Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
“Look! Miss Lewis, look!” Arthur cried, pulling her toward a large wooden tub filled with water and bobbing red apples. “You must try! I bet you can’t get the biggest one!” He teased.
The city fair was a riot of color and noise, a welcome contrast to the order of Welton House. Stalls draped in striped canvas lined the square, and the air was thick with the scent of roasted nuts, sawdust, and coal smoke.
Imogen laughed at his charge, the sound bright. “Arthur, I am a grown woman. I cannot possibly—”
“I should like to see it,” Ambrose interrupted, his voice low and equally teasing. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, looking entirely out of place in his fine wool coat, yet his eyes were dancing. “Or is the governess afraid of a little water?”
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”
“You heard me.”
The challenge hit its mark. Imogen handed her bonnet to Philip, knelt by the tub, and tucked her chestnut curls behind her ears. She leaned over the water, her reflection shimmering.
“On the count of three, Miss,” the man running the game called out. “One, two, three!”
The first few attempts were disastrous. The apple skittered away, and she came up gasping, her face splashed with droplets. She refused to quit, her competitive streak flaring under Ambrose’s steady gaze.
Finally, with a determined snap of her jaw, she submerged her face and came up triumphant with the stem of a large, tart apple firmly between her teeth. She turned to Ambrose, her skin glowing and damp, her eyes sparkling with victory.
Ambrose didn’t look away. For every widow he had been with in his bachelorhood, perfectly powdered and adorned with diamonds, paled in comparison to the soaking wet vision in front of him.
He stepped forward, his gaze fixed on her mouth.
He reached out, his fingers brushing hers as he took the wet apple from her hands.
Without breaking eye contact, he turned the fruit and took a deliberate, slow bite from the very spot she had held.
“Tart,” he murmured, the word sounding like a secret. “But sweet.”
BANG! SNAP!
A firecracker exploded nearby, sending a plume of colorful smoke into the crisp autumn air. Philip let out a small cry and instinctively grabbed Imogen’s hand, burying his face in her skirts.
“It’s all right, my dear,” she said. Imogen immediately knelt to soothe him, but Ambrose’s eyes lingered on the way Philip sought her for safety. It was a silent admission of how much she had become the center of their world, and his.
“Oh, Uncle Ambrose! Look! The knives!” Arthur shouted, dragging Ambrose toward a booth where a man was expertly flipping silver blades. “You must try! You’re a Duke, you must be good at everything. Oh, please!”
“Come now,” Ambrose balked, looking at the rustic targets. “Arthur, that is hardly a gentleman’s pursuit.”
Imogen stood up, smoothing her damp hair as she raised an eyebrow to him. “Perhaps His Grace is simply wise enough to know when he’s outmatched,” she said, her voice laced with mock pity. “It would be a shame to be seen losing to a common circus performer in front of his favorite nephews.”
Ambrose’s shoulders squared instantly. He shed his coat, handing it to a bewildered Philip. “Outmatched, Miss Lewis? I think not.”
He stepped to the line as a man handed him a blade, the heavy knife balanced perfectly in his large hand. With a fluid, powerful motion, he released it.
THWACK.
It buried itself in the center of the wooden target.
He was handed two more and he threw them more in rapid succession, each hitting the bullseye with terrifying precision.
He may as well have been a murderer and yet, the crowd cheered.
The stall-keeper handed over a carved wooden soldier and announced to the crowd he was the winner.
“Oh, Uncle Ambrose,” Arthur clapped. “I knew you could do it!”
Ambrose handed the small figure to Arthur, though his eyes went straight to Imogen, a triumphant, dark glint in them.
Challenge met.
As they wandered further, savoring roasted nuts and sweets, Imogen stopped at a ring-toss game. The top prize was a simple, shimmering silk ribbon of deep cornflower blue.
“You should play, Miss Lewis,” Arthur said. “I can see how much you like it!”
“I really shouldn’t,” she sighed. “I must keep an eye on the two of you.”
“I am perfectly capable of watching my own nephews for five minutes,” Ambrose said, stepping closer. His presence was a warm weight on her back as he leaned close. “Go on. I insist.”
“Very well,” Imogen said as she took the wooden rings, but her hands were shaking. Her first two tosses fell short, clattering uselessly on the grass.
“You’re aiming too high,” he rumbled in her ear, suddenly and very directly behind her.
He leaned into her until his chest brushed her shoulders.
He reached around her, his large, warm hands covering hers on the ring.
The heat of their touch enveloped them, the scent of her sweet lavender soap making his head spin.
“Steady, Imogen,” he whispered, his breath fluttering the hair at her temple.
He guided her arm, his thumb stroking the back of her hand as they moved in a slow, synchronized arc. The tension was so thick it felt as though the air might spark, and the whole of the fair would explode with them. They released together. The ring looped perfectly over the center peg.
“You did it!” The boys called out as they began to clap loudly, along with everyone else in the crowd who had begun watching.
The man handed her the blue ribbon. With trembling fingers, he watched Imogen pull her hair back and tie it into a loose knot. Ambrose watched her every movement, his throat working as he swallowed.
“It suits you,” he said, his voice unusually strained. “Beautiful.”
