by Tanya Wilde
Knight in moody armor, indeed.
“So,” Jonathan said, dropping down in a chair opposite to where Ambrose nursed his brandy. “Have you come to your senses or am I still to be married off?”
“I am in possession of all my senses.”
Jonathan signaled a waiter for a brandy, pulling a pack of cards from his pockets. “The entire town is gossiping about your wedding kiss. I didn’t think such a lack of decorum was in you, brother. I still cannot believe I missed your wedding. Rumor has it that the priest had to clear his throat to get your tongue out of your bride’s mouth.”
“I was thrown off balance,” Ambrose muttered into his glass. “I reacted strangely.”
“You’ve been thrown off balance for ten years, old chap, and you never reacted like that.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You know what it means,” Jonathan said, shuffling the deck. “Celia died, Ambrose. Sometimes people just die, and you don’t get to carry that on your shoulders for the rest of your life.”
“I have made my peace with her death,” Ambrose bit out.
“Have you? It seems to me you erected walls—thick ones—around you. And the weight of her death is burying you into the ground. How is that peace?”
“And what would you know about that?”
“Like you, I carried her death on my shoulders. I thought I could have done more to help her, to protect her. I thought I could’ve done anything other than to allow her to live her life as she wished. It took me two years to realize Celia wanted her life exactly as she had it and that she would not have wanted that guilt for us. She’d have wanted us to live our lives to the fullest, like she did.”
“I sat beside her bed for hours, waiting, watching, as she passed on to the next life, Jonathan. It tore my heart to shreds. Don’t talk to me about what you think she wanted. All that matters is that I could have saved her. That I should have saved her.”
“No, you couldn’t have saved her, Ambrose. At best, you might have prolonged her life but not saved it. Neither of us could have done that.”
Ambrose said nothing.
“And as a result of that weight of guilt, you decided that caring for anyone beyond mere acquaintanceship was not a risk you were willing to take. You erected your walls and isolated yourself behind them.”
Ambrose did not want his brother to be right. But it was hard to deny the truth of his words. For the past ten years, things that had once brought him pleasure slowly lost all flavor and taste. Each year, with the weight of her death on him, he engaged less and less with the world as it was and instead, worked hard to shape it into what it should be. Worked on it until he had become a cold, controlling bastard with little else but his sense of control.
At least, some might say that.
“So I’m still to be married off?” Jonathan asked offhandedly, shuffling the cards.
Ambrose threw back his brandy. “Holly Middleton betrayed me.”
“Only because you made her believe you fancied her.”
Ambrose lifted his eyes to glare at his brother. Jonathan knew him better than anyone. He had always possessed the uncanny ability to see straight through him. “She wanted that fairytale. I gave it to her. At least, I did until I needed to explain what her new life required. And look at where catering to her fantasy got me! She ran off. What an impractical creature.”
Willow isn’t so impractical.
But Ambrose didn’t want to admit that there was no need to pretend to be infatuated with his wife when he was quickly becoming obsessed with kissing her.
Jonathan chuckled, dealing them a hand, and pulling Ambrose from his thoughts. “Holly Middleton ran off because she had thought the fantasy was the reality. Your rules overwhelmed her.” Jonathan glanced up at him, a contemplative look entering his eyes. “It is a curious position you find yourself in. One that suits you, I think.”
“How do you figure that?”
“You are too tightly contained, brother. You need to unwind.”
“I’m contained just right,” Ambrose snapped, signaling for a refill. “And besides, how exactly does unwinding suit me?”
Jonathan arched a brow in response. “Well, for one, I can only imagine your lovely wife does not follow all your little house rules. I imagine some unwinding would help ease what must be constant frustration for you otherwise.”
Ambrose cut him a glance. “My wife will follow the rules. Eventually.”
If she ever bloody reads them.
Unlikely, that.
Jonathan smiled at him. “Does she know she is the only one subjected to them, that not even mother follows your rules?”
Ambrose glared at him.
Jonathan’s eyes widened. “Is that why you sent mother to Bath?” He laughed. “It is, isn’t it?”
“Sod off.”
“Must be an annoying thing, for your wife to flaunt your rules,” Jonathan taunted with a grin.
Ambrose grimaced. What was worse was that he was letting her. Christ knew why. But it wasn’t like he could force her to comply—she was too damn obstinate. A trait he was growing too damn fond of. But then, his wife was anything but subservient. And he was blinded by the urge to kiss her most of the time he was near her. The rules weren’t much on his mind when he was staring at her lips.
“I’ll just go ahead and say it,” Jonathan leaned forward in his chair. “Just let go.”
“Let go of what, exactly?”
“Everything.”
“If you are going to spout nonsense, at least make bloody sense.”
“Give me a minute, and I will,” Jonathan said, eyeing him over the rim of his glass. “Or not. You are bone stubborn. Of course, your wife seems to be just as—”
“Don’t say it,” Ambrose warned.
“Stubborn.”
“You’re bloody annoying tonight, Jonathan.”
“Just want you to be happy, old chap. And you’ve got to let go of your control if you want to be happy.”
