Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
The following evening, Ambrose found himself meandering the glittering ballroom of Lord and Lady Emerson’s townhouse, and much against his will. Nowadays, he avoided public affairs as much as possible but knew that appearances must be maintained, and Morgan had all but dragged him.
The air was thick with the scent of lilies and expensive French perfumes, catching in his throat.
“Your Grace, may I present the Lady Catherine Cromwell,” Morgan announced, pulling Ambrose from a dark reverie as he was nursing his brandy. “If you will excuse me for just a moment.”
Lady Catherine was, by every objective standard of the ton, the perfect specimen of a future Duchess.
She had bright blonde hair, blue eyes that rivaled his own cerulean shade, and a spine so straight it seemed reinforced by steel.
She offered a practiced, graceful curtsy as her lilac gown pooled around her as though it had been painted there.
“It is an honor, Your Grace,” she said, her voice a well-tuned harpsichord.
“The honor is mine, Lady Catherine,” Ambrose replied, shifting into the persona of the Duke he knew he must maintain.
They fell into the expected rhythm of small talk. Lady Catherine spoke of the upcoming Season, of her preference for the opera, and of the charity work she performed in her father’s parish. She was poised, elegant, but entirely predictable.
As she spoke, Ambrose found himself cataloging her failures.
Her voice was pleasant, yet it lacked the sharp, intellectual fire that sparked in Imogen’s when she debated history.
Her eyes were such a clear, pale blue, but they didn’t hold the warmth or the fierce protectiveness he had seen in Imogen’s emerald gaze just yesterday at the fair.
Lady Catherine was a polished diamond, cold and decorative.
Imogen was a living flame, and his cheeks heated at the thought of her.
“…and so, my father believes the corn laws must be addressed with the utmost delicacy,” Lady Catherine concluded, looking at him expectantly.
Ambrose blinked. He had drifted so far into thoughts of a blue silk ribbon tying Imogen’s hands between her back as he ravaged her, that he realized he had no idea what she had just said, or had been saying at all.
“Indeed,” he stammered, his usual eloquence failing him. “Delicacy is… often the hallmark of… maize.”
Lady Catherine’s delicate brow furrowed in confusion, as she had clearly anticipated more of a response. Silence stretched between them, awkward and heavy, until a sharp bark of laughter sounded from behind him.
“Maize, Welton? Truly? Is that the height of your ducal wit tonight?”
Ambrose stiffened as the Duke of Kirkhammer stepped back into the light with a refreshed drink, looking insufferably smug in his charcoal evening coat and green silk cravat. Lady Catherine, sensing a shift in the weather, offered a hasty excuse and retreated toward the punch bowl.
“It was a… pleasure, Your Grace,” she said over her shoulder.
Ambrose turned on his friend, a low growl vibrating in his chest. “Be quiet, Morgan. I’ve had enough of this already. You dragged me here. No need to punish me.”
“I’ve seen you navigate the House of Lords during a riot with more grace than that, Your Grace,” Morgan teased, leaning against a marble pillar.
They both watched Lady Catherine go, then Morgan looked back at Ambrose with a raised brow.
“You know… she’s exactly what the world expects of you, my friend. High-born, well-bred, and unlikely to cause a scandal.”
“Yes.”
“So… are you finally looking for a Duchess?”
A duchess…
The word hit Ambrose squarely. He closed his eyes tight, and the image of Imogen, damp-faced at the apple tub, laughing with his nephews, tucked into the shadows of his hallway, flashed through his mind with agonizing clarity.
“I am looking for nothing,” Ambrose snapped, his voice louder and more defensive than he intended as passersby looked at him.
His hands clenched into fists at his sides.
“I have a duty to my house and the boys. That is all. I do not need to plague myself with such things. Perhaps you are the one who should be in search of your own duchess.”
Kirkhammer’s smile faded. He straightened up; his playful demeanor vanished in an instant. He had known Ambrose since they were boys. Ambrose knew that he felt the difference between when he was bored and when he was haunted.
“You reacted a bit strongly to that one, don’t you think?” Morgan said softly. “And I’ll find a wife when I feel like it.” He took a sip of his champagne, his eyes scanning the room to ensure they weren’t being overheard.
“It’s the heat in here,” Ambrose muttered, looking away.
“It’s not the heat, and we both know it,” Morgan countered.
