by Tanya Wilde
Ambrose grunted.
That was true, but the last thing he wanted was for his wife to pester him to change his ways because he had wooed her. Or God forbid, expect him to return her doe-eyed stares because she believed him to hold affection for her.
But, his valet had made a valid point. If his wife held some—even a little—form of affection for him . . . wouldn’t that make the situation a bit easier?
She could not leave him—she was his wife. She might be suspicious or believe him insincere, but that was about the worst of it. And Willow did not strike him as the type to abandon anyone.
She valued family.
And he was part of that family now.
He tested the thought in his mind.
Woo his wife. Win her over.
Ambrose was still not convinced that meant a whole lot. Willow refused to read his rules, had snuck out of their home, and God only knows what else. And given the choice, she would choose her sisters over him, he was sure of it.
But what to do then? It was way beyond the bounds of his experience. Was wooing her truly the answer? Winning her over? He was at a total loss. The need to control simmered beneath his skin. But there was something new—another desire altogether was forming. It felt suspiciously like the desire to please his wife.
Absolutely, completely and utterly absurd.
No, courting his wife, Ambrose decided, was out of the question. He enjoyed her company too much already. More time spent in her presence would be dangerous. A marriage of convenience was the best option for them both. As he had intended.
“The duchess,” he told his valet, “will soon enough learn her place. I will not be managed. All it will take is to find the right incentive.”
“Incentive, Your Grace?”
“Reduce her pin money, for one.”
Forbid her to see her family for another.
It would be the ultimate inducement, Ambrose supposed. One he wasn’t certain he wished to enforce.
“There is always seduction, Your Grace.”
Ambrose shot his valet an aggrieved look. The man would not give up.
Seduction, he supposed, formed part of the convenience in marriage of convenience.
There was only one problem.
Ambrose had made a brash declaration to withhold pleasure, because he’d felt something very akin to emotion. And he simply could not go back on his word now. Not after he’d been so arrogantly cocksure of himself.
A frown puckered his brow.
He glanced at Benson, who suspiciously resembled a man trying his best to suppress a grin.
“I’m still your employer,” Ambrose snapped out.
“Of course, Your Grace.” He handed Ambrose his gloves. “But if I may point out, your only confidante is your valet.”
“Not so. I confide in my brother, as well.”
“When Lord Jonathan is present, yes.”
“Your point?” Ambrose saw nothing wrong with that. Most gentlemen were tedious in any case. Benson at least added some impertinent spice to his life. And he was meeting his brother at White’s in a few hours.
“Change is an uncomfortable occurrence,” Benson shrugged. “It is also necessary. And perhaps it is time to make a new friend.”
“You mean my wife?” Ambrose said dryly. “Do you ever give up?”
Benson appeared unperturbed. “It is important to note that even though Your Grace does not deal well with change, without change, England would not be the formidable country it is today.”
What the bloody hell was Benson getting at?
He was formidable enough.
He was also happy for his life to remain forever unchanged. But that was no longer possible. Change was happening whether he liked it or not.
“I only mean to say that oftentimes we make life harder than it needs to be.”
“Spoken like a true philosopher.” Ambrose raised an artful brow. “Any advice on how to silence an impertinent valet?”
“Perhaps a gold signet ring is in order?” Benson suggested, and Ambrose laughed.
If only he could snuff out all the enchanting thoughts of his wife that stubbornly clung to his brain.
One piece of good fortune was his mother, who had been overjoyed to retire to Bath. Ambrose had expected more tears. Instead, he’d been greeted with a rare smile.
Ambrose would never understand women.
Shrugging on his gloves and accepting the hat from Benson, Ambrose wondered whether there was more to the primal urge he had to claim his wife in every possible way. And since Ambrose was not a man to wallow in denial, he wondered whether he would arrive at the end of this battle unscathed and unchanged.
He bloody hoped so.
Chapter 11
Ambrose was dreaming. That was the only explanation for finding a hundred lit candles glowing in his dining room. That was his first clue that it must be a dream—he did not even own that many candles. And even if he did, he’d never light them all at once. It was a hazard—a fire begging to burst out. The second clue was the presence of his glowing wife—a sparkling diamond—who was covered in a deep plum gown of velvet silk and standing in the center of the room. She exhumed radiance. A picture of grace. A goddess bathed in brilliance. Ambrose could not tear his gaze away.
A dream, certainly.
“Ambrose,” she greeted him with a smile. “You are just in time. I was about to retire.”
He physically jolted at the sound of her sultry voice, which plunged him into reality. This wasn’t a dream. It was really bloody happening.
“In time for . . .” Ambrose hedged.
“Port.”
His gaze flicked to the table that had been set for two. One plate remained untouched. “I usually take dinner at the club.”
She nodded. “So I gathered, but nevertheless, you are in time for a glass of dessert.”
He crooked a brow, his eyes darting to all the candles again.
“The room lacked warmth,” she said as if reading his mind. But she could not possibly know what he was thinking. Because he was thinking of all the different ways the house could go up in flames.
Along with all the ways he might erupt into flames as well.
