by Tanya Wilde
“So why don’t you enlighten me?” Ambrose snapped, losing patience.
“Your mistress.”
That was what this was about?
“And how is that any of your concern?” Ambrose grit out between clenched teeth.
“Cut her loose.” Dashwood’s eyes blazed.
“Your concern is commendable but let me worry about what reality my wife can and cannot deal with.”
He had already broken it off with his mistress, but Dashwood and his pompous nose in his business could go to hell. Just because he married in haste under dubious conditions did not mean he was a complete bastard.
His eyes fell on Charles Middleton and the look on the man’s face made him sigh. Ambrose had to give his father-in-law credit, he loved his daughters. “I do possess a strong set of moral principles,” he found himself saying against his better judgment. “Having both a wife and a mistress are against them.”
“That is good to hear,” Charles Middleton said with a nod of approval, relief evident in his features.
Ambrose grunted.
Holly had believed him a beast. And he had been, but he had tried to set it right before the wedding. He had made his deception known when he’d handed her the rules. That was why she had run. It was also what her entire family thought of him, no doubt, even though he was the victim of deception here. Did any of that matter to the Middletons? Of course not. In fact, this was why he had been reluctant to marry all these years. A man did not just acquire a wife in the agreement, he acquired an entire bloody family.
More people to take into account.
More people he could not control.
Now he was more exposed than ever. Everything had gone wrong. And he was in possession of a wife that had a big question mark behind her name. What did he know of her? Except she was fiercely loyal to her family and did as she pleased.
Ambrose bit back a curse. The last thing he wanted to feel for his wife was admiration. If he felt that, who knew what other things he might come to feel, what other emotions would sneak up on him.
Damn that kiss. Something deep, dark, and ravenous had awoken inside him when their lips had met, a sensation he did not care to delve deeper into.
Ambrose was pulled from his thoughts when Charles Middleton stood, Dashwood following suit. “I believe we have said all we have come to say. I will send word once I’ve reached a decision.”
Ambrose nodded, rising from behind his desk. “I ask only that Miss Middleton remain with my wife and I until your final decision has been made.”
“Uncle,” Dashwood warned, opposed to the idea.
“Do I have your word that you will not marry her off without my consent?” Charles Middleton asked.
“You do.”
“Then she can stay in your care for the time being, if that is what she desires.”
Ambrose was no fool. That was not what Holly desired, which was why she was long gone. Charles Middleton was aware of that. The man knew as much of his daughter’s whereabouts as Ambrose did. But he’d received the permission he needed should his men find her.
Dashwood shot him a scathing glare before turning on his heel and marching out, Charles Middleton following suit at a slower pace.
As soon as they were gone, Ambrose dropped back in his seat, dragging a hand through his hair. What the hell did he do now? Drink? Search out his wife? Confront her? Consummate the marriage before she changed her mind? He had meant what he said. He would not annul the marriage, regardless of whether it had been consummated or not.
Which it damn well would be.
And perhaps it had been wishful thinking on his part that his life would remain unchanged now that a wife occupied the walls of his home, slept in the room adjoining his.
She would be so close. Even now he imagined listening to the soft padding of her footsteps as she settled in for the night. He would rather not think of her laying her head on a bed of pillows, breathing, stretching out her lithe body.
Nothing was supposed to change. He wasn’t supposed to be plagued by thoughts of his wife. Especially since she was never meant to be his wife. And yet it was impossible not to wonder what she was feeling at that moment. Was she angry? Scared? Did she feel invincible?
Ambrose loathed change. Ever since Celia became sick all those years ago, change always made him antsy. And more often than not, when changed occurred, Ambrose needed to reassess his limits, his environment. And breathe.
Breathe.
The study was too stuffy. He couldn’t think here, knowing somewhere in the house, in her chamber, his wife waited for him. All he wanted was to go back to his life the way it was twelve months ago. No complications. No commitments. No doubt and uncertainty festering in his belly.
But as if the day could not get any worse, Quinn Middleton entered, his eyes smoldering. Murderous, even.
Ambrose sighed.
There would be no reprieve for him apparently.
“What the hell do you want?” Ambrose snapped, losing some of his composure. “Your brethren have already voiced their grievances.”
“But I have not.” Quinn’s face hardened to stone. “Do not think I won’t take Willow away from you if I suspect my cousin is unhappy.”
“If you ever take my wife away from me, pup, I will see you dealt with in ways you cannot fathom.” His voice was low, laced with malice. Promise.
He was tired of people threatening to remove his wife from his life.
The man’s shoulders bunched at the threat. “Don’t mistake me for one of your saplings, St. Ives. If you hurt my cousin, there will be hell to pay.”
A sardonic smile stretched across Ambrose’s lips. Well, so much for welcoming family in-laws. With one last parting glare, in which Ambrose just raised his brows at the pup, Quinn Middleton stalked from the room, shouldering past Jonathan, who appeared just then in the threshold.
“Who the hell did you piss off now?” Jonathan muttered, striding into the room and dropping down in a chair. “Christ, my head is throbbing.”
