Chapter 6
Chapter Six
“It is a park, Your Grace, not a battlefield,” she said with the quiet, terrifyingly polite resolve which Ambrose had come to know well in her brief time with his household. “The fresh air will do your own constitution some good. Relax., Take in the sights comfortably.”
The morning sun was uncharacteristically bright for a London autumn. Arthur, Philip, Ambrose, and Miss Lewis sat on a sprawling wool blanket in a quiet corner of Hyde Park.
She was in her element, spread out among sketches of oak leaves and acorns, her brown hair catching the light and sparkling. Arthur and Philip were focused on every word, their small hands stained with the green of crushed grass as they tried to identify the samples she had helped them gather.
“This is a maple leaf,” she said. “Let us count the points.”
“One, two, three,” the boys counted in unison.
“Very good! We can note that this is a paperbark maple, which is a deciduous, trifoliate tree,” she said confidently. “Let’s look at the sky. Tell me now. What do you see?”
“Clouds,” Philip said proudly, leaning back onto the blanket and looking up.
“Birds,” Arthur said, lying down next to his brother.
“Very good, but can we be more specific? What descriptors can we use?” Miss Lewis asked, lying down next to them.
They were a portrait of scientific comfort.
Ambrose, however, looked like a man sitting on a bed of nails.
He was dressed in a perfectly tailored frock coat, his tall frame awkwardly perched on the edge of the blanket.
He held a sandwich as if it were a legal document he didn’t quite trust, and he took a small bite.
A small leaf floated down on top of the trio.
“This is a Quercus Robur, Lord Philip,” Miss Lewis said, pointing to the leaf as she grabbed it and passed it to him. “Or an English Oak, as it is more commonly known. Do you see the rounded lobes?”
“It looks like a hand,” Philip whispered, fascinated as he twirled it. “Don’t you think so?”
“Exactly so! A Titan’s hand.” She looked up, leaning on an elbow, her green eyes catching the light as she glanced at Ambrose. “Wouldn’t you agree, Your Grace?”
Ambrose cleared his throat, shifting his weight onto his other leg, trying to be casual in such an unusual setting for him. “It is… a very sturdy specimen. Perhaps it could be used for paper making.”
Arthur rolled his eyes. “Everything is business with you, Uncle. Miss Lewis says it’s for magic.”
“Magic, you say?”
“She told us so the other day!”
“I said the druids thought it was for magic, Lord Arthur,” she corrected with a soft laugh. “Although, who am I to question the druids?”
The sound of her laughter, clear and genuine, seemed to almost vibrate through Ambrose.
He felt a slight grin tug at his lips as he watched her, his gaze lingering on the way her curls were beginning to escape her pins.
He felt a strange, uncomfortable warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with the sun.
“I’m going to find a magic leaf!” Arthur suddenly shouted, jumping to his feet. “I’ll beat you to it!”
“Me too!” Philip cried, scrambling after him. “We’ll both get one, Arthur!”
The boys bolted toward the sloping bank of the Serpentine lake, their laughter echoing across the water. Miss Lewis’ smile vanished, replaced by an expression of maternal alarm as they darted about. She brought her hands to her face.
“Lord Arthur! Lord Philip! Not so close to the edge!” she called out. She scrambled up from the blanket; her skirts bunched in her hands. “Stay away from the reeds! It is slippery!”
The boys didn’t stop. In their excitement, they began a game of tag, running dangerously close to the slick, muddy lip where the grass met the water. She did not wait for him to get up. She took off at a run without Ambrose, her boots flying over the turf.
“Wait! Boys, stop!”
She reached the bank just as Arthur made a sharp turn. Her foot hit a patch of moss-covered stone, slick as ice. For a heartbeat, she was suspended in the air, her arms windmilling fruitlessly.
With a sharp gasp and a spectacular splash, Ambrose saw her vanish into the cold, dark water of the lake.
“MISS LEWIS!” the boys screamed in unison.
Ambrose was already moving. He didn’t stop to remove his coat or boots. He sprinted the remaining distance and launched himself into the water with a powerful dive.
The cold was a shock, but he saw the flash of her white chemisette beneath the surface that pulled him like a moth to a flame.
He lunged, his large hand catching her tightly around the waist. He hauled her upward, her head breaking the surface as she gasped for air, clutching at his shoulders for balance.
“I have you,” he growled, his voice thick with a sudden, primal protectiveness. “I have you, Imogen,” he whispered, using her familiar name aloud for the first time, pulled by the gravity of the situation.
He kicked toward the bank forcefully, his muscles straining against the weight of their heavy, sodden clothes. Ambrose hoisted her up onto the grassy verge before hauling himself out, water cascading off him in thick sheets.
The twins were trembling, their faces pale. Philip sobbed openly.
“Is she dead? Did I kill her?” He asked, rubbing his eyes frantically.
“She is all right, boy,” Ambrose said, patting him gently on the shoulder as he tended to her.
Imogen, shivering violently and coughing up a bit of lake water, immediately reached out for the child once she came to.
“No! Oh no, Philip,” she panted, her voice raspy but gentle. She pulled the boy closely into a wet embrace. “I’m quite all right. Just a bit… more aquatic than I intended to be for today’s lesson. I fear I am now one of the reeds.”
“I was running,” Philip cried, burying his face in her damp shoulder. “It’s my fault. I’m sorry, Miss Lewis. Please don’t go away. I wasn’t trying to disobey; I was just having fun and we——”
“Oh, darling, look at me.” She pulled back, cupping his face with wet hands. “It was an accident. The stone was slippery. I’m not going anywhere; do you hear me? Not for a bit of water, not for anything. There is nothing you could do to make me leave you, sweet boy.”
She turned, still shivering, toward the man standing beside her. “And thank you, Your Grace. For… for getting me out of the water.”
The words died in her throat. She was too overwhelmed by having almost died to process how she felt having been so close to a man she could have only conjured in her dreams. The water had been so cold, so heavy, so dark.
Then he appeared, like a knight in shining armor, pulling her up to safety once more, just as he had done when he’d rescued her from Presholm House.
The Duke stood over them, his chest heaving as he caught his breath.
His fine shirt was completely translucent, plastered to the heavy, corded muscles of his perfect torso.
The dark fabric of his trousers clung to his powerful thighs like a second skin.
Water dripped from his beard and his golden-brown hair, which had fallen over his forehead in a wild, rakish mess.
He looked less like a Duke or more like a titan rising from the depths of the earth. If it were not for the chill of the water, Imogen surely would have overheated.
She tried to look away, but her eyes seemed betrayed by her own senses as she stared at him. The sheer masculinity of him, stripped of his stiff ducal armor, was overwhelming. He was almost a dream.
More than that, she knew that the Duke noticed her gaze. He looked down at her. The brightness of his cerulean eyes looked at the places where her thin dress clung to her curves, with a searing awareness. The air between them sizzled, electric and hot.
The Duke cleared his throat, the sound sharp in the quiet park. “We must get you home,” he said, his voice lower, more intimate than she had ever heard it. “All of us. Before the lung fever sets in and we catch hypothermia.”
He reached down, offering her a hand. When her palm met his, a spark of static seemed to jump between them. Imogen jerked her hand back slightly before letting him haul her to her feet. She searched for words, for some joke, but they fell silent on her tongue.
As they walked back toward the waiting carriage, Imogen kept her head down, her face still flaming.
She could feel him walking just a step behind her, a towering, damp presence, whose muscled body would linger in her mind for far longer than proper.