The Perks of being a Duchess (Middleton Novel Book 2)

by Tanya Wilde

  “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 the 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.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he snapped. Or at least he tried to. His words came out a jumbled moan.

  Disbelief tore through him.

  His wife had not only tied him to the bed but shoved a stocking in his mouth! And wrapped it tightly around his head. The jumbled events in his brain suddenly snapped together. Jonathan. Willow. This must be part of their plan.

  As if to taunt him, his brother appeared in the doorway, a happy smile on his face.

  “Good evening, brother.”

  Was it evening already? Well then, good evening, you little bastard.

  “Ambrose,” his wife murmured, and his gaze ventured to her. She swallowed. “We have taken these measures for your own good.”

  Oh, really.

  “We found Holly,” she said, rising from the chair.

  I gathered as much.

  “And she is getting married to Warton tomorrow morning.”

  Ah, Warton. The son of a bitch isn’t wasting his time.

  “We will release you once the ceremony has concluded.”

  Oh, honey, I will be released much sooner than that.

  His brother shifted against the frame, crossing his arms over his chest. “Best wait until the marriage has been consummated,” Jonathan said, his grin wolfish. “Just to be sure.”

  Ambros
e gave an inward snort. No man made an ass of himself like Warton had over a woman he hadn’t already bedded and fallen in love with. He would have done the same, perhaps worse.

  He ought to know. Just look at where love had recently landed him. Bound and gagged on a bed.

  His wife nodded, drawing his attention away from his thoughts. “I suspect neither of them will leave anything up to chance.” Blue sapphires sent him an apologetic glance. “I know you must be mad at me—”

  No, love.

  “For conspiring against you—”

  I expected that—you did not disappoint.

  “But I hope you will forgive us.”

  No forgiveness called for, love. Well, maybe he’d make Jonathan ask for some.

  “What happens when we release him?” Jonathan chirped from the door.

  “I’m not sure I follow?” Willow murmured with a brief glance at Jonathan.

  “He will be furious,” Jonathan said. “Do we release his bonds and let him stalk the chamber for two days before we let him out?”

  Ambrose rolled his eyes.

  “I will release him after the ceremony,” Willow said, tucking a curl behind her ear. “I shall also be spending tonight with my sisters to prepare for the wedding.”

  Instant protest welled up. She was leaving? The sudden piercing memory of her earlier words in his study raided his mind, cascading down on him like a ton of bricks. And courtesy of his current predicament, Ambrose was in no position to voice his opinion or do something about it, so he let his displeasure flash in his eyes.

  “I am not leaving, leaving, Ambrose.” She cast an uncertain glance to Jonathan. “I said those things to goad you into drinking the brandy. But we do need to discuss some unresolved matters.”

  Oh, he had plenty to discuss.

  He watched them take their leave, his hammering heart settling into a steady rhythm. That had been part of their plan, too? He was going to throttle his brother when this was over. As it were, Benson was going to have a fete when he discovered Ambrose—Ambrose was damn well never going to live it down.

  Chapter 25

  “I cannot believe I’m the last unmarried Middleton heathen,” Poppy declared, snatching a lemon cake off a tray from a passing footman.

  “We are not heathens,” Willow corrected, contemplating the stairwell with interest. “We are just prone to trouble.”

  Poppy followed her gaze. “What do you think they are doing up there?”

  “Talking,” Willow murmured, a slight blush staining her cheeks.

  “Talking? That’s what Holly said.” Poppy cut her a skeptical look. “Is that why we are blocking the stairwell?”

  “We are ensuring their privacy so that they can discuss whatever matters they are . . . discussing.”

  “Yes, yes, if kisses were words . . . they have been talking a long time.”

  Well over an hour, to be exact.

  Warton had carried her sister up the stairs after a passionate kiss over an hour ago and they had yet to reappear. And they were not talking. Of that Willow was certain.

  It had been a blast catching up with her sisters. Like old times. They discovered that three of the duke’s lackeys had captured Holly and brought her back. Fortunately, Holly had been treated well, except for a minor incident with a horse, or Willow would have been tempted to leave Ambrose tied up indefinitely.

  Speaking of her husband, while staying at Belle’s had been wonderful, Willow missed her home . . . and her surly husband.

  Again and again, those blasted sheets of white paper filled her mind. His half-muttered confession. What was she to make of it all? Had it truly sounded as if he was trying to tell her he had planned to let her sister go all along or was that just her imagination wishing for it to be the case? Was there more to the story than she was aware? Her mind was a puddle of confusion.

  And as if the situation wasn’t complicated enough, she definitely loved the blasted man.

  A twinge of guilt pinched her heart at leaving him tied up and locked in a room for the entire night—until she reminded herself that he deserved every bit of that time to think about his actions.

  “I’m sure they will be down shortly,” Willow said, snapping out of her thoughts.

  “Perhaps I shall meet my future husband today,” Poppy murmured. “Would that not be splendid?”

  “There are no guests at the wedding, only family,” Willow pointed out.

  “There is the delectable Mr. Marcus Hunt,” Poppy pointed out with a wistful smile. “Bow Street Runner extraordinaire.”

