Married to the Earl (The Wallflower Brides Book 3)

by Samantha Holt

  Damn the lot of them. The only one who was not watching her interaction with Ambrose was Miles, his brow deeply furrowed as he also attempted to thread a needle that appeared lost in his giant hands.

  “We saw each other only yesterday,” she murmured. “If you need to discuss the fair, we can talk on it when we go to London.”

  “But that is so far away.”

  “It is next week!” she squeaked.

  “Far too long to be without you.” He kept his tones low, and though she forced herself to stare only at the bunting in her hands, he was close, hovering in the periphery of her vision.

  So close that she could smell his masculine fragrance mingled with a touch of soap. So close that she swore she felt heat emanating from his body. Or perhaps that was her. Lord knows, she felt like someone had lit a fire under her chair at present. All she could think on was how wonderful his mouth felt all those days ago, how alive he made her feel, how hard his body had been against hers. Oh God, how expertly he had held her, making her feel as though she could let go of everything and melt into his touch.

  It was too much.

  “I really do not wish to talk about this,” she said primly.

  “I like you, Joanna.”

  She twisted to face him, unable to ignore his simple honesty. “I...like you too,” she admitted. “But that does not mean we need to do anything.”

  “I think it does.”

  “I think...I would rather be friends,” she said, feeling the lie burning on her tongue.

  “Well, I think not.”

  “You really are the most stubborn of men.”

  “And you are the most stubborn of women.” He smirked. “What a fine match we are.”

  Joanna released a frustrated noise that came out louder than expected. Heads snapped up and Augusta frowned. “Are you well, Joanna?”

  “Yes, yes, just jabbed myself with a needle again.” She lifted an uninjured finger and sucked on the end of it.

  “I haven’t even threaded mine,” complained Miles.

  “Here.” Augusta took the needle and thread from her husband, threaded it instantly, and handed it back. Miles murmured thank you and brushed a kiss on her cheek. A pang of envy struck deep inside Joanna. She’d been complicit in getting them together and there was no need for such silly emotions.

  But, Lord, did she miss such simple affections.

  “I am struggling with mine too,” declared Ambrose.

  Joanna sighed. “Hand it over.”

  She took the needle from him and tried to thread it, but she felt his gaze upon her and had to fight not to look up, especially at his mouth. If she did, she would surely give herself away to him—and to everyone. Every part of her beat with desire. Her heart pounded hard in her chest, and her pulse fluttered all the way down to her fingertips. Her hands shook when she tried to thread the needle for the second time.

  Inhaling and holding the breath in her chest, she finally threaded it on the third try and handed it back.

  “Now you can admire my needlework,” he said with a grin. “I think you shall find it quite delicate for a man.”

  “It cannot be any worse than mine,” said Chloe, lifting her bunting and showing Ambrose.

  “That sounds like a challenge.”

  “No one should be trying to make their sewing terrible!” Augusta protested.

  “Believe me,” Ambrose said. “I do not need to try.”

  They continued in silence for some time and Joanna used the opportunity to gather herself. By taking deep, measured breaths she was able to slow her heartbeat, and even stitch more neatly. She looked over at Ambrose’s work and had to hold back a giggle at his messy stitches.

  “Where on earth did you learn to sew?” she asked.

  “More like when, which was likely about twenty years ago. My sister forced me to learn so I could help her with her doll’s dresses, but it has been a long time since then and I doubt I was very good in the first place.”

  Joanna smiled, picturing a young Ambrose being bossed around by his sister. “I am surprised anyone could force you to do anything.”

  He lifted a shoulder. “I admired Helen very much and wanted desperately to spend time with her, so I was not so much forced, as very eager.”

  “So, you sewed doll’s dresses because you wanted to spend time with your sister?” She pursed her lips. “Why does that sound familiar?” she whispered.

  He shrugged again. “A man will do anything to impress a woman he admires.”

  Miles nodded and shared a smile with Augusta. “Ambrose does not lie.”

