by Tanya Wilde
“Ah, yes. Must say, never thought I’d be the victim of an arranged marriage.”
Willow scowled. “I cannot believe how blasé you are on the matter.”
Lord Jonathan cast a teasing grin her way. “Two women against my brother? If I am not concerned, my dear, it’s because I am certain you will change my brother’s cast-iron mind.”
“And you imagine that is wise?”
He winked at her. “I have lofty expectations.”
“Let us hope your expectations are not shot from the sky,” Willow said, her gaze searching for her husband in the crowd. “You know, if I fail to change his mind, there are other things I will stoop to.”
Lord Jonathan cast a curious look her way. “I’m almost afraid to ask.”
She smiled up at him, her eyes meeting his with unflinching regard. “You should be. So consider this warning: do not marry my sister.”
“Or?” His perfect smile never faltered.
She let her gaze travel down to his nether regions before returning to catch his eyes. “Or you will be limping for some time.”
He shuddered. “Christ, woman.”
She tilted her head to the side, and her lips curled sweetly. “Nevertheless, you ought to know that I will devote my life to torturing you, as will both of my sisters. As will others who care for Holly. Shall I list all the people you can expect to partake in adding to your misery?”
He shook his head with a grimace. “No need for all that.”
“Then we understand each other?”
“As clear as day,” he murmured down at her, a smile once again curving his mouth. “You have sass, my dear, but for the record, I never had any intention of wedding your sister, no matter how delightful she may be.”
“You cannot know how relieved I am to hear that.”
“I imagine you are.”
Willow nodded, recognizing the sharp underlining tone of his voice. A charming devil he may be, but Lord Jonathan was not a man stuffed with straw. When pushed into a corner, Willow could quite easily imagine him to fight like a dog.
They stopped at the refreshments table. “I’m afraid the cantankerous one has spotted us,” Lord Jonathan said.
Willow followed her brother-in-law’s gaze, and sure enough, her gaze collided with her husband’s dark eyes. The impact was so strong it punched the breath from her lips. They bore into hers, hot and knowing. A warm flush spread through her body. There was no stopping the color rising into her cheeks.
“Am I to surmise from your pretty blush that the two of you are getting along well?” Lord Jonathan’s tone was dry with humor.
Willow forced air into her lungs and tore her gaze away from Ambrose. “As well as can be expected.”
“I suspect better than both of you expected. Just look at him. He resembles a bull about to charge.”
Willow felt a smile tug at her lips. “Tell me, have you also received a set of rules from your brother on how to behave?”
Something queer passed in his gaze before he chuckled.
“Is something funny?” Willow demanded.
“Tell me he did not draw up an actual set of rules?”
Willow rolled her eyes. “Ah, so it appears that honor is exclusive to me.”
“Indeed. I am not much of a rule follower, in any case.”
“It is more fun breaking them,” Willow agreed.
“Unfortunately, the fun is almost over.” His smile turned rueful.
She looked at him quizzically.
“The bull is almost upon us,” he clarified. “And he has eyes only for you.”
He has eyes only for you.
Willow tried not to react to those words, but inside her pulse was leaping against her throat. Because she could not help but react to those words. Because she could not help but feel the same way.
She had eyes only for her husband, too.
Ambrose waded through the crowd toward his wife and brother, his eyes never straying from Willow’s face. Candlelight shimmered on her pale skin, her lips curled into a small smile. Jealousy curled inside him, like a wave of swirling knives jabbing in his gut. It was entirely irrational, but damn it all to hell, Jonathan was the charming brother, the likable Griffin. Not anything at all like Ambrose.
He cursed at the direction of his thoughts.
From the moment he left Willow’s side—and he had barely managed that—he’d found his eyes returning to her, again and again, wanting nothing else but to toss her over his shoulder and return to his bed. Their bed.
Thoughts of her soft body pressed up against him, his lips against her bare skin, her wandering hands shooting every thread of his control to hell were never far from the surface. Bloody hell, he had almost lost all restraint and taken her home, expectations be damned.
But he’d managed to keep his head about him, even if the impulse had been hard to control. He’d been content to admire her beauty and bide his time until it was acceptable to leave.
He slowed as he reached them, capturing Willow’s hand and setting it on his sleeve. Her eyes lifted to meet his.
“Ambrose,” Jonathan said. “Good of you to join us. I almost did not recognize you without your mask.”
“Masks are for pups,” Ambrose drawled. “Though I am overjoyed to see you are trading your old haunts in for more respectable events, brother.”
“Nothing as mundane as that, I assure you, but since you married, these events have begun to hold more appeal.”
Ambrose scoffed.
Jonathan motioned to the crowd in way of explanation. “You have the entire ton convinced you are the besotted husband. Splendid work, old chap. You pulled the wool right over their eyes.”
Ambrose tensed. The urge to punch his brother swamped him. He did not require a reminder they were putting on an act, when, in fact, he had never been more in earnest. A fragile bond had formed between him and his wife. The last thing he wanted was for his brother to ruin that.
Not after last night.
Not after Willow had admitted to their mutual attraction. And certainly not after Ambrose was the most at ease he had been in ten years. He was determined to discover where their attraction, their dawning bond might lead them.