  “And he is much too smart to fall for your tricks.”

  Poppy laughed. “You may be right,” she said. Thunder rolled in the distance. “At least we saved the cake. Do you think Holly will mind a wedding in the drawing room?”

  “I doubt the bride or groom will notice,” Willow mused.

  The front door was suddenly flung open, and a man stepped through. He was tall, soaked to the bone, and handsome as sin. Leaves rustled in alongside his boots as he stepped over the threshold, his eyes instantly landing on her.

  Willow stared at Ambrose in outright amazement. Drops of rain coated his hair and face. He wore no cravat, and his shirt gaped open at his chest. He looked wild. Predatory.

  The tiny hairs on her nape leaped to life.

  “Is that not your husband?” Poppy asked. “I thought you said you tied him up.”

  She did. They did. But no words formed on her tongue.

  “Is this going to turn into one of those disasters you only read about in the papers?” Poppy whispered from the corner of her mouth.

  Maybe. Probably. Lord, Willow prayed not.

  Her pulse leaped in her throat. There was a sudden sting in her breast and she felt heat gather at her core. His gaze cut right through her until she feared her knees might give out. His eyes were focused and unblinking, locked onto her as he walked over to them.

  “Willow.”

  She inhaled sharply. Her breath froze in her lungs. His voice was pitched so low it found its way beneath her skin, sliding into her bloodstream.

  Gooseflesh spread all over her body.

  “How did you . . .” Her lips parted and shut again. “Where did you . . . I . . .”

  “Is there a question in there, love?”

  To her astonishment, amusement colored his voice. Was he laughing at her? Had he just called her “love”? After they had drugged him and tied him up? She cast Poppy a perplexing look, who, in return, lifted her shoulders in a careless shrug.

  “You’re too late, St. Ives,” Poppy piped up when Willow failed to speak. “My sister and Warton are reunited, and I daresay wild horses could not drag those two away from each other.”

  “I see. Am I too late for cake then, too?”

  “Excuse me?” Willow croaked, at last finding her voice. “Cake?”

  A smile tugged at his lips. “I’m quite famished, having been tied down to my bed for an entire night. The experience has made me fancy a slice of cake.” His eyes swept over the rushing servants. “Wedding cake, I presume?”

  Willow blinked up at her husband. Ambrose, her stoic imperious duke, was casually talking about cake as if he hadn’t been tied up for an entire night. Was this a trick? He sounded so amendable.

  “Is there some place we can talk?” he suddenly asked. “Or do you wish to hash this out before an audience?”

  Willow cast a brief glance at Poppy who looked much too intrigued for her liking. “No, let’s go . . .” Her eyes swept the hall for a spot of privacy.

  “Home?” Ambrose suggested. “I, for one, would not mind settling this in the privacy of our bed.”

  Poppy made a gurgling sound.

  Color swept up Willow’s neck to her cheeks. “What? You . . . That . . . No.” Willow glanced around uncertainly.

  “Then shall we stay and enjoy the wedding with your family first?”

  Willow’s head jerked back to him, reading only sincerity in his obsidian eyes. “You want t
o stay for the wedding?”

  He shrugged. “Why not?”

  “I’m missing something here, aren’t I?” Poppy said.

  Willow paid her sister no mind. “Why are you behaving like this?” she asked, her eyes darting to Lord Jonathan, who had suddenly entered the hall from the drawing room.

  “Like what?”

  Willow met her husband’s gaze and motioned at his person. “Amused. Happy. Humorous. Not like yourself.”

  “I am more myself at this moment than I’ve been in the last ten years, love.”

  “And why are you calling me ‘love’?” she asked with a skeptical scowl. “I tied you up and you aren’t even angry?”

  “And he’s smiling,” Poppy remarked. “It’s making my skin crawl. Downright scary.”

  “I only wish to talk,” Ambrose insisted. “I mean no trouble.”

  “And about what do you wish to talk?” Willow challenged.

  “My feelings. Apparently, believe it or not, I have a ton of those,” Ambrose said, his eyes never leaving hers.

  “You do?” Willow blurted. She hadn’t meant to sound so surprised, but merciful heavens, he’d said the word feelings.

  “Of course, I believe it’s the nature of humans to have those.”

  “You’re human?” Poppy muttered.

  Willow shook her head. “I meant . . . What I meant is that you have them—feelings—for me?”

  “Of course. Is that not clear by now? I will say that I never expected you to drug me and tie me up, though I should have, I suppose. You hail from the Middleton bloodline, after all.”

  “You . . . you . . .” Willow spluttered, staring at him wide-eyed.

  “Orchestrated this,” Poppy finished in awe. “He orchestrated it all.”

  “I did no such thing,” Ambrose denied.

  “But you let us free my sister, knowing some sort of rescue would be underway.” Willow’s brows narrowed speculatively. “Why?”

  “Madness, mostly, but I suppose that’s to be expected when one falls in love with one’s wife and has to find a way to prove it to her.”

  Jonathan’s laughter crackled through the air. “Well, I’ll be damned.”