  Joanna met Ambrose’s gaze for the briefest moment then returned her attention to her sewing. He admired her. He didn’t just lust after her. He liked her and admired her. She blew out a breath. He was making it harder and harder to resist him, but could she really risk giving her body to him? Especially when she suspected it would be far too easy to hand over her heart too.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Will you be dining out tonight, my lord?” asked Bram.

  Ambrose peered at the butler, his back straight, that tight line of disapproval on his lips. “The country was good for you, Bram. Perhaps I should have left you there.”

  The butler blinked a few times. “You need me, my lord.”

  Ambrose grinned. “I suppose I do.” He shook his head. “I’ll be dining in when I return tonight.”

  “And will there be any guests expected?”

  “Just me.”

  To Bram’s credit, he barely revealed his surprise, only allowing himself the slightest twitch of a cheek. Ambrose well understood the butler’s surprise. Usually, after time away from London, he’d be hosting a party for all his friends, but he didn’t much feel like having company.

  Or more to the point, he only wanted the company of one person, and she was not yet in London, it seemed. The housekeeper at her aunt’s house informed him that she was expected tomorrow. Either she’d delayed her trip deliberately and not told him or there was some other reason. He hoped the latter but suspected the former. Joanna was not so easily swayed and was ensuring he knew it.

  He smiled to himself as he put on his hat and stepped down the three steps that led into the garden. He was not in the habit of pursuing uninterested women but then nor did he meet uninterested women. However, Joanna was far from uninterested. Perhaps she was scared. Maybe even confused. Whatever the emotion was, he was determined to cut through it and discover what on earth this was between them.

  He strolled down the path that cut through the short gardens in front of the house. Past the wrought iron gates that surrounded the entire building, the streets were busy, crowded with an eclectic mix of people. A group of women moved together, like a flock of birds carving through the sky, forcing people to step into the road and risk being run down by carriages.

  Not that any of the vehicles were moving quickly. The rattle of wheels upon cobbles often lulled him to sleep at night but there were so many carriages and wagons clogging up the street that none could move quickly enough to make such a sound during the day. He opened the gate and shut it behind him, smiling as a man with a London accent shouted at a driver whose accent was so thickly Spanish that it was hard to make out what he said. All Ambrose knew was that it had to be an insult in the way it was said. It seemed there were no language barriers when it came to insults.

  Making his way down the street and past the large group of women, he tipped his hat to them and cut through St. James’s Park. There was rarely a time when it was not busy, but spring brought even more visitors to the area. Children played under the watchful gaze of nannies whilst couples strolled together, women finally able to swap their umbrellas for parasols. The trees had begun to bloom, and a hint of sweetness lingered in the air, slicing through the smell of smoke from the streets and bringing the promise of more flowers peeking from the ground.

  He really did enjoy London. He thrived on the movement, on the bustle. It seemed to surge through his veins an
d energize him as though he had just drunk a strong coffee. Yet, Hampshire had not been so terrible either. Obviously, it had been made better by the company of a certain woman, but he’d enjoyed elements of the slow pace. It seemed playing the country gent had not been so stifling as he might have once thought.

  He marched quickly toward the long set of houses, each one white and uniform, their walls pristinely clean, despite the smoke still belching from the chimneys high above. A delivery boy scurried past him and down the steps to the cellar of one of the houses and Ambrose winced when he heard the screech of a housekeeper or cook.

  Toward the end of the row, Ambrose paused and noted the house number. He climbed the steps to the front door and pulled the bell. A few seconds later, a man old enough to be his grandfather answered the door and let him in after he gave over his name. Ambrose watched the butler shuffle away and waited in the well-lit hallway, hands clasped behind his back. The butler shuffled back a few moments later and Ambrose swore he heard the man’s bones creaking.

  “If you will just follow me,” the butler said, indicating to the rear of the house.

