Married to the Earl (The Wallflower Brides Book 3)

by Samantha Holt

  He cupped her face with his free hand and brought his mouth down to hers. She closed her eyes, absorbing the feel of his warm hand through his gloves and the soft touch of fabric and his firm lips upon hers, seeking, searching. Every part of her tingled with awareness. She heard birds chittering in the trees, felt the soft breeze riffling her curls, his knees pressing into her skirts, the scent of soap upon him.

  And yet there was nothing else. Nothing but him.

  “Joanna?”

  She snapped her eyes open and Ambrose stepped swiftly away. She drew in a deep breath and stepped around the tree to wave at Augusta. “Sorry, we were just, um...”

  “Admiring the view,” Ambrose finished for her.

  She nodded meekly as Augusta and her husband came to join them.

  “It is a fine view indeed,” murmured Ambrose, all the while keeping his gaze upon her.

  Augusta swung an intrigued look Joanna’s way, but she ignored the questions behind her friend’s eyes and looped her arm through hers. “The formal gardens,” she announced. “I think we should see those next.”

  Chapter Twelve

  What had promised to be a fine day was speckled with drizzle. The sort that looked deceptively light then soaked through one’s outer clothing until one was thoroughly soaked, all the way down to one’s undergarments.

  Ambrose peered up at the gray clouds under the brim of his hat and a dribble of rain splashed onto his nose. “Bloody English weather,” he grumbled. If there was one thing he loathed about living in England, it was the weather. They’d enjoyed days of sun, and the one time he decides to go for a ride, the heavens let loose on him.

  What was he doing up here anyway?

  He glanced back at his horse, standing mournfully under a tree then turned his attention back to the valley that sprawled beneath them from their position on the hill. The inclement weather spoiled much of the view, leaving it grainy and gray, but he still spied the farm cottage on the other side of the valley, the hedges dissecting the fields, and his family home settled just so amongst it all.

  The truth was, he’d come here because he’d been suffering that itchy feeling again—that one that had driven him to Hampshire in the first place. This time, however, the feeling was not caused by being tired of parties or wondering if there really was more to life than a plentiful supply of hangovers.

  No. He knew well the source of his discomfort.

  Joanna Lockhart.

  And her lips. And her body. And the way she looked at him and spoke to him. Everything about the damned woman had him riled.

  Of course, thinking of a woman—and widow, no less—was not usually a problem for him but there was something different about this itch. It didn’t just lay in his feet or in his legs, giving him the urge to move briskly and do something new.

  No, it lingered in his gut, tight and persistent. In his heart too, throbbing hard. He wanted to kiss her again. He desperately wanted to take her to bed to be certain. Yet, there was some odd sense of something else haunting his mind. A doubt perhaps or a question. After their shared kiss a few days ago, he was certain he could sway her into bed, but did he want to sway?

  He grimaced. He wanted her to come with little persuasion, perhaps.

  Releasing a dry chuckle, he shook his head. Maybe this was simply about his ego. It was hardly small, after all, and likely needed feeding. Joanna was one of the few—if only—widows he’d come across who had not immediately fallen for his charms. He’d done some wooing in his time to be sure but not with a woman like this. It would not be unreasonable to assume things were different because Joanna was different, but was he really so fickle as to want a woman merely for the chase?

  Damn it, Joanna deserved better than that.

  He removed his hat, swept a hand through his hair, then placed it back, turning on a heel. Ambrose stilled and frowned at the dark figure making their way up the hillside toward him. Had he conjured her somehow? Joanna marched briskly, a hand clasping her skirt. He couldn’t see her face as it was hidden under a dark bonnet, but she moved with purpose.

  “What the devil are you doing here?” he asked when she reached the peak of the hill.

  She sucked in a breath. Her cheeks were rosy red, and her chest rose and fell in a movement that was far too interesting. Ambrose forced himself to look into her blue eyes.

  “Did you hear?” she demanded.

