Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
“You look like you’re contemplating murder, Your Grace,” Morgan whispered, leaning against a marble pillar beside him. “Or perhaps a very dull lecture on mathematics, like when we were at Eton.”
The ballroom belonging to the Earl of Danbury was a cavern of gilded opulence, filled with the scent of calla lilies and champagne, and the droning hum of high-society gossip.
Normally, Ambrose would have navigated such an environment with practiced ease, nursing a glass of claret while scanning the room for a charming widow to distract him.
Tonight, however, the champagne tasted like vinegar, and the violin music was a discordant screech compared to the quiet, rhythmic sound of Miss Lewis’ voice reading in the nursery.
He shook his head and grabbed a flute from a passing footman.
“It’s the company here,” Ambrose muttered, his eyes tracking the crowd. “Such a bore. And… I keep thinking about the boys. I told Arthur I’d show him how to use a compass tomorrow morning. I should have stayed home…”
“The Duke of Welton, skipping the most prestigious event of the season to navigate parentage? My, how the mighty have fallen.”
Before Ambrose could retort, a sharp, familiar voice cut through the air. “Your Grace! What a delightful surprise to find you in such high spirits.”
The Countess of Presholm, Miss Lewis’s former employer, glided toward them, her husband trailing behind her like a sour-faced shadow. She was a vision of forced elegance, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” Lord Presholm mumbled as he sipped a glass of amber liquid.
“Good evening, Lord Presholm and Lady Presholm,” Ambrose said, his voice dropping into a formal, icy register as he tightened his grip around the flute. “What a surprise to see you here.”
“I was just saying to my husband how much we missed seeing our neighbors,” Lady Presholm purred, fanning herself and sipping from her own flute. “And how are those poor, orphaned nephews of yours? Such a tragedy. It must be a monumental burden for a man of your… active social habits.”
“They are doing quite well, thank you,” Ambrose replied shortly. “They need not be a concern of yours. I see well to their needs, Lady Presholm.”
“And the new governess?” Lady Presholm’s eyes narrowed, a malicious glint appearing as her voice grew shrill, like nails on slate. “I was shocked you took her in so abruptly, Your Grace, but I would not dare question someone of your standing.”
“Very wise of you not to, my lady,” Ambrose said with a tight smile, and he noticed a glimmer of amusement in Morgan’s eyes as he glanced between him and the Countess.
“Imogen was always a… difficult girl,” Lady Presholm continued, her eyes wet and red from too much drink.
“Especially after her father passed, but before then, she was almost as bad! Prone to flights of fancy and quite forgetful of her station. I do hope she is not causing you too much trouble. Because if she is, I will personally see to it that she is put in her pl—”
“On the contrary,” Ambrose said, his gaze hardening as he cut her off. “Miss Lewis is the most capable person I’ve ever had the pleasure of employing. My nephews are thriving under her care. You need not concern yourself, my lady.”
Lady Presholm’s smile twitched, the smugness that filled her thin body deflating. “How fortunate. I suppose some people have a knack for managing children, even if they cannot manage their own reputations. Do give her my… regards.”
“Let us be on, Lady Presholm,” Lord Presholm said as he gave her a small nudge. “I must have a word with Lord Bounderby, and I see he has just arrived. If you will excuse us.”
“But of course,” Ambrose said, relieved to be rid of them.
As the Presholms moved away, Ambrose felt a surge of protective fury. It took everything he had not to chase after them. Yet, he just stood there and watched Lady Presholm’s retreat. His jaw tightened further upon realizing that her puny husband hadn’t even said a word.
“She is a viper, isn’t she?” Morgan noted, his playful tone was now gone. “I remember the rumors when Presholm married her this last year. They say she practically scrubbed the late Viscount’s legacy for her own gain.”
Ambrose frowned. “The late Viscount?”
“Viscount Marden. He died with many secrets, so I’ve been told,” Morgan mused. “Lady Presholm does not like loose ends. Be careful, my friend. That woman resents anything she cannot control, and I would imagine that includes her staff.”
The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Lady Sylvia Bowman.
She was the strikingly beautiful widow of Sir Geoffrey Bowman, a Baronet of no consequence who died in his sleep before any heirs were produced.
Lady Bowman, however, was known for her sharp wit and sharper flirtations, along with her curvaceous body that seemed to defy gravity itself.
She slid between the two men with practiced ease, her silk fan brushing Ambrose’s arm.
“Your Grace,” Lady Bowman murmured, her gaze lifting to his with deliberate languor. “You have been exiled to this corner for the better part of an hour, looking quite tragically neglected. I wondered whether you were enduring it by choice or hoping to be relieved of your solitude.”
Ambrose shifted, sliding back into his rakish mask. He offered her a slow, practiced smile, yet it didn’t reach his eyes. “And here I thought my brooding was doing wonders for the decor, Lady Bowman.”
