by Tanya Wilde
“How shocking! A husband that doesn’t know his wife’s name.” Poppy’s eyes glazed with unspent laughter. “I wonder if he recalls mine.”
“I very much doubt it. But slow-witted or not, his guard is up. He may suspect I might sneak out.”
“Then you must wait until the duke falls asleep,” Poppy suggested.
“And what if he falls asleep next to me?” Willow said in a low voice. Now that seemed a thrilling prospect and she turned away before her sister could see her blush.
“I suppose crawling over him won’t help?”
Willow spun around. “Do not say such things!” Because then she’d imagine them. In fact, she already was. The vision of the duke naked and her crawling over his powerful chest was slowly burning into her mind. Her face flamed.
“You are probably right. He would wake to you wriggling all over him.”
Crawl. Wriggle. The idea of simply touching her husband, no matter what way, caused her heart to accelerate at a rapid pace.
This was a severe complication.
“No matter, I shall come up with a plan,” Willow said resolutely. She would meet her sister tonight. “So, you do not believe me impossibly selfish for my decision?”
“Of course not,” Poppy said. “There is no shame in seizing an opportunity when it presents itself. Carpe diem, correct? And you saved our family from ruin.”
“I believe the correct phrasing is carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero.”
“I never can remember the last part,” Poppy said with a grimace. “It burns my ears just to hear it.”
“Yes, well, it’s not about just seizing the day because tomorrow may never come; it’s about trusting in the future.” Willow needed to believe that more than ever.
“If memory serves,” Poppy corrected, “The last part means something along the lines of trusting as little as possible in the future.”
Not where Willow was going with that . . .
“Whatever shall I do now that you are married and Holly has gone into retreat?” Poppy continued. “And probably having the time of her life.”
“I am sure you will find a pot of trouble to stir,” Willow said with wry amusement.
“If only that were true,” Poppy said, eyes sparkling.
It was certainly true in Willow’s case. She had stirred a great big pot. She didn’t know where to start to become the wife she wished to be. Because from the second she had dressed in her sister’s wedding gown, one thought had frozen her mind. A question, really, that had lodged itself right in the center of her heart.
Was this the beginning of a grand life, or the end of one?
Chapter 5
Boundaries. Rules. Limitations.
Ambrose thrived on them.
Required them.
A lack of them was what had gotten Celia, his sister, killed ten years ago. And Ambrose would never forgive himself for that. He ought to have taken better care of her. He ought to have done a great many things. But he could not change any of that now. He could, however, ensure that it never happened again.
Because Ambrose refused to suffer from the pain of such a loss again.
Ergo, rules.
Good, dependable, rules. Rules for a balanced, healthy life. Rules his wife would follow even though she posed no threat to his heart. She posed other threats, such as driving him mad with her scent and occupying his mind, but not his heart.
He paced the length of his study.
Ambrose never paced.
But threat or no threat, she was part of his family and would be protected as such.
He pinched the bridge of his nose.
He still didn’t know his wife’s name.
“My dear,” “sweetheart,” and “honey” were what her family had called her all day, never her name. Ambrose could almost believe she had no name.
His head jerked up when Charles Middleton, his father-in-law, and Bradford Middleton, the Earl of Dashwood, entered his study. He motioned for them to take a seat.
“You are aware of your daughters’ actions,” Ambrose stated, getting to the point as he sank into the chair behind his desk.
“Hard to miss you marrying the wrong woman,” Dashwood drawled.
Ambrose glowered at him before turning to Charles Middleton. “Your daughter breached our betrothal contract.”
“My daughters have always been willful,” Charles Middleton said in way of agreement. Or apology. Ambrose wasn’t quite sure. “I fear I am to blame for that having indulged them their every whim.”
And yet there was no remorse in the man’s voice. Not a hint of regret.
“Of course, we will cover any sum of penalty you require,” Dashwood said in a business-like manner.
“I don’t want your money,” Ambrose growled. “I want you to honor the betrothal agreement—except now to my brother, Lord Jonathan.”
Both men stiffened.
“Forgive me, Your Grace, but if my daughter did not wish to marry you, she will not wish to wed Lord Jonathan,” Charles Middleton said, disapproval etched in his features.
“And yet she did wish to marry me, up until four minutes before the ceremony.”
“That does make one wonder, does it not?” Dashwood folded his arms across his chest. “What could have changed my cousin’s mind?”
Charles Middleton nodded in accord. “That it does.”
A rueful smile curved Ambrose’s lips. If they wanted to get a rise out of him, they would wait to eternity. “This is a matter of honor, not what your daughter desires.”
“As far as I am concerned, the betrothal agreement has been met,” Charles Middleton said. “You wished to marry my daughter and you have. Or am I to understand you have grown fond of Holly?”
“Holly was the name on the betrothal contract,” Ambrose said, deadpan.
“St. Ives, let me be frank. I am far too fond of my daughters to be bullied into entering agreements they do not want, or no longer desire to be tied to. As such, if Willow wants an annulment—”
“She will get it when hell freezes over,” Ambrose declared, cutting Charles Middleton off. “There will be no annulment.”