  Ambrose followed slowly, fearful of tripping over the man’s heels. The poor man should be forced into retirement, but knowing Barnes, he would be reluctant to have anyone new take the position.

  Barnes’s behavior with regards to Joanna was nothing different for him. He was staid and fiercely set on traditions and that would never change because change was about the one thing he feared the most.

  Barnes rose from his chair that was placed so close to a roaring fire Ambrose feared one spark would set the whole armchair alight. The room was hot and stuffy thanks to the unnecessary fire and Ambrose resisted the desire to tug at his cravat or peel off a layer of clothing.

  “Lord Newhaven, I suspect I know the reason for this visit.”

  “I imagine you do.”

  He indicated for Ambrose to sit. “Drink, Lord Newhaven?”

  Ambrose nodded and the butler creaked his way over to a drink’s cabinet in the corner of the drawing room, easing open the door with such sloth that Ambrose found himself almost captivated.

  “I believe I said all I had to say to Mr. Bartlett,” Barnes said.

  “You could have said it to me.”

  Barnes sighed and held out a hand for his drink. As far as Ambrose could tell, it might well be a good hour until it was in his hand, but Barnes did not seem to mind, leaving his hand open, his elbow resting on the chair. “I have been helping since the conception of the charity. Your father trusted me well.”

  “When did I ever say I do not trust you?”

  “You know full well, Lord Newhaven, that I could not speak against that woman, despite the damage she is wreaking.”

  Ambrose lifted an eyebrow. “Mr. Barnes, I have never known you to be anything but candid with me, and, frankly, I do not understand what damage it is you are speaking of.”

  The drinks finally arrived, and Ambrose waited while Barnes took a long, slow sip. Nothing happened quickly in this house he assumed.

  Though he’d known Mr. Barnes for all of his life thanks to his friendship with his father, he had never stepped foot in his London house. Just as the man was staid in his ways, his house was an echo of that, with furnishings that were tired and unfashionable and pale green wall fabrics tinged slightly yellow by cigar smoke. The scent of the stale smoke lingered in the room, adding to the stuffy sensation.

  “Why precisely, can you say nothing against her?” Ambrose pressed.

  The old man sighed heavily and leaned forward. “Mrs. Lockhart is an attractive woman. No doubt, she is charming too at times...not that I have seen it.”

  Ambrose ignored the drink that the butler placed on the table before him. He tensed his jaw. “What precisely does that have to do with her helping the charity?”

  Barnes cocked his head and eyed him. “You would not be the first man swayed by a female and I doubt you shall be the last.” He sat back in his chair and shrugged. “She’s attractive enough but I do not know how you put up with that mouth of hers in the bedroom. A woman should be—”

  Ambrose shot up from his chair. He balled his fists while heat pounded through him, pulsing down to his fingertips. Every muscle tense, he thrust a finger toward Barnes. The old man blinked up at him, his mouth parted.

  “Mrs. Lockhart is worth a hundred of you,” he said through clenched teeth. “And you are terrified of that. Terrified a woman might be cleverer than you. That her ideas might have more merit than your own.”

  He blew out a breath and realized his hands were sharking. The butler had tucked himself into a corner, his eyes wide. Ambrose had no intention of fighting an old man—or two, for that matter—but God help him, the temptation to land a blow across his face for what he said about Joanna burned deeply.

  “Lord N-Newhaven—” the man stammered.

  “I had intended to see if we could sway you into coming back on board as trustee today, but I see now you are nothing more than a prejudiced old man who would hold back the charity for the sake of his own ego.” Ambrose shook his head. “I am saddened, sir, that it should come to this, that you are not a more worldly man who can appreciate the strengths of the opposite sex.” He slowly unfurled his fists and looked to the butler. “My hat, if you do not mind,” he snapped.

  The butler glanced between his master and Ambrose then shuffled slowly off. Barnes remained frozen in his seat, mouth still agape.

