by Darcy Burke
“I’ll do it,” Ambrose said.
The groom came forward and handed him the lead.
Orpheus nuzzled Ambrose’s head. His throat closed tighter, but he managed to get out, “Fetch my saddle.”
Welch’s brow furrowed. “You’ll ride?”
Was that a problem? “Someone’s been riding him, yes?”
“I have, and so has Oldham, periodically.”
“Yes, I’ll ride.”
Welch nodded and took himself off to the tack room.
Ambrose petted Orpheus’s nose. He’d missed this animal. More notably, he’d missed this pull of emotion, this sense of fitting together. He’d had a taste of it with Philippa. He recalled that first night, holding her in the coach on the way to Herrick House, their series of disasters behind them. In that moment he’d belonged to her and she to him.
Orpheus whinnied louder and met Ambrose’s palm with his questing nose. He allowed a small smile. “I’ve been an ass. None of this was your fault.”
Orpheus nuzzled him and rested his nose against Ambrose’s cheek. He closed his eyes a moment and patted Orpheus’s dark head. He’d no idea how good forgiveness—albeit from a horse—could feel. He ought to try it with himself some day.
Welch returned. Carefully, as if he were completing an act of contrition, Ambrose saddled Orpheus. He spoke to him quietly, affectionately, slowly rebuilding their bond. When he was finished, Ambrose took him out into the yard. The morning was bright; pale clouds skimmed across the blue sky. The breeze was strong off the bay, carrying the salty tang of the sea. Ambrose was glad he’d left his hat behind this morning, preferring to feel the air through his hair.
He swung himself atop Orpheus, and they launched down the path as if they’d never been apart. He cut west across Beckwith’s lands. His lands.
He took Orpheus to a canter, but only for a moment. Time and regret fell away, and they were moving at a full run.
The wind whipped over him and the fields blurred, his sheep white streaks as he and Orpehus flew by. Instead of going to see a tenant as he’d planned, he found himself at the ruins of the small cottage he and Lettice had used for their rendezvous. Though he’d ordered the building demolished, memories he’d kept long buried returned with blistering force.
Nigel throwing open the door. Lettice shrieking. Ambrose pulling on his breeches and following Nigel outside. Nigel shooting him in the shoulder and then riding off. Ambrose chasing him. The sickening crack of Nigel’s head as it struck the rock.
Ambrose shook as he recalled the blood and his brother’s unresponsiveness. Then the sheer horror of knowing Nigel would never wake up.
Hoof beats drew him to turn in his saddle. Philippa was bearing down on him.
He turned back, swearing. Every time he saw her, he was reminded of how he could barely control himself. How he’d ruined her and how he couldn’t hope to fix the situation.
She rode up beside him and offered a brilliant smile that squeezed Ambrose’s chest. “I was hoping to take that tour.”
He walked Orpheus away from her. “I’m busy today.”
She pressed her lips together. “Yes, I understood you were visiting tenants, but there aren’t any around here, so forgive me if I argue you don’t appear busy.” Her brows drew together. “What happened to the Ambrose I met at Lockwood House? The one who leapt to my assistance, who kept me from harm and from scandal—at least for a while.”
“That Ambrose is the same one who ultimately plunged you headfirst into ruin.”
She inclined her head. “I like him just the same. As well as the one who somehow caused his brother’s death.”
Ambrose flinched. He turned Orpheus from her.
She followed him. “I see how tortured you are. I would help you. If you’d let me.”
He pivoted to look at her. “I’m here for a prizefight, not to face the past.” That had been his intent anyway, but he could not longer deny that he had to face it. That or leave his beloved home again.
“And I’m here to determine my future. Unless you’d rather I go before the ten days are up.”
She sat very still, as if she were holding her breath. Allowing her to stay meant keeping his distance, physically. The one thing he couldn’t go back on—at least not now—was his vow of celibacy. It was a five-year-old promise he’d managed to keep, and breaking it seemed somehow dishonorable. He feared doing so would make him feel less like the man he was trying to be.
