The Perks of being a Duchess (Middleton Novel Book 2)

by Tanya Wilde

“That sounds rather macabre.”

  “I was going for dramatic, but macabre will do.” She dabbed her tongue over the tip of her ice. “Can you imagine the backstage of a theatre? Surrounded by actors and dancers, the loveliness of that?”

  “I suppose,” Willow murmured, feeling concern creep up on her. Was Poppy lonely? She studied her sister over her ice. “Are you certain you are alright?”

  “Of course, why should I not be?” Poppy inquired.

  Willow shook her head, and was about to question Poppy further when her sister said, “I say, is that not your husband over yonder?”

  Willow whirled around so fast her ice slipped from her fingers. It took two seconds to scan the streets before her eyes landed on the tall figure crossing the square toward them. Their eyes locked. The impact was so strong the air rushed from her lungs.

  “What on earth is he doing here?” Poppy asked, perplexed. “I thought this was supposed to be a private sisterly outing.”

  “I have no idea,” Willow murmured, appreciating the fine form of his gait as he marched over to them. “But we are about to find out.”

  Ambrose stood shadowed by his carriage, cloaked in a jacket and top hat, his brows drawn together in a fierce scowl as he stared at his wife. The scowl, it should be noted, was meant for him and not his wife.

  He made no move to interfere with her rendezvous, but listened to her laughter, such a sparkling sound it made his chest ache. He didn’t know why he had followed her. He surely hadn’t intended to stalk her. But he had been restless after she’d gone, and before he knew what was happening, he found himself across the street from Gunter’s.

  She was safe and sound.

  He had thought that. . . What had he thought? That she would not return home? That Holly would join them? Or that she’d be exhibiting signs of illness from being soaked earlier that day?

  With a curse, Ambrose drew a hand through his hair.

  What was he doing? Account ledgers, estate matters, and parliament, those were important things. Spying on his wife? What trouble could she get into going for ices?

  Ambrose shook his head.

  He told himself he had followed her because there were too many elements beyond his control for his liking.

  Bollocks.

  He had followed her because he was obsessed. Plain. Simple. Bloody annoying. How can a damn man of his station be so obsessed with his wife? Her presence. Her scent. Her lips. It was ludicrous.

  Who chased after their wife? This was the most powerless he’d been in ten years. When had he last spun so far away from the center of his axis?

  Ah yes, his wedding.

  And the night he kissed his wife outside her chamber.

  Let’s not forget this morning.

  Right now, this very moment.

  But the indisputable fact remained—his world had been thrown into chaos by his ex-fiancé.

  But Ambrose had made his demands to his father-in-law and soon Holly would resurface. It would all come together, and his honor would be restored. Why, then, did he feel like he was sinking into a bog?

  It was deuced easy to forget his goal—and how he had been slighted—when confronted with Willow’s wide innocent eyes, the sweet taste of her tongue on his. And last night, his wife had the audacity to invade the sanctity of his dreams. Even now, he could think of nothing else but how her gown perfectly accentuated the rise of her breasts. It was impossible to forget the slope of her sensual hips, the perfection of her legs.

  Clearly, his control had gone up in flames the moment he’d married the wench.

  It was time to take back that control.

  He crossed the street. Her sister noticed him first, and moments later, Willow spun around, eyes widening, cheeks flushing a pretty pink. She was staring at him in a way that made him rock hard.

  He flashed his teeth—a smile meant to disorientate. She looked startled for a moment and then she stepped forward—directly onto a root. A stifled scream tore from her throat as she lost her balance.

  Without thinking, Ambrose leapt forward, his arms reaching out to circle her waist, catching her in a dip.

  The heat from her body seeped into his skin, and he was aware of every rise and fall of her chest. Their gazes touched, held, and neither made a move to part.

  “Careful,” Ambrose drawled. “You can hurt yourself falling head over heels.”

