by Tanya Wilde
She faced the armoire when he entered, hands on her hips, brows pulled together in thought. His eyes missed no detail, from the suitcase at her feet to the dresses scattered over the bed and the low fire burning in the hearth.
Bloody hell, she really was leaving.
“You do realize,” he drawled, venturing further into the chamber, “there’s no place you can go where I cannot find you.”
She swung around to face him, anger flashing in the depth of those stormy blue eyes. Gone was the soft, powder blue he had come to expect from her—gone was the gentle pull of her mouth, replaced by a firm, unyielding line.
Her chin lifted a notch. “That remains to be seen.”
“If you are referring to your sister—that is different.”
“She still managed to slip through your fingers.”
“Again, not the same. There is no leaving me, love. I will never let you go,” Ambrose murmured, and when she slanted him a scathing look, he lifted his hands in surrender. “Not to mention I did not pin you as a woman who gave up so easily.”
“Oh? And what sort of woman did you take me for?”
“The sort that slayed arrogant dukes,” Ambrose said with the lift of his mouth.
She turned away and resumed her packing. “Is that an attempt at humor?”
Ambrose shrugged. “You’d have to remain in residence to find out.”
A snort answered him. “If there is anything to slay, it’s arrogance itself.”
He clucked his tongue. “Fair point. However, running is not the answer.”
“I beg to differ.”
“Then run if you must. Attempt to make it past the front door.”
“Oh, I will make it much farther than that,” she said without sparing him the slightest glance.
“Not with me on your heels,” he countered.
She shot him a glare over her shoulder before fully facing him.
Ah, now we come to the heart of it.
“How dare you forbid me to see my sister?”
“I did not forbid you to see your sister, I forbade you going for ices,” he pointed out, his attention drawn to her lips and their soft, sensual arch.
“That,” she spluttered, “might even be worse, I cannot rightly decide. But if you refuse me my family, I am leaving.”
The words had an odd effect on Ambrose. Instead of being angry at her threat, he found himself softening. That alone caused his heart to slam against his chest with punishing thuds. He found himself drawn to her like nothing before.
“I will never refuse you your family, Willow. I, better than anyone, know how it feels to live without one of them.” His gaze traveled over the scattered dresses before settling back on her. “Your home is here, with me.”
She took a furious step toward him, high in indignation. Christ, she was beautiful—especially when she was spitting fire at him. She pointed to the crumbled piece of paper on the floor. He grimaced. Not his finest moment, penning that note.
“I get that your father forced marriage on you and I suppose I can even understand your controlling nature given some of your past. What I cannot accept is your note. If you forbid me the delights of ices, then you can at least forbid me in person. Which, by the by, is ridiculous.”
“Not after you were drenched to the bone this morning. Not if you can catch a cold.” His words were clipped.
“I’m much sturdier than that,” she said, holding his dark gaze. “And if that was your concern, why not tell me in your note?”
Ambrose dragged an exaggerated hand through his hair. “My first reaction is to order. Demand. Command. Relinquishing control does not come easy to me.”
“I’m astonished you can admit that.”
So was he. Speaking of admissions. “Answer me this: why did you marry me?”
She blinked, her mouth parting and closing again. “You know why.”
“Refresh my memory,” Ambrose drawled.
Her brows puckered. “To save my family’s reputation.”
“And yet your sister showed no interest in saving your family’s name from scandal.”
“As you can imagine, we are quite different,” she pointed out.
Ambrose took a moment to absorb his wife’s response. Anger colored her features, but not enough to rile a real answer from her. He ought to just kiss her and pry the answers from her with his tongue. But she would probably not appreciate the effort at the moment, so he resisted.
“You are different,” Ambrose agreed. “There is no disputing that—but you married me aware of the reasons your sister ran off. What did you hope to gain, other than saving your family? Am I to believe you are a martyr?”
“I became a duchess. The perks of my title are enough.”
Ambrose gave a disbelieving snort. “You do not possess a social climbing bone in your body, so forgive me, Willow, if I remain unconvinced.”
“That’s not entirely true,” she denied. “Every woman possesses at least one such bone.”
“Mm, then why, since gaining the coveted title, have you shown little care or interest in the responsibilities that come with it?
“I have not!”
“Sneaking out in the dead of night?”
She scoffed. “That doesn’t precisely unmake me a duchess. And what of your misbehavior?”
“Mine?” The thought was laughable.
“Your desire to control everyone including your servants.”
“Hardly misbehavior.”
“You find pleasure in punishing others.”
“I assure you, I find no pleasure in punishing anyone.”
“You threatened to deny my desires if I broke your rules,” she accused.
“You desire me?” His lips cracked in a wolfish grin.
“I do not,” she scoffed.
“Interesting to bring up that particular moment. No mention of toast this time?” Ambrose murmured. “Ah. Is that it then? You married me because you hold a torch for me?”
“Of course not!”
“Me thinks my duchess doth protest too much.”
“I married you to save my family from scandal, that’s that,” she replied hotly.
