Chapter 20 #2
Lady Honoria leaned in, the scent of her expensive French perfume thick enough to choke him. “I should love to see your gardens at Welton this summer. I’ve heard the roses are divine. Would you show me?”
“Yes, well, they are mostly thorns this time of year,” Ambrose replied.
He realized with a jolt of cold horror that he was bored, and as alone as a man could be in a room filled with social climbers. Lady Honoria was everything a Duke should want. She was polished, titled, and impeccably bred. And yet, she was entirely the wrong woman.
“If you will excuse me,” he said as he managed a stiff bow, murmuring a desperate excuse about the heat, and stepped away. But as he navigated the edge of the dance floor, a hand clamped onto his bicep.
“Ambrose! Just the man I was hoping to ensnare.”
Lady Catherine.
She was a stunning young woman with loads of ambition. She blocked his path with a small bow that showcased her ample cleavage. She adjusted the lace at her bodice, her eyes roaming over him with a hunger that made him want to wash.
“You have been hiding, darling. And after that lovely dance we shared a few weeks ago, I felt quite abandoned. What must a woman do to get your attention?”
“Lady Catherine,” he acknowledged, his jaw tightening, as he dared not say more.
“You look too tense, Your Grace,” she whispered, stepping into his personal space until her silk skirts brushed his evening breeches.
She reached out, her gloved fingers trailing daringly close to his cravat as passersby looked at them.
“Perhaps you need a distraction from the burdens of your estate? My father has purchased a new carriage, I am sure you would love to see… very private. We could take the long way home. What do you say?”
Ambrose felt a wave of revulsion at the notion. He thought of the way Imogen’s hand had felt in his during the fever, so small, so honest, and so terrified. Lady Catherine’s flirtation felt like a cheap performance, for which he no longer had time.
“I’m afraid my schedule is quite full, My Lady.”
“Surely not that full,” she pressed, her voice dropping to a sultry hum. “Even you must find time for some fun, Your Grace.”
“Actually, Lady Catherine, it is,” a deep voice interrupted. “Please excuse me.
Morgan appeared like a well-timed ghost, sliding between Ambrose and the Lady with a practiced, charming grin. He leaned against the wall, effectively breaking the intimacy Lady Catherine was trying to build.
“I am so sorry to intrude! Terrible business, Your Grace,” Morgan said, sounding profoundly grave. “The… ah… the architect you have been consulting with on your latest project asked to speak with you.”
“Architect?”
“He’s in the library,” Morgan said, shooting him a knowing glance.
“Ah, quite right!”
“He says the north wing of your new acquisition is practically sliding into the pond as we speak. Total catastrophe.”
Lady Catherine huffed, her fan snapping shut. “An architect? Now? Really, Your Grace, your timing is abysmal.”
“I am a man of many talents, My Lady, but timing is my masterpiece,” Morgan quipped, offering her a mocking half-bow.
Seeing the opening as comic as it may be, Ambrose did not wait. He gave a sharp nod and beat a hasty retreat toward the darkened balcony, Morgan trailing behind him with a low chuckle.
Once they were in the cool night air, Ambrose gripped the stone railing. “There is no bloody architect, is there?” He laughed at the ridiculousness of it.
“Not unless you’ve hired one in the last five minutes,” Kirkhammer said with a wink, pulling a flask from his inner pocket and offering it.
“You were doing a terrible job of it, you know. Lady Honoria looks like she wants to cry, and Lady Catherine looks like she wants to eat you for dessert. You are supposed to flirt back, Welton. That’s how the game is played.
You’ve been playing it long enough… Has something changed? ” He teased.
“I have no stomach for games tonight,” Ambrose growled, pushing the flask away.
Kirkhammer sighed, his levity fading as he took a swig and returned the flask to his pocket. “It is her, is it not?”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about—”
“The girl with the books and the simple soap. You’re standing in the middle of the finest soiree in a decade, surrounded by the most beautiful women in England, and you’re brooding because you’re not in a dusty nursery in Mayfair.”
