Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
The golden glow of a single lamp illuminated the schoolroom, casting long, wavering shadows against the rows of books.
Imogen sat at the heavy oak table, her nib scratching rhythmically against parchment. She was drafting a botany quiz for the morning, but the truth was, she was hiding.
The house was too quiet, her thoughts too loud, and the memory of Ambrose’s translucent shirt at the lake still burned behind her eyelids. She knew sleep was far from her.
Suddenly, the floorboards in the corridor groaned. She knew that sound as much as she knew her own heartbeat. A shadow fell across her papers.
Imogen looked up, her heart pounding against her ribs.
The Duke of Welton stood in the doorway.
He had clearly just returned from his engagement, yet his heavy greatcoat and formal tailcoat were gone.
He had even discarded his waistcoat and cravat.
His white linen shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and dusted with dark hair.
He looked undone, raw, and dangerously beautiful.
She could hardly breathe at the sight and took a handkerchief from her pocket to dab at her temples.
He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. The casual posture did nothing to diminish his intensity, his shoulders impossibly broad, as he loomed over her.
“You ought to rest, Miss Lewis,” he said, his voice low in the stillness of the room. “There is no virtue in overtaxing yourself. The boys will not be undone by a pause in their studies. And you need not deny yourself a little ease.”
Imogen felt a flush creep up her neck. She looked down at her ink-stained fingers, busying herself with a stack of papers. “I am only finishing the plan for tomorrow, Your Grace. I like to be prepared. It… it keeps my mind occupied.”
’The Duke’s lip twitched, not quite a smile, but a sign that he had clocked her deflection. It set her blood on fire. He stepped fully into the room, his presence suddenly making the space feel small.
“Was the tutor your father hired so insistent on such diligence?”
“He believed in the value of a disciplined mind,” Imogen replied vaguely, her pulse thrumming as he took another step nearer.
The Duke walked closer still, his gaze sweeping over her. She knew it was not as a master looks at a servant, but as a man looks at a mystery he is desperate to solve.
“You are wasted as a governess,” he remarked softly.
“Wasted?” Imogen stiffened, her spine turning to iron. “I assure you, I find the work honorable, Your Grace. It is a far cry from sweeping floors and picking up crumbs. If you find my performance lacking—”
“No,” he interrupted, his voice sharp. He stepped to the edge of the table, setting his hands onto it and leaning toward her. “I meant… That you are remarkable.”
“Oh,” she said breathlessly, shocked at the word.
Remarkable.
“I phrased it poorly, and for that, I apologize. I meant that a woman of your intellect and… spirit… deserves a world far wider than a schoolroom.”
The apology, the breadth of his words, caught her off guard. She looked up, trapped by the gravity of his cerulean eyes, the hulk of his strong body.
The air between them felt thick, charged with the same electricity she’d felt in the park when he saved her.
Saved me.
She broke the contact first, looking back at her papers with a trembling hand. “The boys are good children,” she whispered. “They just need consistency. I am happy to provide that for them; it gives me purpose. Meaning.”
“They fell into the least consistent hands in England when they came to me,” he murmured, a shadow crossing his face as the candlelight danced between them.
“You are doing better than you think, Your Grace,” Imogen said, her voice growing stronger. She looked at him again, wanting him to believe it. “They feel safe. They sleep through the night now. That matters more than any shipping lane or dinner party.”
“That’s why I am here,” he said as he absorbed her words, his expression darkening. “Have you ever lost sleep over feeling unsafe, Imogen?”
The question was a blade that sliced through all the lies and cut right to the heart of Imogen’s issues.
Imogen looked away, her voice barely audible. “I’ve not lost sleep here.”
“And before?” he pressed, his voice dropping an octave. “When you worked for the Presholms? And Marden before that, correct?”
Imogen turned back to her papers, her movements jerky as she began to gather them. “There is no point in dwelling on the past, Your Grace. It serves no one.”
