by Darcy Burke
“A bit.”
“Wait until we reach the wet sand.” He tightened his grip on her fingers and led her toward the waves.
This was about as close to perfect as she’d ever experienced. Walking hand in hand with Ambrose on a nearly deserted beach where they could be exactly who they were. No one to fear, no one to judge, no one to keep them apart.
Her feet felt light and wondrous upon the sand, as if she were gliding beside Ambrose. Then they reached the damp, compacted sand where the waves had swept during high tide. It was much cooler and didn’t come up between her toes. The further they walked, the wetter the sand became. The waves were breaking just ahead, maybe twenty or so feet in front of them.
She slowed her pace. “How does this work? Do we stand here and wait for the waves to come?”
He was a few steps in front of her, still holding her hand. He turned his head to look at her over his shoulder. “We can, or we can walk up to them.”
“Is it safe?” She suffered a moment of trepidation recalling what Oldham had said about the sea being full of surprises. “Oldham cautioned me not to turn my back.”
“Excellent advice. It’s perfectly safe where we are and where we’ll be. The water will not come above your calves.”
She turned her head and looked up at him. “What about my dress?”
“You’ll have to hold it up. Or let it get wet. Your choice.”
She batted her eyelashes at him. “Lord Sevrin, are you trying to entice me to dampen my skirts?”
He laughed, and she grinned at the sound. Her chest expanded and suddenly the day seemed brighter, warmer, more vivid in every way.
“You’re a terrible flirt, Lady Philippa.” With his free hand he pointed out at the water. “The waves crash out there, falling over each other. See the white?”
Philippa nodded, transfixed by the ebb and flow. It really was quite beautiful. She moved to stand beside him, her feet sinking into the squishy sand.
He leaned his head down next to hers and spoke against her ear. “Then they roll in, some very gently so that they barely lap at the shore and others—oh, here comes one—with more purpose.”
Philippa tried to back away, but Ambrose held her fast. “I’ve got you.”
She turned her head. His cheek was so close. She could kiss him if she dared—
She gasped as frigid water rushed over her feet, wetting the hem of her gown.
“You forgot your dress,” he said, turning to look at her. Then he swept her up so quickly, she automatically threw her arms around his neck for safety. This wave—so quick on the heels of the last—came higher, to his upper calf. She’d be drenched if he hadn’t picked her up.
They stared into each other’s eyes as the water receded. Slowly, he set her back on her feet. She cursed her failure to prolong the embrace.
“Now,” he said, “Are you ready to jump the next one?”
Jump? “Whatever do you mean?”
He took her hand again and led her forward. “Mind your dress this time.”
Philippa grasped her skirt and lifted the hem.
“When the next wave comes, jump over the edge.”
The water came up again, softer than the one that had gotten them wet.
“Now!” Ambrose tightened his grip on her hand and jumped as the edge of the wave came at them. Philippa jumped with him, and they came down into the shallow water. Cold droplets splashed their ankles and calves. Philippa laughed. Ambrose joined her, his dark eyes sparkling with delight.
No, there was no more perfect moment than this.
They spent the next quarter hour jumping the waves and running from the ones that were particularly robust. Philippa considered tripping so that he might sweep her up again, but didn’t want to tempt her advantage. This had been far more wonderful than she’d ever imagined. She could almost convince herself that marriage with him was possible.
That hope and her dwindling timeframe drove her—perhaps foolishly—to say, “It’s almost time for me to make a decision. About our future.”
He cast her a sidelong glance. “Your feet must be freezing.” He led her up the beach, but didn’t take her hand this time.
She’d overstepped. Again. “Did you hear what I said?”
He stopped. They’d just reached the dry sand, and Philippa was aware of all of the tiny grains sticking to her wet feet.
He turned. The mischievous spark had disappeared from his eyes. “I don’t deserve a wife.”
“Not even me?” She actually bit her tongue trying to reel those words back into her mouth.
