by Darcy Burke
“Don’t be. I created my own mess. I don’t blame my father. He had high expectations for me, and I failed him.”
Just as Philippa’s father had expectations of her. She appreciated his concern for her to marry, not just for her family’s reputation, but also for her future. At least, she hoped such thoughts motivated his actions. Still, Philippa was reluctant to marry Sir Mortimer when she didn’t love him and doubted she ever would. She looked at Miss Chandler. “Did you love Nigel?”
“Regrettably, no. He deserved so much better than I gave him. I needed to marry, or at least I thought I did.” Her cheeks flushed scarlet. “Pardon me, I’d rather not speak of it. Some things are better left buried, especially my past behavior.”
“I didn’t mean to pry.” Philippa recognized their conversation had become overly personal, but Miss Chandler had been quite forthcoming. However, Philippa didn’t wish to cause her pain.
“It’s all right. I know you’re only trying to learn about what happened. It must matter to you since you’re trying to determine his suitability.”
It did matter, but not at the cost of Miss Chandler’s comfort. “Don’t feel as if you need to share anything further with me.”
“No, I think it’s good you understand Ambrose’s behavior at that time. Though, of course, I’ve no idea how he is now.”
Philippa couldn’t keep herself from asking, “How was he then?”
Miss Chandler glanced up at the sky with a wistful expression. “Wickedly charming, overwhelmingly attractive, incorrigibly flirtatious.” That sounded very like the Ambrose Philippa had met at Lockwood House. “I was smitten the moment I met him.”
Philippa suffered a wave of jealousy. Miss Chandler had fallen for Ambrose, and they’d engaged in a torrid affair. But he’d painstakingly kept himself from Philippa. Suddenly her goal to make him fall in love with her seemed insurmountable.
Miss Chandler looked down. “So smitten that I wouldn’t have noticed the tension between he and Nigel, except that Mrs. Oldham was quite vocal about it. Nigel returned from London intent on assuming a more managerial role at Beckwith. Ambrose didn’t like that. He’d been raised to expect Beckwith and the title would be his. Nigel told me their father had made it clear the future of Beckwith depended upon Ambrose.”
Philippa imagined a young man who’d felt entitled to a life that didn’t really belong to him. A young man who’d been encouraged to succeed, driven to do so, but had then been told he was no longer necessary. “Ambrose felt betrayed.”
“Yes, he felt as if his birthright was being stripped from him. At the same time, Nigel was bitter about Ambrose’s strengths and the way everyone admired him. They’d been pitted—through no fault of their own—against each other.”
“How awful for both of them. May I ask how Nigel died?”
Miss Chandler’s eyes darkened, and her lips tightened. “He fell from Ambrose’s horse.”
Which was why Ambrose didn’t ride. No wonder he’d seemed so unbearably apprehensive in the stables. It also explained his reaction to her touching the horse his brother had fallen from and probably his reaction earlier when she’d turned in the saddle. “Orpheus?”
Miss Chandler nodded.
That poor, magnificent animal. He clearly missed his master. And given Ambrose’s horsemanship, he had to have missed riding all this time, yet he’d denied himself anyway. What else did he deny himself for the sake of guilt?
They walked a moment without speaking. Birds flew overhead, and the breeze stirred Philippa’s hair. “The peninsula is so beautiful. Although you may have been stranded here, it can’t have been a hardship.” She looked at Miss Chandler with a half-smile.
Miss Chandler’s lips curved up in response. “Not at all. It’s home to me now. How long will you be staying?”
“Not long unfortunately, a week perhaps.” Or less, if she was unable to make any progress with Ambrose. Right now, establishing a bond with him seemed as far-fetched as swimming the channel to France.
“Such a short time? If you leave, you can’t come to my wedding.”
Philippa wasn’t sure attending Miss Chandler’s wedding would be appropriate, but appreciated the sentiment. “I’m afraid I’m due at my Father’s house. Depending on what happens with Ambrose, I’ll be married in a month myself.”
Miss Chandler’s eyes widened. “You’re betrothed to someone else?”