  “Hear what?” He took the crook of her elbow and led her down toward where his horse was tethered. The tender spring leaves of the tree provided some respite from the drizzle.

  “Mr. Barnes has resigned his position as trustee of the charity.”

  He scowled. “Pardon?”

  “He’s resigned.” She threw up her hands. “Mr. Bartlett had the kindness to tell me. Apparently, he has no time for ladies and their far-fetched ideas and has little desire to watch the demise of the charity at my hands.”

  “That is what he said?”

  “Mr. Bartlett put it more kindly but I knew full well what was meant.” She blew out a breath. “I was silly to think I could do this.”

  Ambrose flicked his gaze over her face. Her pale skin shone, glistening with rain, and her cheeks remained a ruddy color. Frustration creased between her brows and it was hard to tell because of the rain but he suspected she was on the verge of tears. He took her arms in his hands and forced her to face him.

  “Joanna?”

  She kept her gaze lowered.

  “Joanna?” he pressed.

  Finally, with a reluctant breath, she lifted her chin.

  “All will be well.”

  “How can it be? You have lost one of your most experienced and wealthy trustees.” She dropped her forehead against his chest and murmured something about being a fool, but he could not fully make out the mumbled words.

  He released one of her arms and used his hand to lift her chin. “Mr. Barnes is old and set in his ways. And, yes, he had been with the charity for a long time, but that does not mean his experience is worth more than yours. Yours is different and modern and Lord knows, such things make old men uncomfortable. However, sometimes one must embrace modernity to move forward.”

  “But—”

  “Hell, Joanna, if we didn’t embrace modernity, we’d all still be living in mud huts and sleeping on straw.”

  She pursed her lips.

  “You know I am right.”

  “Maybe,” she mumbled.

  “If Barnes cannot see the worth of your ideas, then we do not need him.”

  “But he has so many connections. What if he ruins the fair? What if he tells people some madwoman is at the helm of the charity and no one donates a penny again?”

  “Not going to happen.”

  “But—”

  “Not going to happen,” he repeated more forcefully.

  “You do not know—”

  “Here is what I do know.” He motioned to her. “You are one of the most intelligent, charming, and eloquent women I know. And I,” he put a finger to his chest, “am the same. With the exception of being a woman of course.”

  “Do not forget arrogant,” she added, her lips curving just a touch at the corners.

  “That too.” Ambrose grinned. “And that means we can sway almost anyone to our cause.”

  “I suppose we are quite the team.”

  “Precisely. We can either find someone new to take Mr. Barnes’s place, or even persuade him to come back if we so care to.”

  Joanna pressed his lips together. “He’s a grumpy old man.”

  “And there are hundreds more grumpy old men to take his place.”

  She bit down on her bottom lip. “I hate to think that I have done more harm than good.”

  “Trust me,” he assured her. “You have done good already, and after the fair, I am certain you shall make old Barnes look an utter fool.”

  “Is it wrong that I hope so?”

  “Not one bit.”

  She peered around them, glancing at his patientl
y waiting steed. “What are you doing here in the rain anyway?”

  Ambrose released her arms and she took a tiny step back.

  “Is a man not allowed to go for a leisurely ride?”

  “You were not riding when I found you.”

  “Is a man not allowed to survey his land then?”

  Joanna nodded in the direction to which he’d been looking. “I do not believe that is your land.”

  “Perhaps I was simply pondering.”

  She smiled. “You do not strike me as the pondering type, Ambrose.”

  “I am a man of many contradictions.”

  She eyed him for a moment then laughed lightly. “I suppose you are.”

  “I could ask the same of you. What are you doing out here, in the rain?”

  “Looking for you, of course.”

  “Oh?”

  “I called at the house, but Mr. Bram said you had gone for a ride. I spotted you from the road.” She pointed down the slope of the valley. “You did look ponderous actually.”

  She had no idea. What would she think, he wondered, if he admitted that most of his thoughts had been of her?