“Was it necessary to light a hundred candles?” Ambrose muttered, his brows snapping together. “Two or three candles would have sufficed.”
“It’s not that many,” she said, her gaze sweeping the room with delight. “It’s rather homely, do you not agree?”
No. Not homely. Dangerous. And if they did not accidently set the house on fire, then maybe he could enjoy the ambiance. Maybe. But not having the heart to erase her smile, he said, or rather grumbled, “I suppose.”
“Shall we . . .” she trailed off as her gaze drifted to a point beyond him.
Ambrose groaned.
“It’s blazing cold tonight,” his brother said, shouldering past him, shaking off his coat. Jonathan came up short when he spotted Willow. “Well, what do we have here?” Then his mouth spread into a wolfish grin. “You must be the lovely, famed duchess I’ve heard so much about.”
Ambrose had forgotten about his brother.
“You must have another duchess in mind,” Willow said, walking over to the nearby table to pour them each a glass of port. “I’m certainly not famed.”
“Then there’s another Duchess of St. Ives?” He sent Ambrose an amused look. “I’m not sure that’s legal, brother.”
Willow whipped around. “Wait, you’re Lord Jonathan?”
“The resemblance is uncanny, right?”
“Not even a little bit.”
He accepted the glass of port from Willow and Ambrose did the same.
Jonathan cocked his head then, swirling the glass in his hand. “Though I imagine I bear little resemblance to your imaginings of me, generally speaking.”
“Imaginings?”
“Yes, the ones with horns and a tail.”
“And why would I imagine that?”
Jonathan shrugged. “I
missed your wedding. Surely, I am a devil for that. I thought that would elicit some angry imaginings, at least.”
Willow smiled. “If you must know, I imagined you with crooked fangs, actually.”
He laughed, flashing them a peek at straight white teeth. “I will take that over horns any day.”
“Forgive me, Lord Jonathan, but I thought you were on tour? Have you returned recently?”
“If you mean a tour of all the best—”
“Jonathan,” Ambrose growled, and his brother laughed.
“Never mind,” Jonathan said, casting a quick glance at him before returning his attention to Willow. “Though I must admit, I was intrigued to hear the details of my brother’s wedding. A few interesting events to note, certainly.”
“Really? I thought very little of it would come as a surprise, given your father’s will. Surely such a situation breeds of chaos.”
“I—” Jonathan began to reply, but Ambrose cut him off.
“You know about the clause,” Ambrose demanded, staring at his wife.
“Yes,” she answered. “I’ve heard all about your father’s will. I must admit, it was quite a shocking discovery.”
Ambrose felt the blood leave his body. But for his mother, brother, and solicitor, no one was ever supposed to know about that. It was damned embarrassing. “Who told you?”
“It hardly matters where I heard it, only that I did,” she glanced at him sideways. “It does explain some of your surly moods. Not to mention your methods in courting my sister.”
Jonathan laughed, plopping himself down in a chair. “She is a resourceful one, brother, I am pleased to discover.”
“That she is,” Ambrose muttered, sweeping the room with a glance. “It appears she even has the servants wrapped around her finger.”
Willow turned to him, her eyes startlingly blue, even in the candlelight. “So it’s true, then? You married because of a clause in your father’s will?”
What else could he do but nod? The truth was out, there was nothing to do but move on.
“Why, then, did you wait so long to secure a wife?” she asked. “It seemed like something you ought to have done sooner.”
“My brother did his damndest to find a loophole,” Jonathan interrupted before Ambrose could speak. “But as you are well aware, he failed.”
Ambrose sent his brother a stony look, and when he spoke, there was an edge of impatience to his voice. “Thank you for pointing out my failure.”
“A pleasure.” Jonathan winked at Willow. “Except I would not call securing such a lovely wife a failure.”
“I think it’s about time you leave,” Ambrose all but growled at his brother, who remained stubbornly seated on his arse.
“Wait a minute,” his wife spoke up, puzzled. Ambrose grimaced at the open curiosity in her voice. “Why did your father put such a clause in his will? It seems a bit cruel.”
“It bloody well was,” Ambrose growled.
At that, his wife narrowed her eyes on him. “What did you do?”
“What makes you assume I did anything?” He demanded, offended.
“The clause,” she said meeting his gaze. “You must have done something for your father to add such a thing.”
Right.
“Oh, he did,” Jonathan piped up from where he sat.
Ambrose shot him a glare.
“Well?” she pressed. “Are you going to tell me or not?”
Ambrose lifted his eyes to hers and sighed. She already knew about the clause, might as well reveal the part that prompted it. “I announced to my father I would never marry. He did not take it well.”
“Of course not, you were his heir.”
Ambrose nodded. “Yes, I was, but Jonathan could marry and supply the necessary heirs. However, my father objected.”
“Fiercely,” Jonathan agreed.
Ambrose cut his brother a look, before turning back to his wife. “Yes. My father claimed he hadn’t groomed me my entire life just for me to waste my birthright.”
“Let’s not forget the argument about how I was the spare, and how I could not be relied upon to provide offspring before perishing, given my lifestyle, and no heirs to the St. Ives line meant the entire world would be doomed,” Jonathan joined in. “It was all very riveting.”
