by Tanya Wilde
When the ceremony finally came to the portion where they repeated their vows, he tensed, but his voice was firm and resolute as he repeated his vows. Then his eyes drifted over her concealed face as she repeated her own.
“I, Miss Middleton—” his hands twitched, “—take this man to be my wedded husband . . .” The voice confirmed it. This wasn’t Holly Middleton. “. . . Death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.”
Another proverbial feather rose.
Whoever this woman was, she had left out an important part of her vows. Which brought him to the question: what the hell was he going to do? He had precious little options—no options, in fact—but to see this through, thanks so his father’s will.
All the same, that did not stop him from spending the remainder of the ceremony pondering, arguing and debating the best course of action.
And after, when it became apparent his wife would never lift the damn lace from her face, he reached out and lifted the thing, already knowing, but still praying, he was wrong.
He wasn’t.
Sky-blue eyes stared up at him, set in a face that didn’t belong to his betrothed. Astonishment engulfed him even though deep down he’d known. The emotion was so unexpected he had no time to school his features from the shock.
His mask slipped.
For one, gut-wrenching moment, Ambrose felt exposed, as though she, this Miss Middleton, could see straight through his purposely erected armor.
Fury began to unfold in the inner reaches of his heart.
Ambrose had been deceived.
Outwitted.
Jilted.
He dropped a curtain over any emotion, pushed down his disbelief. In its place rage churned, retaliation beckoned.
A tiny part of him, a sliver of thought really, wondered whether it mattered. He was married. His father’s will was met. Perhaps he should leave it be. But that was only a fleeting moment of weakness. It bloody well did matter. It was a matter of principle. And pride. He was a Duke. Powerful. And he had been tricked. He had been weighed and found wanting by Holly bloody Middleton. On the day of their wedding.
He would not stand for it!
Ambrose noted with some measure of satisfaction that a flush crept across his bride’s cheeks as she recognized his anger.
This Middleton possessed some sense.
Ambrose ignored the rising chatter of the guests. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see some of their heads bent low, attempting to piece together whether they had gotten the details of the wedding wrong. But Ambrose knew what the invitation read. He had written the lines himself. This would turn into a nightmare if he did not put a stop to it right this moment.
So he did the only thing that came to mind.
He lowered his head and kissed the bride.
At first, he felt her hand rest against his chest and half-heartedly push, but he did not stir. Before the entire Church, before their family, before God, he claimed her as his. She and her sister might have tricked him, but over his dead body would he allow the ton to question their union. The kiss made his position clear—she was his chosen bride.
Then she breathed a soft note of peppermint into him and Ambrose found himself knocked off balance. The delicate curve of her lips softened beneath his and the sensation hit him like a ton of bricks.
He felt her grip his lapel in response to his tongue grazing along her lower lips. She was holding onto him, pulling him closer. But even her sultry, pliant mouth wasn’t truly what caused his heart to hammer in his chest. It was the sweet flavor of the fragrance mixed on her skin, the light notes of jasmine that elevated him to heaven.
A throat clearing broke the spell and Ambrose pulled away from her. Bewilderment swamped him. He glared down into equally dazed cerulean eyes with grim displeasure.
So the kiss had stirred her too? Well, he would pretend his lips didn’t burn at the loss of contact. But he did intend to warn her that there would be no backing away from this commitment, no running like her sister, so he leaned forward and whispered wife in her ear.
The word sent a zap of something sharp through him. He pushed the unruly feeling aside. What he needed to do was gather his wits to salvage the situation, not feel unfamiliar sensations.
Ambrose turned away and swiftly signed the registry and waited for his wife to do the same.
Done. It was done.
He offered his arm, keeping his features cool, not daring to betray how much she or that kiss had disturbed him. He strolled past all the curious stares, back straight and head held high like he wasn’t a duke that had just been duped.
Wouldn’t that make for a grand title in the gossip rags?
In truth, Ambrose was on the verge of exploding. Only those who knew him well would recognize his rigid posture for what it was: fury. And he was furious. But these people, this flock of vultures, would see nothing but an arrogant duke.
Ambrose cringed at the familiar wail of his mother.
Not bloody now.
Where the hell was his brother when he needed him most? Now Ambrose had to deal with a treacherous little wife and a caterwauling mother on his own.
The dowager’s reaction would only fuel the gossip. She ought to know that weeping at such a time would cause rumors to rampage. Especially now when it was crucial to keep up appearances.
Ambrose shook his head, his mind spinning. He would deposit his wife in the waiting carriage and then he’d return for his mother.
But first.
“What is the meaning of this?” he hissed between clenched teeth in his wife’s ear.
“The meaning of what?” His bride countered, smiling at one of the guests.
“You know very well what I’m referring to.”
“Then you ought to have no trouble understanding the meaning of what just happened.”
“I understand a great deal. What I want to know is why I find myself married to you and not your sister.”
“I daresay you know the answer to that question as well.”
Was that censure he detected in her tone? From her?