  “I thought we were meeting tomorrow to finish those letters.”

  “When I heard of what Mr. Barnes had done, it could not wait.”

  He nodded. “Well, I will not complain of having your company for one extra day.”

  “Actually, I thought whilst I was here, we might deal with the correspondence now. That is, if you are not too busy.”

  “I believe I am done with my pondering,” he teased.

  “Excellent. That way, I can meet with Augusta at Charlecote tomorrow instead. We were going to prepare some decorations for the stalls,” she explained.

  “You cannot bear my company for more than a day, is that it?”

  She nudged him with an elbow. “That is not it at all and you know it.” She paused and narrowed her eyes at him while he tried to keep his grin at bay. “And you are teasing me and thus I shall never feel bad for saying anything even slightly mean to you again.”

  “Truth be told, Joanna, I do not think you are capable of being mean.”

  “So, when I called you arrogant and a rake...?”

  He shrugged. “I have certainly been called worse and it is not like you were not being truthful.”

  Joanna shook her head. “You are impossible.”

  “Absolutely.” He jerked his head toward his horse. “Ride with me.”

  She blinked a few times, droplets of rain dripping from her lashes. “I—”

  “It makes no sense for you to have to trudge down the hill in this weather when we can both fit on my horse.”

  She opened her mouth then closed it, finally nodding.

  “No argument for me?”

  “Is there any point?”

  “At last, she learns.” He grinned and motioned for her to climb up, He assisted her before getting on behind her, shuffling back so they could both sit comfortably. He looped his arms around her and took the reins. It was not the first time he’d shared a ride with a woman nestled just so into his lap, but this was one he would remember forever. She remained rigid at first as he picked his way down the slope, but she relaxed against him eventually, and he had to grit his teeth at the feel of her body tucked against his chest.

  He’d been in many, many more scandalous situations but he had the awful feeling this was going to become one of those moments he’d fantasize about late at night.

  He smirked to himself. Something was definitely, positively wrong with him if he was fantasizing about a fully clothed woman merely sitting close.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “It is so pleasant to be with only women,” Joanna declared.

  “Um...” Augusta pressed her lips together.

  “If I never see another man again, I will be happy.”

  It was an exaggeration, of course. But after the awful Mr. Barnes declaring she was some sort of horror and was going to drag them all down with her, added onto an emotionally exhausting day with Ambrose, she was glad for this time with her friends.

  Chloe lifted the bunting that they had laid out on the dining table of Charlecote and squinted at it. “My stitching is awful.”

  Joanna leaned to her side to peer at it. “It looks well enough to me. No one will be looking that close.”

  Admittedly, Chloe was not a natural seamstress and the large, ugly stitches that crossed this way and that would never do for a gown or some other garment, but so long as the little colorful triangles of fabric remained attached to the long length of ribbon they had sprawled along the table, it would be fine.

  Joanna eyed her own stitching. She’d always been excellent at sewing, finding it came naturally to her even as a young girl. Her mother had several embroidered pictures of hers proudly dotted around the house. However, today hers was not much better than Chloe’s.

  Mostly because she could not cease thinking of Ambrose.

  She wrinkled her nose. And his kisses, of course.

  Or lack of kisses. Or her desire for more of them.

  He hadn’t kissed her yesterday, but he’d wanted to. She’d wanted him to. There had been a moment when he had helped her from the horse that she swore was going to turn into a kiss, but he had stopped and merely squeezed her fingers like some fond friend.

  What was wrong with her? She was still in mourning. It had been a mere ten months now. Why did she want to kiss Ambrose? She knew there were many widows who launched themselves excitedly into the world of widowhood and finding discrete lovers, but they had endured miserable marriages and she did not blame them. She had hardly had the time to know what a miserable marriage could be like and had been entirely content in hers.

  So why was she betraying Noah by kissing Ambrose so soon?