Willow.
The name suited her.
“If my cousin wants—”
“Your cousin married me,” Ambrose interrupted, his tone dry as dust. He’d be damned if he annulled this marriage. They could just try to make him. “I’d say she made her choice.”
“My daughter may have felt she had no other choice in the matter.”
“But she did have a choice. And she chose.” Ambrose reclined back in his chair. “To annul our marriage now would ruin all three of your daughters.”
The man did not even bat an eye. “I already stated I would not be bullied. Make no mistake, St. Ives: if my daughter wishes for an annulment, she will get one, or I will take her away from you, your wrath be damned.”
The blood in his head throbbed until Ambrose thought it might implode from the pressure. Dark energy welled inside him, choking him. No one, not her father, not her cousin, not the Royal bloody Regiment, would take his wife from him.
An annulment would reinstate the absurd clause in his father’s will but Ambrose feared it was more than that. He did not understand where this sentiment came from exactly, given that he’d planned to ignore his wife after marrying her, but it was there all the same. From the moment he had stared down into her willful blue eyes in the church, her open defiance of her vows, something had sparked to life inside of him. He was keeping his wife. He was keeping Willow—and that was that.
But he said nothing to the men sitting across from him, keeping his face impassive.
“As for betrothing my daughter to Lord Jonathan, I shall consider it as I understand that wrong has been done this day. But I will speak to Holly first.”
“And where is your charming,” conniving “daughter?”
Something shifted in the man’s gaze, and all of Ambrose’s senses went on alert. He did not know.
“I want to know what the hell you did to make my cousin run away from you,” Dashwood growled, shifting focus from the topic. “If you hurt her . . .”
Ambrose shot the man a cold look. There were moments in every man’s life when his character was tested by his actions—on whether he showed restraint or acted out.
Such a moment was upon Ambrose.
He wanted nothing more than to fly over the desk and lay Dashwood to the ground. But he refrained from the urge, flexing and relaxing his fists. His restraint was why he never thought himself as a browbeating man, even if it was clear these two men thought just that.
All his life he had done what’s right—for the most part. It was a point of pride, even though his methods were crusty. His character was beyond reproach. He could control any impulse to the contrary. But he was an imperious man—of that he harbored no delusions.
But the entire situation was damned irritating.
Of course, Ambrose hadn’t expected his wife’s family to idly sit by, but dash it all to hell! They were supposed to placate him, not tear into him. He had been the one jilted. Their family had caused the scandal.
“Careful, Dashwood,” Ambrose drawled in a tight voice. “There are limits to my tolerance. I have certainly not done anything to warrant a breach of contract.”
“But you did do something.” Fury flashed in the depth of Dashwood’s gaze.
“From where I am sitting, your cousin is the one who did something, not me.”
“Holly fled the wedding, presumably from you, and Willow married you. So for whatever bloody reason, you are in the middle of it. I just don’t know why.”
Ambrose folded his arms over his chest. “Well then, we are all at a loss. Perhaps flaunting convention has finally led to your daughter’s actions. But for whatever reason, Holly humiliated my family today. You have my offer of appeasement.”
But Dashwood wasn’t done. “My cousin may be your wife, but if you hurt her in any way, St. Ives, I will—”
“Do not threaten me, Dashwood,” Ambrose growled. “I am not a bastard. I do not harm women.”
Dashwood clenched his jaw. The man still wasn’t finished. “There are other ways to harm a woman.”
Ambrose stiffened. He was a man that could take all manner of insults. He was also used to envious comments and sniping looks, but the one thing he would not—did not—tolerate was being told that he lacked the ability to take care of those in his charge.
“Surely you are not implying I cannot care for my wife?” His words were soft, a challenge.
“There is one thing you ought to know about my cousins, and that is that they are damn resourceful,” Dashwood answered.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Ambrose demanded.
Charles Middleton shifted uncomfortably in his seat. It was clear both men expected him to know what Dashwood meant. He was bloody well aware the Middleton chits were crafty. And even if he hadn’t been aware of it, today would have proven it. So why were they talking to him in damn riddles?
“I see you don’t take my meaning.”
“So why don’t you enlighten me?” Ambrose snapped, losing patience.
“Your mistress.”
That was what this was about?
“And how is that any of your concern?” Ambrose grit out between clenched teeth.
“Cut her loose.” Dashwood’s eyes blazed.
“Your concern is commendable but let me worry about what reality my wife can and cannot deal with.”
He had already broken it off with his mistress, but Dashwood and his pompous nose in his business could go to hell. Just because he married in haste under dubious conditions did not mean he was a complete bastard.
His eyes fell on Charles Middleton and the look on the man’s face made him sigh. Ambrose had to give his father-in-law credit, he loved his daughters. “I do possess a strong set of moral principles,” he found himself saying against his better judgment. “Having both a wife and a mistress are against them.”
“That is good to hear,” Charles Middleton said with a nod of approval, relief evident in his features.
Ambrose grunted.