His gaze flicked to the sheet of papers lying untouched on her desk. “Still haven’t been tempted to read them?”
She cast him an unimpressed glower. “I’m quite happy ignoring them, I assure you. In fact, I should just rip them up.”
“Destroying a piece of paper does not destroy the weight of its content. Or change the man who wrote it.”
She ignored him and sauntered over to the rules, snatching them up. With a defiant glare, she crossed over to the fire.
Ambrose arched a single brow.
“I do not wish to change you, but neither do I want to live by a set of rules copied down on paper.”
“You aren’t living by them,” Ambrose pointed out.
“They exist.”
“That they do.”
“And as such, burning them will make me feel infinitely better,” she said and tossed the papers into the fire.
Ambrose folded his arms over his chest.
The sheets curled and burst into flames, the charred paper crumpling in ashes. She turned to him, her chin lifted high, eyes flashing with challenge. Christ, he wanted to kiss her.
“Why did you marry me?” he pressed, delving deep into her bewitching eyes in search of the answer.
“I told you why.”
“And I remain unconvinced.”
“I’m baffled, I assure you.”
His gaze flicked to the flames. “I can draw up another set.”
“And I shall burn that set as well.” Her lashes drifted shut, inhaling a deep breath before they lifted to him. “I do not wish to change you, never that. I want to understand you; I want you to understand me. And your rules make me feel less than a person and more like a . . . jailbird.”
“Jailbird?” He almost laughed.
“Yes, a person who has been imprisoned.”
“I know what a jailbird is,” he muttered with a roll of his eyes. “It’s the vision of you, with a beak and wings, behind bars, I find intriguing.”
She blinked at him in surprise. “Was that another attempt at humor?”
He shrugged. “If you wish for me to understand you, perhaps you can start by telling me the reason you married me.”
Her hands settled on her hips. “Why do you insist on believing there is more to me wedding you than saving my family?”
“Your sister was brave enough to jilt me, uncaring of the consequence. You are no different. You married me because you wanted something in return.”
“You make me sound conniving, selfish.”
“I prefer the term artful.”
“I’m sure you do, but that does not mean I had an ulterior motive.” She turned away from him and tossed two dresses in her suitcase.
Cursing, Ambrose snatched up the dresses and tossed them to the floor. “You are not leaving.”
She bent to pick up the dresses. “Why not be a touch more charming and permit me to go for ices and I won’t.”
Ambrose choked back a curse. He wanted to pull her into his arms. He wanted to hurl the suitcase across the room. He wanted to kiss her senseless. What the hell was she doing to him?
He just wanted to protect her. Rules meant protection—for them both. Why couldn’t she understand that?
“Stay,” he murmured. When she shot him a glare he lowered his voice another octave. “Please.”
A faint crease appeared upon her brow. “Only if we can come to some sort of an arrangement.”
“Fine,” he bit off, as exasperation threatened to take hold of his windpipe. He shouldn’t care so much about her letting him go. That would be the detachment he’d been hoping for, wouldn’t it? Why then did the idea bother him? “Go have ices with your sister. But a footman shall accompany you.”
“A spy, you mean.”
“An escort,” he snapped.
“Gunter’s is hardly the stuff of horrors.”
“It will be when you catch a cold,” he muttered, his tone gruff. “Why can your sister not join you for tea, here?”
“I wish to go for ices.”
“What nutritional value do they have in any case?”
“They are enjoyable, and there is value in that.”
He shot her a hard look, sensing this was not a battle he could win. Not if he wished his wife to stop loading her suitcase. “Wear a cloak.”
“Honestly, that is—”
“My final condition.”
“Very well,” she agreed, eyeing him with wariness and something else . . . Something that set his heart racing. “But I have a condition of my own.”
“And that is?” Ambrose prompted.
“We seal our understanding with a kiss.”
Bloody hell. Yes.
Heat rushed right down to his cock.
She stepped up to him. “It will feel less like a condition if we do.”
His mind, his eyes, his entire focus was on her mouth. His hands reached out to cup each the side of her face, this thumb sliding along her jaw.
“As you wish,” he murmured before he dipped his lips to hers.
Her mouth tasted of candied berries, ripe and sweet. She was leaning into him, digging her fingers into his coat, kissing him back.
It was almost too much to bear.
A sizzling current made its way along his spine when she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer.
Ambrose shuddered. The kiss was almost punishing in its sensuality. Somehow, by some miracle, he pulled himself away. It was one of the hardest things he’d done in his life. He wanted to kiss her again. And again. And again. And never stop.
“Go,” he barked, clenching his hand at his side. “Before I change my mind.”
Chapter 16
Willow paused beneath the branches of a maple tree, glancing up at the light piercing through the canopy of leaves. It was the perfect spot to meet with Poppy, and the fresh air was marvelous. She missed this, missed spending time with her sisters. And it didn’t hurt that Gunter’s was one of the most fashionable haunts in London. It would go a long way for society to see her happy, out and about.