“You can stay, but my sentiments haven’t changed.”
She nodded. “Would you at least let me try to help you? As your friend?”
As his friend. It was the most he could hope for. How he wished he’d met her at a different time, in a different life.
“How do you propose to do that?”
She shrugged, her frame seeming to relax. “Why don’t we start with that tour?”
What harm could come from showing her around Beckwith? He had calls to make anyway. “Let’s go.”
Three days later, Philippa accompanied Ambrose on a now-routine afternoon ride. In fact, the past few days had followed a welcome pattern. In the morning, Philippa walked to Gerrans and visited the market stalls. She chatted with the various merchants and met the town’s residents who greeted her with kindness and warmth. They were delighted to meet a guest of Lord Sevrin’s—nearly as delighted as they were to have him back on the peninsula.
After taking luncheon with Ambrose and Mr. Ackley, she and Ambrose rode around the estate, as they were doing now. They approached a cottage, and Ambrose motioned for them to dismount.
He helped Philippa from her horse. “I need to speak with Mr. Lerner. His shearing shed needs repair.”
Philippa nodded. Each afternoon they listened to the tenants’ concerns and complaints. Ambrose heard them all with interest and care, and often stayed to provide assistance. While he was busy, Philippa spoke to the tenants’ wives who were universally complimentary of Ambrose’s return and inquisitive about Philippa’s presence. She merely smiled and said she was a guest from London.
Ambrose led her down the path to the cottage’s door and knocked three times. Mrs. Lerner—presumably—answered.
She bobbed a simply curtsey. “Good afternoon, your lordship.”
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Lerner. How are your boys?”
Philippa was amazed at how Ambrose recalled every tenant and every member of their family. She could see how he was truly master of Beckwith—or had been.
Mrs. Lerner regarded Ambrose skeptically. “Well, thank you. Mr. Lerner is out back.”
Ambrose nodded once. “May I present my guest, Lady Philippa Latham? Will it be all right if she remains here while I speak with your husband?”
Mrs. Lerner eyed Philippa. “Certainly, my lord.”
Ambrose leaned down to Philippa. “I won’t be long.” His breath caressed her ear, and she suppressed a delightful shiver.
After he left, Mrs. Lerner invited her inside and closed the door. “Would you care for tea?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Mrs. Lerner retreated to a back room. Philippa moved further into the cottage, to a main living area furnished with a worn settee and three rather comfortable looking chairs. A few minutes later Mrs. Lerner returned with a small tray. She set it on a table and poured the tea. “Cream and sugar?”
“Yes, thank you.” Philippa had been nervous during her first such encounter a couple of days ago, but everyone had been so welcoming, she now felt at ease.
Mrs. Lerner handed Philippa her cup then tended to her own. “It’s good his lordship finally came home. Will you be staying here with him?” She glanced up at Philippa.
No one else had chanced such a forward question, but Philippa had been expecting it. And since thus far she had no cause to believe otherwise, she answered, “I’ll be returning to London in a few days.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Lerner sounded a bit disappointed.
Philippa didn’t know what to make of that and so she ignored t
he reaction. “Are the shed repairs extensive?”
“Not terribly, especially if Lord Sevrin helps. And I’ve no doubt he will.”
Everyone commented on Ambrose’s helpfulness. He tried so hard to paint himself as an unworthy blackguard, but such sentiments only supported Philippa’s argument that he was a better man than he realized. “Lord Sevrin seems to do more than the usual landowner.”
“He always did, even before he was the viscount. Especially before.” Mrs. Lerner’s face pinked.
Philippa sought to put her at ease. “It’s all right. I’m aware of his lordship’s past…problems.”
Mrs. Lerner relaxed and sipped her tea. “We’re all right pleased he seems to have overcome that awful tragedy. We need him here, though I imagine it’s been difficult coming back.”
Philippa wouldn’t reveal how difficult. “I think so, but everyone has been so kind and welcoming.”