He stepped closer, his voice dropping. “Listen to me. I see the way your mind wanders. I see the way you look at the door every time a servant enters. But you are the Duke of Welton. You have a legacy to protect, and two boys whose futures depend on your reputation.”
“I am aware of my responsibilities,” Ambrose growled. “That is why I don’t dally about like you do!”
“Ha!” Kirkhammer emitted a boisterous laugh.
“Preposterous! One minute you are a rake and the next you are…What are you exactly, old friend?” Morgan asked, his gaze piercing.
“I can no longer define you or your behaviors. Last Season, I fully understood, but now… I cannot make out your motivations. You are making unwise decisions. Some bridges are built to be crossed, Ambrose. Others are meant to be burned before they lead you off a cliff. Don’t do something you cannot undo. Be careful.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Is that what you are thinking? Of taking care of yourself? Forgive me. I thought your mind was fixed on someone else.”
Ambrose didn’t answer. He could not. He simply turned and walked out onto the balcony, the chilly night air hitting his face, but providing no relief from the fever of a want he knew was a slow-motion disaster.
Don’t do something you cannot undo.
The words stung because they were true. Imogen was a woman of character, a woman under his protection after he all but saved her from her servitude next door. The distance between them was a chasm, made of centuries of tradition and duty.
It must be this way.
The swish of silk against the stone floor alerted him to company before she spoke.
“It is much more peaceful out here, is it not?”
Ambrose didn’t have to turn to know it was Lady Catherine.
She stepped up to the railing, her lilac skirts shimmering under the glowing moonlight, a rich sable fur across her shoulders.
She didn’t stand too close, Ambrose knew she was far too well-bred for that.
Yet, she angled her body toward him, the movement intentional and practiced.
“The air is certainly clearer,” Ambrose replied, his voice as stiff as his posture.
“If I may be so bold…”
“Yes?”
“You seemed… preoccupied inside, Your Grace.” Lady Catherine tilted her head, a stray blonde curl catching the light.
She reached out, her gloved hand hovering just inches from his sleeve.
“I had very much hoped… well, perhaps my talk of the corn laws lulled you into a stupor? I have been told I can be rather persistent when I find a topic of interest, but also a bit of a bore.”
She laughed a light, melodic sound that was charming, or at least should have been. To Ambrose, it sounded like a rehearsed performance fit for the stage.
“You were perfectly articulate, Lady Catherine,” he said, staring out at the dark expanse of the gardens, and not at her.
“You know, my father speaks very highly of you,” she continued, moving a tiny step closer, her voice dropping to a silkier register.
“He says the Duke of Welton is a man of singular focus and shrewd business acumen. I find that a very… attractive quality in a man. Most gentlemen of the ton are so easily distracted by every passing fancy.”
The silence filled the air between them, her eyes searching for his, which remained on the lawn below. It was an elegant flirtation, the kind that usually led to a dance, then a call at her father’s house, and eventually, a ring. Ambrose knew the game.
Yet, Ambrose did not see the perfect Duchess when he finally turned to look at her.
All he could see was the way Imogen’s hair had escaped her pins in the wind yesterday.
He felt the phantom weight of his nephews’ sleeping bodies in his arms and the way Imogen had looked at him in the hallway.
Not with calculated interest, but with a raw, if terrifying, sincerity.
In fact, Welton House felt more like a home than any other residence he had ever lived in. And it was because of her.
“My focus is indeed singular, Lady Catherine,” Ambrose said, his voice sounding like grinding gravel. “And it is currently required elsewhere. You will have to excuse me…”
Lady Catherine blinked, her smile faltering. “Elsewhere? But the ball has only just reached its height, and you have not yet danced. Surely the Emerson’s hospitality—”
“Is appreciated, but unnecessary for me,” he interrupted, already stepping back. He gave a sharp, perfunctory bow. “You must excuse me. I am… expected at home.”
Home.
“At home?” she repeated, her voice rising in confusion. “At this hour? Surely your nephews are asleep. If you would just give me a moment, Your Grace—”
Ambrose was already halfway to the balcony doors, his stride long and purposeful. He didn’t look for Morgan, and he did not stop for his cloak.
He needed the biting chill of the night. He needed the quiet of the townhouse.
Most of all, he needed to know that the light in the nursery, or perhaps the light under a certain bedroom door, was still burning.