The ride home was quick and quiet as the afternoon sun began to set, the boys slowly dozing off after the day’s excitement. After a few minutes, when they reached the townhouse, both Arthur and Philip were fast asleep, slumped against each other and snoring softly.
As they pulled up to the gates of Welton House, Ambrose gathered them up, one in each arm.
He carried them up the stairs and to their quarters with an effortless strength that Imogen found herself watching anxiously.
She could not believe the strength he held in those broad shoulders and muscled arms. Her mouth watered at the thought.
In the darkened nursery, she helped him pull off their boots and tuck the heavy quilts around their chins.
Then, they stepped out into the quiet, dimly lit hallway.
“Thank you, Imogen,” Ambrose said, using her name once more without a title attached, filling her stomach with butterflies. “For today. For the way you… for everything you do for them. They are happy… because of you.”
Imogen leaned against the doorframe, her heart aching. “It is my pleasure, Your Grace. They are wonderful children. They give me immense purpose. I am grateful for this opportunity…”
And for you.
“They are wonderful, aren’t they?” He agreed, stepping closer, his gaze dropping to her lips. She licked them.
Her newly acquired blue ribbon was coming undone, hanging loosely against her neck. She went to adjust it when he reached out, his fingers ghosting toward her jaw.
“Your Grace? Begging your pardon!”
A footman appeared at the end of the hall, holding a tray of letters. Ambrose jerked his hand back, the iron mask slamming down so fast it shook Imogen to the core.
“Yes, what is it?” he snapped, his voice cold once more as he turned to the footman.
Imogen took the opportunity to flee.
“Goodnight, Your Grace,” she whispered, disappearing into the shadowy hall, the blue ribbon still clutched in her hand.
The heavy oak door of her bedchamber clicked shut.
Imogen leaned her back against the wood, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
In the silence of her room, the phantom sensation of his fingers, so close they had almost warmed her skin, lingered like a brand she felt prickle her skin.
She moved to the bed, but knew that rest was a distant hope. Even after she had traded her day dress for a thin cotton nightgown and unpinned her brown curls, her mind remained trapped in that dimly lit hallway or on their day of sheer fun as a group of four.
She tossed to her left; the linens were cool against her skin but of no use. Then, she turned to her right. When she looked at the moonlight that hit the floor, it only carved shadows that reminded her of the silhouette of his broad shoulders.
How I wish he would hoist me up and carry me away to do what he will with me.
A soft tap at the door preceded the entrance of Mrs. Higgins. The housekeeper carried a small silver tray, the steam from a single teacup curling into the air and a few crumpets.
“Still awake, then?” Mrs. Higgins said softly. “I thought as much. A day like that sets the blood to humming. It’s chamomile, with a touch of honey for your throat.”
Imogen sat up, pushing her tangled hair over her shoulder. “Thank you kindly, Mrs. Higgins. You are a wonder. I didn’t think anyone else was still stirring.”
“The house never truly sleeps, dear,” the older woman replied, setting the tray on the bedside table.
She paused, her violet eyes taking in Imogen’s flushed cheeks and the blue ribbon discarded on the coverlet.
“It was quite a day at the fair, I hear. The footmen haven’t stopped gossiping about the prizes you won. ”
Imogen took a sip of the tea, the warmth grounding her.
“It was… more than I expected,” she admitted, her voice trembling slightly.
“The boys were so happy. Arthur nearly ate his weight in sugarplums, and Philip didn’t want to leave the pony ring.
But tell me…how was your day? Did you and the staff manage to slip away to the festivities? ”
Mrs. Higgins smiled, a genuine, tired expression that softened the starch of her apron.
“Please, do not tell His Grace… but we did. Mr. Jennings and I took a turn about the square this afternoon. I haven’t seen a crowd like that in years.
Even His Grace…” She trailed off for a moment, smoothing a phantom wrinkle in the bedsheet.
“What is it, Mrs. Higgins?” Imogen said, thankful for the company of another woman.
“It’s been a long time since His Grace spent a full day in such a public display. Usually, he’s all business, black ink, and parchment. You know…”
“He seemed… different there,” Imogen whispered, looking down into her tea. “Less like a peer of the realm.”
“He’s a man who has forgotten how to be anything else,” Mrs. Higgins said pointedly, heading toward the door. “His father was not easy on his brother, nor him. After his mother passed, the poor woman…”
“What happened to her?”
“Oh dear, that would be for His Grace to share… if and when he is ever ready. He does not speak of it.”
“Very well,” Imogen said softly. “I meant no harm.”
“Of course not, dear. But today? Today, the staff noticed the change in his countenance! Do not think your influence on this house goes unseen, Miss Lewis. Even with His Grace… Now, drink your tea before it is as cold as the cellar. Tomorrow comes early.”
“And along with it, the Lockhart twins,” Imogen joked, earning a small smile from Mrs. Higgins.
As the door closed, Imogen set down the tea and grabbed the blue ribbon. She tied her hair back in a loose knot with it, then clutched the warm cup in her hands.
She lay back down. The scent of chamomile finally began to dull the sharp edges of her longing as she fell into a peaceful sleep.