He pivoted and took a step up the beach. “Not even you.”
Again, she didn’t think before blurting, “Would you consider taking a mistress?”
His gaze snapped to hers. “God, no. Why would you even ask?”
Because I’d like the position. If only for a couple of days. “Miss Chandler was your mistress. Why not take another?”
“She wasn’t my mistress.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Christ, Philippa, you know how that turned out.”
She stopped and dug her heels into the sand. “I do. But I’m not her. And Nigel’s not here.”
He stared at her, stupefied. The muscles in his jaw worked. He opened his mouth then closed it again. “I can’t do that with you.”
“Why not? What makes me inferior to Miss Chandler?” It was a risky question, comparing herself to the other woman he’d ruined, but she was desperate. She’d thrown all of her cards onto the table and put all of her money into the pot.
He sucked in a breath then let it out slowly. He raked her with a thorough and heated gaze. “Absolutely nothing. Trust me when I say it’s a concerted and exhausting effort to keep my hands off you. It has been since the night we met.”
She squeezed her eyes shut for a brief moment as his words settled over her. Hope bloomed in her chest and she stepped toward him. “Why do you, then? I’m here. Willing. Eager. I want you, Ambrose.”
His face paled, and the heat growing between them dissipated. Philippa wanted to reach out and grab him, seize the moment that was rapidly fading, but he stalked toward their boots and stockings.
Defeated, she turned and followed him.
He sat on the edge of the rock and pulled his stockings on with quick jerks. Then he shoved his feet into his boots. He stood and stared down at her, his eyes as inscrutable as the sea.
“I swore a vow of celibacy after what I did to my brother. I took his future wife as my lover and drove him to his death. There is no coming back from that, Philippa. I’m broken and you’ve no cause to try to fix me.”
“Don’t tell me what I shouldn’t do. I lo—”
“No!” He took a step back from her, his face paling. “Don’t ever say that to me. I can’t do this anymore. You have to leave me alone.” He turned and stalked away.
The sand felt as if it were cemented to Philippa’s feet. She was affixed to the beach, as incapable of following him as he was of staying with her.
That was it then. She’d put everything out, left her very heart within his grasp. And he’d chosen his guilt instead.
She bent down and plucked up her stockings then dropped her rump onto the rock. She squeezed her eyes shut against the tears that threatened.
She had only herself to blame. She’d taken a risk and it had failed miserably. Better to know now than after they’d married. She could easily have found herself in her mother’s position—unhappily married to a man who only made her miserable.
After Philippa had donned her stockings and boots, she pulled her father’s letter from her pocket. He’d be here in three days. If she left tomorrow, and because she knew his travel plans, she could meet him along the way.
She stood and started back toward the hillside path.
Chapter Twenty-two
LATER that afternoon Ambrose stood outside Lettice Chandler’s door, his hand poised above the wood. He’d left Philippa intent on visiting with one of his tenants, but he�
�d ridden around aimlessly instead. Until he’d ended up here.
If Philippa could talk to Lettice, why couldn’t he? Why shouldn’t he? He wasn’t precisely sure what had driven him here, but it somehow felt necessary. Apparently the time had come to settle accounts.
He knocked.
He dropped his hand and stood rigid. His stomach twisted with nausea and his skin turned cold and clammy. The door opened.
She looked older, of course, but not just in years. Experience and emotion—perhaps sadness or regret—had carved tiny lines around her eyes and mouth. She was still beautiful, but not in the carefree, vibrant way she’d been five years ago. Her eyes did not sparkle, and her mouth was not half-curved in a saucy smile. He’d never considered she might have been suffering. He’d never considered her at all.
“Ambrose. Come in.” She opened the door wider and invited him inside.
He peered into the interior, but his feet suddenly felt like lead. “I don’t know why I’m here.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m glad you came. Would you like tea?”
“No.” Go inside. Apologize. Make this right. He stepped over the threshold, and his muscles loosened.