“We’re a close community. What happened was awful, but his lordship’s absence was far more troubling for us. I do hope he stays, as long as his duty allows.”
Philippa hoped so, too. In fact, she’d mention it to him. After another quarter hour, she and Ambrose took their leave.
They returned to Beckwith where Ambrose helped her dismount. His touch was gentle, but brief. She could only wonder what he felt, but every time she was near him, she recalled that first afternoon here in his chamber or that day in the stables at Benfield or that episode in the closet at Lady Anstruther’s ball and she became aroused. She wanted him, but as her days here were dwindling, she began to accept she’d never have him.
She was also loath to leave the Roseland Peninsula. “Beckwith is beautiful. I’ve enjoyed being here. Indeed, I’m not looking forward to leaving.” In just four days. Her insides clenched, but she strove to focus on this moment instead of her murky future—though it was becoming less murky by the moment.
“I’m glad you like it.”
They led their horses into the stable. Welch met them and took Matilda. Ambrose always cared for Orpheus now. Typically, Philippa would go to the house at this point and prepare for dinner. However, her conversation with Mrs. Lerner hovered in her mind.
She accompanied Ambrose to the tack area. “Mrs. Lerner says everyone is quite pleased to have you back. Indeed, they’re hoping you stay. Will you? Once the prizefight is over?”
He removed Orpheus’s bridle. “For a while. There are projects that require my attention.”
“Such as helping Mr. Lerner repair his shearing shed?”
He nodded without pausing in his task. She ought to go, but she wanted him to know what Mrs. Lerner had said. Maybe it would help him. “She indicated you seemed to have overcome the tragedy that befell you and your brother.”
Now he reacted. His brows dipped over his eyes, and his expression darkened. “I’m still here, the tragedy was all Nigel’s.”
A predictable response. She doubted he would ever relinquish any of that burden. “She told me what a good job you’ve done with Beckwith, how glad everyone is to have you back.”
He unstrapped Orpheus’s saddle, but said nothing.
Philippa waited another moment, but it became clear this was to be a one-sided conversation. “Ambrose, if you ever want to talk about—”
“I don’t.”
“It might help. You have all of this self-loathing, and really no one else blames—”
He looked at her sharply. “Have you been gathering information?”
Oh dear, she’d overstepped. “I’ve only listened to what people offered to tell me.”
His eyes narrowed. “What people?”
Beneath the weight of his stare, she panicked. She’d no wish to get Mrs. Oldham in any trouble, nor did she particularly want to tell him she’d befriended his former lover. She could scarcely believe she’d done that herself. “No one in particular.”
“Tell me who’s been talking to you.”
She brushed suddenly damp palms against her skirt. “Does it really matter when you won’t talk to me? Everyone cares about you, Ambrose. They aren’t telling tales behind your back, they’re trying to explain a terrible situation. People have forgiven you, or don’t you realize that?”
He glared at her. “You shouldn’t be talking about it to anyone.”
She refused to back down. Her time was running out. She had very few chances left to reach him. “You should be talking about it to me. I could help you find forgiveness. You and Nigel were in an awful situation, set up as you were to rival each other.”
His lip curled. “Is that what you think? We weren’t rivals.” His eyes glittered dangerously. “I was his better. In every way. People shouldn’t be wasting their forgiveness on me and neither should you.”
His resolve to despise himself was beyond maddening! “Don’t tell me what I should or shouldn’t do. You didn’t mean for Nigel to die. Though I still don’t know precisely what happened—”
“And don’t ask me to tell you.” He returned his attention to Orpheus. “Don’t expect me for dinner.”
She watched him another moment, but knew further conversation was pointless. She turned, her shoulders drooping. She was no closer to getting him to lower his guard than when she’d arrived. She’d been so sure the last few days had brought them closer, but he seemed as distant as ever.
It seemed he wouldn’t ever forgive himself. Nor would he trust her with his pain. And she was damned sure he wasn’t going to fall in love with her.
