by Darcy Burke
“Good afternoon, Ambrose.” Philippa stood on the opposite side of the room. Curls of dark wavy hair peeked from beneath her bonnet. Her ale-colored eyes were warm and assessing. She was draped in a pale green muslin gown that accentuated her breasts—or perhaps he was merely recalling their last meeting when he’d touched and tasted them.
He was such a beast. After all that had happened, and after she’d journeyed this far, all he could do was pant after her like a dog in heat? He tamped down his lust. He wanted to know why she’d come. “You’ve ventured a long way for an afternoon call.”
She smiled at him, and his too-rapidly-aroused body stretched even tighter. “Indeed, but London has become a bit stuffy of late.”
Ambrose was vaguely aware of Mrs. Oldham lingering behind him. He pivoted. “Philippa, this is my housekeeper Mrs. Oldham. Though I daresay she’s already introduced herself, Mrs. Oldham, allow me to present Lady Philippa Latham.”
Mrs. Oldham curtseyed. “A pleasure to formally make your acquaintance, my lady. My lord, she’s come all the way from London.” She turned her gaze to Ambrose and narrowed her eyes.
Philippa looked between the two of them. “Would it be too much trouble for tea?”
“Not at all.” Mrs. Oldham bestowed a pleasant smile upon Philippa. “I’ll see about getting your things settled in a room. I presume you’ll be spending the night—at least—given how far you’ve come.”
“Yes, thank you.” Mrs. Oldham exited, and Philippa gave Ambrose her full attention, her gaze hovering in the area of his loins—or did he imagine that? “Your housekeeper is lovely,” she said.
If lovely meant perturbed, then yes, she was. He deserved Mrs. Oldham’s ire—Philippa’s too, if she wanted to give it—and so much more.
Regardless of what he deserved, Ambrose gravitated toward Philippa. Not too close, but close enough that he could smell her familiar scent. He inhaled deeply, both relishing and disbelieving her presence at the same time. “Why have you come all this way?”
She lifted her chin and regarded him with a defiant edge. “I’ve reconsidered your proposal. I’d like to determine whether we might actually suit.”
She’d come to court him? His pulse quickened as he realized one of the reasons he’d come to Cornwall was to escape her allure. “My opinion hasn’t changed. You’d be miserable with me.”
She inclined her head. “You’re entitled to think that, of course. However, I must see for myself.” She strolled to the windows and looked out at the gardens. “We clearly get on quite well, as evidenced by our quick friendship. And surely you won’t argue the attraction between us. I think we can both agree our mutual… desire,” her cheeks blushed a delightful shade of pink, “would be enough to visit the vicar. Indeed, marriages have been based on far less.”
If his body had been aroused before, she’d stoked him to raging lust by murmuring a few well-chosen words. What she didn’t understand was that his uncontrollable desire had been his ruin—and hers. He could well imagine how things might turn out this time. They’d marry, she’d fall in love with him, and he’d do something to crush her. Growing up, Nigel had been the person he’d loved most in the world, and look what he’d done to him. Ambrose clearly didn’t know how to love someone, or how to keep his passion from destroying people.
He joined her near the windows, again not getting too close. “Your logic seems sound except for one pesky fact—you want love, and I can’t give that to you.”
“So you say, but I am also not convinced of that. Although, I invite you to persuade me otherwise.” She blinked up at him with impossibly long, seductive lashes. Had she always been a siren?
Persuade her that he couldn’t love her. She was far too clever for her own good, but he could play her game. “I’ll only be in residence another ten days.”
“Until your prizefight is concluded?” At his questioning look, she tipped her head. “I know about the prizefight next week. I believe I’ll have my answer regarding our suitability by then.”
“You do?”
She nodded, turning her head toward him. “If we aren’t betrothed by then, I will take my leave, and you may bid me farewell forever.”
Forever? He didn’t like the sound of that at all, which was asinine. He’d left her ruined in London. Had he really ever expected to see her again?
Perhaps not, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t wanted to.
And therein lie his real fear. If she was here to court him—and she most certainly was—how on earth could he defend himself?