“The ton has nothing better to do than create wild stories to gossip about,” Ambrose said, clipped.
“What about me?” Willow queried to Jonathan, batting her lashes at Ambrose. “Do I resemble a smitten wife?”
His belly knotted. Suddenly there was no one else in the room—only her, only Willow. She smiled up at him, and his heart clenched. And for once, he didn’t give a damn. He welcomed the sensation.
“Oh, you are the personification of a loving wife,” Jonathan said merrily, snapping Ambrose out of his spell. “Such a charming creature you married, brother. You must be delighted to have fallen into the parson’s trap.”
“I did not fall; I was pushed over the cliff by father’s will.”
Willow turned her eyes heavenward. “Honestly, let that go already, Ambrose. Your father meant well in his own way.”
“Listen to your wife, brother; it was still the best thing that happened to you, in my opinion, and me, since I was pushed into a hefty purse.”
“You were what?” Ambrose demanded.
Jonathan shrugged. “I might have wagered that it would be a woman, not ripe old age, that’d bring you to heel.”
“You placed a wager on me?” Ambrose bristled.
“I didn’t start it. The busybodies of White’s did. You were an unattainable bachelor; it was the best sort of wager. And I won a hefty purse.” Jonathan waggled his eyebrows. “And now if you will excuse me, I shall squander my winnings at the gambling tables.” With a parting wink, he wandered off to the card rooms.
“Well, I daresay your brother is a cheerful fellow,” Willow murmured, her lashes lifting to him.
Ambrose grunted. “At the moment, he is basking in my misery. It will pass soon enough.”
“You are miserable?”
&n
bsp; He dropped his voice an octave. “When I don’t have my hands on you, yes.”
Ambrose loved how her cheeks flushed. Dammit, he was finding it deuced difficult not to cause another outrageous scandal by hauling his wife over his shoulder and marching off like the barbarians of old.
“Perhaps we could . . .” she cleared her throat, “explore the library.”
He cast a faintly scandalized look her way. “I was unaware wives dragged their husbands off to ravish them in dark, secluded corners.”
“Smitten ones do,” she teased back.
A low groan rumbled in his throat at her suggestive tone. The intent in her eyes left him breathless. He did not even pretend that his control wasn’t long gone. It was. Along with his discipline. They all just scattered in the wake of Willow’s presence.
“I am thoroughly scandalized.”
“A novel experience, I’m sure,” she purred.
And then she was dragging him in the direction of the library—and he was happy to follow. Because he was sure there would be lovemaking, lots and lots of lovemaking.
Chapter 20
Ambrose sat behind his desk in his study and stared unseeingly at account books. There were numbers in them, which was as much as he could discern. The rest was gibberish. His eyes caught on one word: tenants. Yes, he had those. Tenants. Responsibilities. Estates to manage.
His gaze flicked to his disregarded cravat, carelessly cast aside over a stack of books, evidence his wife had been present not so long ago.
And what impact her presence had on him.
If desks could talk . . .
He looked over the ledgers again and sighed.
He could not even spare a thought to the people that relied on his quick-witted brain for their livelihood at the moment.
It was as if he was back at Cambridge again, staring cross-eyed at papers after a night of heavy drinking. Only today, he suffered no such after-effects. But he was drunk. Heavily intoxicated, in fact, walking around the halls of his home and over-imbibing on the scent of his wife.
His mind was filled with Willow, with images of her naked body writhing beneath him. And his mind had plenty of images to call upon. After their exploration in the library three nights ago, they’d since taken advantage of cloakrooms, darkened conservatories, and once, a linen closet.
And now, desks.
He couldn’t get enough of her. The way she returned every touch with the same enthusiasm overpowered him.
He wanted to marvel in those moments forever.
He never wanted them—or this—to end.
Which was why it came as a chilling blow that it would, indeed, end. Soon.
Twenty minutes ago, he had received word from his men that they’d found Holly Middleton and were returning her to London.
Bloody, bloody, bloody hell.
The timing could not have been worse.
He ought to be gloating. After all, he had been right—there was nowhere his wife, or anyone else, could go where he could not find them. He had won. This should have been a victory for him. And yet it did not feel like a victory.
What it felt like was a devastating loss.
Ambrose pushed the books away with disgust. The choice ought to have been easy. Demand justice for the slight against him. Regain control over the chaos Holly Middleton had caused. Show everyone that rules—that agreements—could not be broken without consequences. And there needed to be consequences or everyone did as they pleased. At which point, society crumbled.
His brother’s words came to mind: You got what you wanted—a wife.
Yes, he had gotten a wife. And technically he hadn’t been jilted or deserted. Some might argue no slight had been made. But it had. And his pride had sought justice for that slight, his honor had demanded it, and his need for control had pressed for it.
But now another word had wormed its way into his mind.
More.
He wanted more. More of Willow. More of her smiles. More of her touches. More of this life he’d glimpsed with her over the last week.
No more fear. No more rules. No more resentment.
A dangerous bloody word, that “more,” but it was also a word filled with promise.