The Duke let out a dry, soft huff. “Hypocrite.”
Imogen paused, a stray paper in her hand. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”
“You spent the better part of an hour telling me that the twins’ past must be heard and acknowledged,” he reminded her, a smirk playing on his lips. “Yet you guard your own history like a dragon over its hoard. I want to know more about you.”
“You… you press too much, Your Grace,” Imogen said as she cursed inwardly. He was far too observant. She looked at him closely, feeling a faint mixture of irritation and fear. “I would rather not talk about it, Your Grace. Please.”
He stepped closer, close enough that retreat would force her past him, yet he did not speak again. His gaze held hers, unwavering. Every instinct in her told her to look away, yet she could not.
“I will not force your words,” he finally said quietly. “But do not think you may hide all your thoughts from me.”
Imogen swallowed hard. She could feel the weight of his gaze, that silent insistence that she could not look away from or fully ignore.
“You do not need to hide from me, Imogen,” he added, and her pulse fluttered.
It was simply the shock of having someone watch her so intently. As if… as if he cared.
“Your Grace…” she whispered, licking her lips as she dared not look away from the most handsome man her mind could conjure.
“Ambrose,” he corrected.
Her mouth parted, and his name tumbled right out of her lips, “Ambrose.”
Heavens, it rolled off her tongue so easily.
The silence stretched, taut and vibrating. Imogen looked down at the table again, her breath hitching as she held her hands together.
“Let’s clean this up,” Ambrose moved closer, reaching out to help her gather the scattered pages on which she was working.
As his hand met hers, his fingers brushed against her skin.
Neither of them pulled away.
He did not move his hand. She noticed the roughness of his palms, despite his life of luxury.
Imogen found herself wondering how he passed his free time.
She looked at her own. They were dotted with callouses and the marks of a woman who had spent years scrubbing floors and tending gardens.
She noticed his heat, a radiating warmth that pulled her forward as she chanced to rub her pinky along his hand. She memorized the sensation.
“Your kindness saved me from… a very dark situation,” she whispered, her gaze fixed on their joined hands. “I cannot think of how I will ever be able to repay this compassion.”
“You are the only person who has made my nephews feel safe,” he replied, his voice a low rumble. “That is a gift I cannot repay. We seem to be in each other’s debt.”
A long pause followed. The world outside the room ceased to exist, replaced only by the beating of their hearts.
“We should not be standing so close,” Imogen breathed, the words more a plea than a command. She was so inexperienced in the ways of men and knew he was more than practiced in the art of seducing women.
He did not move away. Instead, his gaze held hers attentively, as if he were waiting for her to meet him halfway.
“I know,” he said simply. “And yet… I cannot step back.”
The air between them thickened. His hand, steady and reassuring, brushed hers, just enough to make her pulse race faster. Imogen’s chest tightened; every instinct urged retreat, yet her eyes did not leave him.
“Can you?” he asked, his voice breathless.
Her fingers twitched under his touch. She had to pull away, but a part of her—the part that had longed for safety, for understanding—wanted to stay, to let him see her without pretense.
“I… No,” she admitted, barely a whisper.
He gave a faint, approving smile, close enough for her to see the simmering intensity in his eyes.
“Let me taste this moment, then. Taste you,” he murmured.
And then, slowly, he lowered his face toward hers, giving her the space to draw back if she wished.
She did not.
He kissed her.
It wasn’t what she imagined the practiced kiss of a rake would feel like, at least from what she read in the romance novels she snuck from Julia’s quarters. Nor was it the tentative brush of a novice, which she surely was.
My first kiss…
It was a collision, desperate and starving. The meeting of their lips tasted of brandy and bottled-up longing. He rounded the desk and came over to where she was sitting, and he lifted her up to her feet effortlessly, holding her close to his hard chest.
Imogen’s hands flew to his shoulders, clutching the thin linen of his shirt, while Ambrose’s hand found the back of her neck, his other thumb tracing the line of her jaw.