“Not formally, but my father has arranged a marriage. Since I’ve no other prospects, I must consider this option.”
“You do have other prospects. You have Ambrose.”
Philippa laughed, though she felt no mirth. Her situation seemed completely hopeless at the moment. “I ‘have’ nothing.”
Miss Chandler stopped and turned toward Philippa. “That’s not true. He proposed to you once. You’re here—and he hasn’t tossed you out. You’re already far ahead of me.”
Unfortunately, Philippa wasn’t sure it was enough.
Chapter Nineteen
AMBROSE ran Demetrius across Beckwith until they were both exhausted. Ambrose’s thighs protested, unaccustomed as they were to being in the saddle. But it felt good.
He hated that.
After Nigel’s death, Ambrose had vowed never to ride again. Just as he’d vowed never to touch another woman after Lettice.
Depriving himself of his two favorite things had seemed a fitting punishment for his selfish behavior. And now, because the riding felt so damned good, he hated himself all over again. As if he’d ever stopped. How did one possibly manage all of that self-contempt?
By fighting whenever he was overwhelmed with pain. He needed a goddamned fight and not a practice session.
Or a really good fuck. Which was completely out of the question. He’d capitulated to riding, and he refused to do the same with sex. In spite of Philippa pushing him to the brink of his control.
A fight then. But not in Gerrans or Portscatho. He didn’t want to venture into those towns. Not because he cared about his reception—people likely still despised him and he couldn’t fault them for it. There were too many memories, too many shared experiences of a life he’d buried and which he preferred stayed that way.
And of course there was Lettice. If he could leave the Roseland Peninsula without seeing her, he’d count himself lucky.
Leave the Roseland Peninsula.
Though he’d ridden a few miles inland, the scent of the sea permeated the air. The sun was hot and bright. He removed his hat and let the heat seep into his scalp. He closed his eyes and listened to the birds, the distant bleat of Beckwith’s sheep, the sound of his heart breaking anew. How he’d missed this place.
Five years was a long time to nurture regret. Had he really expected to spend the rest of his earthly existence over a tavern in London? Fighting and paying only cursory attention to his responsibilities?
He supposed not.
But neither had he given thought to what he might do with the years that stretched before him. Save his punishments and his avowal to never marry, he had no plans at all. No ambition. He was even content to let his second cousin inherit. Or so he’d schooled himself to feel.
His father had raised him to manage Beckwith and to establish himself as a leader within the Roseland Peninsula. Considering Ambrose hadn’t been the heir, it had been a peculiar goal, though easily explained because no one had expected Nigel to live long enough to inherit. Including Ambrose.
Which didn’t excuse what he’d done. Nigel had lived longer than anyone had predicted and might even still be here today if not for Ambrose’s selfishness and entitlement.
The hell with it.
Ambrose turned around and started back, though at a slower pace than he’d come. Would he find Philippa where he’d left her? Had she returned to the stables or continued on her ride? He ought not to have left her like that, but one could expect little else from a selfish ass like himself.
What was he going to do with her? Try to ignore her the next week? Throw
her out as he’d done with Lettice? No, she deserved better. Lettice had deserved better. At least he’d purchased her that cottage, not that it alleviated his conscience much.
When Ambrose finally arrived back at the stable yard, just before luncheon, Welch gave him a high-browed stare. He said nothing, but took Demetrius’s reins, which was just as well because Ambrose had no desire to go into the stable and see Orpheus. Though he’d consented to ride today, he still wasn’t sure if he’d do so again.
What bullshit. Now that he’d done it, he couldn’t not ride again. It was as if he’d picked the wound open and couldn’t staunch the flow of blood. Which meant he’d have to work twice as hard to keep himself from the other temptation—Philippa.
With that in mind, he decided to head directly to his bedchamber where he could banish her from his mind the only way he knew how, if only for a small while.
By the time he arrived upstairs, he was strung so tight he thought he might explode. But then he supposed that’s exactly what he needed to do. Now, by his own hand. Anticipation coursed through him, brought his prick to attention.
