by Tanya Wilde
“The clause,” she said meeting his gaze. “You must have done something for your father to add such a thing.”
Right.
“Oh, he did,” Jonathan piped up from where he sat.
Ambrose shot him a glare.
“Well?” she pressed. “Are you going to tell me or not?”
Ambrose lifted his eyes to hers and sighed. She already knew about the clause, might as well reveal the part that prompted it. “I announced to my father I would never marry. He did not take it well.”
“Of course not, you were his heir.”
Ambrose nodded. “Yes, I was, but Jonathan could marry and supply the necessary heirs. However, my father objected.”
“Fiercely,” Jonathan agreed.
Ambrose cut his brother a look, before turning back to his wife. “Yes. My father claimed he hadn’t groomed me my entire life just for me to waste my birthright.”
“Let’s not forget the argument about how I was the spare, and how I could not be relied upon to provide offspring before perishing, given my lifestyle, and no heirs to the St. Ives line meant the entire world would be doomed,” Jonathan joined in. “It was all very riveting.”
“There was that,” Ambrose agreed. Which, all things considered, had been a valid point. But after Celia’s death, he had wanted nothing to do with anything that could cost him his heart, so he had stood firm against his father.
“But why the aversion to marriage?” Willow asked. “You are a duke, providing an heir is one of your many duties.”
Ambrose hesitated. His aversion was based on his fear of losing another loved one—he’d never been in denial about that. But while his family, all except his father, had understood that, explaining it to his wife was altogether different, and he wasn’t sure this was the moment to do it—especially with Jonathan present to comment.
“There is no need to explain,” Willow suddenly said. Her soft whisper smoothed over him like an excellent year of cognac. “I think I understand.”
“You do?” Both him and Jonathan blurted at the same time.
“Your family suffered a painful loss when you lost your sister.”
Christ, how had she learned about Celia?
He supposed if she learned about the will, then learning about Celia wasn’t that much of a surprise. Her death was public knowledge, after all. Still, it somehow hurt to hear the truth of that statement in her voice.
“I’m truly sorry such a tragedy befell your family,” she continued further. “I'm sure your father just wished to secure your family's bloodline beyond the benefit of a doubt. You all dealt with the loss in different ways.”
Ambrose couldn’t answer, his heart in his throat.
“Well, I for one don’t think my brother married the wrong woman after all,” Jonathan said sipping his port. There was a roughness to his voice that hadn’t been there before.
“The wrong woman married me after the other one ran away,” Ambrose pointed out, drawing the topic away from the intensity that poured into the room.
He’d thought his wife long since retired when he entered his home after supper at the club. Had he known she’d still be up, he’d have sent his brother home. The last thing he wanted was for them to conspire behind his back. Or bond right before his eyes—like they were doing now.
“Yes, yes, and you are not a man that will let such a slight go, as evident from me being married off in revenge. You should work on your people skills, brother.”
Ambrose felt his jaw tighten.
“You will do your brother’s bidding, then?” Willow asked Jonathan, her eyes alight with interest.
“The answer to that, my dear,” Jonathan slanted a smile her way, “will depend on whether my brother is in the room with me or not.”
His wife laughed like it was the funniest bloody thing in the world. To Ambrose’s amazement, she did not press the issue. Instead, she smiled sweetly and asked, “Why, pray tell, did you not attend the wedding, Lord Jonathan?”
Ambrose turned to his brother and cocked a brow. “Yes, Jonathan, why did you not attend our wedding?”
“Ah, well, in an unfortunate set of circumstance, I was indisposed,” Jonathan said, a slight flush coloring his features.
Ambrose snorted, drawing their attention to him. He said nothing, only lifted his glass to sip on his port, waiting to see what his wife had to say. But she just arched a brow right back at him, taking a sip of her port.
Ambrose felt his teeth grinding.
It was going to be a long night.
An hour later, Willow watched her brother-in-law bid his farewell, quite uncertain what to make of him. He looked nothing like her husband. His hair was a shade or two darker, his eyes a light brandy color, not as dark and intense as Ambrose’s. And his nose was slightly more crooked, as though it had once been broken.
By all accounts, he ought to be in possession of horns, and deformed teeth, for all the images she had conjured in her mind after learning Ambrose wished to wed him to Holly. He was supposed to be the enemy.
But he seemed carefree and charming to her. And he placed a rather improper kiss on her wrist, drawing a scowl from her husband.
“My brother must have done something right, to wed such a lovely creature as you.” His words were insanely flattering, and Willow found herself grinning up at him.
“That’s enough,” Ambrose snapped. “Stop flirting with my wife.”
Willow suppressed a grin and Lord Jonathan took his leave with a shallow bow. She had wanted to ask him so many things, but had refrained from putting both men on the spot. She aimed to build bridges, not burn them. And they had only been married two days. If she was to succeed in changing Ambrose’s mind about Holly, they had to become better acquainted with one another. And tonight, short interaction though it was, had been a start.
Plus, she had met Lord Jonathan and he was not the ogre she had conjured in her mind’s eye. He was a man she could appeal to, if nothing else.