Ambrose wanted to shake her. Growl. Kick something. Hard. Never in his life had he felt this rattled before. Not even when he had read the conditions of his father’s last words. Was this what marriage would always be like? Constantly angry? Forever swindled by one’s wife?
Once outside, he stiffly ushered her into their waiting carriage. He could hear his mother just behind them, and already his brain wove a tale of mothers and emotions and weddings. She was prone to dramatic behavior, after all. Everyone in London was aware of that.
A good number of guests had followed them out, along with the still-wailing dowager. He could hear them openly speculating about the bride. Somewhere off to the right, Ambrose heard the words heathen wedding swap, and he shot a glare that way. The guests shrunk back at his withering look, and he turned back to the carriage just as his bride cast his mother A Look.
The woman was brazen, all right. Whether that was a good or a bad thing would yet be determined. But she had spunk; it bled from her like water seeping through small cracks littered over a wall.
Of their own volition, Ambrose’s eyes dropped to her lips. His own began to tingle as he recalled their kiss. He wondered what his wife would make of it if she knew she’d been the first woman he had ever kissed in such a sensual manner. That he had only been with one woman his entire life—his former mistress—and they never kissed. At least not beyond the occasional peck on the temple or cheek.
That had been her one rule.
She had claimed kissing was an act more intimate than intercourse, and their arrangement was one for pleasure and not intimacy. Ambrose had left it at that. But that was then, and this was now.
Just then, his mother’s wailing suddenly stopped.
Ambrose frowned and swung around. Had his mother suddenly controlled herself? He doubted it.
What the bloody . . .
Surrounded by a cir
cle of London’s worst gossips, his mother—in a heap of crumpled taffeta silk—lay sprawled in the dirt.
Hell.
Chapter 3
The mark of a great man, some would say, is his ability to navigate through impossible situations with great ease. Willow’s husband appeared to be such a man. Other than his initial slip in countenance, one that had pleased her more than she cared to admit, not once did he betray emotion, even though he must be furious. It was simply impossible to tell from looking at him. But he had known. Somewhere during the ceremony, something had alerted him to her deceit.
And still he married her.
Bittersweet emotion centered in her chest.
She was wed to the stick-in-the-mud Duke of St. Ives. But she was married. She had done it. She had pulled it off by the skin of her teeth, but she had done it. Whether she would remain wed, Willow supposed, was another matter. Annulment was still an option.
Of course, that would leave her entire family in ruin. The papers would have a blast with this scandal as it was. Willow could just imagine the title should the duke annul the marriage. The Great Deception: Miss Middleton jilts The Duke of St. Ives only for the duke to jilt Miss Middleton.
Willow settled into the carriage just in time for the arrival of her sobbing mother-in-law. She shot the dowager a disapproving look.
The woman was making everything worse with her tears.
And then, to Willow’s amazement, the dowager collapsed into a pile of heaping skirts.
The scene was truly remarkable.
The duke swore and rushed to his mother’s side. Two footmen hurried to assist while another woman, with a hat that resembled a furry creature, revived the dowager with smelling salts.
Willow let out a sigh. The day had only just begun and she was ready for it to end.
Seconds later, her mother-in-law was settled in the carriage next to her son, who installed himself across from Willow.
A crowd had gathered, tittering behind their fans, rudely speculating about the turn of events. Just before the carriage door shut, Willow glimpsed Poppy, her face pale as a sheet of paper, eyes round with shock.
I’m sorry, Willow mouthed before Poppy was replaced by the drawn velvet curtains of the carriage door. Remorse clawed at her heart. The sisters told each other everything. And today they stood divided. Holly did not know what Willow had done and she, in return, did not know where her sister had run off to. Poor Poppy, she knew even less than the both of them.
The entire morning had been a hellish whirlwind. At least the duke had not been deserted at the altar. That ought to count for something. But one glance at his hard features told Willow it would not be as simple as all that.
“How could this have happened?” The Dowager cried. “Oh, the horror!”
Willow studied the woman in silence, peering at her from beneath her lashes. Mostly to avoid the scrutiny of St Ives. Years of pampered lifestyle had done nothing to halt the fine lines of the woman’s timeworn skin. Her salt and pepper hair should have afforded her a more seasoned appearance. Instead, her milky, fatigued eyes suggested a more dismal spirit.
“We must dissolve this travesty immediately!” The dowager carried on.
Willow gave her a sharp look. She did not want the dowager to influence the duke’s mind about dissolving their marriage. Holly had mentioned the Dragon Duchess had commandeered the wedding arrangements, hence the name. Would the woman attempt to commandeer the outcome of this marriage, too?
Willow risked a glance at her husband, startled to find those black eyes scrutinizing her, noting every little nuance of her reaction, she was sure.
She held his gaze, refusing to be intimidated. If Willow were to remain his wife, he ought to be aware she did not cower under frosty glares, and refused to be bullied by anyone, even a man as powerful as he.
“The marriage will not be dissolved.” His eyes never left hers. His voice brooked no argument.
Willow was not about to argue.
“Oh! The shame!” The dowager sobbed.