She moved inside, and he shut the door. His anxiety ramped up again. They were alone. As they’d been so many times. But he didn’t want to touch her. The thought of touching her was awful, repellent.
“I’m sorry.” The words sounded small and insignificant to his ears, but they were all he had.
Her eyes drooped with sadness. “I know. I’m sorry, too. If I could take it all back, I would.”
He nodded because further speech had become quite blocked by the apple-sized ball in his throat.
“It’s good you’ve come back.” She led him into a small sitting room. It was cozy, feminine, and with its modicum of furniture, quite solitary. He’d consigned her to a life of loneliness. But no…
“You’re to be married?”
She sat in the single chair, an outmoded affair with a patched arm. “Yes. To Mr. Daniel Sedley. Do you remember him?”
“He owns several fishing boats in Portscatho.”
She smoothed her skirt, a serviceable muslin of lesser quality than she’d worn five years ago. “That’s right.”
He nodded, glad for her but unable to say so. It seemed wrong they were having this discussion, that she was planning a future when Nigel lay in the churchyard just up the High Street.
“What about you?” she asked. “Are you going to marry Lady Philippa?”
Ambrose stared at her. “Why would you think that?”
She shrugged. “You couldn’t do better. And she’s in love with you.”
He wanted to argue, not because he didn’t believe her, but because he didn’t want it to be true. Yet he’d heard Philippa on the beach, had stopped her from saying it. “She told you that?”
“It’s obvious.”
Ambrose hadn’t intended to stay, but his legs gave out just as his emotions threatened to flow free. He sank onto her narrow settee. “I don’t deserve her.” God, it felt good to finally let something out.
She smiled, but there was regret in her eyes. Eyes that had once been full of flirtatious vitality, but now looked weary. “I understand. It took Daniel years to convince me I deserved him. I give him a lot of credit for persistence.”
Philippa was trying, in her own way, to do the same. She’d come here to see if they’d suit. She’d asked him again today about marriage, coming just shy of proposing to him herself. And he’d repaid her efforts by repeatedly shutting her out. “I haven’t been fair to her. It’s just that… I’m not sure I’m ready. I haven’t—” He glanced at her briefly. “I haven’t been with another woman since…”
Lettice sucked in her breath. “Oh, Ambrose.”
He felt the anguish in her tone all the way to his bones. Unable to tolerate her empathy, he looked away. “It’s the only way I could manage. The only way I could allow myself to live after what I’d done. I don’t know if I can change that for Philippa. Maybe in time.”
“You don’t have much of that.”
“I know. She’s leaving after the prizefight. But perhaps I can persuade her to stay.”
Lettice shook her head. “I don’t think so. She’s to be married.”
He snapped his gaze to hers. “She told you that?”
“Her father arranged something. I think she came here hoping to avoid it.”
He’d done nothing but shove her away.
He stood. “I have to go.”
“Good. Perhaps you can both attend my wedding.”
He arched a brow at her, surprised to feel a bit like his old self—a remarkable accomplishment given his present company. “I’m not sure that’s advisable. You might’ve forgiven me, but I’m sure Sedley would skewer me on sight.”
She shook her head. “No, Ambrose. Everyone’s forgiven you. It’s only you who needs to forgive yourself.”
He nodded, suspecting she was right, but still unsure of how to do it. He left her cottage a few minutes later. He’d been intent on returning to Beckwith, but to do what? Ask Philippa to marry him? He wasn’t ready for love—she deserved nothing less—and might never be. But the thought of her marrying someone else made him weak to his soul. Or what shred was left of it.
He pulled himself astride Orpheus and rode down to Portscatho and then back along the beach toward Beckwith. He still couldn’t ride through Gerrans, not past the churchyard where Nigel was buried.
By the time he rode into the stable yard, he was desperate with longing. His brain screamed for him to stop and think, but the protestations grew weaker and weaker. Welch met him, and Ambrose tossed the reins in his direction. Wordlessly, Ambrose turned and strode to the house, his gait eating up the path.
