Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
By four, a miracle occurred.
Philip’s skin turned from frightening scarlet to dewy pink. His breathing leveled into the heavy, honest rhythm of dream-filled sleep. The boy would need several days of rest, but he would surely be all right.
In the morning, Imogen knew that the physician would come to check on him to be sure. Down the hall, Arthur let out a soft snore, tucked deep into his own dreams.
Ambrose leaned forward in his chair, his shirt damp and clinging to his chest in the candlelight. He looked at Imogen, who was leaning her head against the wall, her eyes closed in a moment of sheer exhaustion.
“He’s through it,” he whispered, the words sounding like a prayer. “Look at his skin.”
Imogen opened her eyes, a tired, beautiful smile spreading across her face. “He is. He’ll be asking for a massive breakfast by noon, I suspect.”
Ambrose got up from his chair and walked toward her, his hand hesitating before he finally rested it on the back of her chair. It was a grounding, heavyweight that made her tremble.
“Go to bed, Imogen. That is an order from your employer.”
“Well then,” she laughed softly, placing her hand over his. “And if I refuse the Duke’s command? Will I be in trouble, Your Grace?”
“Well then,” Ambrose said, his voice dropping to a velvety growl. He offered her a hand to pull her up to her feet in front of him. “I shall have to find a much more persuasive way to convince you.”
“Is that so?”
“You will find that I am a man of many talents.”
She blushed at his words. “Uhm, yes. So… where were you this evening, Your Grace? I did not mean that to come off so boldly. I only mean to ask how you passed your time… Oh dear, that was no better…”
“It was an affair of no consequence—”
“It looks like there was dancing,” she whispered.
“And what makes you say that?”
“Your clothing, and the way you looked when you came in to check on Philip…”
“You are perceptive. I did not dance, though, just another boring ball, which I escaped in haste.”
“Whatever for? Surely you must have your pick of ladies…”
“There is only one place I wish to be. I have no time for idle matters.”
Ambrose put an arm out and motioned to the window. They walked over and stood side by side, leaning on the sill. They gazed out at the night sky when he suddenly shifted his weight, and his hand grazed hers, a searing energy pulsing through the room at their touch.
“I remember doing this once for Thomas, their father,” Ambrose said, leaning onto the sill.
“That must have been hard.”
“He was five. He’d fallen into the pond in winter. I sat by his bed for two long and miserable days. My father told me then that a Lockhart’s strength isn’t in his title, but in who he stands watch for.” He looked back at Philip. “Tonight… it felt like that again.”
“How so?”
“It felt like we were truly a family, and even that Thomas was with me. I can see it in your eyes… you have known much hardship in your life, with your own family situation. Haven’t you?”
Imogen lowered her gaze to her hands. “When I was small, I once caught a fever. My father…” She paused, weighing her words.
“He was a stern man, always, but for those three days, he would not leave me. He read poetry aloud until his voice went hoarse.” She lifted her eyes to Ambrose, her heart laid bare.
“And what of your mother?”
“She passed shortly after childbirth. All I have of her is a small locket, with a curl of her hair inside. It is my most cherished possession, a security blanket if you will.”
“Did you often feel unsafe as a young girl?”
“I have not known such safety since he died. Perhaps I never truly did before that. But tonight… in there… for the first time in years, I felt as though I belonged. As though I were neither merely a guest nor merely a servant.”
“Imogen,” he rasped as he turned her away from the window. “You are much more than a servant. And certainly more than a guest as well.”
He led her out into the dim hallway, pulling the door nearly shut behind them.
The house was silent, save for the ticking of a grandfather clock downstairs in the echoing foyer.
He reached out, his hand cupping the side of her face. His thumb traced her lower lip, and the world seemed to tilt on its axis. Imogen didn’t pull away. She leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering shut. She knew the servants would not start stirring for another hour or so.
“I should go,” she whispered, even as her body leaned toward him, betraying what her mind tried to deny.
“Don’t,” he murmured, low and urgent.
“Ambrose—”
“No more shoulds, Imogen. Speak plainly. Tell me, ‘I want to go,’ and I will let you. But you must meet my eyes when you say it.”
Her throat tightened. “I…” Her words faltered, tripping over themselves.
“Tell me, Imogen. What do you want?” His voice was soft but insistent, each word charged. “Speak, and it shall be yours.”
She looked down at his hands, her own trembling as she inched toward them, the faintest reach betraying her.
“You,” she breathed. “I want you.”
“Stay right where you are, angel,” he said, his voice husky, yet gentle.
She froze in place at that last word, angel, and then his mouth was on hers, bringing her back to life.