Later that night, Ambrose stepped out of his tepid bath. He was such a selfish ass. Philippa had been patient. She’d been kind. She’d been understanding. And he’d thrown her concern back in her face because he was too afraid to tell her what a beast he really was. If he talked to her about the past, if he revealed all that he’d done, she’d leave him. He didn’t want her to leave him.
He owed her an apology.
He dried himself and donned a robe. Then he left his bedchamber and went into the sitting room. The door to Philippa’s chamber was closed. He hesitated. He could apologize to her in the morning.
But his feet carried him to her door. He knocked softly.
“Enter,” came her response.
His hand hovered above the latch. Then the door opened. She stood just over the threshold. In a silken wrapper over a night rail.
He swallowed in search of moisture for his suddenly parched mouth. “I, ah, I came to apologize.” he croaked.
“Oh, thank you.” She smiled softly. “Come in.”
Yes, she was a siren because his mind screamed for him to run, but his feet stepped over the threshold, and he closed the door behind him.
She gave him a hooded, sultry look. “Actually, your arrival is rather fortuitous. I have a problem, and perhaps you can help.”
He eyed her warily, every part of him—save one that was currently tenting his robe—screamed no. “Perhaps.” That one part was apparently louder than the rest.
She retreated further into her chamber. A low fire burned in the grate, casting her in warmth and shadow.
She turned toward him. “Your face looks better. I heard you lost that fight.”
Ambrose briefly considered sacking Oldham. Neither Ackley nor Ned possessed the nerve to share that information. “I did. Does that surprise you?”
“I’m certain it surprised you.” How had she come to know him so well when he’d done everything to keep her at bay? She fidgeted with the tie of her wrap. “About my problem…”
He lingered near the door, afraid to move too close to her, as faintly clothed as they were and as furious as his cock was pulsing. “What do you need?” And why couldn’t you have asked a bloody servant?
Her pink tongue darted over her lower lip. Ambrose sagged back against the door frame.
Delicately, she cleared her throat. “The other day in your room, you seemed close to…something. Goodness, this is embarrassing.” She looked toward the fireplace, her cheeks flushing deep pink. “I’ve tried to do that for
myself, but I can’t seem to do it right.” She managed to bring her gaze back to his. “Would you help me?”
Bloody hell. Was she asking him to help her pleasure herself? He could barely keep his hands from her now, but under the full weight of her feminine wiles he would very well be lost. He swallowed, with effort.
Her eyes glowed like amber in the firelight. “I know you’d prefer I leave you alone, but since we’ve done those other things, I was hoping you wouldn’t mind telling me how to do it.”
“Um, what have you tried?” His blood pounded in his temple, his ears, his cock.
“I touch myself.” She placed a hand on her thigh where the edges of her dressing gown met. “And it feels…nice, but when you touch my breasts, when you…put your mouth on them, it feels different. Better.” Her eyes were glassy, her breathing grew shorter. “Should I touch myself there?” She raised her hand to her breast, her fingers pressing against the top of her dressing gown and sliding between the fabric.
Her nipple hardened and his body came away from the doorframe like fire to oxygen. “Ah, you could. Maybe just cup the underside.” She followed his direction. What was he doing? “And now touch the nipple.” He gritted his teeth as her fingertips closed around the point.
She squeezed lightly and gasped. “It’s so strange because I felt that down there. Between my thighs.”
The same place he felt it, and he wasn’t even touching her or himself. His prick threatened to burn through his robe.
“But when I touch myself there,” her gaze flicked downward, “I can’t seem to find the right place.”
Oh, hell, he would surely regret this tomorrow, but she’d asked him for very little and offered so much. He couldn’t say no.
“Lie on the bed.”
She did as he commanded. She was the most provocative sight he’d ever beheld, cupping her breast while her dressing gown fell open to reveal a night rail that should’ve reached her knees, but was bunched up nearly to her sex.