With the truth.
“Let me be clear about the things I’ve done.” He leaned forward, wondering if he might be able to intimidate her. “I seduced my brother’s fiancée, then I caused his death, and then I abandoned her. Why the devil would you want to marry me?”
“Because I’ve seen another side of you. Perhaps you’ve changed. Would you do those things today?”
He blinked at her. “I ruined you.”
A gentle shrug. “And were prepared to marry me in London, so you have changed. I’m here to ascertain how much.”
Christ, she wasn’t courting him, she was investigating him. The apprehension he’d felt earlier returned tenfold. “And now I’ve changed my mind. I won’t marry you.”
She turned from the windows, her skirt billowing gently around her ankles. “I don’t believe you. You’re a better man than you think. You made mistakes, and from what I can tell you’ve been reeling from them for five years. But now you’re here, and maybe I can help.” She gave him a placid, daring look.
He’d had quite enough of this charade. In two quick strides he was standing before her. “Don’t push me, Philippa. I will humor your visit, but you will leave in ten days exactly as you arrived. Alone and unwed.”
Her gaze remained steady. “We’ll see.”
She moved infinitesimally closer so that her breasts barely grazed his chest. It was enough—more than enough—to remind him how badly he wanted her, and how torturous the next ten days would be.
He stepped back from her, letting go of her arms and willing the charge between them to dispel. It didn’t. How easy it would be to kiss her, to strip her bare, to tumble her over the back of that chair. He swallowed as Mrs. Oldham entered with the tea tray.
“Enjoy your tea.” He spun on his heel and quit the house.
Philippa’s chest rose and fell steadily as she fought to refill her air-deprived lungs. He’d been so close and the look in his eye so full of promise. A kiss had seemed certain, but then he’d pulled away, and she’d been left as wanting as that day in Benfield’s stable.
She’d come hoping to determine if the spark between them would be enough to sustain something more, and she had just ten days to find her answer. She glanced at the door Ambrose had departed through and sank into a chair. Breaking down his defenses was going to prove difficult, but since he hadn’t immediately thrown her out, she had hope.
The housekeeper set the tray on a table between a collection of two settees and two chairs. “His lordship returned to work?”
Unfortunately. She looked up at Mrs. Oldham and summoned a smile to warm the air Ambrose had turned frigid with his abrupt departure. “Yes, I didn’t mean to interrupt him. We’ll talk at dinner.”
Mrs. Oldham nodded and set about organizing the tea implements. She’d greeted Philippa a half hour earlier and had apologized for the lack of a butler. “Where is your butler?” Philippa asked, curious for any morsel of information about Ambrose and his surroundings.
“He passed on, my lady.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Mrs. Oldham looked up at her. “It was three years ago. Cream and sugar?”
“Yes, please. One spoon of sugar.” Three years and they hadn’t hired a replacement?
As if Mrs. Oldham had heard Philippa’s question, she said, “His lordship runs Beckwith with minimal staff. He spends little time here.”
No time, from what Philippa could tell. Her next question wa
s probably too forward, but she’d come here for answers. “Is that because of what happened with his brother?”
Mrs. Oldham had been preparing to pour, but she stopped and looked at Philippa with wide eyes.
Philippa immediately regretted her impudence. She shouldn’t have invited the housekeeper into her problems. “Please accept my apologies. I know your loyalties lie with his lordship.”
Mrs. Oldham poured Philippa’s tea, added the cream and sugar, and stirred. “My loyalties have been tested over the years.” She pursed her lips as she handed Philippa her cup. “Now it is I who must apologize. I did not mean to speak above my station.”
Philippa had the sense Mrs. Oldham was of the servant-as-family variety, much like Philippa’s first governess, who’d died when Philippa was just eight. “I would prefer you speak freely. You have to be wondering what I’m doing here. A young, unmarried miss traveling all the way from London to see one of England’s most notorious scoundrels.”
Mrs. Oldham sat on the settee adjacent to Philippa’s chair. “Is that how Master Ambrose is viewed?”