She parted her lips and let his tongue into her mouth, exploring her as she savored the taste of him. Salt, champagne, a hint of brandy and something she couldn’t put her finger on. She pressed her hips against him, feeling the hardness between his legs.
She needed him; a consuming emptiness which only he could fill overwhelmed her senses.
Imogen’s hand swayed out and hit a nearby book. It fell off the table, and a thump echoed on the marble floor. They suddenly parted quickly, both breathless. The spell broke, and the moment was gone.
Ambrose stepped back first, his chest heaving, his eyes wide with a sudden, sharp clarity as he placed his hands on his hips.
“I apologize,” he said immediately, his voice rough as he doubled over. “I crossed a line that I swore I wouldn’t. It was… ungentlemanly. You must forgive me.”
“I… I apologize too,” Imogen stammered, her face flaming. She felt a strange ache in her chest, but she forced her voice to remain steady. “It shouldn’t… It shouldn’t have happened. It was the lateness of the hour, your coming from the party, all that has happened between us—”
“And it cannot happen again,” the Duke stated firmly, though his eyes still lingered on her mouth. “It is not right. Your position here, your safety… that must come first. I will not have you compromised by my own lack of restraint.”
Relief, sharp and cold, flooded Imogen as her throat grew tight. “Thank you. I agree. It is forgotten.”
She began to gather her things with frantic speed, her hands trembling so much she nearly dropped her notebook.
The Duke walked to the door, opening it wider to give her a clear path out, creating a distance that felt like a chasm.
“Get some rest, Miss Lewis,” he said, his voice back to its formal, ducal tone.
“Goodnight, Your Grace,” she murmured, unable to call him Ambrose as he had told her to.
She hurried past him, her skirts rustling, not daring to look back at the man who had just shattered her peace with a single kiss.
Her bed sheets were cool against her hot skin, yet they offered no comfort, no solace from the ache in her chest. Imogen lay staring at the canopy of her bed, the fabric dark and oppressive in the moonless room.
Her lips felt swollen, tingling with the ghostly pressure of his mouth. She savored the phantom taste of salt and brandy lingering like a brand she wanted to wear forever.
Every time she closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep, she was back in the schoolroom. She rolled onto her stomach, feeling the heat of him pressing against her, the terrifying, electric realization of the hardness between his legs.
She had wanted to be near him. Badly.
The thought made her stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with the propriety she had spent her life cultivating, trying to remain hidden. All she wanted was for him to see her. All of her.
It is forgotten; she had told him.
The lie felt heavy in her stomach, a weight that made it hard to draw a full breath. How could it be forgotten when her skin felt too tight for her body? When the silence of the house seemed to vibrate with the words he had retracted?
To settle her racing heart, Imogen tried to conjure her quiet place.
It was a practice she had long since honed as a child, alone in the empty halls of her father’s home.
She could see the ancient, moss-carpeted forests she had visited on holidays in the country.
She imagined the rhythmic crunch of dry leaves under her boots and the way the sunlight filtered through the oak canopy in long, dusty shafts of gold.
She tried to smell the damp earth and the wild fern, to hear the distant, lonely call of a woodpigeon.
Usually, the mental walk through the woods brought her peace, even on the worst of nights after serving Julia.
But tonight, the forest was empty. The peace would not come.
Instead of the scent of pine and earth, she smelled the Duke of Welton. Instead of the rustle of leaves, she heard the rough, broken edge of his voice as he apologized for being ungentlemanly.
Ungentlemanly.
The word felt like a slap. He had retreated behind his title as if it were a shield, using his regal tone to re-erect the walls she thought they had torn down.
He spoke of her position, her safety, as if she were a fragile porcelain doll he had nearly knocked off a shelf.
She was a woman, one who had met his fire with her own.
She rolled onto her side, clutching the pillow to her chest and hugging it tight.