  Color rushed up to her neck and cheeks, and he chuckled. Yes, he was totally losing all of his faculties.

  “You truly ought to work on your humor,” she breathed. A bare breath of a whisper, but he heard it.

  His eyes dropped to her lips, full and luscious, begging to be kissed again. He was a man always in control. Always. Control was what had gotten him through the harsh months after his sister’s death. Control was what he had structured his life upon after it had crumbled to the ground. Control kept him and the people around him safe.

  But every time his body connected with hers, touched her in any way, everything in him responded. Hungered. Needed. Burned.

  “What are you doing?” she murmured.

  “Breaking my own rules it seems.”

  He heard her slight gasp before he swooped down and crushed his mouth to hers. He kissed her because his life depended on it. His sanity depended on it. He kissed her as though they weren’t at war. Or perhaps he kissed her as though they were. He wasn’t sure.

  But the detail his mind focused on was the wintry sting on her lips, starting a raging fire in him. A slow burn starting at the pit of his stomach. Hungering, consuming, and threatening to explode. She kissed him back as though her life depended on it, too. At least that was how it felt. Her hands skimmed through his hair, mussing it up from its perfect style, and he groaned in response.

  He heard his sister-in-law huff. “Not doting on each other, my eye.”

  Ah, yes, they were in public.

  He didn’t care.

  There was a long list of reasons he ought to loathe the fact that his wife’s soft flesh against his had him leaping into a world of chaos—a world of broken rules. But the reasons faded away as he kissed her, until the only thing left to feel was how desperately he wished to broach the distance currently separating their bodies.

  “You are aware I am standing here, watching you, as is every other person in spying distance,” Poppy’s dry voice carried over to them again.

  Reluctantly, Ambrose lifted his head.

  “Why did you do that?” His wife breathed.

  “Damned if I know,” Ambrose whispered back, out of breath.

  And damned if he did.

  Straightening, he carefully set her back on her feet. “Ladies, I’ll leave you to your ices,” he murmured, offering a small bow before walking back to his carriage.

  Willow stared dazedly after her husband. She wasn’t at all certain she understood what had just happened. His presence had been unexpected and confusing. Then he’d swept her up in a soul-searching kiss. Which in itself was remarkable.

  Not the act of kissing itself. No, they had done quite a bit of that lately. But the soul-searching aspect. They’d kissed tentatively, flirtatiously, seductively, and lustily before, but never like this. Never like their very lives depended on it.

  But it had felt right.

  Intrinsically right.

  Day by day, moment by moment, Ambrose revealed greater and more intriguing depth to his character. Facets she found deeply appealing. Almost as if he was stepping back into the light, and suddenly, there were more dimensions present, ones she hadn’t imagined he possessed.

  He was almost . . . delightful.

  “Is he whistling a merry tune?” Poppy asked, the question jerking Willow back to reality.

  “I believe he is,” Willow confirmed, having half convinced herself she had to be imagining the sound as Ambrose walked away.

  “Well, I for one cannot believe he just kissed you and then walked off as if nothing happened. Are you still going to deny the man is doting on you?�
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  “Of course I am, because that was . . .”

  Lovely. Enthralling. Deeply moving.

  Something she wanted to do again.

  Something she was sure she’d dreamed up in her mind.

  “It’s worse than I first thought,” Poppy stepped up to her side, examining her flushed cheeks closely. “You are doting on him, too.”

  Chapter 17

  Willow was not doting on her husband.

  Poppy was wrong. Dead wrong. Doting implied she adored and worshiped the ground her husband walked upon. And that was not the case. Completely and utterly not the case.

  Now, if doting had meant something along the lines of obsessed with or absorbed by him, which it did not, that would have been another matter entirely.

  She entered the drawing room where Ambrose awaited her arrival a touch out of breath. They were dining together tonight. Alone. And her heart was beating a hundred beats per second at the mere thought of sitting across a table from him for hours.