It was enough to provoke a flash of annoyance.
Apparently, the duke thought so too for he sent his mother a look of displeasure to which the duchess sniffed and looked away—silenced.
“Where is your sister?” St. Ives asked, turning his attention back to Willow.
“I’ve no idea,” Willow said, shivering when those black eyes fixed on her. For the first time, she wondered how she was going manage a husband if he proved completely unmanageable. Up until now, she had stood firm in her mind that she could. She already knew he was imperious, but what if he was unbendable?
What if he would not give an inch?
And she needed him to give at least two inches—to gain his trust and to save her sister from the brunt of his anger. Beyond that, it did not quite matter, she supposed. She wanted a child. He required an heir. The math was simple.
“I find that hard to believe,” the duke was saying. “She was present when last I reported the time. So, I imagine, were you.”
“Holly is unaware that I took her place,” Willow admitted. “I was supposed to draft a note for my father to find and leave.”
The duke said nothing, just stared at her.
God help her, her gaze dropped to his lips for the briefest moment before shooting back to his eyes again. A knowing glint flashed in their depths. They were in a battle of wills, she realized. And she had lost this round.
Willow sat up straighter. She could not lose composure again underneath his gaze. Even if it pained her. Which it did. Ramrod stiff had never been her chosen position and at that moment, with the wailing Dragon Duchess on one side and a temperamental husband across from her, Willow wondered whether this would be the premise of their relationship. Her life.
Chaos.
“So instead of penning a note, you married me instead? To save your family from scandal, I presume?”
“Something like that,” Willow murmured.
“On my life, this family is going down in infamy!” The dowager responded with a sulk.
It took an infinite amount of willpower to not roll her eyes. If anyone was going down in infamy, it would be Willow.
“So your sister does not know you took her place and you don’t know where she ran off to,” St. Ives clarified. “Is that correct?”
Willow lifted a haughty chin. “Yes. But even if I did know, I would not tell you.”
“Such loyalty,” he murmured. “One way or another, wife, I will find her.”
Willow inhaled a low, deep breath. Her husband was a striking man. One might easily forget just how bossy he was by staring at the man.
“I am in possession of a name, you know.”
He jerked, the movement subtle, but Willow noticed the slight jolt. “You do know my name, do you not?” she remarked dryly.
A sudden air of stillness surrounded him, and Willow saw the exact moment he concluded that he, in fact, did not.
“You cannot recall my name, can you, Ambrose?” she echoed incredulous. “I am in complete shock.”
“Of course I know your name,” he snapped, and smirked. “Willa.”
“That is a nice name, Willa, but it’s not mine.”
His brows drew together in a fierce scowl, and this time Willow suppressed a smile. If he wished to learn her name, he’d have to ask. Or hope for someone to call her by her name. Because a man like him would never ask.
“Winnifred.”
Unbelievable.
“I’m not acquainted with anyone by that name.”
The dowager moaned. “Oh, how will I ever set foot in society again?”
They both ignored her.
“Wendy.”
“Really, Ambrose, you should stop.”
“It has something to do with a tree,” he muttered.
Honestly.
“It also rhymes with pillow.”
His features contorted into a dark scowl. “Damnation, tell me, then,” he growled.
“Why do
you wish to know the whereabouts of my sister?” Willow countered. She suspected she wasn’t going to like the answer. Holly had to be protected at all cost.
“Your sister made a spectacle of me,” St. Ives answered.
“You weren’t jilted,” Willow pointed out.
“Do you imagine just because you stepped in, your sister will be released from the consequences of her actions?”
“Yes?” Willow drew out the word.
“Have you any thought on how it feels to be so publically made a fool?”
Willow’s heart dropped to her stomach. No, she did not. But all the same, beyond her own reasons for marrying the duke, she must protect her sister.
“I took her place, is that not enough?” she implored.
“That won’t absolve her from the consequences, no.”
His dismissive tone sparked her temper. “And what consequences are those?”
He shrugged. “She will marry my brother, Jonathan.”
She jerked forward in her seat. What?
The man had just discovered the deception! How had he already plotted a plan of reckoning?
“And how long did it take for you to decide that?” Willow demanded.
“About as long as my astonishment lasted when I discovered I had been betrayed by my betrothed.”
Willow snapped her brows together. His astonishment, as he called it, had lasted only a blink of an eye. “That seems harsh, does it not? Can we not come to another sort of understanding?”
“It seems perfectly appropriate that she marry my brother as I have wed her sister, do you not agree?”
“An eye for an eye, you mean.”
“If that’s how you wish to see it.”
“Your logic is archaic,” Willow rejoined.
“Maybe,” the duke returned. “But if saving your sister from the consequences of her actions was why you happily took her place, you have grossly underestimated your position.”
“Well,” Willow said with a petulant pout, “I would not go so far as to say happily. But I had thought you would spare my sister your anger. Plus, I am the oldest sister. By rights, I ought to have been married first. And before you attempt to bully me, you should know that I will always protect my sisters. Nothing and no one can force me to do otherwise, including you.”