Ambrose didn’t deny it. He couldn’t anymore. He didn’t have the stomach for games anymore, and he meant it. He just looked out at the dark silhouette of the city, his heart aching with a yearning so sharp it felt like a stab.
“I am a Duke, Morgan. I know what I must do. But God help me, I don’t want any of them,” he said.
Ambrose did not wait for his friend to respond.
He hurried down the steps of the home and vaulted into the dark interior of his carriage, the leather groaning under his weight as he slumped into the seat.
He threw his head back against the squabs and closed his eyes, trying to blot out the dizzying image of spinning gowns and calculating smiles.
The carriage rocked. Kirkhammer hopped in after him, uninvited as always, and rapped his cane against the roof.
“White’s,” Morgan shouted to the coachman. “And do not spare the horses. His Grace is in a foul humor. A generous tip for you if you get there in half the time!”
Ambrose did not open his eyes as he put his hands on his face. “I’m going home, Morgan.”
“You’re going to have a glass of something that didn’t come from a champagne flute or a damn punch bowl,” Morgan countered, settling into the opposite seat. “You looked like you were ready to commit murder back there. Or an extremely dramatic exit via the balcony. Did I press a nerve?”
Ambrose finally turned his head. His eyes were shadowed.
“It should not be her. I know the rules as well as you do. I spent thirty years learning them. I am supposed to choose a woman who can navigate a court, who brings a dowry and a pedigree, who will produce an heir without a whisper of scandal. I have waited long enough; people will gossip more than they already do.”
“And instead,” Morgan prompted quietly, “you found a woman who can handle the twins’ tantrums and looks at you like you’re just a man, not a title. A woman with heart, wit, and substance. Unconventional, yes. But you could do much, much worse. Even I know that.”
“We cannot speak of her,” Ambrose barked.
The carriage jolted to a halt in front of the club. They climbed out in silence and retreated to a private, wood-paneled corner in the back of the lounge. A waiter appeared, deposited a bottle of aged scotch and two glasses, and vanished at a dark look from Ambrose.
Ambrose poured a heavy measure and downed half of it in one go. The peat and fire burned his throat, but it couldn’t touch the coldness in his chest that festered like a blizzard.
“I saw her today,” Ambrose admitted, his voice barely a rasp.
“She lives in your household. One would assume you see her every day.”
“It was in the stairwell. Just for a second. She barely looked up,” Ambrose went on, his eyes glassy. “And all I wanted to do was stop her. I wanted to catch her hand and tell her… I don’t even know what, Morgan. That I’m sorry? That I’m bloody miserable?”
“How about that you’re in love with her?” Morgan suggested, swirling his drink as he raised an eyebrow at him.
Ambrose flinched as if he’d been struck. “Do not mess with me, Morgan. I am leveling with you here, as my friend. Do not push me.”
“I meant what I said.”
Love.
“That word is a luxury I do not have. If I take her as a mistress, I destroy her. If I marry her, the ton will tear her to pieces. Lady Presholm is already circling like a shark in the water just next door.”
“So, you’re just going to pine away until you’re a bitter old man in a big, empty house? Let someone else have her?” Morgan leaned over the table, his expression uncharacteristically fierce.
“I didn’t think about that part,” he barked as he refreshed his glass.
“Ambrose, think this through carefully. She is not another widow you’ve bedded as a distraction that you can barely stand. Forget the peerage altogether for five minutes. Can you do that?”
“Yes,” he rasped.
Ambrose stared into the amber liquid in his glass. He thought of the way Imogen’s hair felt under his hand, the way her wit challenged him, and the way the house felt like a tomb whenever she wasn’t in the room. He could almost taste the sweetness of her kiss.
“Is she worth the fight?”
“She’s worth the world,” Ambrose whispered, the admission sounding like a confession of a crime. “Are you happy now?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“And I don’t know if I’m the man who can give her the world… without breaking it first.”
“Have you ever thought that perhaps it is meant to be broken, Ambrose?”