  “Even if there was any sort of a relationship between me and Mrs. Lockhart, I would have hoped you were an intelligent enough man not to insult me. I can see now you have me marked as a man of poor conscience. A man who would put children’s welfare at risk for the sake of a ‘female’. I can assure you, I would never do such a thing. I would, however, look beyond my own ego to see the merit of fresh ideas and new thinking, regardless of the source of it.” The butler returned surprisingly quickly with his hat and Ambrose snatched it off him, putting it straight on. “I shall leave you to your reading, Mr. Barnes. Good day.”

  “Lord Newhaven, please—” Barnes started.

  Ambrose ignored him, stepping out into the hallway and onto the street before the butler could shuffle along and open the door for him. He paused on the step, drew in a deep breath of sweetly fragranced air, and released it, then headed back toward the park, marching briskly.

  He should have known the man would have ideas about his relationship with Joanna. What he had not known, however, was how damned angry Barnes would make him.

  Glancing up at the blue sky, a sprinkling of clouds dotted across it, and he shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. He never lost his temper. He couldn’t even recall the last time that he had. It seemed, he had found something to be passionate about.

  Or perhaps someone.

  He grinned to himself. Bram would be proud.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “I must write to my mother as soon as we are unpacked,” Joanna told Augusta, eyeing her open travel bag. She enjoyed travelling, especially to London, but if there was one thing she loathed about it, it was the packing and unpacking.

  “I received quite the lecture on how I was to look after you,” Augusta said with a smile.

  Joanna rolled her eyes. “I am sorry but I’m grateful you could accompany me. You would have thought being under the care of my aunt would have been enough to assuage her worries.”

  “It is my first time alone in London since being married.” Augusta’s smile widened. “It is quite exciting.”

  “I shall do my best to ensure our stay is not just about the fair, I promise.”

  Her friend lifted a delicate shoulder. “It is fine with me, though I am under orders to enjoy myself by Miles.” She wrinkled her nose. “I am not certain anyone can enjoy themselves when under orders, though.”

  “We will have fun,” Joanna vowed.

  While they might be in London to source things like tables for the fair and finish organizing the entertainment, Joanna was determi
ned they would enjoy their time away, even if it was for a mere week. Getting out from under her mother’s watchful eye would feel like stepping out onto the wild hills of the countryside, even if they were in a town filled with smoke and people.

  It might give her time to think about…well…Ambrose, too.

  She shook her head to herself. She really should not be thinking about him. The charity was enough of a new thing to keep her busy, surely?

  “Mrs. Dandridge said my aunt will be home in a few hours, so once we have seen her, we can do a little shopping if you would like?” Joanna suggested. Which would be far better than sitting around and pondering the issue that was Ambrose.

  Not that it even needed to be an issue. She could simply get on with the charity work, tell him, in no uncertain terms, that they would not be indulging in any further kisses and forget him. She was not that sort of widow.

  At all.

  She glanced at Augusta’s bag and leaned over with a frown. “How are you unpacked already?”

  Augusta laughed. “Joanna, you have been folding and refolding that one nightgown the entire time.”

  Joanna pursed her lips. “I loathe unpacking.”

  The door to the bedroom opened slowly and Joanna turned from her position by her bed. Mrs. Dandridge, a stout woman with arms that seemed to test the seams of her dress—likely from the many decades of cooking for Joanna’s aunt—lingered in the doorway. “A Lord...um...Creasey is here to see you, ma’am.”

  There was no avoiding the instant rush of excitement as it fizzled through her body, aiming straight for her heart. Joanna tried to keep her expression placid. Mrs. Dandridge was no gossip but she did not need the woman thinking there was anything untoward about her relationship with Ambrose. Joanna peered back at Augusta, who shooed her with a hand.

  “He likely needs to speak of the charity. You go and I shall finish your unpacking.”

  “I cannot let you do that!”

  “Go.” Augusta made a shooing motion.

  “Do you mind?” Joanna asked. “I do so loathe the task.”