  Hours.

  Her body exploded with heat at the thought. Well, it was time to test whether or not she was as flammable as she seemed.

  Flammable she might very well be.

  Doting she was not.

  Slowing at the entrance of the drawing room, she found Ambrose standing at the window, gazing out into the night. She took a moment to admire the broad expanse of his shoulders. He made an imposing figure, dressed in cream breeches that hugged his powerful legs in a fashion that ought to be outlawed.

  The temperature in the room soared.

  Willow smoothed her hands over her evening dress of emerald silk, dragging in a tight breath.

  Ambrose turned then, his eyes burning as they fixed on her. Intense. They are always so intense. Her chest expanded, and butterflies fluttered in her belly.

  “You look lovely.”

  “Thank you.” Gooseflesh prickled over her scalp. “I must admit, I was surprised to receive your invitation. You usually dine at the club.”

  He inclined his head. “I thought to make up for missing the last one.”

  “That is thoughtful of you,” she murmured, entering the room. “I hope I did not keep you waiting too long.”

  He smiled lightly, his gaze falling to her lips. “A man is accustomed from a young age to wait on a lady.”

  “I loathe waiting on anyone,” Willow admitted. “And I must confess . . . I’m perplexed . . .”

  “By?” Amusement colored his voice.

  “The Gallery. Gunter’s. Inviting me to dinner. Smiling. You do realize we fled the scene of vandalism?”

  “I already reimbursed the Gallery with a generous amount and no charges will be pressed,” he drawled, his steady composure in clear contrast with the turmoil erupting inside her.

  “Oh,” Willow said, mortified when her voice came out as a croak.

  He chuckled, warm and rich, and the sound sent prickles along her spine. He held out his arm, his grin turning wolfish. “Are you ready?”

  “I’m ready,” she murmured, placing her fingers on his sleeve.

  That smile.

  She found herself grinning back at him.

  Excitement stirred within her, a hint of victory in its wake. This was truly progress. And though she knew she should be focusing on convincing him to let her sister be, Willow found herself thrilled for reasons far beyond that. She wanted to get to know this man, understand him. She desired a more meaningful relationship. She didn’t want him to just be a means to an end any longer—a method to get with child. She wanted him to be her husband, in every way, to become her true family.

  That did not mean she was doting on him.

  He escorted her into the dining room and seated her at the table. A few candles flickered, not as many as she had lit before, but much more intimate.

  Wendell appeared to fill their glasses with wine and Willow wasted no time in draining hers, motioning for more.

  “Why haven’t you broached the subject of your sister?” He took a sip of wine, his gaze watchful. “Pleaded her case in her absence?”

  The question was so blunt Willow almost rocked back in her chair. He wanted to talk about Holly now? She wasn’t at all sure if she was ready for that battle yet. Holly was still in hiding. Willow had time.

  “Why have you not pressed me to read your stuffy rules?” Willow countered.

  “And deprive you of the utter vexation on my features when you inevitably break them?”

  “I’m not sure I appreciate your newfound humor.”

  “Not at all my character, I agree.”

  Nervous laughter bubbled up through her throat. “Next, you will tell me that you are giving our marriage the benefit of the doubt.”

  “Perhaps I already am.” Ambrose lifted his glass to salute her. “To prosperity.”

  She raised her own. “Prosperity.”

  He swirled his drink in hand, tilting his head to the side. “How do you propose we settle the matters between us?”

  Keep on romancing me with swooping kisses, to start.

  “I hadn’t thought you’d compromise,” Willow admitted. “With your rules and anger for my sister.”

  “I might. If I understood the reason you married me.”

  This again.

  She sent him her most innocent look. “What happened for you to become such a bloodhound on the subject?”

  “You happened.”

  “Me?”

  “Do I have another wife?”

  He sounded so put out Willow laughed.

