by Tanya Wilde
“She is new to your ways, Your Grace,” Benson agreed. “But I have every confidence in your lordship’s ability to court the duchess.”
Court? If Ambrose had ever learned to splutter, he’d be doing that now. “I have no reason to court my wife, Benson, hence the word wife.”
“It is my understanding, Your Grace, that all women wish to be courted, one way or another.”
“And it is my understanding that wives ought to do wifely things and not act out,” Ambrose muttered.
Why the hell had this happened to him? He should never have given Holly those rules before their wedding. But he had foolishly suffered a moment of guilt and had not wanted her to wed him without knowing who she was marrying. If only he had held his conscience in check for a few more days.
He thought he’d be gaining a wife that would be easy to protect, easy to ensure her health and safety. Instead, he’d gotten one that would fight him at every step he took to enforce that protection. Willow was strong, resistant, and, though Ambrose hadn’t thought it possible, just as stubborn as he.
More disturbing even, as he had looked down on her sleeping, waiting for her to awaken, he recalled every soft sigh she’d given at his touch, and a single question had popped into his mind: Did he even want to master his wife?
All he could damn well think about was whether forcing his rules on her would make her touches become less eager. Would her soft moans disappear altogether? Would she still respond to him with unbridled passion or would the fire in her eyes die along with her freedom of spirit?
The answer had set his heart leaping in his chest.
What the devil was wrong with him? He never reacted this way. He never second-guessed himself.
Control meant safety.
Safety meant life.
Safety meant never feeling that loss again.
Then why did he fear a different kind of loss if he succeeded? Why did he feel so conflicted?
Because Celia might still be alive had she taken care of her health.
“It ought to be easy enough,” his valet was saying, tugging at his jacket, “to win the duchess over.”
“Win over my wife? Have you not heard a word I said? She has declared war. Battle lines have been drawn.”
“And how does a man win a battle with one’s wife,” Benson ventured, “if not by winning her over?”
“My wife is rebelling against me, Benson. She believes me a tyrant,” Ambrose pressed on. “Winning her over with hearts and roses is out of the question.”
“No need to trouble Your Grace with hearts and roses. Just let the duchess see your lordship in a different light. A softer one, perhaps. Less tyrannical.” He gave Ambrose a once over. “Though that may take some work.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Be nice to your wife, Your Grace, listen to her wishes. Take her to the theatre.”
“Let me tell you something, Benson. Women are like bloodhounds. Once they sense any form of weakness, they’ll go straight for your throat. If I suddenly court my wife, she will smell blood in the water.”
And what did Benson know about being nice, anyway? Most of the time the man was as sour as an old bottle of wine. Besides, Willow knew she was not his chosen bride. She’d smell the insincerity of the action.
Therefore, he could not be nice to his wife.
Ten curses upon his father’s soul! He’d never be in this mess if it weren’t for his old man’s machinations.
There had been a moment, after he’d done everything in his power to contest the will, where he decided to hell with it, he did not need any of the unentailed land. He would restore the family coffers on his own.
But his father had been a clever bastard.
While Ambrose did not mind losing all that wealth and lands, he still had to think of his mother and brother. And in the event that Ambrose failed to marry, all that lands and wealth would be donated to a distant relative Ambrose had never even heard about. Meaning he’d have no funds to support his family. Meaning they’d suffer as he worked to build his wealth back up.
Ambrose would never allow that.
Yes, his father had been a clever bastard.
“Damn my father and his rotten hide,” he muttered, his words imbued with bitterness.
“The late duke meant well,” Benson said, though his words lacked conviction.
“You are still hanging on to that fairytale, Benson? The bastard meant to control me from his bloody grave.”
The irony wasn’t lost on him. He, Ambrose Brandon Jonathan Griffin, who sought to control all things, was controlled by a ghost.
“He controls you no longer, Your Grace. The requirement of the will was met. The late duke has no hold over you anymore.”
“But he won. He got what he wanted.”
“He only wins if you are miserable for the rest of your life, Your Grace. Your resentment towards him is what’s keeping his hold,” Benson reasoned. “Let go of that, find happiness and you win.”
“Only you would think that makes a wit of sense,” Ambrose muttered. Unfortunately, he suspected his valet might be right. His father hadn’t taken well to his announcement that Ambrose, his heir, planned to remain unwed and let the title pass on to the spare. Because the spare had no spare. And according to his father, he hadn’t spent Ambrose’s entire life preparing him for the ducal responsibilities just so he could toss it aside.
Their relationship had been strained ever since.
And since he’d caved to his father’s dictate, he’d been deserted at the altar, married the wrong woman, and was now at war with his wife.
“Your Grace has already taken the first step, even if your lordship doesn’t realize it yet.”
“And how is that?”
“You sent your mother to retire to the warm waters of Bath.”
“That hardly signifies anything, except to alleviate the strain on my nerves.”
“If Your Grace says so,” his valet murmured, a smile curving his lips.
“I do say so,” Ambrose growled, glaring at the man.
