The Middleton Box Set: Regency Historical Romance Series

by Tanya Wilde

  He halted in the center of the stairwell and could not believe his bloody eyes. The Marquis of Warton stood in the front hall, his eyes colliding with his like a flash of thunder. Warton was all but frothing at the mouth.

  Had the world gone to hell?

  “What the devil is the meaning of this?” Ambrose demanded. His voice cold and laced with steel.

  Behind him the air shifted, the sweet scent alerting him to the arrival of his wife. Tension curled in his chest. He dared not look back at her.

  “Where the hell is she?” Warton growled.

  Ambrose stiffened. His heart thudded so hard a light whir began to ring in his ears.

  Behind him, his wife gasped.

  And in that gasp, he heard it. Willow knew. She’d known the whereabouts of her sister all along. Had known Warton was involved, too.

  Of course, he had suspected she’d met with her sister the night he discovered her sneaking out of their home, but he hadn’t expected this brutal blow to his gut on learning she’d kept it from him. Then again, he had been on the path of justness at the time.

  Warton, however, Ambrose hadn’t seen that coming at all. And now the man was making a scene in front of his wife.

  Fury gripped his gut.

  How dare this man enter his home in such a fashion?

  “So you are the one who aided my wayward sister-in-law with her escape,” Ambrose drawled.

  “And you are the controlling bastard who won’t afford his wife the pleasure of an extra piece of toast.”

  Christ, the toast again.

  Had anyone cared to ask him, he would have told them the content of Cook’s bread was highly nutritional and no more than one slice was required for nourishment. In fact, more than one slice would swiftly plump you up.

  “Not to mention an inglorious cur that sent three mercenary riders to snatch up a lady.”

  Willow’s sharp intake of breath inflamed Ambrose’s temper towards Warton. This was not how his wife was supposed to discover the truth. There were supposed to be lovemaking and breakfast and confessions.

  “Perhaps we can take this to my study,” Ambrose ground out.

  “To hell with your study, I want to know where the hell you are keeping Holly!”

  Ambrose folded his arms over his chest. “And what business do you have with her?”

  “I know you took her against her will, which is kidnapping and against the bloody law.”

  “I did no—”

  “You found my sister and did not think to inform me?” Willow accused, a mere whisper.

  Ambrose blanched at the hurt in his wife’s voice. He wanted to soothe her, take her into his arms, but with Warton standing on, looking smug as a cat, his limbs froze in place. Dammit, alone, after he tossed Warton out on his ass, he’d tell Willow the truth.

  This was a family matter. And Warton was not family.

  “It is of no concern—”

  “Of mine? Holly is my sister. Am I to understand, then, that your brother is no concern of yours?”

  Christ. That was not what he meant to say. Ambrose turned to his wife, his eyes imploring her to understand. “That is not what I said. Willow, let us talk—”

  “As of yet, my father has not permitted the union. So you have no right to take her without her consent.”

  Ambrose stared into her despondent eyes. This was spiraling. He needed to get the matter straight with her now but doing it in front of Warton was out of the question. The man was intent on taking his anger out on him and was bound to twist anything Ambrose revealed.

  “Your father agreed to consider my terms—one of which is that she may remain on my property until he has done so.”

  “He only agreed to your insanely idiotic terms because I am here to keep an eye on her. Where is my sister?”

  “She’s not here.”

  “You said—”

  “I said on my property, not necessarily this property.” How he hated Warton in this moment.

  “You manipulative bastard.”

  No, wait.

  Ambrose’s heart lurched to his throat. When Warton whistled, emotion, wild and dangerous, whirled inside him, so he let the curtain drop over his features. He shot the man a look that promised swift retaliation.

  Ambrose was mightily aware he was failing. He wanted to drop on a knee for his wife, explain, but first he must deal with Warton, the damn bastard. Then he’d grovel. “This is not the time, Willow.”