Philippa pinched the handle of her cup. “Of course.” Her heart sped up at the prospect of learning more about him. “Shouldn’t he be?”
The housekeeper frowned, and her eyelids drooped with sadness. “Yes, he should. He was a scoundrel, and I’m deeply afraid he’s continued to be since you’re here. Pray tell me he didn’t ruin you too?”
Philippa rattled her teacup on its saucer and silently chided herself for starting this inquisition. No, she had to accommodate herself to the way things were. She was ruined. “It’s a bit complicated. Suffice it to say we both made mistakes, but I must claim the bulk of the blame. I allowed myself to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Except that if Ambrose was half the man she hoped he might be, she’d been in exactly the right place at the right time.
Mrs. Oldham eyed her intently. “You seem a reasonable and intelligent young lady. I’m sorry for your situation.”
“Don’t be, I’m trying to make the best of it. I shall see if Ambrose and I might suit. And if we don’t, well, I have other options. Though, I’d prefer you didn’t tell him that.”
Mrs. Oldham inclined her mobcapped head. “As you wish, my lady. I’ll just go and see about preparations to your chamber, then I shall come back and show you up.”
“Thank you for being so welcoming.”
Mrs. Oldham departed, and Philippa sipped her tea. Ten days in which to make Ambrose fall in love with her. For that was surely her goal. Though she’d told her mother otherwise, she did love him, despite his faults, or maybe because of them. Like his imperfect nose, he’d been broken and haphazardly repaired, but forever changed. And not necessarily for the worse.
They’d shared plenty of wonderful moments, and she would endeavor to create several more. She’d show him he could trust her, that she could help him overcome the past and embrace the future. Together.
Failure meant not only going to Wokeham Abbey and marrying Sir Mortimer, it also meant leaving Ambrose to battle his darkness alone. All the more reason to make the most of these ten days.
She mentally recalculated her timeframe. Her father would be expecting her at Wokeham Abbey in a few days, and she would, of course, disappoint him. When she didn’t arrive, Father would send word back to London, demanding she come posthaste. A few days prior to the prizefight in Truro, he’d receive a response from Herrick House stating she’d gone to Cornwall. He’d be furious and would likely come to fetch her personally, probably arriving the day after the fight. At which time, Philippa would be betrothed or ready to face the fate her father had dictated.
After a dinner during which Ambrose spent more time mentally making love to Philippa than he did eating, he was more than ready to engage Ackley in the tower sparring room.
Oldham had joined them this evening and was now situated on a wide bench. “Mrs. Oldham told me about yer lady friend.”
Ambrose paused in removing his waistcoat. He could well imagine what Mrs. Oldham and the other servants were saying about Philippa, a lone woman from London who wasn’t his wife come to visit him. “She ‘told’ you about her or demanded you ask me about her?”
“Both.”
“She’s merely touring Cornwall.”
Oldham snorted. “What rot.”
Ambrose fixed him with a Saxton-worthy glare. “She’s here for the prizefight and then she’ll be on her way.”
“Indeed?” Ackley had tossed aside his boots and now pulled off his stockings. He looked over at Ambrose, his eyes wide with interest. “She came for the prizefight?” They’d discussed a variety of things at dinner—the weather in Cornwall, the journey from London to Cornwall, and the history of Beckwith—but they hadn’t touched on the prizefight at all. “She came to see me?”
Oldham chuckled. “Though I’ve yet to meet the lady, I’d wager she’s here to see him.” He jabbed his thumb toward Ambrose.
Ackley nodded, albeit glumly, then finished removing his stockings.
Oldham looked at Ambrose expectantly. He sat on the opposite side of the bench and removed his boots and stockings, purposefully ignoring his groundskeeper. He didn’t want to talk about Philippa. Indeed, he wanted to try to forget her for at least an hour.
Ackley went to the table in the corner upon which lay two pairs of boxing gloves. They’d used the mitts for practice, so as not to injure each other overly much. However, tonight Ambrose needed the feel of his bare knuckles, wanted the true challenge of fighting a worthy opponent. But he’d have to be careful. In his frame of mind, he could easily damage Ackley enough to cripple him for a few days and that wouldn’t help him win next week.