Impetuous valet. And damn outspoken. And an utter nuisance. Because now Ambrose was calling into question the reason he sent his mother away. No, Ambrose told himself. He was not. He sent his mother away to give them all the chance to adjust and for the dust to settle on any scandal.
“Then perhaps I may offer some advice, Your Grace?”
“Don’t let me hold you back.” Ambrose gnashed his teeth. “You never do.”
“Reconsider wooing the duchess.”
“Out of the question,” Ambrose pronounced. Then, after a small pause, “Why the hell would I do that? More importantly, what would it accomplish?”
“To keep the peace, Your Grace.” Benson smoothed out Ambrose’s coat. “A woman in love is a woman without willfulness.”
Or more of it, Ambrose thought darkly. Look where that had gotten him with Holly Middleton. She’d fancied herself in love with him and abandoned him the moment she realized the feeling wasn’t mutual.
As if reading his thoughts, Benson said, “It seems to me, Your Grace, that the duchess does not hold the same romantic ideals as your former betrothed. There is no risk. She is already your wife.”
Ambrose grunted.
That was true, but the last thing he wanted was for his wife to pester him to change his ways because he had wooed her. Or God forbid, expect him to return her doe-eyed stares because she believed him to hold affection for her.
But, his valet had made a valid point. If his wife held some—even a little—form of affection for him . . . wouldn’t that make the situation a bit easier?
She could not leave him—she was his wife. She might be suspicious or believe him insincere, but that was about the worst of it. And Willow did not strike him as the type to abandon anyone.
She valued family.
And he was part of that family now.
He tested the thought in his mind.
Woo his wife. Win her over.
Ambrose was still not convinced that meant a whole lot. Willow refused to read his rules, had snuck out of their home, and God only knows what else. And given the choice, she would choose her sisters over him, he was sure of it.
But what to do then? It was way beyond the bounds of his experience. Was wooing her truly the answer? Winning her over? He was at a total loss. The need to control simmered beneath his skin. But there was something new—another desire altogether was forming. It felt suspiciously like the desire to please his wife.
Absolutely, completely and utterly absurd.
No, courting his wife, Ambrose decided, was out of the question. He enjoyed her company too much already. More time spent in her presence would be dangerous. A marriage of convenience was the best option for them both. As he had intended.
“The duchess,” he told his valet, “will soon enough learn her place. I will not be managed. All it will take is to find the right incentive.”
“Incentive, Your Grace?”
“Reduce her pin money, for one.”
Forbid her to see her family for another.
It would be the ultimate inducement, Ambrose supposed. One he wasn’t certain he wished to enforce.
“There is always seduction, Your Grace.”
Ambrose shot his valet an aggrieved look. The man would not give up.
Seduction, he supposed, formed part of the convenience in marriage of convenience.
There was only one problem.
Ambrose had made a brash declaration to withhold pleasure, because he’d felt something very akin to emotion. And he simply could not go back on his word now. Not after he’d been so arrogantly cocksure of himself.
A frown puckered his brow.
He glanced at Benson, who suspiciously resembled a man trying his best to suppress a grin.
“I’m still your employer,” Ambrose snapped out.
“Of course, Your Grace.” He handed Ambrose his gloves. “But if I may point out, your only confidante is your valet.”
“Not so. I confide in my brother, as well.”
“When Lord Jonathan is present, yes.”
“Your point?” Ambrose saw nothing wrong with that. Most gentlemen were tedious in any case. Benson at least added some impertinent spice to his life. And he was meeting his brother at White’s in a few hours.
“Change is an uncomfortable occurrence,” Benson shrugged. “It is also necessary. And perhaps it is time to make a new friend.”
“You mean my wife?” Ambrose said dryly. “Do you ever give up?”
Benson appeared unperturbed. “It is important to note that even though Your Grace does not deal well with change, without change, England would not be the formidable country it is today.”
What the bloody hell was Benson getting at?
He was formidable enough.
He was also happy for his life to remain forever unchanged. But that was no longer possible. Change was happening whether he liked it or not.
“I only mean to say that oftentimes we make life harder than it needs to be.”
“Spoken like a true philosopher.” Ambrose raised an artful brow. “Any advice on how to silence an impertinent valet?”
“Perhaps a gold signet ring is in order?” Benson suggested, and Ambrose laughed.
If only he could snuff out all the enchanting thoughts of his wife that stubbornly clung to his brain.
One piece of good fortune was his mother, who had been overjoyed to retire to Bath. Ambrose had expected more tears. Instead, he’d been greeted with a rare smile.
Ambrose would never understand women.
Shrugging on his gloves and accepting the hat from Benson, Ambrose wondered whether there was more to the primal urge he had to claim his wife in every possible way. And since Ambrose was not a man to wallow in denial, he wondered whether he would arrive at the end of this battle unscathed and unchanged.
He bloody hoped so.
Chapter 11
Ambrose was dreaming. That was the only explanation for finding a hundred lit candles glowing in his dining room. That was his first clue that it must be a dream—he did not even own that many candles. And even if he did, he’d never light them all at once. It was a hazard—a fire begging to burst out. The second clue was the presence of his glowing wife—a sparkling diamond—who was covered in a deep plum gown of velvet silk and standing in the center of the room. She exhumed radiance. A picture of grace. A goddess bathed in brilliance. Ambrose could not tear his gaze away.
