She nodded. “Many, many responses from those wishing to attend or offer assistance. I need to reply to some and follow up with others.” She inhaled. “We also need to establish where we’re going to hold it.”
“What a fine job we have the two of us working on it then.” He took the stack of papers from her, though she seemed reluctant to hand over control. He smirked to himself. Some men were wary of bossy women, but Ambrose often found them quite interesting. Commanding women, in his experience, were better to talk to and there was no risk of them fawning over him and expecting silly things like marriage proposals.
“Do you want a cup of tea? Or anything to eat?”
She shook her head vigorously. “We should get to work. Half of the day is gone, what with me travelling here.”
“It is ten o’clock,” he pointed out. “We are nowhere near halfway through the day.”
“But we are a mere two hours from lunch. I should have insisted you come to me.”
“And be watched over by your mother. A fine idea.”
She shuddered. “Very well, here is better.”
“Actually, I rather enjoyed her company, but we will likely get more done here.”
“I know,” she grumbled, her tone petulant like a child.
He grinned to himself. “We can work in the library. There’s more space there than in the study.”
“That sounds excellent.”
Ambrose led the way through the drawing room, into a secondary parlor room, then finally into the library. Positioned in the east corner of the house, it received less daylight than most of the rooms and ensured the books remained protected from bright light.
“It’s a wonderful room,” Joanna breathed, peering around.
Ambrose smiled. The library often had that effect on people. With its intricate wood-carved railings, the spiral stairs leading to an upper level, a grand stone fireplace on one wall, and the painted ceilings depicting various creatures and people from mythology, it rivalled that of some of the grandest houses in England.
“It was designed by my great-grandfather,” he explained. “He adored books and wanted to make it the most spectacular room in the house.”
“He certainly succeeded.”
“It is my favorite,” he confessed.
She eyed him. “Your favorite?”
“Is that so surprising?”
“I did not have you marked as the bookish sort.”
“I am highly insulted.”
She tilted her head and pursed her lips. “You know full well you do not come across as a man who enjoys time in a library.”
He shrugged. “I enjoy books as much as the next man but, actually, it’s the room that always appealed to me. My mother was absent a lot when I was a boy and living here could be frightfully lonely and dull. Books became an odd sort of companion.” He lifted a brow. “If you tell anyone this, I shall deny it.”
“It does certainly taint your reputation as a rake.”
“I never set out to be a rake,” he pointed out.
“And yet you revel in it.”
“What is not to revel in? The freedom to do whatever one chooses?” He let his lips tilt. “You have that freedom too, you know.”
“The mourning period is not freedom,” she muttered.
Ambrose indicated to the huge walnut table that dominated the center of the room. “Would you like to show me where we stand with our progress?”
She nodded and hastened over, untying her bundles of letters and spreading them out. “We have many shops confirmed to attend and several entertainers from London. I wrote to a friend in London who knows someone who works at Vauxhall gardens and a few of the acrobats and a fire juggler are willing to offer their aid.”
“That should bring in some crowds.”
“I need to write some responses and also see if we cannot have a few upstanding members of society attend.”
He peered at all the correspondence and her carefully written lists. “You’ve been working hard on this.”
“If one is going to do something, one might as well do it properly.”
“And where exactly are we going to hold this thing? I’d offer the gardens here, but I fear they’re too far out from town.”
She nodded. “That was my thinking. I have yet to ask but I think Augusta’s husband—Lord Ashwick—would be willing to offer us his gardens. They are quite attractive and within walking distance of town, not to mention the mail coach stops nearby.”
“You think he will say yes?”
Joanna grinned. “If Augusta asks him, then certainly.”
He chuckled. “The power of a woman.” He gestured to the letters. “Can I assist in responding? You have done an awful lot already.”
“That’s a good idea.” She drew out a chair and sat. “I was wondering quite how I would reply to all of these.”
Ambrose moved around the table and took a seat opposite her. She handed over some letters, instructed him specifically on how to reply, then set to work on her own responses. He smiled to himself as she ducked her head and began writing.
He tried his best to focus on the letters, really, he did but she made it damned hard to concentrate. Every time she paused to think what to write, she bit down on her bottom lip or made this little sigh sound that made him wonder if it was a noise she made in bed and if he could get her to make it for him. He swallowed and adjusted his breeches then forced his attention back to the letters.
This was going to be a long day.
“What do you think of this?” she asked, gesturing to her letter.
He rose from his seat and came around behind her, pressing his knuckles to the table so he could lean over her and read. “That sounds perfect.”
She twisted her head. “Would you—”
She froze. The breath stilled in his chest. Their faces were mere inches apart. He smelled her fragrance—nothing he recognized, but delicious all the same.
God, he loved the scent of a woman.
Her gaze darted down to his lips and a groan threatened to rise from his throat. It was no good. Whether she was ready or mourning or ignoring her interest in him, she wanted to kiss him just as much as he longed to kiss her.