But even beyond the brothers’ appearances, their hearts were also as different as dawn and dusk. And if there was one thing Willow had learned of her husband tonight, it was that the seed of all his actions came from his heart—whether that action was misguided or not.
Willow turned to her husband. “I think I shall retire as well.”
“Permit me to escort you to your chamber,” he murmured and began leading her to the hallway that would take them to the staircase. “You should have sent word about dinner. Had I known, I’d have joined you.”
“I left a note on your desk, but it seems you were out all day,” Willow murmured with a sidelong glance at him.
“I met Jonathan at the club.”
“Ah.” They reached the top of the landing.
“You do look beautiful tonight,” he said suddenly, peering down at her. His voice had a sinful rasp to it. His eyes . . . they had taken on a new intensity, especially when they lowered and focused on her lips.
“Are you saying that to soften me or do you mean it?” Willow asked, unable to help herself. She didn’t know how much of a game—or a war—this was to her husband. And part of her wanted the words to be real.
He raised his eyes to meet her own, his green gaze steady. “I would never say those words if I did not mean them.”
Oh.
“Am I still barred from your chamber?”
The question was sudden and yet expected given the heat between them. It brought along with it all sorts of provocative feelings. Feelings that demanded to be explored. Willow paid them no mind. She was stronger than her wanton longings.
“Beyond a doubt,” she breathed.
“Not even a sliver of a doubt?”
“Ambrose . . .”
He leaned into her until her back was firmly pressed into the door, an arm reaching out on either side of her face, caging her in.
Her breathing accelerated. The more she tried to shove her thoughts—her wicked, wicked thoughts—in a box and shut the lid tight, the fie
rcer they grew in their strength.
Then his mouth was slanting across hers, and Willow did not possess the power to push him away. Leisurely, with infinite sensuality, he kissed her, his tongue coaxing her mouth apart. It felt like more than a kiss. It felt like an enticement. Like a whispered secret. Like seduction. And beneath the tenderness of his lips, she felt the urgency. The desire. His. Hers.
Mine.
Panic flooded her at the sentiment. She tore her hands off his chest and fumbled for the doorknob behind her. She broke the kiss.
“Will—”
She turned and escaped into her room, slamming the door shut before Ambrose could finish her name. She fell back against door inside her room, breathing hard.
Well, that certainly hadn’t gone as planned.
Chapter 12
The following evening found them dancing at the Cleveland ball. One moment, Willow had admired a particularly obnoxious shade of yellow breeches and the next, the cords of the first waltz that evening had struck up. Ambrose had turned to her, his dark eyes alight with sincerity, and asked her to dance. At first, Willow had been stunned—no words escaped her lips. Her composure, thank God, had recovered quite quickly.
She was in his arms.
His strong, muscular, powerful arms. Surrounded by the woody musk of his scent. Why that thrilled her so much was not up for debate. They were at odds with each other. Or at least Willow thought they were. Last night had sent her mind spiraling. Ambrose had kissed her. Honestly, he mussed up her brain. And Lord Jonathan was here, in London. Always had been.
What Willow did know was that she was not supposed to feel this delighted at the prospect of dancing with her husband.
For the life of her, she could not determine the angle he was playing at. But then again, a waltz was hardly the stuff of war. A kiss was more debatable. Except in both cases, his proximity and overwhelming presence bestowed chaos on her senses.
Or was that, perhaps, his plan?
Regardless, he was an excellent dancer. So good, in fact, that with every step he took, her body burned with greater desire to draw nearer to him still. Which made him exceptional in two things so far—dancing and . . . well, three things then, Willow mused, if she counted lovemaking, which she indeed did, and kissing. The thought made her eyes drift to his lips.
How can I be so obsessed with a mouth?
And thinking about his lips caused her mind to wander over to their first night. And she so did not want to wonder about that in the middle of a ballroom.
But how could she not think about that, with his body so sensually guiding hers in their dance? Willow felt a hot flush spread across her neck and ears.
For goodness’s sake!
She had to get a hold of herself. But really, was there anything this man did not excel at?
Oh yes. Yes, there was. Namely relationships.
And communication. But she wasn’t inclined to dwell on that at the moment, not while dancing in his arms.
For this moment, however fleeting, she could close her eyes and make-believe. They were in love. They were happy. Her husband was not a stick-in-the-mud duke with control issues, and she was not a woman who had married a man to use him as a stallion.
This night, this moment, almost seemed like a small reprieve.
It was also their first night out in public, and all eyes were on them, watching, observing, and waiting for the faintest mistake on their part.
Any other time, Willow would have danced herself dizzy or aided her cousin Belle in some mischief. But tonight, she had entered the marble halls of the ballroom at her husband’s side, head held high.
Not once had he left her side, introducing her to various acquaintances. Everyone clamored to get a peek at the couple of the season. They were like wolves, waiting for the first sign of weakness.
Let them watch, Willow thought. No matter what happened between her and Ambrose, she would not give cause for the gossipmongers to spread their ill will.