“It’s far too tragic for a night this lovely,” she laughed, leaning in until he could smell her cloying jasmine perfume.
“A group of us are retiring to my townhouse for a late supper once this tiresome soiree concludes. I find myself in need of a charades partner who doesn’t mind taking a few risks. Will you do me the honor of attending?”
A month ago, Ambrose would have accepted without a second thought. He would have welcomed the distraction of her bed and the thrill of a mindless game, heavy with drink.
But as he looked at Lady Bowman, he suddenly saw Miss Lewis.
There she was—a flash in front of his eyes, like a shooting star.
He could see the way she looked in the lake, her clothes clinging to her perfect, curvy body.
He could feel a rise in his chest as she recalled the way she had stood up to him in the nursery.
He felt warm at the thought of the quiet dignity she carried, despite everything.
She was a wonder, and he was wasting his time.
The idea of a night with Lady Bowman felt hollow. He wanted more, though he did not know what of.
“I’m honored by the invitation, Lady Bowman,” Ambrose said, his voice surprisingly firm as he stepped back. “But I’m afraid I have an early engagement in the morning. A promise to a pair of very demanding investors. Perhaps you may entice my friend here.”
Lady Bowman’s smile faltered, her brows rising in genuine shock. “The Duke of Welton, turning down a midnight supper and some charades? Is the world ending, Your Grace?” She asked with notes of sarcasm shading her question.
“He has grown quite respectable, Lady Bowman,” Morgan remarked, his tone amused even as his eyes remained fixed upon Ambrose. “One cannot help but mourn the fall of such a formidable libertine.”
“Well, will you join me, then, Your Grace?” Lady Bowman asked Morgan, batting her full eyelashes up at him and hugging her arms around her to hoist her cleavage to full view.
“Please do come and find me when you are about to leave, My Lady,” he said with a smirk. “I think I will be most honored to take Welton’s place.”
Once Sylvia had sauntered away, Morgan turned to his friend.
“You didn’t just turn down a night with the most sought-after widow in London because you want to play with a compass, did you? And offer her up to me on a silver platter no less, my dearest friend…”
Ambrose adjusted his cuffs; his gaze fixed on the exit. “I’m going home, Morgan.”
“Peace, my friend. I did not mean to press you. We still have business to attend to. You have not even spoken to our hosts, nor Lord Gibbons!”
“I’m going home,” he repeated. “The air in here is stale. There is nothing for me.”
As he strode toward the doors, ignoring the curious glances of the ton, Ambrose realized he wasn’t just running away from the party.
He was running toward a drafty schoolroom and a woman who had somehow, without a single diamond or a drop of perfume, made every other lady in the room look like rubbish.
“Home,” he barked to the carriage driver with a huff, not giving him a chance to get up and open the door for him.
“At once, Your Grace!”
Ambrose practically threw himself into the dark interior of the waiting carriage, the door slamming shut with a finality that echoed his pulse.
As the vehicle lurched forward, the rhythmic clatter of hooves against the cobblestones began to drown out the muffled strains of the orchestra still playing inside the ballroom.
He continued to adjust his cuffs for something to do with his hands with sharp, agitated movements, his gaze fixed on the passing blur of London’s gaslight.
Stale. The air, the champagne, the conversation…I could not stand it one moment more.
He looked down at his hands, encased in spotless white gloves.
Tonight, he had stood in a room full of the most powerful men in England, men who spoke of grain prices and political alliances as if his carefully constructed world wasn’t crumbling at the edges.
He had watched the debutantes flutter their fans, their eyes hungry for a title and a fortune, and he had felt a sudden revulsion.
He thought of the rakish man he was supposed to be. He closed his eyes and saw the man who stayed out until dawn, who gambled smartly with a bored yawn, and found nothing more tedious than his own home.
What a pathetic lie, he mused, leaning his head back against the leather upholstery.
His mind drifted, unbidden, to the drafty schoolroom at the top of his house. He could almost smell it, not the cloying perfume of a hundred overdressed ladies, but the scent of old paper, the sharp tang of ink, and the faint, lingering aroma that was uniquely her.
He saw Imogen’s face as it had been that evening, smudged with dust and glowing with a fierce, quiet intelligence. She had no diamonds. No silk flowers in her hair. No calculated tilt to her head, designed to catch the light of a chandelier just so.
And yet, she was the only thing in his life that felt vivid.
The carriage turned onto his street, the familiar silhouette of his townhouse rising to meet him. Usually, the sight brought a sense of suffocating weight, the burden of his station. But tonight, his heart hammered a different rhythm.
Go after her, Morgan had said. Perhaps he is right.
Ambrose didn’t wait for the footman to open the door, leaving the poor man in his wake.
He was out before the wheels had fully stopped, his cloak billowing behind him.