  “Ouch.” She dropped the needle and sucked on the end of her finger where a tiny well of blood began to blossom on the end of it.

  “Are you well?” Augusta asked.

  “Just a little pinprick.” Joanna retrieved her needle and set back to work. She could not let Ambrose distract her. There was still so much to do, and the fair was only three weeks away.

  “So will that horrible Mr. Barnes return as trustee, do you think?” Chloe asked.

  Joanna shrugged, dropping her portion of bunting onto the table and glancing momentarily at the white and gold ceiling. “Ambrose thinks so, but I am not sure how I will tolerate being in a room with him. Apparently, he has gone to London and Ambrose will speak to him when we...uh...when he goes into Town next week.”

  “We?” Chloe pressed.

  “Well, I am going too but on my own, of course,” she said hastily. “There are several things we cannot source in the county and I wish to meet with some of the entertainers at Vauxhall Gardens.” Joanna sighed. “Mother detests the idea, naturally, and does not want me anywhere near the dirty air of London.”

  “Perhaps I should persuade Miles that we need to come with you,” Augusta suggested. “So, you are not...um...alone.”

  “If you would like to come, I would welcome the company.”

  “So, you do not intend to spend time with Lord Newhaven?” Chloe pressed.

  Joanna shook her head at the slightly mischievous smile that lingered on her friend’s lips. No doubt Chloe thought she was getting some sort of revenge for Joanna’s meddling in her relationship with Mr. Waverly.

  But that was entirely different to her and Ambrose. Both Chloe and Mr. Waverly were unattached and the only thing getting in the way of their obvious desire for one another was a family feud. She and Ambrose...well, that would be a disaster. She wasn’t ready for any sort of an affair, and even if she was, a man like Ambrose was the worst place to start.

  “We will have to spend some time together,” she replied primly, tucking her hands in her lap. “After all, it is his charity.”

  “That makes sense,” Augusta put in. “And talking of Lord Newhaven—”

  The door to the dining room opened, cutting
Augusta off. Joanna swiveled her head to see Miles enter, followed by Ambrose. Joanna scowled to herself and tried to ignore the way his gaze landed straight upon her, making her stomach do a little lurch.

  “What are you doing here?” she blurted. Her cheeks heated immediately at her loose tongue.

  “We thought we might come and help,” Miles said, swinging a befuddled look between her and Ambrose.

  “But—” started Joanna.

  Chloe lifted up the end of the bunting and offered it to Ambrose. “You can sit here.”

  “No,” Joanna hissed to her friend, but she ignored her and rose from the table.

  “You cannot do a worse job than me.” Chloe grinned and Joanna glared at her. Who would have thought the true wallflower of the group would be so manipulative? Joanna did not like it one jot. That was her thing and she was excellent at it.

  Ambrose seated himself next to Joanna and plucked up the poorly stitched triangle while Miles sat next to his wife and Chloe scooted around to the other side of Augusta.

  “I meant to say that Lord Creasey was visiting with us today,” murmured Augusta across the table.

  Joanna sucked in a breath. It seemed both her friends were conspiring against her. Was she to never escape Ambrose and his...his kisses?

  “I wanted to take a tour of the gardens once more,” Ambrose said, “to ensure all would be ready for the fair.”

  Well, there was a lie if ever she heard one. She swung a glance at him to see him looking perfectly composed and far too handsome. If he could lie so glibly about small things, how excellent he must be at telling falsehoods on other things.

  Like matters of the heart, for example.

  “What are you doing here?” she hissed.

  “As I said, I came to look at the gardens once more,” he said blithely as he tried to force a thread through the needle eye and missed.

  “You’re lying.”

  He glanced her way, his mouth tilted. “Very well then, I came because I knew you would be here.”

  Heat rose up from her toes all the way into her cheeks. Damn this man and his ability to make her blush. She glanced around the table in the hopes that no one had noticed but she caught both Augusta’s and Chloe’s gazes. Chloe wore a slightly smug smile.