Holly had believed him a beast. And he had been, but he had tried to set it right before the wedding. He had made his deception known when he’d handed her the rules. That was why she had run. It was also what her entire family thought of him, no doubt, even though he was the victim of deception here. Did any of that matter to the Middletons? Of course not. In fact, this was why he had been reluctant to marry all these years. A man did not just acquire a wife in the agreement, he acquired an entire bloody family.
More people to take into account.
More people he could not control.
Now he was more exposed than ever. Everything had gone wrong. And he was in possession of a wife that had a big question mark behind her name. What did he know of her? Except she was fiercely loyal to her family and did as she pleased.
Ambrose bit back a curse. The last thing he wanted to feel for his wife was admiration. If he felt that, who knew what other things he might come to feel, what other emotions would sneak up on him.
Damn that kiss. Something deep, dark, and ravenous had awoken inside him when their lips had met, a sensation he did not care to delve deeper into.
Ambrose was pulled from his thoughts when Charles Middleton stood, Dashwood following suit. “I believe we have said all we have come to say. I will send word once I’ve reached a decision.”
Ambrose nodded, rising from behind his desk. “I ask only that Miss Middleton remain with my wife and I until your final decision has been made.”
“Uncle,” Dashwood warned, opposed to the idea.
“Do I have your word that you will not marry her off without my consent?” Charles Middleton asked.
“You do.”
“Then she can stay in your care for the time being, if that is what she desires.”
Ambrose was no fool. That was not what Holly desired, which was why she was long gone. Charles Middleton was aware of that. The man knew as much of his daughter’s whereabouts as Ambrose did. But he’d received the permission he needed should his men find her.
Dashwood shot him a scathing glare before turning on his heel and marching out, Charles Middleton following suit at a slower pace.
As soon as they were gone, Ambrose dropped back in his seat, dragging a hand through his hair. What the hell did he do now? Drink? Search out his wife? Confront her? Consummate the marriage before she changed her mind? He had meant what he said. He would not annul the marriage, regardless of whether it had been consummated or not.
Which it damn well would be.
And perhaps it had been wishful thinking on his part that his life would remain unchanged now that a wife occupied the walls of his home, slept in the room adjoining his.
She would be so close. Even now he imagined listening to the soft padding of her footsteps as she settled in for the night. He would rather not think of her laying her head on a bed of pillows, breathing, stretching out her lithe body.
Nothing was supposed to change. He wasn’t supposed to be plagued by thoughts of his wife. Especially since she was never meant to be his wife. And yet it was impossible not to wonder what she was feeling at that moment. Was she angry? Scared? Did she feel invincible?
Ambrose loathed change. Ever since Celia became sick all those years ago, change always made him antsy. And more often than not, when changed occurred, Ambrose needed to reassess his limits, his environment. And breathe.
Breathe.
The study was too stuffy. He couldn’t think here, knowing somewhere in the house, in her chamber, his wife waited for him. All he wanted was to go back to his life the way it was twelve months ago. No complications. No commitments. No doubt and uncertainty festering in his belly.
But as if the day could not get any worse, Quinn Middleton entered, his eyes smoldering. Murderous, even.
Ambrose sighed.
There would
be no reprieve for him apparently.
“What the hell do you want?” Ambrose snapped, losing some of his composure. “Your brethren have already voiced their grievances.”
“But I have not.” Quinn’s face hardened to stone. “Do not think I won’t take Willow away from you if I suspect my cousin is unhappy.”
“If you ever take my wife away from me, pup, I will see you dealt with in ways you cannot fathom.” His voice was low, laced with malice. Promise.
He was tired of people threatening to remove his wife from his life.
The man’s shoulders bunched at the threat. “Don’t mistake me for one of your saplings, St. Ives. If you hurt my cousin, there will be hell to pay.”
A sardonic smile stretched across Ambrose’s lips. Well, so much for welcoming family in-laws. With one last parting glare, in which Ambrose just raised his brows at the pup, Quinn Middleton stalked from the room, shouldering past Jonathan, who appeared just then in the threshold.
“Who the hell did you piss off now?” Jonathan muttered, striding into the room and dropping down in a chair. “Christ, my head is throbbing.”
“Where the hell have you been?” Ambrose demanded.
“Dammit man, must you yell?”
“Where have you been?” Ambrose insisted with a glower. “Your presence was required today.”
Jonathan rolled his eyes. “If you must know, I was at Hazard’s all night.”
“The gaming hell?”
Jonathan nodded. “Having the time of my life.”
“You missed my wedding for a damn night on the town?” Ambrose practically roared.
“What?” Jonathan shot upright. “No! That’s not until the sixteenth!”
“Today is the sixteenth!”
“The hell you say!” But Jonathan’s pallor was already replaced by an unpleasant shade of pink.
Ambrose scrubbed his face with his hands. “Unbelievable.”
Jonathan slowly sat back down, shame written on his face. “I missed your wedding, didn’t I?”
“It’s done now,” Ambrose muttered, falling back into his chair, his eyes shutting.
What was done was done. His brother had been recovering from a night of gambling and indulgence while he had been deserted by his betrothed and married her sister. His mother was beside herself and his in-laws despised him.
