Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
The following Tuesday, a thin, biting November rain began to fall over London, turning the cobblestones into mirrors of slate. To escape the oppressive, silent gloom that had settled over the townhouse, Imogen had ushered the boys into the carriage for a trip to Hatchards.
Inside the warmth of the bookshop, the air smelled of beeswax and old parchment. The boys darted between the towering shelves, their boots thumping softly on the Turkish rugs.
“Look, Miss Lewis! A book on the great explorers!” Arthur cried, pulling a heavy, leather-bound volume from a lower shelf. “Uncle Ambrose likes ships. Do you think he would like this?”
Imogen leaned over him, her fingers brushing the embossed gold leaf of the cover. “It is exceptionally fine, Lord Arthur. I’m sure His Grace would find the cartography fascinating. You are quite thoughtful.”
“We should get him a gift then, Miss Lewis,” Philip suggested, his eyes bright with a rare moment of mischief. He wandered to a section of more lyrical volumes and pulled out a small, slim book bound in dark blue silk. “This one matches his eyes. What is it?”
Imogen took the book, her heart giving a traitorous leap as she read the spine. Sonnets of the Heart.
“It’s… poetry, Lord Philip,” she murmured. “I am not sure this is quite your Uncle’s cup of tea, but perhaps he would like it.”
A heat that had nothing to do with the shop’s hearth rose in her cheeks, staining her skin a deep, tell-tale crimson as she thought of him reading poetry…
to her. She could almost feel the weight of Ambrose’s gaze on the landing, the memory of his voice calling her name like a prayer. Or was it a dream?
“You’re turning red, Miss Lewis,” Arthur noted, squinting at her. “Is it too hot in here? Are you feeling ill?”
“I am perfectly fine, Lord Arthur,” she lied, quickly shelving the poetry and replacing it with a sturdy, safe book on the history of the English Longbow. “Let us take the maps and the history. They are far more practical. Shall we?”
Despite her words, her fingers lingered for a second too long on the blue silk spine before she steered the boys toward the counter.
Three tomes later and a small treat at the nearby confectionery, they were on their way back to Welton townhouse.
Inside the carriage, the twins’ energy bounced off the leather walls.
Arthur was waving the history of the longbow through the air, nearly clipping Philip’s nose, while Philip drummed a frantic, irregular rhythm against the windowpane with his gloved knuckles.
“Do you think Uncle will let us try a real bow, Miss Lewis?” Arthur demanded, his eyes wide and sparking. “In the gardens? Or maybe in the gallery if it’s raining? Or when we’re in the country?”
“Most certainly not in the gallery, Arthur,” Imogen replied, but her voice was a mere whisper against the rattling of the wheels. “The country, perhaps. It is a most diverting activity, and a good skill, for young gentlemen such as yourselves.”
“Maybe during the holiday,” Philip said excitedly. “When we return to the country estate for Christmas!”
“That is a great idea, Brother!” Arthur clapped.
As the carriage turned onto their street, the damp, biting chill of the sleet finally began to win its battle against the footwarmers, as their excitement died down.
Philip pulled his knees up to his chin, shivering until his teeth made a tiny clicking sound, while Arthur began to kick his heels against the floorboards, a restless fidget that spoke of cramped muscles and freezing toes.
“Almost there,” Imogen encouraged, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair beneath Philip’s cap. “I’ll have to make sure we fetch you some hot cocoa to warm you both up!”
The carriage had barely jolted to a halt before the townhouse when the door was flung wide.
The footman hadn’t even finished unfolding the iron steps before the boys were a blur of navy wool and flying scarves.
They didn’t wait for a hand down. They leaped, their boots skidding on the slushy cobblestones as they hit the ground running.
“I’ll be first to the fire!” Philip shrieked, his breath puffing out in a frantic white cloud. “Race you!”
“Not if I trip you, you stinky bug!” Arthur roared back. “I’ll win!”
They sprinted up the wide stone steps, their laughter trailing behind them in long, ghostly ribbons of steam that lingered in the freezing air for a heartbeat after they disappeared into the glowing warmth of the foyer. The sound warmed Imogen’s heart.