He went to the windows on the other side of his bed and looked out over the ocean. So blue and pure. Full of possibility. Free of the past.
He stripped his coat and waistcoat from his heated body and cast them to the floor. The staccato of his breathing filled his ears as he unbuttoned his fall. He braced one hand on the casement and with the other pulled his cock from his drawers. Half-erect, he stroked his flesh until it hardened and heated beneath his fingers.
He inevitably thought of Philippa’s dark sable hair and ale-colored eyes. Her pale, creamy flesh, the rise of her breasts and the pucker of her lush, pink nipples. Then he thought of her hand replacing his. He sucked in air as the blood flowed to his cock in earnest. He moved his hand faster, thinking of her lips stretching around him, taking him in her mouth, sucking him deep and hard.
He almost heard the soft rustle of her skirts, smelled the delicious scent of her lilac and honey perfume, felt the rush of her breath over him. Blood surged in his cock, urging him toward orgasm.
Cool fingers wrapped around his hand. His eyes flew open.
She was there.
Philippa returned from her outing determined to make progress with Ambrose. After refreshing herself in her chamber before luncheon, she decided to exit through the sitting room that accessed both her and Ambrose’s rooms.
The door to his room was not quite closed. She stepped closer. Was he there? She thought she’d heard someone, but it could’ve been any of the servants.
Or Ambrose.
Tentatively, she opened the door wider. Her breath caught. Silhouetted against the windows, his hand supporting his weight, he was…pleasuring himself.
Heat rushed over her, and her mouth went dry. She’d always found him attractive, enjoyed kissing him and touching him, but seeing this… She was overcome with the need to join him.
Slowly, anxiously, her breathing shallow, she crossed his room, her footfalls soundless against the dense carpet. His face was turned toward the windows. He gave no inclination he heard her approach.
His sharp, uneven breaths filled her senses. Her breasts grew heavy, and her legs quivered.
He still wore his breeches, but his penis was in his hand. Long and dark and hard, he stroked its length. His eyes were closed, the muscles of his extended arm bulged beneath the fine linen of his shirt.
She had to touch him. Now.
She slid her hand over his, stroking his shaft with him. He stopped. His eyes flew open. Glazed and unfocused, they turned uneasy upon seeing her.
“Why are you here?” His voice was low and broken, sounding as if it came from the back of his throat.
Philippa swallowed. She didn’t think she could bear it if he turned her away. “I want to be.”
“You shouldn’t touch me,” he rasped, though he didn’t push her hand away.
There was no place for the word shouldn’t in her mind just then. This moment was about need and satisfying herself—both of them—at last. “I have to.”
“God, Philippa.”
She dropped to her knees and moved her hand over his. He pivoted toward her. He put his hand on top of hers and showed her how to glide her fingers along his length.
His flesh was velvety soft, but it covered a rod of stone. She imagined what it would feel like slipping inside of her. She squeezed her thighs together and felt shockingly wet there.
He pressed her hand around him. “Harder.”
She gripped him more securely, and slid her hand to the tip and back to the base again. A drop of moisture beaded at the end. She touched her thumb to it. Warm and a bit thick, she massaged it around the head.
“Faster,” he urged.
She looked up at him. His gaze—glassy and hot—fixed on her. His features were taut. He appeared utterly enslaved.
Feminine power coursed through her. She squeezed him and pumped her hand along his shaft. Another bead of liquid rewarded her efforts. Emboldened by his stare, she leaned forward and touched her tongue to the tip. He tasted salty and masculine. Unbearably aroused, she licked at him and kissed the head.
He groaned then dropped to his knees.
She continued stroking him as he wrapped his arms around her. Then his mouth devoured hers, his tongue thrusting inside. He was hot and delicious and everything she never knew she wanted.
He gripped the back of her neck, holding her to his hungry kiss. He licked and sucked. She nearly died in ecstasy, amazed that a kiss could feel so good.
