by Tanya Wilde
She marched over to the desk and tried to set them on fire with her eyes. When that failed, she snatched them up, fully intending to read them out loud—to scream them out at the adjoining room.
Boundaries for the Duchess of St. Ives.
What a lark. She flipped the page over to cry out the first rule at the top of her voice. Frowned. And flipped through the rest of the papers, examining them top to bottom, back to front.
They were all blank.
Much to her mortification, she burst into tears.
AMBROSE STRODE BACK to his room, seething and despairing.
He should never have waited. He should have told her the moment his men informed him that they’d found Holly. But instead, he’d teetered with indecision and then pettily thought that Miss Middleton could wait a night for him to make his grand announcement.
Damn Warton to the seven bowls of hell. Everything had gone to shit and all because that bastard had marched into their home with thunder and bluster in the middle of the night. He’d trampled on Ambrose’s plan and he’d ruined the ground Ambrose had gained with his wife.
With a curse, he paced the length of his chamber, dragging his hands through his hair. She had made no demands for him to release her sister, hadn’t made the slightest reference to the fact, only stared into the empty hearth with a resignation he had put there. That alone confirmed what he’d realized standing on the stairs bickering with Warton.
Ambrose could no longer let Holly go. At least, not in the straight-forward manner.
His wife firmly believed he did not trust her, that all they had shared was a lie. He would never convince her he cared for her if he freed her sister from consequence now. She’d believe it an act, a tactic of some sort. She’d never believe him if he said he’d come to the decision before Warton ousted his secret. She’d never believe he was going to tell her in the morning. So, even if he released Holly, they’d never be able to overcome the matter. Willow had lost all trust in him.
Ambrose inhaled a deep breath.
And that is where the new, albeit highly difficult plan came into action. He’d known standing on those stairs, shaken and furious, that the only way forward was to give his wife space to be who she was at heart—a lovely, meddlesome creature. It was the only way Ambrose could see to make her understand he accepted her wholly, unreservedly, and without question. He passively allowed her to meddle. He’d give up control.
So she would devise a plan to free her sister.
And he would let her.
Once Holly was free, he’d make sure his wife understood that he’d sat back and surrendered long before she’d won.
His inaction would be his action.
He would give up the reins—like he had done with his new set of rules—and then, only then, would Willow believe that he was sincere. He damned well hoped. Prayed.
He sank down onto the bed, resting his head in his hands.
What a bloody disaster.
But it would be worth it. Because he loved her.
It was a truth he could no longer deny. Nor wanted to.
He loved his wife.
Chapter 24
“This is ridiculous, Jonathan. It will never work.”
“It was your plan.”
“Yes, but you ought to have pointed out how horribly it would fail.” Her eyes flicked around her husband’s study, reminding Willow of one little obstacle—her husband’s intelligence. He was bound to see straight through their plan. Fortunately, he had given her space. Verbal space. Unfortunately, his presence—always lingering—touched her to the bone. It was there in each beating pulse under her skin, in the gooseflesh rippling over her arms. Her awareness of him was absolute.
As were those blank pages he had left on her desk.
They had called into question everything.
“It won’t fail as long as he drinks the brandy.”
“That’s all well and good. But I have to drink the brandy, too, or at least give the appearance of drinking.”
“As long as you don’t drink more than a tiny sip, you’ll be fine.”
“And if he notices I’m not drinking?”
“Why would he notice that? You’re a woman.”
Willow turned to glare at him.
Jonathan held up his hands in surrender. “Just use words like freedom, separation, and lover. He will drink. Trust me.”
Willow shook her head, unconvinced. “If I throw words like that around—mind you, I still don’t know how I’m going to incorporate them into a sentence—Ambrose will most assuredly want to keep his wits about him and not drink.”
“Trust me, little sister, there is no one alive who can navigate my brother’s mind better than I—he will drink.”
She scoffed, her eyes darting to the brandy in question. “How do you know?”
“Call it male intuition, but faced with the prospect of losing you, his wife, Ambrose will claw up to the ceiling.”
Willow scrunched her brows together. “What?”
“His faculties will desert him,” Jonathan clarified.
“That’s assuming he had any in the first place.”
“I believe he cares more about you than even he is aware.”
Here’s to hoping, Willow thought bitterly, then sighed.
Naturally, she felt she was partly to blame for her current predicament. In the course of her weeks married to Ambrose, she had ample time to fight for her sister. Instead, she had taken a subtler approach, attempting to work on the man rather than the matter. It mattered little that Willow had thought she’d have more time to persuade him to let his grievance go, or that she’d given him the benefit of the doubt to do the right thing. She’d still ended up here, having to orchestrate a kidnapping of her husband in service of her sister’s future.
A future Jonathan had aided in securing when he discovered Holly’s whereabouts and freed her. Whereupon her sister had made one request: A wedding.
Tomorrow.