“Where the hell have you been?” Ambrose demanded.
“Dammit man, must you yell?”
“Where have you been?” Ambrose insisted with a glower. “Your presence was required today.”
Jonathan rolled his eyes. “If you must know, I was at Hazard’s all night.”
“The gaming hell?”
Jonathan nodded. “Having the time of my life.”
“You missed my wedding for a damn night on the town?” Ambrose practically roared.
“What?” Jonathan shot upright. “No! That’s not until the sixteenth!”
“Today is the sixteenth!”
“The hell you say!” But Jonathan’s pallor was already replaced by an unpleasant shade of pink.
Ambrose scrubbed his face with his hands. “Unbelievable.”
Jonathan slowly sat back down, shame written on his face. “I missed your wedding, didn’t I?”
“It’s done now,” Ambrose muttered, falling back into his chair, his eyes shutting.
What was done was done. His brother had been recovering from a night of gambling and indulgence while he had been deserted by his betrothed and married her sister. His mother was beside herself and his in-laws despised him.
And he didn’t know a damn thing about his new wife.
He let out a heavy sigh.
Ambrose could not help but wonder if today marked defining moments for them all.
Chapter 6
Willow sank down on her bed and then immediately jumped back up. Nerves ate away at her belly as she waited for her husband to make his entrance. There were a few things they needed to discuss. Such as expectations. Holly. The reason he wished to wed in haste.
Her gaze wandered over to the sheets of paper neatly arranged on her desk.
Boundaries for the Duchess of St. Ives.
Willow huffed.
The title had a well-defined ring to it, but the document itself represented everything she stood agains
t. Of course, she had been raised without many restrictions, skirting around the edges of what was proper and what was not. She had grown up with freedom few women possessed, a way of life she had perhaps taken for granted.
Willow had always assumed her husband would possess the same values as her father. It never occurred to her he may not. Then again, it never occurred to her that she would come to be married in the way she did. There had not been much time dedicated to considering the character of her husband. Well, not much beyond the idea that she would be able to manage the duke.
Boundaries.
Hah! What did that even mean? A clear line drawn across the floor of their home? That might not be such a terrible idea. Certainly not after that kiss which had, in the blink of a second, tested the purely beastly view Willow had constructed of the duke. The kiss alone suggested there was something underneath the beast, a man that could feel.
His rigid need for control certainly did not paint a man who possessed such a passionate side. It had thrown her off balance. In fact, Willow had to remind herself over and over that her husband was reputed to be a stuffy duke. It was dangerous to imagine him as anything romantic. He wasn’t. He had tricked Holly and drawn up these rules.
Willow must remember that.
And just what did he mean to gain from setting up such absurd rules as eating one meager piece of toast in the morning? Was it perhaps a miracle slice of bread? That had been the worst rule for Holly.
She glared at the offending sheets of paper.
She ought to read them. But she wouldn’t. The mere thought of it stuck in her craw.
Her fingers skimmed over the title.
As long as she remained unaware of the contents, there was a chance for her to form her own opinions about her husband. If she read the rules and became infuriated, they would not get off to any sort of start and for better or worse, they were married. Besides, she had no intention of following his ridiculous rules. She fully planned to ignore the “boundaries” he had drawn up for her. If they were so important to him, the man could very well explain why himself!
She cast an irritable glance at the door.
She wondered what kind of entrance he would make. Would he burst into the chamber tall, handsome and naked? Or would he expect her to undress him? Perhaps he was a robe man.
Willow sighed at herself. One minute she was fuming over his boundary book and the next she was imagining him naked. It was more than confusing.
She had attempted all day–ever since his kiss—not to imagine her husband naked. Which was proving quite impossible. Whenever he moved, the roped muscles of his body rippled in such a delicious way, tremors tormented her spine.
She didn’t think she’d mind consummating the marriage one bit. At least in this, she didn’t feel torn.
She quelled the tiny pinch of guilt that surfaced at the thought of why she married him. She ought not feel guilty. Her actions weren’t any different from men acquiring wives to beget them an heir, was it?
The sudden thud of polished Hessians in the hallway caused her pulse to leap. Alert, she listened as her husband entered his chambers, the door groaning on its hinges as it shut. The soft rustle of fabric that soon followed.
Her eyes shot to the door adjoining their rooms.
She tried to remember why she was annoyed, what she planned on demanding explanations for, when all of a sudden, she couldn’t even catch her breath, let alone think.
Butterflies fluttered wildly in her belly. Think, Willow. Think! But the doorknob turned and her wits scattered. Her blood throbbed in her veins. She waited in suspended time for the door to push open.
But . . . nothing.
Her brows puckered.
The doorknob wiggled again.
“Open the door, Willow.”
The door was locked?
Then, a moment later, realization sunk in. Had he just called her—
“Willow.”
There it was again, the soft purr of her name. Which rolling off his tongue sounded like sweet honey dripping from his lips when he pronounced it.
She shuddered.