So she savored the sensation of being twirled around and around, and with every turn, it seemed like his hand on her back slid lower. Or was that her imagination? She glanced up at him to see his eyes glowing as they stared down at her.
Willow wondered if this would be their only dance tonight. She did not imagine that a lesser dance—the quadrille, for example—would tempt a man such as Ambrose. He was much too contained for that.
A wild thought suddenly occurred to her. Was she allowed to dance with other gentlemen?
She scrunched up her brow.
Since she refused to read the rules, she wasn’t sure. But then, she excelled at breaking rules—’twas her skill. Of course, instinct told her he wouldn’t mind as long as she remained above reproach.
Willow kept her gaze locked on the duke in an attempt to decipher his mood. Which was impossible. He had been acting strangely all evening, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on exactly how or what it might be.
As usual, his posture was stiff and uncompromising. But at the same time, he appeared less so. Was this his way of putting on a false air that nothing was amiss?
“You are an excellent dancer,” Willow murmured on another whirl.
“I do not dance often,” he returned.
“I would not have guessed from your skill.”
This close to him, Willow found herself fascinated by the stubble on his cheeks. He hadn’t seemed to have shaved since the wedding—so unlike him, she thought. For some unfathomable reason the rough coat struck her as significant, but Willow did not know why it would.
“Do you not enjoy dancing?” she asked. The grip on her hand tightened.
“I find it a pointless endeavor.”
“And yet here we are, dancing.”
His fingers flexed around her waist. “Husbands are obliged to dance with their wives, no?” he said, his eyes innocent. Too innocent, to Willow’s mind. “And you are my wife, last I checked.”
A flush stole over her cheeks when his gaze boldly roamed over her. “And here I thought it was not fashionable for husbands to dance with their wives.”
“Then I am most unfashionable.” His voice was low. Amused.
“You must be careful, Ambrose, or people might get it into their minds you are doting on your wife,” Willow teased. “And we both know you don’t want that.”
“Perhaps,” he said, a knowing smile on his lips. “Husbands who dote on their wives get to drag them off to secluded corners and kiss them senseless.”
Willow felt suddenly hot. Very hot. “And we cannot have that,” she said. Oh, but she wanted just that. “So I’m changing the topic.”
He chuckled. “Change away.”
She puckered her brow in thought, watching him from beneath her lashes. “Surely you must have enjoyed dancing at some point?”
He pulled her a breath closer than was proper. “As a child, I enjoyed the practice, especially when it got me out of chores.”
“Somehow I can imagine that.”
He smiled at the dry note in her tone. With teeth. A real, honest-to-God smile. It was so unexpected that Willow started in his arms.
“It was always a point of great vexation for Celia.”
Willow’s ears perked at the mention of his sister, but she was careful to show no reaction except mild curiosity. “She loved dancing?”
“I could never understand why,” he murmured. An amused expression crossed his features and Willow felt a curious warmth unfurl in her chest.
“Is that why you enjoyed it, because she had?”
“I learned because it was expected of me, but I tolerated it because of her.”
“You must have enjoyed her company a great deal.”
His jaw clenched, and he glanced away. Willow almost regretted saying anything. Honestly, why couldn’t she just have kept her mouth shut? It was a ridiculous thing to say. Of course, he had enjoyed his sister’s company! It was easy to forget, given the time that had passed, that he may still mourn Celia’s death. T
hat he would always feel bereft.
Just like Willow would always feel the loss of her mother.
All the more, Willow began to suspect Celia’s death was the reason for his profound need to control the lives of others. What had happened to her exactly? A heart ailment, Cook had said. But that could mean so many things.
And she could not bring herself to ask. Already he was back to his old somber self, and Willow wished she knew how to get the other Ambrose back, the one that had just flashed his teeth.
“I love to dance,” she chimed up, firming her lips into a bright smile. “It feels as though life’s possibilities are endless when you dance, like you can dance straight into another world.”
“Dance into another world?” he said, amusement back in his voice.
“Or across the sky and into another universe altogether.”
“Now you are just conjuring things up.”
“I am a known conjurer.”
“Ah yes, you thought my brother a monster.” He leaned in closer. “What else are you known for?”
“Whimsical notions?”
“Now that I find hard to believe.” His eyes gleamed.
“Because I haven’t fallen at your feet?” Willow suggested.
“I’m somewhat a legend in that regard, so it is most exasperating.”
“I’ll just bet, it must frustrate you so that your wife is an unmanageable heathen.”
He pulled her closer and immediately heat bloomed, beckoning, enticing. Then he whispered five little evocative words that wrapped around her like silk.
“Less and less each day.”
Ambrose had lost his mind. There was no perhaps about it. He was dancing, bloody dancing—something he never did—with his wife. Never mind the madness that had besieged him last night. But he’d decided not to dwell on that—overmuch—but who was he fooling? He thought about her every second of his day. And that was nothing compared to his hot and steamy dreams.
Which brought him back to the present. Why was he dancing? Because the waltz had struck up and he had this absurd desire to see a flush of desire on her skin again.
He resisted the urge to snort at himself.