A dream, certainly.
“Ambrose,” she greeted him with a smile. “You are just in time. I was about to retire.”
He physically jolted at the sound of her sultry voice, which plunged him into reality. This wasn’t a dream. It was really bloody happening.
“In time for . . .” Ambrose hedged.
“Port.”
His gaze flicked to the table that had been set for two. One plate remained untouched. “I usually take dinner at the club.”
She nodded. “So I gathered, but nevertheless, you are in time for a glass of dessert.”
He crooked a brow, his eyes darting to all the candles again.
“The room lacked warmth,” she said as if reading his mind. But she could not possibly know what he was thinking. Because he was thinking of all the different ways the house could go up in flames.
Along with all the ways he might erupt into flames as well.
“Was it necessary to light a hundred candles?” Ambrose muttered, his brows snapping together. “Two or three candles would have sufficed.”
“It’s not that many,” she said, her gaze sweeping the room with delight. “It’s rather homely, do you not agree?”
No. Not homely. Dangerous. And if they did not accidently set the house on fire, then maybe he could enjoy the ambiance. Maybe. But not having the heart to erase her smile, he said, or rather grumbled, “I suppose.”
“Shall we . . .” she trailed off as her gaze drifted to a point beyond him.
Ambrose groaned.
“It’s blazing cold tonight,” his brother said, shouldering past him, shaking off his coat. Jonathan came up short when he spotted Willow. “Well, what do we have here?” Then his mouth spread into a wolfish grin. “You must be the lovely, famed duchess I’ve heard so much about.”
Ambrose had forgotten about his brother.
“You must have another duchess in mind,” Willow said, walking over to the nearby table to pour them each a glass of port. “I’m certainly not famed.”
“Then there’s another Duchess of St. Ives?” He sent Ambrose an amused look. “I’m not sure that’s legal, brother.”
Willow whipped around. “Wait, you’re Lord Jonathan?”
“The resemblance is uncanny, right?”
“Not even a little bit.”
He accepted the glass of port from Willow and Ambrose did the same.
Jonathan cocked his head then, swirling the glass in his hand. “Though I imagine I bear little resemblance to your imaginings of me, generally speaking.”
“Imaginings?”
“Yes, the ones with horns and a tail.”
“And why would I imagine that?”
Jonathan shrugged. “I missed your wedding. Surely, I am a devil for that. I thought that would elicit some angry imaginings, at least.”
Willow smiled. “If you must know, I imagined you with crooked fangs, actually.”
He laughed, flashing them a peek at straight white teeth. “I will take that over horns any day.”
“Forgive me, Lord Jonathan, but I thought you were on tour? Have you returned recently?”
“If you mean a tour of all the best—”
“Jonathan,” Ambrose growled, and his brother laughed.
“Never mind,” Jonathan said, casting a quick glance at him before returning his attention to Willow. “Though I must admit, I was intrigued to hear the details of my brother’s wedding. A few interesting events to note, certainly.”
“Really? I tho
ught very little of it would come as a surprise, given your father’s will. Surely such a situation breeds of chaos.”
“I—” Jonathan began to reply, but Ambrose cut him off.
“You know about the clause,” Ambrose demanded, staring at his wife.
“Yes,” she answered. “I’ve heard all about your father’s will. I must admit, it was quite a shocking discovery.”
Ambrose felt the blood leave his body. But for his mother, brother, and solicitor, no one was ever supposed to know about that. It was damned embarrassing. “Who told you?”
“It hardly matters where I heard it, only that I did,” she glanced at him sideways. “It does explain some of your surly moods. Not to mention your methods in courting my sister.”
Jonathan laughed, plopping himself down in a chair. “She is a resourceful one, brother, I am pleased to discover.”
“That she is,” Ambrose muttered, sweeping the room with a glance. “It appears she even has the servants wrapped around her finger.”
Willow turned to him, her eyes startlingly blue, even in the candlelight. “So it’s true, then? You married because of a clause in your father’s will?”
What else could he do but nod? The truth was out, there was nothing to do but move on.
“Why, then, did you wait so long to secure a wife?” she asked. “It seemed like something you ought to have done sooner.”
“My brother did his damndest to find a loophole,” Jonathan interrupted before Ambrose could speak. “But as you are well aware, he failed.”
Ambrose sent his brother a stony look, and when he spoke, there was an edge of impatience to his voice. “Thank you for pointing out my failure.”
“A pleasure.” Jonathan winked at Willow. “Except I would not call securing such a lovely wife a failure.”
“I think it’s about time you leave,” Ambrose all but growled at his brother, who remained stubbornly seated on his arse.
“Wait a minute,” his wife spoke up, puzzled. Ambrose grimaced at the open curiosity in her voice. “Why did your father put such a clause in his will? It seems a bit cruel.”
“It bloody well was,” Ambrose growled.
At that, his wife narrowed her eyes on him. “What did you do?”
“What makes you assume I did anything?” He demanded, offended.