  Then she sobered. “Very well, I suppose there is no reason not to tell you.” Except her fear that he’d judge her too harshly for it, that he wouldn’t understand, that he didn’t want children after all. “I wished to become with child.”

  His eyes widened, and a flash of shock crossed his features. “You married me . . . to become with child.”

  “Yes.” She emphasized her answer with a nod.

  He settled back into his chair and regarded her with an unfathomable expression. His eyes were dark pools, impossible to read.

  What was he thinking?

  Her nerves pushed the next words out of her mouth. “Shocking, I know, especially given how I then proceeded to bar you from my bedroom.” She laughed nervously. His expression shifted then, but she still couldn’t read it. “But in truth, I’ve always wanted children and there you were, standing at the altar, and I—”

  “It’s not shocking,” he interrupted. “Just . . . unexpected.”

  “Why? Did you think I had some other devious motivation?”

  “I do not believe you to be devious.” The corners of his mouth lifted. “An opportunist, perhaps, but not devious.”

  She lifted a shoulder. It was a fair assessment. “I suppose I am that.”

  He gazed at her a moment longer and she realized she was holding her breath.

  “I am not opposed to children, Willow.”

  Something in her chest loosened at his admission. The fear she’d been carrying melted away.

  Oh, good.

  “I may have been opposed to marriage, but now that I’m married, I’m happy to give you all the children you wish.” His lips curled into a mischievous smirk. “Even happier when I think of the process that leads to them.”

  Heat flushed up her spine instantly as she recalled their . . . process. She needed to change the subject. Immediately. Before she made a fool of herself by rising from her chair and throwing herself at her husband to initiate that very process.

  “So now that I’ve confessed my secret, tell me, why did you follow me to Gunter’s?”

  “Would you believe me if I told you I found myself bereft of your company?”

  “Please, give me more credit than that.” She took another sip from her glass. “Much more credit.”

  “It was worth a try,” he drawled with a lazy smile. “The truth is I myself am not sure why I followed you. All I could think about was kissing you.”

  Gooseflesh broke out on her
arms.

  Lust. Not doting.

  “I. . . You . . . That is . . .”

  “Rather unsettling?” he suggested.

  Her eyes met his. “Unexpectedly so.”

  “No more for you than it is for me, I assure you.”

  “Is that why you haven’t drawn up another set of stuffy rules?”

  His lips twitched. “As you have not read them, you can hardly call them stuffy, now can you?”

  “If they weren’t stuffy, you would not be married to me.”

  “Then I suppose fate has smiled down on me.”

  Willow’s brows scrunched together. “Are you flirting with me?”

  “If you are frowning, I reckon I’m not doing it right.”

  The man was impossible!

  And yet, Willow’s insides fluttered.

  Lord save me, I am doting on my husband.

  “Why haven’t you drawn up another set?” she pressed, trying her best to stay on subject.

  “I have. They are on your desk.”

  Her eyes narrowed on him. “You shamelessly flirt with me and then you tell me that?”

  “Does that mean I am crusty?”

  Willow swore his eyes sparkled. She shook her head in exasperation. “I’m only going to burn them again.”

  His lips curved.

  “At least explain their purpose. You owe me that much.”

  His shoulders rose and fell. “They prevent lack of structure.”

  “There must be more to it than that, this need of yours to control.”

  He flashed her another disarming smile. “What gentleman would resist keeping such a beautiful wife under his thumb, where he knows she will be safe and protected?”

  “When you say it like that, it almost sounds romantic.”

  Laughter glimmered in his eyes. And something else, something that robbed the air from her lungs. His gaze dropped to the exposed flesh of her low-cut gown, and Willow was sure he could see her pulse leaping just there, beating away at an alarming pace.

  “What are you up to?” The question leaped from her tongue. But Willow was sure he was up to something. He was acting far too agreeable.

  “I’m attempting to be charming.”

  “Why?”

  “Such skepticism. Did you not wish for us to become more amicable toward one another?”