on subject.
“I have. They are on your desk.”
Her eyes narrowed on him. “You shamelessly flirt with me and then you tell me that?”
“Does that mean I am crusty?”
Willow swore his eyes sparkled. She shook her head in exasperation. “I’m only going to burn them again.”
His lips curved.
“At least explain their purpose. You owe me that much.”
His shoulders rose and fell. “They prevent lack of structure.”
“There must be more to it than that, this need of yours to control.”
He flashed her another disarming smile. “What gentleman would resist keeping such a beautiful wife under his thumb, where he knows she will be safe and protected?”
“When you say it like that, it almost sounds romantic.”
Laughter glimmered in his eyes. And something else, something that robbed the air from her lungs. His gaze dropped to the exposed flesh of her low-cut gown, and Willow was sure he could see her pulse leaping just there, beating away at an alarming pace.
“What are you up to?” The question leaped from her tongue. But Willow was sure he was up to something. He was acting far too agreeable.
“I’m attempting to be charming.”
“Why?”
“Such skepticism. Did you not wish for us to become more amicable toward one another?”
“You expect me to believe you are being charming because I suggested it?”
His careless smile widened. “So you do think me charming.”
“Calculating, more like it—devious, even.”
He laughed. “Well, they do say there is nothing more honest than a man and a woman in bed.”
Heat pooled at her core at the sudden intensity of his eyes.
“But we are not in bed,” Willow pointed out.
“But we could be.”
Oh dear lord.
No matter how hard she tried to draw air into her lungs, to reply with a witticism, she only remained breathless in response.
“You cannot possibly be propositioning me?”
“I promise you, Willow: there is so much more honesty for you to discover in my bed.” This time roguish mischief did sparkle in his gaze.
“What about my sister?” she said, at last finding her voice. “Will you agree to let this grievance of yours go?”
Since he brought it up, she might as well ask. Before she did something as wanton as jump into his bed. He had a way to slay her wits. And that was just with a kiss.
He stared at her for so long, Willow thought he wouldn’t answer. The fire in his eyes cooled and a different kind of intensity filled them.
She hardly took note of the food the footman placed before them, her gaze held captive by his, attempting to decipher every subtle change in his face.
Finally, he answered with, “I am open to discussing my initial intentions on one condition.”
“Which is?” She could hardly believe her ears.
“Any discussion on the matter will remain separate from our marriage.”
Her heart skipped a beat before galloping forward. She gathered his meaning. He didn’t want their marriage to depend solely on the situation with Holly—not its success or its failure—but he was willing to discuss the matter. He was willing to listen.
Ambrose had just bent his stance—given an inch—a large one.
Her lips parted to say something, anything, or to just breathe. She wanted to dance on the table from relief and could not help the wide smile that spread across her face. “I agree that any negotiation on my sister’s part is separate from our marriage.”
When he returned her smile, nearly bashful in its presentation, her joy was suddenly replaced by a burning need to kiss him, to roll around the sheets, tangled limbs and all—in his bed. His earlier words had put a question in her mind, one which now refused to leave: Was there really more to discover in his bed?
As if he read her mind, he said, “And that negotiation is separate from the bedroom, as well.”
Willow couldn’t speak, but she managed a single solitary nod. When she did, his eyes filled with heat. Immediately, a mirroring heat bloomed inside her, beckoning, enticing.
For a moment, they merely stared at one another as the temperature of the room increased.
“Honesty is always a good start, don’t you think?” she finally managed in a shaky voice.
“I agree.” His lips stretched and stretched. He held her gaze for a long moment, and then murmured, “Are you going to admit, then, that there is the mutual attraction between us?”
Drawing in a breath, she slowly exhaled. “Yes, I shall admit that there is.”
It took every ounce of Willow’s nerve not to expire into a puddle as she made that statement, but the ravenous hunger on Ambrose’s face was worth the courage.
His voice dropped an octave. “I’m particularly fond of your lips.”
Willow felt herself flush in response. “I . . . I enjoy kissing you, too.”
The moment was unbearably intimate. There would be no hiding from him, no escaping his presence from this night forward.
“But what of your pledge to withhold pleasure from me?” Willow asked. It was the whole experience or none of it. She no longer wanted to enter his bed only for the sake of becoming with child. She wanted to enter his bed for the sheer pleasure she could find there.
“That? Already forgotten.” His look turned sheepish. “Not one of my proudest moments.”
You can say that again, husband.
“Then it’s purged from my mind, as well.”
He gave her an unrepentant grin. “Shall we move on to desert?”
Chapter 18
Outside, the sky lit up as lightning crackled. Rain beat against the window and the loud roar of thunder broke through the sky. The tremors that shook the night were inside Ambrose, too. He could feel their vibrations, warning him that the taut, tenuous grip on his control was about to shatter in so many pieces it would be impossible to assemble them again.
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To hell with it.
Ambrose didn’t know what had compelled him to the concession that allowed his wife to change his mind about the fate of her sister, but he bloody well did not regret it—it had brought a smile to her face that had reached all the way to her eyes. In fact, it was odd, but he no longer felt as if a bog was swallowing him up whole.
He watched as his wife’s gaze drifted to his bed. It was large, designed for a large man. He smirked. He couldn’t help himself. He wasn’t about to let her out of that bed for a very long time.
“This is your chamber now, too.”
“You think I should sleep here . . .” She circled back to him, her tongue darting out to moisten her lips, sending a wave of lust to his cock. “Every night?”
“Yes.” He couldn’t say more than that, not with her looking at him the way she was. Innocent. Intrigued.
She had married him because she wanted a child. He’d never thought of children—he never thought he’d marry. But the moment she had confessed her desire, something warm had spread through his chest. Something that had felt like joy.
“And if I wish to sleep in my chamber?”
He took the two steps that closed the distance between them and slid his hands into her hair, tangling the golden strands between his fingers and tilted her head back. “This is your chamber,” he brushed his thumb over her lower lip.
Her face brightened with a smile.
“Really, Ambrose?” She moved even closer to him, her breasts pressing up against his body. “You know how I despise commands.”
The teasing note in her voice drew his gaze to her lips, and his self-discipline dissolved. He bent his head and lowered his mouth to hers in a deep, hard kiss of total possession. It wasn’t enough. Would it ever be enough? Would he ever get enough? He didn’t think so.
He drew back to stare at her. “You drive me bloody crazy.”
He heard his own desperation in the words but didn’t care. Hell, he wasn’t certain what he was desperate for, except that in that moment, it was unthinkable not to possess his wife in every way. His tongue danced with hers, seeking more. She didn’t protest his lack of constraint, and instead, entwined her arms around his neck and returned his kiss with equal fervor.