And just like that, panic set in. What had she been thinking! She married her sister’s jilted betrothed to get with child! She’d lost her mind. Her reasoning was flawed. And how did she think that she would enjoy the consummation? She didn’t even know what it entailed! She belonged in Bedlam!
On instinct, she dashed to the bedroom door and yanked it open, resolved to hide away in the servant quarters or behind a curtain somewhere, just for the night, and bolted straight into a broad chest.
Strong arms circled her waist and crushed her against a hard frame while walking her back into the room. Her head tilted back to meet the dark, smoldering eyes of her husband, wicked amusement flashing in their surface.
“Going somewhere?”
She bit her bottom lip. “I, er, no, I . . .” Willow trailed off, breathless.
“Not running away from your husband, then?” he mocked. “It must be a family trait.”
“Of course not,” Willow scoffed, feeling more herself when her temper sparked.
He chuckled, setting her back on her feet, kicking the door shut. “Little liar.”
“I see you recalled my name?” Willow remarked, choosing to ignore his devilish expression.
“Indeed.” He smiled then, a look so dazzling she hastily backed away, nearly stumbling over a footstool. He reached out to steady her.
She blinked a few times to ensure she was not dreaming. Her husband stood in the centre of her chamber in nothing but a robe. He was a robe man. And she was acting like a nitwit at the sight of it. Which was why, of course, she said the first thing that popped into her brain, anything to keep her mind from the flush spreading up her neck and the quickening beat of her heart.
“Well, Ambrose, you ought to know, I will have at least three pieces of toast in the morning.”
For a moment, confusion shone in his features and then his eyes narrowed. “If you read the—”
“I did not read that pile of rubbish,” Willow motioned at the papers on her desk, “I heard this particular rule from my sister and I’m making it clear that I will not be following it.”
She stepped right up to him, daring him to contradict her. She could feel the heat coming off his body and struggled to ignore its beckoning. What sort of wanton creature was she? And the feelings he aroused in her just served to set fire to the glowing embers of her annoyance. She was feeling all sorts of things she ought not to feel. And yet for all her annoyance, she felt awakened.
His jaw tightened, but his mask of amusement did not slip.
“Willow, the rules are—”
“Preposterous, I imagine.”
“Stop interrupting me when I’m trying—”
“To say you agree with me?”
Finally, anger flashed across his features, cracking through his good-humor. She felt satisfaction trill through her.
“Deuce take it! I am trying to protect you,” he ground out.
She smiled up at him sweetly. “From toast?”
A low growl rumbled deep in his throat. It was her only warning. Hunger, starkly raw, flashed in his eyes before he brought his mouth down on hers. There was nothing gentle about the kiss, though nothing bruising. But it didn’t matter. Because the moment he touched her lips, flames lapped up her skin.
Everything she’d been holding back, everything she’d been fighting to ignore overwhelmed her. Fear, annoyance, guilt, and desire all poured out in the kiss. Their locked horns became something else as their tongues dueled. And she recalled that his purpose for being here, in her chamber, in this moment, was another one altogether different from negotiations over toast.
Suddenly, he pulled away, and Willow found herself stunned and bereft. Her eyes opened to find him shrugging off his robe in one smooth motion, allowing it to fall to the ground in a crumpled heap.
Willow nearly choked on air.
“You’re . . . you’re
. . .”
He was completely, splendidly and breathtakingly naked.
Willow backed away from him, her lips parting as her gaze wandered over every sinew that rippled across his torso. His thick muscles thrummed with strength.
He stalked her with a slow gait, the motion drawing her gaze lower.
Her eyes snapped back up again. “You cannot possibly waltz into my bedchamber naked and all . . . all . . . . naked!”
But he could.
And he did.
He arched a bemused brow. “No?”
“You cannot possibly mean to . . .” her words tapered off on a breathless note.
But he could.
And he meant to.
She saw it in the gleam of his eyes and realized she wanted to do . . . whatever he wanted.
“A good wife would have been naked by now, not arguing with me about breakfast.”
Willow flushed scarlet. She wouldn’t admit that breakfast was presently the furthest thing from her mind. She could easily win that argument in the morning. There were more pressing matters at the moment, matters she was rather entranced by. Naked matters. Husband matters. Consummation matters.
“Are you under the impression that wives lounged nude in wait for their husbands all day?” She sniffed in mock disdain. “They do not.”
His lips pulled back in a smile. “If they did, no man would ever leave their bed.”
“Men tire easily enough.”
“Not all men.”
The words, the rough baritone of his voice, brought a shiver to her spine.
Did he mean himself? That the thought thrilled her made it clear: her sanity was, indeed, lost. Because the thought of lounging around naked waiting on the duke sounded ridiculously delightful.
“So what is it to be, wife?”
“I beg your pardon?” Her eyes, which were busy examining his torso, jerked up to his face.
“I’m all for hiking your skirts up and consummating this marriage without delay, though I’d rather it be your choice.” His eyes raked her up and down, gaze blazing. “And I’d rather you be naked.”
“You are allowing me the chance to decline?”
He shrugged. “But be warned, little wife, this marriage will not be annulled. I will have your word.”