  “I beg to differ, this is the perfect time.” She descended two more steps, the smell of her scent taunting him. “You are keeping my sister from me, and that is unforgivable. I thought we had discovered something magical between us, but it seems I was wrong. Know this: I may share a house with you, attend balls at your side, dine at the same table, but you are no longer my home, and you are no longer welcome in my life beyond that.”

  His heart plummeted to his feet like the hundred-year-old vase they’d knocked of its pillar at the Gallery.

  No.

  “You are my wife.”

  “She is my sister.”

  Their gazes held, one pleading and the other angry and hurt. Ambrose wanted to explain. The words were on the tip of his tongue, Warton be damned. But logic fled the moment he saw frost replace the fire in her eyes. He saw it there, the cold hard truth, reflected in her depths—she would not believe anything he proclaimed. She would only deem it as an excuse. She didn’t trust him enough to believe him.

  Anger overrode any and all sensibility then. Anger for not telling her earlier, anger for saying the wrong words now, but mostly anger directed at Warton, who had barged into his home, ruined his plan, and sparked his temper to such a degree that Ambrose was now digging a grave for his marriage.

  How the hell did he come back from this?

  He glanced at Warton with an arched brow. Happy now, you bastard? Out loud, he said, “Get the hell out of my house.”

  “This is preposterous, Ambrose. You cannot keep my sister from me, and you certainly cannot force her to marry your brother! Where is she?”

  Dammit! He had to convince her he planned on doing the right thing. But if his original plan was gone, could he come up with another one to convince his wife of his sincerity? But how?

  Unless...

  A crazed idea sparked in his mind.

  His eyes met hers. “On the contrary, my dear wife, I intend to do exactly that.”

  Pain flashed across her face, and he dug his fingers into the palm of his hands.

  “What of your brother?” she asked, lifting her chin. “Does he not have a say in the matter?”

  “Everyone seems overly concerned with my brother.”

  “There is no reasoning with you—not when you are this stubborn, this uncaring of who you hurt.”

  “Quite right, my dear.” The shovel dug deeper—only this time, it was intentional.

  Ambrose had no idea if his new plan would work, but it was the only one he could think of. Sensing Willow’s withdrawal drove him a little mad. It rightly terrified him.

  But he knew that if he simply said that Holly was free to go now, she’d never believe that he’d planned to do so in the morning in any case, that’d he’d made that choice of his own will rather than by force at a midnight confrontation.

  And if she thought it by force, she’d never trust him. She would always be suspicious of him—doubtful of him. So, he’d have to convince her it was his choice another way—a ludicrous, nearly impossible way. He’d have to give up all control and let her do what she did best: meddle.

  “Then know this: if you do not let this grievance go, you will never be welcome in my chambers again.”

  Ambrose braced himself, concealing the impact of that statement. He had a secondary plan and he was now depending on it to work. And for it to work, he needed to play the part of the beast.

  “St. Ives,” Warton barked. “As much as I am loath to interrupt your marital setback, I must warn you: if you harm one hair on Holly’s head, I wil
l disembowel you. As for your brother, I will disembowel him, too, if he agrees to your cockamamy scheme and marries her. In fact, I might eviscerate you both just for the sheer pleasure of it.”

  It was not difficult to be a beast for Warton.

  “What is my sister-in-law to you? She has been nothing but a thorn in my side.”

  “I gave her my word,” Warton said.

  “Your word,” Ambrose murmured. The man might be madder than Ambrose himself. “And you will incur my wrath over the word you gave a woman who left me, a duke, at his wedding?”

  His wife made a gurgling sound in the back of her throat.

  Fine, he knew he was an arrogant bastard. But he wasn’t in a charitable mood. His wife was nearly lost to him and it was all Warton’s damn fault. He knew that it would be a miserable path ahead to redemption and that he placed squarely on Warton’s head. It was easier than feeling the keen regret of not telling Willow about Holly hours ago—the moment he’d made the decision to let Holly go.