Happy.
Willow’s face flashed through his mind for the hundredth time. Could it be that simple? Just let go and be happy. He wasn’t unhappy. At least, he didn’t think he was. But he wasn’t happy, either.
What did he want, really? Did he want to be happy?
Suddenly, he realized he did know one thing he wanted; he wanted more of his wife. More kisses. More touches. More laughter. More mischief. More of everything. He did not just lust after her body; he wanted her. All of her.
Would letting go give him Willow?
Forgiving her sister might. Is that what Jonathan’s twisted logic was getting at?
“What, then, do you propose I do?” Ambrose asked his brother. “Let Holly Middleton get away with humiliating me? Let go of her broken promise?”
“Why not? You got what you wanted—a wife.”
“But not the one I chose.”
“No, but certainly one better suited for you.”
Ambrose couldn’t argue that point.
They sat in silence for a few moments, sipping their drinks.
Then, unfortunately, Jonathan spoke again. “I wonder . . . have you ever stopped to ask why your wife married you?”
“To protect her family.”
Jonathan clucked his tongue. “Do you truly believe one sister would run away without a qualm, but the other would marry you for duty alone? How unenlightened of you.”
“My wife is more practical than her sister.”
“Women are rarely practical when it comes to men and marriage.”
“My wife is an exception. She. . .” His eyes jumped to his brother.
Absolutely had another motive.
Willow might not be as impractical as Holly but she was a Middleton. Their actions were never simply straightforward in his experience.
“Bloody hell.”
Jonathan’s teeth flashed. “Putting it together, are you?”
Ambrose muttered a curse. He’d not give him the sat
isfaction of his panic. He wanted his wife more than he wanted to breathe in some moments, and he didn’t even know her driving motivation for marrying him. He, who prided control, was playing with unpredictable fire. More worryingly, he wasn’t sure that learning her true motive for marrying him—no matter what it may be—would even affect his desire for her at all.
That should terrify him.
It did terrify him.
But he had a feeling it wasn’t going to stop his pursuit in the least, regardless of the danger. He wanted more of her, full stop.
Ambrose glanced at his younger brother, considering him. “Why haven’t you declared your refusal to wed Miss Middleton, eh? Are you not supposed to be up in arms, refusing to wed the woman who deserted me?”
“I wager half my savings that Miss Middleton will continue to evade your clutches,” Jonathan’s eyes crinkled, and his lips pulled into a smile, “allowing me to be merely entertained by it all.”
“And if she doesn’t evade my proverbial clutches?”
“I’d wager the other half on your wife.”
“My wife?”
Jonathan gave an imperceptible nod. “To convince you otherwise.”
“And if I don’t give in?”
“Then I suppose I shall run away and live the rest of my days in destitution.”
“Whose side are you on?” Ambrose demanded, setting his cards aside.
“You are trying to marry me off like a mother hen, Ambrose, and for no good reason, so I’m not on yours.” Jonathan leaned back in his chair. “Perhaps it is time for you to decide, dear brother, what is more important to you: satisfaction for the slight against you—and let me remind you, I’m a key part of that devilish plot—or your wife, who will most certainly square the accounts should you succeed.”
Ambrose met his brother’s gaze.
“Do you want your wife raining hell on you for the next fifty years or do you want to finally let go of ten years’ worth of guilt and fear?”
Well, when his brother put it like that . . . it was most irritating.
Ambrose rubbed the bridge of his nose.
He hadn’t given thought to what his wife might do, hadn’t considered she’d exact her own brand of justice on him. But now that he thought about it, there was never any question—she’d call for his head.
That didn’t align with his single most desire at all.
Damnation.
Holly Middleton had thrown his world on its axis. She’d slipped from his fingers and Willow, who didn’t tolerate his demands, had walked into it. He was losing control by the hour. Did he simply want Holly Middleton forced to his bidding to regain a modicum of control? Or just pride.
He didn’t know.
And he didn’t know if he could let it go.
But he did know one additional fact at the end of this conversation. A truth that had the added advantage of delaying this particular debate a little longer.
He knew why he married his wife.
Now he wanted to know why the hell she had married him.
Chapter 15
Anger pulsed through Willow’s veins as she prowled the halls of her home in search of her husband.
Scurrilous beast! Rotten cad! Horrid ogre!
How dare he!
One hour after informing her maid she’d be joining her sister for ices at Gunter’s, a missive arrived from her husband—a missive forbidding her the outing. The utter gall of the man.
It was beyond the pale. Worse still, he had sent a note, a note, to convey the order and, conveniently, he was nowhere to be found on the property—a property she was not allowed to leave.
Well, she’d see about that.
More than anything, Willow was at a loss. Today had been one of those days where, had she possessed a diary, there’d be hearts and kisses scribbled all over her husband’s name. Revealing childhood dreams, kissing each other senseless and making off in a mad dash after knocking over a seventeenth century sculpture was the stuff of diaries.
It was almost impossible to reconcile this cold, infuriating note with that man. Four steps forward and eleven steps back. It was as though Ambrose was purposefully backsliding to a more sheltered remoteness—one where his heart was not exposed.