Which brought them to this moment—attempting a hairbrained scheme to get Ambrose well and truly out of the way. Plus, the timeline gave them precious little time to not only remove him from the equation but also put together a wedding.
“I still cannot believe my sister fell in love again so soon. And with the Marquis of Warton, of all men! And after I told her not to!”
“The heart wants what the heart wants,” Jonathan murmured. He cast her A Look. “Regardless of what you demand of it.”
Willow stuck out her tongue. But her mind was already wandering back to those blank pages. She had thought Ambrose incapable of change after that fateful night she discovered his deception. Her mind had demanded she cut him loose. Her heart was stubbornly refusing.
To her heart, those pages resembled hope.
“Tell me the plan again.”
Willow inhaled a fortifying breath. “Drive Ambrose to drink with silly words. Once he is passed out from whatever you laced it with, you will haul him up to my bedroom and bind him.”
“You’ve given orders to the servants to remain clear of your chambers?”
Willow nodded.
“Marvelous.”
“What if he doesn’t believe I’m sincere?” So many things could go wrong. She could lose her nerve, for one.
“Trust me.”
Willow gave Jonathan one last skeptical look before deciding to trust him. After all, no one knew Ambrose better than his brother. But she felt horrid for what she was about to do.
And then he was there, appearing in the doorway, handsome as sin and sculpted in stone. His gaze flicked between her and Jonathan before they narrowed.
“Am I interrupting?”
Willow smoothed her hands over her skirts. “No, I was—”
“Speak with your wife, Ambrose,” Jonathan interrupted with a distinct note of disapproval. “And do recall our last conversation.”
Willow flung her eyes to him. Every single line of Jonathan’s face etched in stony disapproval. Remarkable!
This was not a side of him she had ever seen or imagined existed. He was such a happy fellow.
Ambrose bore his eyes down on her, and she swallowed.
“Er, yes, well, I would like to speak with you.”
Her husband arched a brow, entering. Jonathan gave a curt nod and strode from the room, not bothering to spare her so much as a parting good luck glance.
She squirmed, Ambrose’s hard eyes penetrating deep into her soul. You’re doing this for Holly, Willow reminded herself. Just think about her.
When she just hovered there, awkwardly intertwining her fingers, his brows furrowed.
“You wish to speak with me?”
Willow flushed at the mocking notes infused in his voice. It gave her the courage to hold her head high. “I wish to address the matter of our marriage.”
Her palms were sweaty. Perspiration beat at her brow. If she were the swooning type, she’d be sprawled on the floor already.
“What about it?” He leaned casually against his desk, his arms crossing over his chest.
Lord, the man could be so infuriatingly composed at times. Anger sparked low in her belly.
“I want a separation.”
He stared at her—unblinking—for a torturous moment before he stalked over to the decanter and poured two glasses of brandy. Jonathan had been right. Willow just hoped Ambrose swallowed his in one breath. Then, perhaps, she might not have to go any further with this charade. She was a terrible actress.
For a moment he said nothing, handing her a glass and taking a healthy swallow of his own, his gaze brooding.
Willow bit the inside of her lip to keep from blurting out something inappropriate. She took a small sip, merely touching the liquid to the tip of her tongue, really, and sank down in one of the armchairs. He mimicked her, settling in an opposite chair.
Heavens! She hoped he did not mimic her drinking progress or their plan was doomed.
“This arrangement—” she began.
“Marriage,” he snapped, swallowing the entire glass and then jumping up to refill it. This time, he remained standing, so Willow stood as well, turning to him.
She studied his features. He had hardly shaved since their wedding day, the growth of hair staining his cheeks giving him a rugged appearance—not that of a polished duke.
Furthermore, he hadn’t pushed her to read his rules, hadn’t taken her over his knee for sneaking out at midnight. He hadn’t even called out Warton for his insults.
All signs pointed to the possibility that perhaps he hadn’t been entirely in control since their marriage.
But, here, in this moment, all signs of control were gone altogether. Oddly, the idea warmed her. Just as those blank pages had. Did they mean he was letting his rules go? They no longer existed? She wanted desperately to ask him about them but pushed the thought away. That was not part of the plan.
“Right,” she said when he just continued to stare at her. “Marriage. I wish to be separated from it.”
“Why?”
Why? Well . . . how was she to answer that?
“I . . . er . . .” What had Jonathan said? Something, something, and lover. “I wish to explore my options.”
“Explore your options? What the hell does that mean?” He straightened to his full height.
Right. What did that mean?
“It means I do not feel valued.” That sounded like something a woman leaving her husband might say.
“Valued? Christ.” He took another swallow and then another, as if dealing with her line of reasoning was too much. Those coal black eyes delved deep into hers.
“Did you not feel valued when I had my hands all over your body, making love to you?”
Burning color instantly swept up her neck. “That is hardly the point.”
“What is the point then? You can hardly claim to feel undervalued after you’ve come undone in my arms.” His eyes narrowed on her. “Again and again.”