  “I am no more afraid of you than I am of a rat,” Warton growled. “To me, her importance has never been in doubt. And let us not forget, you asked her to marry you under false pretenses.”

  “A mistake.”

  “You’ve made many of those, I see.” Ambrose stiffened when Warton’s gaze flicked to Willow. Bastard. “Hand her over, St. Ives. I will not ask again. I don’t give a damn about you or your supposed wrath. It is paltry against what you will experience if you incur mine.”

  “I am the Duke of St. Ives, Warton. Do not forget it.”

  “A duke. A bastard. It’s all the same to me. You speak as though you are untouchable, but are you? A man whose pride is so easily wounded that he keeps young women locked away as retribution? I tell you this: you might have Miss Middleton now, and you might even believe that you will marry her off to your brother, but that marriage will happen over my rotting carcass. You take my word for it.”

  Well, it was apparent that Warton loved the chit. It did not soften Ambrose’s current fury towards him, however.

  Ah yes, what was the beast’s next line?

  “She humiliated my family name.”

  “I don’t give a damn. You already have one Middleton to make miserable for the rest of her life. I’ll be damned if you take another.”

  Warton shot him one last glare before he turned and marched from the residence.

  “I am not an enemy you want, Warton,” Ambrose called out.

  “Neither am I, St. Ives,” Warton barked over his shoulder.

  Ambrose watched Warton’s retreating back, his breathing harsh.

  “I can’t believe you’re holding my sister hostage while sharing my bed.”

  Ambrose turned to face his wife, but she was already ascending the stairs at a brisk pace, away from him.

  For the first time in more years than he cared to admit, Ambrose had found something special, too special to let go. Willow made him feel things he’d never thought he’d ever come to feel. And he wasn’t about to lose that.

  He’d damn well slit his throat before he let that happen.

  Unfortunately, what he needed to do was nearly as difficult.

  Chapter 23

  Impudent devil! Black hearted oaf! Conniving bastard! How dare he kiss her so warmly and tenderly with those deceptive lips of his! How dare he make her feel loved, all the while harboring her sister in secret. This went far beyond betrayal! It went . . . It went . . . Well, just too far!

  Willow exploded into her chamber in high dudgeon, quickly turning to slam the door and lock into place. She jumped when a hand halted her fireworks, shoving the door open and filling the entrance.

  “Get out,” Willow snapped. Tears threatened to spill.

  “We need to address this, Willow.”

  “I don’t ever want to speak to you again!” she exclaimed, snatching a pillow and throwing it at him. “I mean nothing to you!”

  “That’s not true,” he denied. “You are much more than nothing.”

  Willow gave a hollow laugh. “I thought to give you the benefit of doubt. I believed that this marriage could become more than what it started out as, but I was wrong. There is no heart in you.”

  “That’s not true,” he growled.

  “The truth lies in your actions, Ambrose, and they seem clear to me.”

  “Damnation!” He ran a hand through his hair, a muscle working in his jaw. For a moment, it looked like her husband was going to say something—something crucial. But then he only looked away, a mask falling over his face.

  “Nothing to say?” she mocked. “Of course not, once again you have disappeared behind your mask of control.”

  He remained silent.

  Willow squared her shoulders. “What you did is reprehensible, and I cannot help but resent you for it, Ambrose.”

  “Willow, I—”

  “No, do not lie to me. Your actions tell me all I need to know.”

  A pained look crossed his face before a look of determination replaced it. Silence settled between them.

  Willow turned and paced across the chamber, stopping beside the fireplace, her heart in her throat. He was impossible to look at, stealing her ability to think, her ability to reason, to draw breath. She stared at the cold hearth, no embers crackling tonight. Her heart was breaking. For their future that suddenly seemed doomed. For her sister.

  If there was no future for them, then perhaps they could at least finally have the truth.

  “Why do you have a set of rules?” she asked, afraid to look at him, afraid he’d deny her this. He didn’t.