Ambrose stood. “Let’s skip using those tonight.” He prowled to the table and clapped Ackley’s shoulder. “I want to see your progress without the gloves. Just be careful.”
Ackley arched a brow. “You’re telling me that? You’re the professional.”
“Professional, eh?” Oldham asked.
“As good a prizefighter as I’ve ever seen,” Ackley vowed. “You should’ve seen him against Nolan a few weeks back.”
Ambrose inwardly squirmed beneath the weight of Ackley’s admiration. “Was that before or after he nearly knocked me out?”
“Don’t minimize your abilities.” Ackley shot Oldham a speaking glance. “He always does that.”
Oldham’s brows elevated. “Does he now?”
This conversation was growing far too personal. Ambrose walked to the center of the scratch he’d drawn on the floor at the start of their first session. “Let us focus on you, Ackley. You’re going to be a far better fighter than me.”
Ackley joined him at the scratch. “Are we still sparring, or will this follow the guidelines of an actual match?”
Ambrose hadn’t considered having a formal bout. In the past, they’d fought, but interrupted the exercise to discuss strategy. However, since they were going bare knuckle, they may as well follow the rest of the rules. “We’ll make this a fight, but the goal isn’t to knock each other down. We’ll go ten minutes, break, then another ten, break, then another ten.” Ambrose pivoted toward Oldham. “Can you give us a signal?”
Oldham put his fingers in his mouth and whistled. “That do?”
“Perfect.” Ambrose turned back toward Ackley and then nodded. Oldham’s piercing whistle filled the high-ceilinged room and reverberated off the stone walls.
Ackley moved quickly—Ambrose had instructed him to deliver the first punch if possible. It set a tone for your opponent. It said, “I’m ready.”
However, Ambrose also expected his right jab. Ackley had forgotten to alter what he started with. If anyone studied his fights over time, they’d learn to expect it.
Ambrose easily deflected the strike and drove his fist into Ackley’s gut. Not full-power, but enough to make him jump back. Ackley nodded, realizing his mistake. They circled each other a moment, but Ambrose took the offensive and drove Ackley back with several sw
ift strikes. He deflected all but the last. His speed and reflexes were improving with each fight. Ambrose was pleased with his progress.
As the first stretch wound down, Ambrose wanted to press Ackley. His fingers were also itching to feel more than the light hits they were trading. But he had to remember this wasn’t a fight to drive his demons from his body or to purge Philippa from his mind. Frustration mounting, he dashed to the side and landed a powerful jab to Ackley’s ribs. Then he spun about and sent one to the other side. As Ackley reacted, Ambrose caught him on the chin. He hadn’t meant to hit him hard, but Ackley moved at the same second and Ambrose’s knuckles caught Ackley’s jaw with a resounding thud. His head snapped back. He retreated and shook his head. His eyes narrowed, and he attacked.
Ambrose got his hands up, but Ackley was relentless—just as Ambrose had taught him to be. He drove Ambrose back with his fists and his fast footwork. Ambrose worked to keep up, but staggered backward. God, if he could unleash himself, he’d have Ackley on the floor in a trice. In the span of that thought, Ackley punched him in the gut and again in the cheek. Already off balance from the quick assault, Ambrose fell back and sprawled on the floor.
A loud gasp from the doorway drew everyone’s attention.
Philippa stood staring with her hand over her mouth. Then she immediately rushed forward and knelt beside Ambrose. “Are you all right?”
“Fine.” In truth, his cheek throbbed. He wondered if Ackley’s chin pained him the same. Perhaps sparring without gloves had been a poor idea.
“Ackley?” Ambrose asked as he sat up.
Ackley shrugged, though he rubbed his chin. “Fine.”
Oldham whistled.
Ambrose and Ackley both turned to look at him. Oldham shrugged and needlessly said, “Time’s up.”
The touch of Philippa’s hand on his cheek drew Ambrose’s attention. “You’re hurt,” she murmured.
“You’ve seen me much worse.” He got to his feet and extended his hand to help her up.