“I will never understand why they’d mold something as delicious as this ice into a lamb chop,” Poppy groused, stepping over a large root. “I prefer my ices in a simpler style.”
Willow glanced down at her lavender-flavored ice cream, mounded up in a cone-shaped glass.
“I agree,” Willow murmured, studying her purple creation.
“I still cannot believe your husband agreed to let you come for ices,” her sister said. “I had begun to believe he had you locked away in a tower somewhere.”
Willow shrugged, her gaze lazily following one of the waiters dashing from a carriage back into Gunter’s. “I’m not a prisoner, Poppy; you really ought to come for tea.”
“Is he still set on his diabolical plan to wed our sister off?”
“Probably, but have you heard? Lord Jonathan has always been in town. And I saw him yesterday and he is nothing as I imagined. The complete opposite from his brother.”
“So he will not follow through with his brother’s wishes? Or have you threatened the young buck with his life?”
Willow laughed. “No, I haven’t gotten to that part yet.”
“Just as well, threatening Lord Jonathan was Belle’s idea. I vote for locking him away until the duke comes to his senses.”
“Which might never happen,” Willow muttered, thinking about her husband’s stubborn nature, and then decided not to think further on it. “What do the gossips say?”
“Oh, the gossips have quite turned the tide.” Poppy’s eyes sparkled. “Apparently anyone who is anyone is gushing about a certain duke and duchess kissing at the Gallery and then fleeing the scene of vandalism.”
“Vandalism!”
“Apparently.”
Dear Lord.
“How is father faring with Holly’s absence?” Willow cleared her throat. “He must be beside himself with worry.”
Poppy’s tongue darted out to lick her ice. “Oh, I told him she is well taken care of and waiting for the dust to settle.”
“And he did not demand her whereabouts?” Willow asked, shocked.
“He did.” Poppy winked. “I haven’t cracked.”
“And he said nothing else?”
Poppy shook her head, enjoying another lick of ice cream.
Willow sighed.
The fact was Willow felt a pinch of guilt at coming for ices since it was so clear Ambrose was worried she’d become ill from the cold. She could have spared him that worry, had she not been so furious at being told she could not meet up with her sister at Gunter’s.
In truth, she didn’t think Ambrose a tyrant—she thought him a man left too long alone with his pain. A man who had lost his sister, terrified of losing anyone again.
Moment by moment, Willow began to understand what drove Ambrose’s need to live by such strict rules. The question was how to coax him back to the boy who dreamed of being an artist. It seemed to Willow she just needed to convince her husband that he could trust her, beyond any fear, beyond any doubt, to take care of herself.
“Father has always been surprisingly supportive. As for Ambrose, he is . . .” An obsession.
“Misunderstood?” Poppy offered, a hint of sarcasm coloring her tone.
Willow shot her sister a glare.
“What? It seems rather perilous to me to give your husband such benefit of faith. His actions have argued otherwise.” She licked her lamb chop ice. “Then again, rumor has it the Duke of St. Ives is doting on his wife.”
“You shouldn’t be listening to rumors, Poppy. And Ambrose is not a beast. Not much of one, certainly.” Willow paused, feeling a small smile spreading across her face involuntarily. “Except if you count kissing, we have been doing that a lot.”
“You are doting on your husband.”
&n
bsp; “Am not! But I shall admit I enjoy kissing. It’s all about exploring limits.”
“There are limits to kissing?” Poppy gave her an arched look. “Well, you know what they say about men and limits.”
“I assure you,” Willow answered bemused. “I do not.”
“Insanity lay at the end of a man’s limits.”
“That’s absurd.”
“What do you imagine lay at the end then?”
“Progress?”
Although, in Ambrose’s tightly wound world, just perhaps, his barking at her to wear a coat did count as progress. He’d yielded, hadn’t he?
Poppy made a snorting sound. “And here I planned on persuading you to return home if you weren’t happy, but alas, we’d then be harboring a criminal, wouldn’t we?”
“It was accidental,” Willow said with a roll of the eye. “And I am not leaving my husband.”
“For what it’s worth, I wouldn’t leave my husband if he looked like that.”
“Honestly, Poppy!”
Poppy smirked. “Come now, the duke is astoundingly handsome. What woman wouldn’t want to stare at his face all day long?”
“You are impossible.”
“I’m envious.”
“You’ve never clamored for a husband before,” Willow said, tilting her head curiously. That had always been Holly’s dream.
“True, but I do fantasize about muscled men with impossibly arrogant swaggers.”
“Then go find yourself a muscled husband with an impossibly arrogant swagger.”
Poppy waived Willow’s retort away. “I have other pursuits I first wish to see fulfilled before I marry.”
“Such as?”
“For one, I wish to partake in a play,” Poppy said thoughtfully. “Perhaps write or direct one, as well.”
“Acting?” Willow suppressed a laugh. “I shall wish to see that.”
“Wouldn’t that be grand? Oh, and I plan to commission a portrait of myself. To capture me while I’m still young and spirited.”
“You make it sound as if you are approaching death.”
“We are all approaching our death.”