He closed the gap and touched his lips to hers, closing his eyes. He felt a tremor run through her and she issued a slight moan. Her lips were as soft as they looked and twice as tempting.
Hand curled tight around the back of her chair, he moved his mouth over hers and she responded by parting her lips. He took a little taste, then another before easing away.
Her lips were still parted and slightly moist. And, oh so, tempting. He gripped the chair harder to prevent himself from kissing her more.
“Um...” Her voice came out tight. “We should...” She gestured to the letters.
“Get back to work,” he finished for her. “A shame.”
“Ambrose...I am not that sort of woman.”
“Are you certain?”
Her gaze dashed down to his lips again and he allowed himself a tilted smile. No matter how much she protested, he knew she desired him. Likely as much as he desired her. But he’d leave her to come to that realization.
For now, at least.
Chapter Eleven
Joanna narrowed her gaze at the horse she saw being led toward the stables as her carriage stopped outside Charlecote House. She recognized that horse.
“Ambrose,” she muttered. She should never have mentioned she was visiting with Augusta and her husband today to discuss the use of their gardens for the charity fair.
Especially after their kiss.
She clapped hands to her face. Lord, her cheeks flamed just thinking about it. Tugging out her fan, she wafted it briskly in front of her face before tucking it away as the driver opened the vehicle door for her. What was it about that man and his ability to make her blush for the first time in her life?
Well, whatever he was doing here, she would do her best to keep things purely business. That kiss ha
d been a mistake. It had to have been. Look at her—she was still in her mourning wear, for goodness sakes. The last thing she needed was kisses from a veritable rake and, anyway, she was far too busy to be distracted by such things.
Even if it was a wonderful, wonderful kiss.
She shook her head and strode up to the doorway, stepping between stone pillars to spy Augusta and her husband, Viscount Ashwick, waiting for her. She paused briefly.
And Ambrose.
He smiled boldly at her. What an arrogant cad he was. She felt her lips twitch. Why she should be amused by his arrogance, inviting himself wherever he wished, she did not know. Turning her attention away from him and his far-too-handsome appearance, she smiled warmly at Augusta, taking her offered hand briefly.
“You are so kind to have me here.” She turned to her husband. “And you, Miles. Thank you for offering us the use of your gardens.”
He lifted a shoulder. Though tall, with a slightly dark countenance, Joanna had always sensed a softness in Miles, especially when it came to Augusta. The man would do anything for her friend and for that she was grateful. Augusta had gone to great strides to learn to be braver and stand up for herself, but it did not hurt to have a strong, caring husband to support her.
“Gus tells me this is of great importance and I have all of this land here so I might as well make use of it.”
“I have drinks set up for us on the lawn,” Augusta said, indicating to the left of the house. “We can enjoy some refreshments then take a tour of the gardens, so you and Lord Newhaven can figure out where everything will go.”
Joanna nodded and followed Augusta and Miles while Ambrose fell into step beside her. “A pleasure to see you too, Joanna.”
“I really do not think you need waste your time by being here. I am certain the three of us can establish what will go where on our own.”
“And leave me out of the planning? That hardly seems fair considering the charity is mine.”
“It is hardly yours. Your name is on it, that is all.”
“I am fairly certain that makes it mine.”
She stole a glance at him to find his lips stretched with amusement and blew out a frustrated breath. She did not wish to be at loggerheads with him—it was much more fun and productive when they worked together. But she could not avoid the tension creeping into her shoulders when she stood near him or the way her heart began to beat harder. He was far too attractive for his own good and now that she had kissed him—or he had kissed her—well, it made his attractiveness all the harder to ignore.
She had to ignore it. She must.
She was not ready for this, or for anything, for that matter. Some widows enjoyed their new status and took lovers but that was not her, it never had been. She’d been brought up to be a fine, accomplished woman who would marry swiftly and spend her years supporting her husband and having children. Ambrose was so far removed from that picture, there was simply no sense in wasting time kissing him.
She had not thought much about the future, past what it would be like when her mourning period was over, and she could behave as a normal member of society, but she imagined she would remarry eventually.
Ambrose was certainly not the marrying type.
They came around the other side of the house, arriving upon neat lawns stretched out in front of them that led down to a generous lake. Sunlight glinted off the surface while rushes ducked and weaved in the gentle breeze. Set in one corner of the lawns, a small table and four chairs awaited them. Miles and Ambrose waited until she and Augusta were sat before following suit.
“The lawns would work well for any stalls you might have,” Miles suggested as a servant poured lemonade into tall glasses.
Joanna looked out over them. “They would indeed.”
“And we could have games set up over by the trees,” suggested Augusta. “I am trying to think of some way to use the lake, but I cannot come up with anything interesting.”
“I wonder if I know anyone with a little boat?” Joanna mused. “We could offer boat rides.”
“I am certain we must have one somewhere,” said Miles. “We used to row on the lake as children.”