And to some degree, Willow understood why. He loathed laying bare any vulnerability. On the other hand, he made her furious. Was it so hard to include a reason? Adopt a kinder tone?
The answer to that was a resound no.
“Where is my husband?” Willow demanded as she entered her husband’s bedchamber, startling Benson, Ambrose’s valet. Her gaze swept the room, taking note of the dark furnishings and the large, quite enormous, bed in the center. Her eyes darted back to the valet, who stood ramrod stiff, a look of disapproval on his face.
Well bully for him. Willow did not rightly care what he thought.
“Your Grace, I believe his lordship is to be found in his study.”
“I just came from his study and have searched every other room in this house. The duke is nowhere to be found.”
“Perhaps he returned there during your search of him.”
“Do not be impertinent, Benson. You dress the duke. You know his plans long before anyone else in this house. Where is he?”
The servant’s lips pinched together. “I cannot say, Your Grace.”
Clearly, he had no intention of telling her. Well, Willow refused to be a puppet that danced according to her husband’s will. As things stood at that very moment, Benson had more privilege than her. He was free from any strings. He was free to leave the house!
“I must admit, I am astounded by the ease of which you lie.”
Benson’s face went slack. Hah! The man was not made of marble after all.
“Your Grace,” he began.
Willow stopped him with the lift of her hand. “Are you telling me that the duke does not inform you of his schedule?”
“That is for his man of affairs, Your Grace.”
“Yes, but don’t you dress him according to that schedule?”
A light shade of red surfaced in the valet’s jawline.
“Well, I shan’t keep you from your duties, then. Do send word to my husband, wherever he is, if he does not present himself to me in one hour, I will leave, and I will not return.”
She turned away. Let the valet stew on that! Of course, Willow could just disobey his missive and go for ices, but that would hardly send the message she wished to convey—he could not act the prince and then transform into a beast at a moment’s notice. She would not be treated in such a fashion.
“Are you certain that is wise, Your Grace?”
Willow pinned the man with her most frosty look. “Do not forget your place, Benson. You may be loyal to my husband and believe yourself to be under his protection, but I am not an enemy you want to make.”
“I only meant—”
“I am well aware of what you meant,” she interrupted him. “I am leaving on the hour if my husband does not return. Who do you suppose will stop me? You, Benson? Will you tie me up and lock me in my room?”
“Of course not, Your Grace,” Benson said, looking affronted.
“I am pleased to note you are more intelligent than that.”
Turning on her heel, she stalked from the room, feeling somewhat like herself again.
She glanced down at the note clutched between her fingers, tangible proof of her husband’s beastly side. She recalled the look on Ambrose’s face when he’d revealed his childhood dream. How she wanted to kiss him right there in the gallery. And then, as if he knew her very soul, he had pulled her aside and kissed her. The world could have stopped at that moment and Willow would not have minded.
Willow balled her hands into small fists. Something had shifted. At least, something had for her. And sure, the primary reason she’d married the duke was to get with child, and that goal hadn’t changed. But after glimpsing the carefree man her husband had once been, both while waltzing and in the Gallery, Willow wanted tha
t Ambrose to be her husband in all ways, too.
She wanted the beast and she wanted the prince. She wanted all of him. And since that fantasy had taken hold, it was impossible to shake. She wanted love. She wanted a real marriage. She wanted a child.
She wanted everything.
Ambrose tugged at his cravat, staring at the shut door of his wife’s chamber as though it was a hostile party. Benson had sent word that Willow had threatened to leave. He would never allow that. But it still set him on edge. She was his wife, and she was damn well staying with him.
He was only three minutes late. That did not keep his stomach from twisting into knots. Those minutes had, however, stalled him from entering her chamber. Willow did not make idle threats. And the only reason he hadn’t lost his cool was that the servants would have informed him the moment she left the residence.
Inside himself, somewhere beneath the light buzz of brandy, Ambrose searched for the cold, controlling counterpart that had served him well these past ten years. The one that would serve him well now in dealing with his wife. How bloody inconvenient that part of him was intolerably silent, leaving him with a horrific case of nerves.
He gave the cravat one last tug and entered.
The first thing that struck him was her scent. Remarkably sweet, the aroma of flowers tempted him to toss down his boxing gloves then and there. Not that he planned to spar with her. He did not fight. He ordered.
That said, perhaps sending a note forbidding her to leave hadn’t been wise. In fact, that had been Jonathan’s exact words. But after being soaked to the bone just hours before, she wished to go for ices? It was deuced irresponsible. She could catch a cold. Which could lead to inflammatory infection. Which could lead to infection of the lungs.
Nevertheless, he ought to have chosen his words with more care, especially after the morning they had shared—a morning that left his head spinning in all directions.
Then his brain deserted him and he’d penned a careless note.
He was a marvelous idiot, yes.
But did she have to bloody threaten to leave him?
For a man who thrived on control, he had lost all of his. It had been years since he allowed his emotions to take command of his actions. Then there was the question: Why had his wife married him? What secrets did his little duchess hold?