  “Eleven years ago, my sister fell ill.” He paused, inhaled a ragged breath. “Celia never quite recovered from her illness, always getting tired early and sleeping late. She refused to allow those limitations to stilt her life. She lived to the fullest, or at least, as full as a thirteen-year-old girl could live—insisting on dance lessons, running barefoot in the country fields, and climbing trees—even when the physicians argued against it. She never once slowed down, until a year later, the strain on her heart was too much, and it just stopped beating. At least, that is what the doctor said.”

  She turned towards him. “I’m sorry . . .”

  He raked a hand over his face. “He claimed her heart finally failed due to fast, unhealthy living. That we could have prevented an early death if we had kept her under lock and key.”

  Willow’s heart slammed against her chest, and for a moment she couldn’t breathe. She imagined him ten years ago, his ravaged features as he sat beside his sister’s bed, blaming himself for not taking better care of her.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” she whispered, clenching her fists into her skirts to keep herself from going to him.

  “I could have prolonged her life if I had forced her to live a slow-paced, routine-filled life.”

  “She was sick, Ambrose, and your sister knew that. She chose to live her life on her terms. Had you forced her to live any other way, she’d have been miserable and passed on that way, too.”

  “But she could have lived longer if she’d lived by rules. Perhaps become well again.” His obsidian eyes were shadowed with pain as they lifted to meet hers.

  “That is no way to live.” She motioned between them and the chamber. “We both deserve the freedom of our choices. Or else what is the point of living?”

  “I agree.”

  “You agree?” Willow asked, taken aback.

  “I know you are not my sister, Willow,” he dragged a hand through his hair. “I will always believe I could have done more to save her, and I will always be a devil to live with, but that is why I have not enforced the rules with you. I didn’t want you to feel like a prisoner in our home.”

  “Then why draw them up?”

  He shook his head. “I only created them because when the reality set in that I was about to take a wife—become the protector of another woman—I panicked. The pain of losing my sister rushed back, and I did not wish to go through that again.”


  His soft admission brought tears to her eyes. She blinked them away. Their gazes collided, and what she saw in them sent a burning sensation through her belly. She had fallen hopelessly in love with her husband.

  “Now you know.”

  Yes, but it didn’t change anything. It didn’t change what he’d hidden from her or that he’d chosen grievance of her sister over their future.

  Staring down at the doom of her future, Willow wondered at the next step. Liberate her sister, she supposed. After that was anyone’s guess.

  His eyes were guarded, watching her from beneath long lashes. He looked miserable, and Willow wanted to give in and fly to his arms. But she wouldn’t.

  “There was always the possibility you’d not change your mind,” she closed her eyes before opening them again, “but I’d at least thought you’d inform me that you found my sister. That you planned on going through with your intentions.”

  The statement hung between them, silence stretching.

  Curses! The man had her vacillating between wanting to kiss him and kill him. Willow glanced away from him, back to the empty fireside. To think only an hour ago they’d been happy. An hour ago, they had been sleeping in each other’s arms, content and sated. An hour ago, she’d been thrilled by the prospect of a true family with Ambrose. Now . . . now she didn’t know what she wanted.

  She didn’t know if she could ever forgive him.

  She didn’t know what that meant for her dreams.

  “Please go.”

  “Willow. . .”

  “Please, I just want to be alone,” she practically begged. “I understand now, the way you are, but it doesn’t change what happened. It does not change that you chose to keep my sister from me. It does tell me that I don’t mean as much to you as I had begun to believe.” She paused, keeping her eyes on the dead hearth almost symbolic in its appearance. “Please go.”

  Willow would plead no favors. She would not beg he release her sister. It was time to take matters into her own hands.

  “Please just read the rules on your desk.”

  There was a moment of punishing silence, and only once the soft thud of his footsteps receded did Willow whirl around and glare at the door separating them. Honestly! He wanted her to read his rules at a time like this? After what he’d just confessed. Fine, she would read his blasted rules, then she would burn them, then she would go forth and purposefully break each and every one of them!