by Tanya Wilde
“Then why did you ask?”
Best not answer that one.
“The men that brought you back told me of your little attempt to escape and that you were thrown from your horse in the effort.”
“I’ve had rotten luck lately.”
“They spoke the truth, then?”
“Yes, though you’ll believe nothing I say in any case.”
“They also told me you were aided by a gentleman.”
“A tale I told in an attempt to foil them.”
No, there had been someone. Her eyes told him so.
“You are a terrible liar, Miss Middleton,” Ambrose drawled. “Your eyes are much too expressive. If there was indeed a man who aided you, I will discover his identity and bring him to task.”
Or, more likely, drag him to the altar to marry her. They were now family, after all. God help him.
“You are under the mistaken impression that every man quakes in his boots at the prospect of defying you.”
“Some men are brave,” he agreed.
“Some men, Your Grace, are more formidable than you give them credit for. And some are far more dangerous than even yourself.”
“A man is only as formidable as the friends that stand at his back, Miss Middleton.”
“And how many people stand at yours, Your Grace?”
“Friends come in all forms, Miss Middleton.” He stood. A menu for breakfast awaited his attention. “If you will excuse me, I have preparations to see to.”
“What of my father? You cannot marry me against my will!”
“Your father has given his permission to the union.” It was a blatant lie, but it served his purpose. Oil to the fire.
“That is a lie! He would never do that!”
Ambrose turned on his heel and stalked from the room. He had said all he had come to say. But mostly he had wanted to see for himself whether resentment coiled in his gut at the sight of her.
It hadn’t.
In fact, he looked forward to dropping the ruse and seeing Willow’s smile when he did.
A grin curved his lips.
Willow was daydreaming. Again. It had become quite the habit, one she enjoyed rather immensely. And, at the moment, she was daydreaming about how she was planning to seduce her husband, thoroughly, completely, and (this was the most important part) wicked, wicked, wickedly tonight.
There was only one problem.
She lifted her nightgown, holding it up before her for inspection.
It was, in a word, revolting. Utterly unbecoming. Downright repellant. Nothing one would wear to a seduction, especially when said seduction was the prelude to getting one’s husband in a good mood to talk about all the reasons he ought to drop this score he wished to settle with her sister.
She stared at the nightgown. If she wore it, every inch of her flesh would be covered. And it was yellow. Ish. Her nose wrinkled. So, no, she hadn’t planned her nightwear to include marriage or seduction, but this particular travesty was shameful. Shameful, albeit comfortable to sleep in.
Well, she couldn’t wear it.
I could always wait for him naked.
The thought started up all sorts of wicked memories.
Willow shivered.
She flung the garment to the side. She would wait naked. Under the covers. In any case, shyness was no longer an option. Not after she had brazenly kissed him there.
Heavens! She couldn’t think about that and not feel heated.
Perhaps she ought to open a window and allow for some crisp air to breathe into the room and soothe the warmth of her skin.
Ah yes, that did sound lovely.
With that marvelous idea in mind, she quickly did just that, delighted when the soft rays of the moonlight cast the walnut floor in a wildly romantic glow.
Shedding her clothes, Willow settled under the covers to wait.
Chapter 22
Ambrose stared down at his sleeping wife in wondering fascination, tracing the side of her face with a gentle finger. The room was dark with only a few embers still illuminating the bed in a soft glow. He drew in a deep breath, inhaling the scent of her sweetness into his lungs. Her hair fanned over his shoulder where her head rested, soft and silky. She looked so sweet and innocent in her sleep; her beauty tore at his heart.
Ambrose hadn’t expected to find happiness or even a measure of joy in his marriage. And the truth was that he hadn’t tried all that hard. He had been nothing but a beast ever since he set out to find a wife, had thought only of himself and his resentment towards his father.
His wife’s words came to mind. Let it go already . . . Your father meant well in his own way.
His wife was right. Whatever Ambrose’s thoughts might be over the clause, his father’s intentions had come from a place in his heart. A strange place. But a place in that region, nonetheless.
In a way, Ambrose was much like the late duke, who had also valued structure and order. His heir was his heir. There was no spare for the spare. And yes, Ambrose had gone overboard with his sense of protection after Celia’s death, but he was working on that.
And even after all that, a miracle had still landed on his lap. A miracle within a miracle. A miracle that drew him in and slayed the beast inside him with every look.
That he felt happiness now scared the hell out of him. He was in a constant flustered state.
And the fact that he held her sister prisoner at the moment was deuced foolish. Yes, in a few short hours she’d be free, but he still felt like a royal bastard.
Maybe he should wake his wife and simply tell her now. He stroked his fingers through her silky strands, studying her face. She was sleeping so soundly, he couldn’t bear to wake her.
Only a few more hours.
He pressed a soft kiss to Willow’s temple, his lips lingering against her skin.
She might still be furious with him for not informing her sooner, but Ambrose was confident he could cross that bridge unscathed. After all, in the end, he’d done the right thing. His heart was in the right place. His heart was with her.
Closing his eyes, he savored this moment with her in his arms, and felt himself drifting off to sleep.
The sudden shout of a muffled voice from somewhere in the house snapped him back to alertness. He slowly pulled away from his wife.
Warning flared in his gut—trouble.
He planted a soft kiss on the tip of her nose before leaving the bed.
He barely cleared the chamber before the unmistakable boom of his name vibrated through the halls.
“St. Ives!”
“Get your rotten ass down here or I’ll tear this place apart,” the voice blustered.
“St. Ives!”
Ambrose quickened his steps, mindful that the shouts could wake Willow at any moment. Displeasure, annoyance, and anger consumed him all at once. Who the hell dared to enter his home in such a shockingly improper manner?
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.<
br />
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 will 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!