Ambrose scowled down at the ill-fated letter he had tossed aside. How to deal with his sister-in-law?
Low and behold, as if fate had spoken, his brother sauntered into the room, his usual sunny self.
“Don’t you look all flustered and out of place,” Jonathan said, dropping into a chair. He stretched out his long legs and crossed them at the ankles. “Tell me it’s not your reluctant duchess that has darkened your mood so?”
“I would hardly call my bride reluctant. She practically sprinted down the aisle.”
“A gross exaggeration, I’m sure,” Jonathan said, his eyebrows lifting when he spotted Ambrose’s cravat. “Though, I am not here to discuss your duchess, but rather an update on her sister.”
“What about her?”
“Where to start?” Jonathan pondered aloud. “Oh, yes, are you still planning to marry me off?”
“What do you suppose?”
“You know, as the second son, I always thought myself above arranged marriages.”
“Have you now? You can go into hiding as Miss Middleton has done. Perhaps don a wig for disguise?”
“Don a wig?” Jonathan lifted his hand to his hair. “On this hair? I’d rather pencil my eyebrows. And you really ought to work on your attempts at humor.”
Ambrose snorted.
“I’ve received a letter from mother,” Jonathan informed Ambrose. “She is still quite put out about the horror of your wedding.”
“She’ll get over it.”
Just as he got over it. Which, he realized in a moment of divine clarity, he had. Fully. Explicitly. Unequivocally.
“Perhaps you ought to join her in Bath and try the healing waters for yourself?”
Ambrose did not dignify that with an answer.
He glanced over to the damned letter, which held the power to snuff out his peace, and realized he held no true ill will against Holly Middleton. The pride, the need, that had driven him to pursue justice against her affront had all but drawn its last breath.
Furthermore, if not for her abandonment, he wouldn’t have married Willow. And he could not imagine being married to anyone else. A part of him, in fact, deep down, may have been rooting for Holly all along.
Not that he would ever admit that aloud. Wild horses could trample him before he uttered those words.
But he could do something else.
Like, say, let his pursuit go. That, he found, was no hardship at all. Not anymore. Because damaging the ground he had gained with his wife by administering a consequence to soothe his pride would bring him nothing but misery.
“Your wife seems truly taken with you.”
Jonathan’s comment drew Ambrose out of his thoughts. He looked up from his desk to see his brother eyeing him with interest.
Ambrose sat up straighter. “She told you that?”
“No, but I see how she looks at you.” Jonathan leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “I see how you look at her.”
Ambrose narrowed his eyes. “Your point?”
“Just that I’d hate for you lose such a precious gift.”
Ambrose smirked. “That will never happen.”
He would make sure of that, looming catastrophe or not.
“So you have given up dwelling in the past?” Jonathan crossed his arms behind his head. “To dwell on the past is to dwell on destruction,” he finished merrily.
“Thank you, Aristotle, but I do not dwell where I do not belong, and I do not see how that has anything to do with why you interrupted my work.”
“Seems to me I’m not the first one to interrupt you.” Jonathan cracked a grin, nodding to the neglected cravat. “Decided to have more fun, did you?”
“That is no business of yours.”
“I’ll take that as an affirmative.
”
“Please don’t.”
“Loosen up, brother. Let past grievances go and live your life free of strictures.”
Fate, indeed.
“Strictures are there—”
“To prevent your wife from suffering the same fate as our beloved sister, yes, I gathered.”
Ambrose sucked in a breath. The pain stabbed him, sharp and quick, at the mention of Celia.
“Your wife will not suffer the same fate,” Jonathan murmured softly. “There was no way for you to save Celia any more than I could. She was ill.”
“We have been over this,” Ambrose said quietly, darkly. The guilt he carried over his sister’s death was his burden. For years it had served as a reminder of what happened when there were no strictures in a person’s life. But it had been wishful thinking that Ambrose could breathe the force of his will into his wife. He couldn’t. And he didn’t want to.
“I thought it deserved another mention. Like I said, I’d hate for you to lose your wife because of our loss.”
“But if Celia had lived a healthier life—”
“She would have died anyway.” Jonathan shook his head. “She had a bad heart, Ambrose, and your wife doesn’t. That woman’s heart is as strong as her backbone. But you already know that. That is why you haven’t forced your little rules down her throat.”
Aye, that was the same conclusion Ambrose had arrived at. Celia’s death aside, Willow did not have a bad heart. She had a strong spirit, a good heart, in more ways than one.
Ambrose knew that the day Celia died he had shut himself off from emotion, seeking shelter in cold, hard control. He’d done so because he never wanted pain to darken his door again. And so he had compiled those rules the day he proposed to Holly. They had been drawn up to ensure his wife lived a healthy, non-tiring lifestyle.
Jonathan’s gaze fell to the letter on his desk, his eyes widening as he snatched it up. “You found her. You found Holly Middleton.”
Ambrose cursed. He should have tossed the damn letter in the fire as his wife had done with his rules. And, admittedly, he should have called his men off days ago—only he’d been preoccupied enjoying his wife’s touches and hadn’t thought enough about how his pursuit for justice would affect their truce.