He had to see Philippa, needed to hold her before she left him forever. He moved into the drawing room and took the stairs two at a time. Onward to the door to her chamber, where, with a shaking hand, he rapped three times.
The door opened to reveal her maid who bobbed a curtsey. “Your lordship.”
Philippa emerged from the doorway to her dressing chamber garbed in nothing but a chemise. Her hair was loose, gently waving about her shoulders and grazing the tops of her breasts. He’d never seen her with all of her hair down.
He couldn’t take his hungry gaze from her but spoke at the maid, “Leave us.”
Philippa nodded at the girl, who skirted Ambrose and left the bedchamber.
Ambrose went to stand before Philippa. His ragged breathing filled his ears; his furious heartbeat clogged his throat. She looked up at him, her eyes wide, luminous, trusting.
Salvation was right here. He had only to touch her. To accept what she offered—trust, solace, love. The argument in his head died away, leaving him open and vulnerable.
He shoved his hands into her hair and cupped her head. She was soft and warm and smelled like just-bloomed lilac drenched in honey, as if she’d bathed that afternoon.
He dragged his thumb along her cheek and settled it against her lower lip. Her tongue darted out and licked the pad and he was lost. He held her head captive while he slanted his mouth across hers. She was ready. Hot, wet, eager. Her arms snaked around his back and held him close.
The knowledge that he was about to break his long-held vow made him quake, both with fear and with wanting her so badly. How would he even perform? It had been so long.
No, he didn’t want to think right now. Only to feel. To luxuriate in this woman who’d given herself so completely to him. This woman he was completely unworthy of, but whom he so desperately wanted to deserve.
She licked at his mouth, inviting him to devour her. Her fingers dug into his back, a reflection of his own need. He picked her up as effortlessly as he’d done at the beach and took her to the bed.
He tempered his lust, setting her gently onto the coverlet. Waning sunlight streamed through the windows, setting her skin afire with gold. “You’re exquisite,” he breathed, unable to
find the volume to speak aloud amidst his overwhelming humility.
She reached up for him, and he was impatient to be next to her. He quickly removed his coat, waistcoat, boots, and stockings. She sat up and pulled at the ends of his cravat. The silk whispered against his neck as she tugged it free and cast it aside. He swept his shirt over his head in one fluid movement.
When his gaze found hers once more, he stilled. Her eyes were wide, focused on his bare chest. No, on his shoulder. His scar. Would she ask him about it again? He didn’t want to spoil this, was afraid of the intrusion of anything but what they could give each other right here, right now.
She kneeled before him on the edge of the bed. With halting fingers, she touched the five-year-old blemish. Gently, she traced the circle where Nigel’s bullet had pierced him.
Ambrose reveled in her nurturing silence. He’d never imagined he could one day associate that wound with anything good. But her touch and her care were absolution for his sins. Succor, joy, contentment seemed not only possible, but within his grasp.
Because of her.
That she said nothing about the scar, asked nothing when he owed her so much, humbled him even more. He pressed his lips to her forehead. Her breath sighed against his collarbone, warm and soft. Comforting.
She drew her chemise up over her head. With her arms raised, her breasts rose high, tempting him with their tight pink buds. Without pretense, he drew a nipple into his mouth. She gasped and lowered her arms to his shoulders, her chemise rippling against his back as it fell from her grasp.
He cupped her breasts, holding her to his mouth. Her hands clasped his head as he suckled her. She was a feast, and he was starving. He licked at her and grazed his teeth along her nipple, then moved to the other, repeating his erotic ministrations.
Her hands were suddenly at the waistband of his breeches. Already wildly aroused, his cock strained against his drawers. She fumbled with the buttons and he impatiently took over, making quick work of shedding both his breeches and his undergarments.
He guided her back against the mattress, or did she pull him? It seemed a mutual action, taking each other where they needed to be.