Vaguely, she still clasped his penis, but her movements had been arrested by all he was doing to her. She couldn’t think, couldn’t focus on anything but the sensations he gave her. Then he pulled back from their kiss and jerked at the front of her gown. With a few rough tugs, her bodice gaped and then his fingers were plucking the ties of her stays. Quickly, savagely, he laid her breasts bare. He looked his fill. Again, power surged through her.
With one hand, he rolled her nipple between his fingertips. She closed her eyes, glorying in his touch. Then he pinched her sensitive flesh and she lost herself completely, dissolving against him. She clutched at his shoulders, an anchor lest she drown.
He cupped both of her breasts. Firmly. Sensually. Yes, yes, this is what she wanted, what she needed.
His mouth came down on hers. Open, hot, greedy. She pulled at his neck and thrust her tongue against his.
He pushed her back until she was flat against the carpet. She opened her eyes as she stretched out beneath him. He threw his leg over her hips, straddling her on his knees. He bent over her and drove his tongue deeper into her mouth, filling her deliciously. She pressed up against him, seeking more of his kiss, more of his hand, more of everything.
His lips left hers and trailed down her neck. His hands continued their sweet torture. Her breasts ached, and she felt each stroke between her legs as a sharp, desperate need. She moaned shamelessly. “Please, Ambrose.”
His mouth closed gently, reverently over her nipple, drawing on her heated flesh. She arched up to him and laced her fingers through his hair. More. Don’t ever leave me.
His mouth clamped down and he suckled her. Heat rushed to her core, and she cried out. His fingers tightened around her other nipple, drawing on it. Sensation spiraled through her. She thrust her hips upward, seeking something to ease the ache between her thighs. An ache that intensified with each lick and caress.
“Please.”
He bent low again and licked her other breast. She tugged on his hair, holding him close. His hand worked down her side and caressed her waist, then her hip. But there was still fabric between them. She wanted to feel him naked against her.
“Please,” she said again, her voice small and breathless.
He pushed her skirt up. Baring her thighs. Again, he stared down at her as if he’d never seen such beauty.
Lightly, he stroked her inner thigh. She sighed softly, loving his touch. Then his fingers wer
e there, against her core. So close… She opened her legs because it seemed necessary. He slid his finger inside of her, and she gasped at the sudden intrusion.
He froze, staring down at her. He withdrew his finger and sat back on his heels. His gaze locked on her again, but it wasn’t the same. It was as if he didn’t see her. He inched backward.
“Ambrose.” She sat up and reached for him. “Don’t stop.”
His eyes were wide, frightened almost. What had happened? “What’s wrong?” She wrapped her hand around his wrist.
He pulled away from her and scrambled to his feet, turning his back to her.
Cold air rushed over her exposed flesh. She pulled her bodice together and got to her feet.
“You should go.” He sounded broken again.
No, she hadn’t come all this way, hadn’t finally breached the outer wall of his defenses to turn back now. “I’d rather finish what we started.”
He kept his back to her. “I won’t ruin you. Not that way.”
She moved to stand behind him. “I’m already ruined, damn you. You might as well do me the courtesy of experiencing what that means!”
He spun around. His dark eyes were wild. He looked a bit mad. “I can’t touch you. I won’t. I won’t actually ruin you.”
Scrupulously, she stripped her clothes from her body and let them pool at her feet. She notched up her chin and held her breath at her daring. But she’d nothing to lose. Nothing she wasn’t more than willing to give. “I’m asking you to, Ambrose.”
His eyes glittered dangerously in the afternoon sunlight streaming from the windows behind her back. He swallowed then lifted his hand. He stroked his thumb down her throat. She arched her neck, casting her head back. She nearly moaned at the contact, but held her tongue, lest he retreat again.
His hand moved lower, sliding over her collarbone and stroking her breast. His touch was rough, and he tweaked her nipple. Her legs quivered, and she bit her lip.
He trailed his finger down the center of her belly, over her navel. He brushed horizontally over the top of the curls at the apex of her thighs. Slowly, agonizingly. His hand cupped her mound and pressed against her.