Her entire body went weak. She bit down on her lower lip. “That is not the only way to measure feeling valued. Feeling respected is another. Trust is yet another. And I can’t trust you anymore.” Her voice was as trembly as her limbs, but she’d gotten through the sentence.
“Because I did not tell you I found your sister? I haven’t harmed her. I haven’t bloody married her off. And yet, you wish to leave me without so much as allowing for an explanation.”
“You have given me all the reasons I need.” And all the reasons not to.
“And for that, you’d toss me aside like a rag doll?”
“Perhaps you ought to have thought about that before you hid my sister from me.”
He shut his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“There is more to marriage than finding pleasure with bed sport,” Willow carried on, blissfully ignorant of the sudden tension in the room. “Why, a lover could give the same outcome, I’m certain.”
His eyes snapped open, and instant fury clouded their depth. “There will be no lovers.”
“Perhaps not now but one day, when our marriage has reached its inevitable moment of unfolding—”
“Stop.”
Her mouth snapped shut at that single word, spoken with such menace that Willow grimaced. She watched as he took another swig of brandy.
“You drive me bloody insane,” he muttered, his eyes glaring at her in accusation. “And you’re too bloody beautiful for your own good.”
“Only you would say something at a moment like this,” Willow said, taken aback by his declaration.
One of his arms dangled at his side, the other barely holding up the glass, his movements sluggish. The draught was taking effect, Willow realized with relief. She wasn’t sure how much more of this she could have endured.
“It must be working then,” she murmured to herself.
“What’s working? Not our cursed marriage, apparently.”
“You’re swearing a lot.” She tentatively stepped towards him, hovering near him, just in case.
“I’ll swear as much I damn well want to.” His words slurred. What had Jonathan laced with the brandy?
“You’re quite beautiful,” he purred, leaning forward to cup her cheek in his hand.
“You already said that.”
“I have?” He looked startled at the thought. “There is something else I need to confess.”
“Yes?” Willow urged when he fell silent.
He stared into her eyes, drawing his brows together. “It slips my mind.”
“You cannot recall anything?”
He thought about that, and then muttered. “Meant to let her go.”
“Ambrose?” Willow shot forward when he began to slump, keeping him upward. “Meant to let who go?”
“Planned an entire feast.”
“What are you talking about?” Willow asked. She had a hard time following his train of thought. He meant to let someone go and planned a feast? But before she could form a thought on his ramblings, his head slumped against her shoulder.
“Jonathan!” she cried.
“You like my brother better than me.”
“That’s not true.”
“You do.”
“I truly do not.”
“Warton ruined everything, bastard. Was going to tell you, you know, and now you prefer my brother. Much better than me.”
Dark eyes lifted to meet hers, stark longing reflected there. Her heart tugged, and Willow could not prevent the next words from tumbling out—no matter if she knew better, no matter if they might be already doomed.
“I prefer you,” she whispered and dragged in a shaky breath. His shoulders leaned heavily into hers and Willow realized he was no longer aware of the world around him, so she said, “I will always prefer you, because despite everything, I think I might be in love with you.”
At which her husband promptly crumbled to the ground.
“Jonathan!” Willow called out again, sinking down beside him.
Moments later, her brother-in-law strode into th
e room, his gaze flicking over them as he kneeled beside Ambrose. “Well, that didn’t take long.”
Not long? It felt as though it had taken everything from her. “He’s going to be a beast when he regains consciousness.”
“Better get him up to the room. I’m not sure how long he’ll be asleep.”
Her anxious eyes sprung to his. “I thought you said it would work!”
“And it has, though I cannot speak to how long the draught will keep him under, which is why we are tying him up.”
Willow traced a finger over Ambrose’s brow. This confrontation must have been the hardest thing she’d ever done, but she wanted to give Holly the best chance at a happy future. And if marriage to Warton made her sister happy, then Willow was happy.
But what did that mean for her? What had her husband attempted to confess? Had he planned on letting her sister go? What was this feast? When had he replaced his rules with a blank set? But more importantly, had she gotten it all wrong?
SOFTLY SPOKEN WORDS lulled Ambrose back to awareness. Dreamish words. Pretty words. Words spoken from the lips of his wife.
I think I might be in love with you.
Lifting an arm to wipe at his lids, it snapped against resistance. He tugged again. What the devil? His eyes shot open to glare at his arm, which was bound to something—he angled his head up—the bedpost. He tugged at his leg, already suspecting that limb, too, would find resistance.
He was bloody tied down onto a bed.
Like a bloody sexual sacrifice.
His gaze snapped down to his body. Christ’s sake, he wasn’t even naked. Where was the joy in that?
His eyes swept the chamber, landing on his wife, who sat patiently waiting for him to . . . what? Wake up? How long had she been sitting there? Or rather, how long had he been tied up? His burning limbs told him too bloody long.