“There was that,” Ambrose agreed. Which, all things considered, had been a valid point. But after Celia’s death, he had wanted nothing to do with anything that could cost him his heart, so he had stood firm against his father.
“But why the aversion to marriage?” Willow asked. “You are a duke, providing an heir is one of your many duties.”
Ambrose hesitated. His aversion was based on his fear of losing another loved one—he’d never been in denial about that. But while his family, all except his father, had understood that, explaining it to his wife was altogether different, and he wasn’t sure this was the moment to do it—especially with Jonathan present to comment.
“There is no need to explain,” Willow suddenly said. Her soft whisper smoothed over him like an excellent year of cognac. “I think I understand.”
“You do?” Both him and Jonathan blurted at the same time.
“Your family suffered a painful loss when you lost your sister.”
Christ, how had she learned about Celia?
He supposed if she learned about the will, then learning about Celia wasn’t that much of a surprise. Her death was public knowledge, after all. Still, it somehow hurt to hear the truth of that statement in her voice.
“I’m truly sorry such a tragedy befell your family,” she continued further. “I'm sure your father just wished to secure your family's bloodline beyond the benefit of a doubt. You all dealt with the loss in different ways.”
Ambrose couldn’t answer, his heart in his throat.
“Well, I for one don’t think my brother married the wrong woman after all,” Jonathan said sipping his port. There was a roughness to his voice that hadn’t been there before.
“The wrong woman married me after the other one ran away,” Ambrose pointed out, drawing the topic away from the intensity that poured into the room.
He’d thought his wife long since retired when he entered his home after supper at the club. Had he known she’d still be up, he’d have sent his brother home. The last thing he wanted was for them to conspire behind his back. Or bond right before his eyes—like they were doing now.
“Yes, yes, and you are not a man that will let such a slight go, as evident from me being married off in revenge. You should work on your people skills, brother.”
Ambrose felt his jaw tighten.
“You will do your brother’s bidding, then?” Willow asked Jonathan, her eyes alight with interest.
“The answer to that, my dear,” Jonathan slanted a smile her way, “will depend on whether my brother is in the room with me or not.”
His wife laughed like it was the funniest bloody thing in the world. To Ambrose’s amazement, she did not press the issue. Instead, she smiled sweetly and asked, “Why, pray tell, did you not attend the wedding, Lord Jonathan?”
Ambrose turned to his brother and cocked a brow. “Yes, Jonathan, why did you not attend our wedding?”
“Ah, well, in an unfortunate set of circumstance, I was indisposed,” Jonathan said, a slight flush coloring his features.
Ambrose snorted, drawing their attention to him. He said nothing, only lifted his glass to sip on his port, waiting to see what his wife had to say. But she just arched a brow right back at him, taking a sip of her port.
Ambrose felt his teeth grinding.
It was going to be a long night.
AN HOUR LATER, WILLOW watched her brother-in-law bid his farewell, quite uncertain what to make of him. He looked nothing like her husband. His hair was a shade or two darker, his eyes a light brandy color, not as dark and intense as Ambrose’s. And his nose was slightly more crooked, as though it had once been broken.
By all accounts, he ought to be in pos
session of horns, and deformed teeth, for all the images she had conjured in her mind after learning Ambrose wished to wed him to Holly. He was supposed to be the enemy.
But he seemed carefree and charming to her. And he placed a rather improper kiss on her wrist, drawing a scowl from her husband.
“My brother must have done something right, to wed such a lovely creature as you.” His words were insanely flattering, and Willow found herself grinning up at him.
“That’s enough,” Ambrose snapped. “Stop flirting with my wife.”
Willow suppressed a grin and Lord Jonathan took his leave with a shallow bow. She had wanted to ask him so many things, but had refrained from putting both men on the spot. She aimed to build bridges, not burn them. And they had only been married two days. If she was to succeed in changing Ambrose’s mind about Holly, they had to become better acquainted with one another. And tonight, short interaction though it was, had been a start.
Plus, she had met Lord Jonathan and he was not the ogre she had conjured in her mind’s eye. He was a man she could appeal to, if nothing else.
But even beyond the brothers’ appearances, their hearts were also as different as dawn and dusk. And if there was one thing Willow had learned of her husband tonight, it was that the seed of all his actions came from his heart—whether that action was misguided or not.
Willow turned to her husband. “I think I shall retire as well.”
“Permit me to escort you to your chamber,” he murmured and began leading her to the hallway that would take them to the staircase. “You should have sent word about dinner. Had I known, I’d have joined you.”
“I left a note on your desk, but it seems you were out all day,” Willow murmured with a sidelong glance at him.
“I met Jonathan at the club.”
“Ah.” They reached the top of the landing.
“You do look beautiful tonight,” he said suddenly, peering down at her. His voice had a sinful rasp to it. His eyes . . . they had taken on a new intensity, especially when they lowered and focused on her lips.
“Are you saying that to soften me or do you mean it?” Willow asked, unable to help herself. She didn’t know how much of a game—or a war—this was to her husband. And part of her wanted the words to be real.