The kiss was desperate, born of the raw adrenaline of the night and all that had weathered, of all their days of wanting since she walked into his house and didn’t look back.
His lips explored hers, searching and hungry. He licked them slowly as he continued worshipping her mouth with a kiss that was as hard as it was tender.
In all her reading of romance and love, Imogen had no idea that a kiss could feel like this.
Ambrose backed her flat against the wall, his hands tangling in her hair. Imogen groaned into his mouth at the pressure, only growing as he pressed his chest against her. Her arms wound up around his neck as she stood on her tiptoes, pulling him even more flush against her.
She had never wanted or needed anything or anyone so badly in her life.
“You are a siren… you bewitch me, Imogen,” he rasped.
“You are everything right now,” she cried and realized quickly that was all the encouragement he needed.
His hands traveled down from her hair, gripping her waist, pulling her hips into his own with a pleasant jerk.
It made the blood that was pumping through her veins rush in between her legs as her whole body began to tingle.
She swore she could even see stars behind her eyelids as she kept them shut tight, trying to memorize every touch.
“This is heaven,” she whispered.
“You have no idea,” he growled as he nipped at her neck. “Let me give you a taste.”
The heat between them was staggering, and she could hardly breathe as he kept kissing her repeatedly, occasionally nipping her earlobe or licking her collarbone before returning to her soft lips.
When she felt she might lose her mind completely, he backed away and looked down at her.
He bent to his knees and grabbed the edge of her nightdress, pulling it up slowly until it was around her waist. She could barely breathe as he took his hand and reached in between her legs, touching the deepest, most tender part of her.
Never had she been touched by a man, nor would she ever be the same after this moment.
“Is this all right?” He asked as he began to plunge his fingers inside of her, using her wetness to massage her reverently. “Does this feel good for you, angel?”
“Oh… Y-yes,” she cried as she bucked her hips against him. “Please. M-more.”
“Your wish is my command,” he cried as he enhanced his pace, plunging deeper.
Imogen drew him closer, her breath hitching as the world outside the room ceased to exist. She wrapped her leg firmly around him, anchoring herself as the friction sparked a heat that hummed beneath her skin.
Every movement was a silent plea, a desperate search for the release that had been building between them for so long.
She had never known such a feeling and was overwhelmed by her need for release and for him.
Ambrose met her gaze in a shared look, and the last of her restraint shattered.
She bent forward and moaned into his neck as she kissed him, the tension coiling tighter until it was pulled to its limit.
When the wave finally broke, it was all-encompassing.
She held on tight, her fingers digging into his shoulders as he plunged deeper inside of her.
A magnificent climax swept through her, a pulsing, shimmering heat that radiated from her core and reached down to the very tips of her toes.
For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of their mingled breath and the slow, steady settling of the stars.
This is everything…
“Ambrose,” she breathed against his skin as she came back down, her hair loosening as she shook her head, and the pale blue ribbon floating down to the floor.
“Imogen… God, Imogen,” he groaned. The sound vibrated through her entire body as she felt his hardness against her stomach.
Something shifted then. Perhaps it was the sound of their names, spoken like that, so intimate, so forbidden. It hit her like a bucket of ice water. Ambrose stiffened, his forehead dropping onto her shoulder, and they both gasped, hearts hammering out of sync, desperate and frantic.
He dropped the flimsy hem of her night gown, then drew her close again. One last embrace before he slowly released her. His hands lingered for a heartbeat longer, trembling against her back.
When he finally looked at her, his eyes were dark and fathomless, like the Atlantic at night: equal parts passion, fear, and awe.
“We can’t do this,” he whispered.
“I know,” she replied.
“As much as I… as much as I want to. And God, I really do,” he said, the words sounding like a death toll to her just waking heart. “Imogen, we cannot do this. I cannot believe I almost lost control.”
“I… Yes. You’re-you’re right,” she repeated, her voice quivering as she frantically smoothed her hair.
“It is agreed then. There can be no more of this.”
“It is impossible. It was impossible before, and now—”
“Oh, now, it’s worse,” Ambrose finished for her, his voice breaking.
“Worse?” she tilted her head to the side.
“I can taste you… You’ve left me impossibly hungry, and now the very thing I crave is taunting me from right under my roof.”
He looked at her one last time, a look of such profound longing that it made her heart ache, before he turned, swung open the door to the bedchamber, and strode down the dark hallway.
“Goodnight, Miss Lewis,” he called over his shoulder as he went into his quarters down the hall and shut the door with a thud.
Imogen was left alone in the shadows, the blue ribbon lying forgotten on the floor.