“I am happy to lend my arms to the cause if you need a rower,” suggested Ambrose.
Joanna had to shake away the image of Ambrose in nothing more than a shirt and breeches, his arms working hard at the oars. She’d felt the strength behind those arms when he’d comforted her at her house and knew all too well it would be the sort of image that would make many a woman swoon. The chances were, they’d have plenty of young ladies paying for a boat trip rather than children.
Miles nodded. “My brother and I can assist too.”
Augusta beamed. “What a wonderful idea.”
Joanna drained her lemonade and avoided looking at Ambrose, whom she could see watching her from the periphery of her vision. She dabbed her lips on a napkin, noting the delicate embroidery of Miles and Augusta’s initials on the corner.
A shudder ran through her, and it was not caused by the icy cool drink. There were embroidered fabrics at her house. They would be tucked away in one of the dresser drawers, ready for family or guests to use. How she would ever retrieve them and dispose of them she did not know. Or was she meant to tuck them away in a box somewhere to likely get attacked by mothballs or damp?
None of it bore thinking about. However, she’d have to, and soon. She’d thought she wanted to escape her mother but now it all felt too difficult. If she stayed much longer, though, she’d never leave.
“Joanna?”
She blinked and turned her attention to Augusta. “Yes? Sorry, I was just...admiring the gardens.”
“I asked if you wanted to take a proper tour. Perhaps see if you can start to plan out where everything might go.”
She offered a smile. “An excellent idea.”
Miles and Augusta led them down the lawns to the lake, indicating where a boat might go, then the four of them strolled up toward the long line of trees that separated the formal lawns from grazing land. Ambrose closed the gap between them, coming close to Joanna’s side. “Lost in thought?”
“Just thinking of the fair,” she said breezily.
“I saw you look at the napkin.”
She lifted her chin. “Yes, well one does that when one takes a napkin. Would be rather odd if I just fumbled around for one, would it not?”
“You were thinking of your late husband.”
She opened her mouth, closed it, then focused her attention on him. “I do think of him funnily enough. I am fairly certain it is what most widows do.”
“And yet, you hardly allow yourself seconds to dwell.”
Narrowing her gaze at him, she shook her head. “How is it you think you know what is going on inside my head? And why do you care?”
“We are friends, are we not?”
She blinked several times. Friends? She had many of them. Friends always came easily to her. However, she had never considered the possibility that they had reached such a stage in their relationship.
“I suppose,” she said cautiously.
“I am also excellent at understanding people, which helps.”
She tightened her jaw. “You really are the most arrogant man.”
“And I am your friend,” he insisted.
She sighed. “Yes, I suppose you are my friend at this point.”
“Well this arrogant friend is concerned for you. You are going to wear yourself to the bone with this charity business.”
“I thought you wanted this to succeed, I thought you were as invested in this as I was.”
“I am invested but not to the extent that I would see you suffer.”
Joanna released a light laugh. “I am not suffering.”
“If you do not grieve properly, you will suffer.”
“Ambrose,” she stopped and faced him, “I grieved, believe me. I cried for about a week. Do not presume you understand me and what I have been through.”
“
Just like you claim to understand me? I am a rake and arrogant, am I not?”
“You are talking in riddles,” she snapped.
He took her arm and pulled her behind the trunk of a thick oak tree. She glanced around it to see Augusta and Miles some way ahead. “Perhaps I am, but only out of concern for you.”
“If you were truly concerned for me, then you would not have come here.”
“Why?” He frowned. “Because I might be able to help share the burden of some of the work and the last thing you want is to have any spare time to stop and think?”
“No!” She shook her head vigorously. “Because...because...”
“Because we shared a kiss.”
Her chest deflated. She eyed the wild grass at her feet, peeking over her blue shoes. “Yes,” she admitted softly.
“Joanna, it was a mere kiss. A delightful one at that. Nothing of which to be ashamed.”
“I am still in mourning.” She plucked at her gray skirt. “See? I have the ugly clothes to prove it. I should not be kissing—”
“You are far from ugly in those clothes.” He took a step closer, forcing her to step back until the rough bark of the tree prevented her from going further. He put a hand to the tree, framing her body. She could step to one side and escape him, but when she looked into his sea-green eyes, she found she could not.
“And there are no rules when it comes to when one should be kissing another if one is free from obligations.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I do not feel free.”
“Perhaps that is part of your problem.”
She shook her head. “You are the only one who thinks I have a problem.”
A small smile curved the corners of his lips. “Maybe because I am the only one who truly sees you.”
She searched his gaze for moments, looking for evidence of seduction or arrogance or something, anything. All she saw was concern and a flicker of something else, but she couldn’t be certain what. His gaze skimmed down briefly, then back up. His pupils dilated, his eyes growing darker. She could still escape, she reminded herself, but could not even bring herself to glance away from him. Joanna lifted her chin marginally.
Married to the Earl (The Wallflower Brides Book 3) Page 7