Imogen started to follow as the waiting footmen helped the running boys avert a slip, her boots hitting the slick pavement. But she quickly realized Arthur’s new volume of maps, the one they had chosen for his uncle, had slid deep under the velvet seat during their scuffle.
“Oh goodness! Go on inside, boys and listen to the footmen! Straight to the nursery!” she called after them, her voice lost to the wind. “I shall be but a moment!”
Why am I always forgetting something?
She turned back, leaning back into the darkened interior of the carriage to retrieve the heavy book, unaware of the shadow detached from the pillar of the neighboring house.
She turned back to the carriage, leaning in to retrieve the heavy book. By the time she straightened up, the carriage had already begun to pull away toward the mews, and the street was momentarily deserted. Or so she thought.
A shadow detached itself from the pillar of the neighboring house.
“Left all alone in the rain?”
“I beg your pardon?” Imogen asked the shadows, her heart beating fast in her chest.
“How very careless of His Grace to leave you so… vulnerable,” a voice drawled, thick and slurred. “It is quite a cold afternoon. Shall we go somewhere warm?”
Imogen’s heart gave a sickening jolt, her stomach wrenching into a tight knot.
Lord Presholm stood blocking the path to the front steps.
He wasn’t wearing a coat, and his cravat was loosened.
His eyes were bloodshot and glassy with drink.
He looked nothing like the polished gentleman he pretended to be in the ballrooms.
“Lord Presholm,” Imogen said, her voice tight but steady. She clutched the book to her chest like a shield. “Please, excuse me. I must get inside. I was only retrieving this tome; the boys need me. Good day—”
“Why the rush, Miss Lewis? You used to be a member of my household, if you recall. Come inside Presholm House for a drink.” He stepped closer, the smell of stale brandy and cigar smoke hitting her nostrils vigorously. He moved to block her again as she tried to sidestep him.
“I could not possibly, My Lord,” she protested.
“My wife says you’ve grown quite arrogant lately with your new position. I suppose being the favorite of a Duke has its perks. Does he pay you in gold, or does he pay you in… other ways?”
“You are in your cups, My Lord. Step aside, or I shall call for the footman,” Imogen said, her breath hitching as he moved further into her personal space.
She refused to scream; she had dealt with him before.
She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a scene either, nor did she want the boys to look out the window and see her cornered.
I can handle this oaf…
“No one cares what happens to a servant. You are a commodity,” Presholm sneered. He reached out, his hand trembling with a mix of intoxication and malice. “Julia thinks you’re a threat.”
“A threat?” Imogen asked as her heart began to beat out of her chest.
“I know better. I think you’re just a girl who needs to be reminded where her loyalties should lie. We took good care of you; it’s time you remembered to be thankful. Why don’t you show me a little gratitude?”
He lunged forward, his hand diving toward her waist to pull her into the shadows. Imogen gasped, dropping the book as she shoved at his chest, her heart hammering against her ribs.
“Let go of me, you scoundrel!” she hissed.
“Don’t be a little fool. I know you’ve always wanted this. The lady doth protest too much!”
“How dare you!” Imogen said, not caring how improper her choice of words was, or who heard. She was beginning to fear for her safety. Her heart thudded in her chest, her throat impossibly tight.
“You are too much trouble, considering what you are worth. That pittance your father left behind was not enough for what my lady wife has endured. You must return the favor—”
His words were cut short by the sound of the townhouse door slamming open with a force that rattled the glass panes of the windows.
The door to Welton House didn’t just open. It hit the stone exterior wall with a violent, rebounding crack that echoed down the empty street.
Ambrose didn’t shout a warning. He didn’t demand an explanation. He moved with a terrifying, fluid lethality. He was a predator who had seen his mate cornered, like a werewolf of old folk tales. It was beyond his cognition, and he moved without thinking.
He cleared the front steps in two thundering strides, his heavy greatcoat snapping behind him like a dark wing. Before Presholm could even register the movement, Ambrose’s hand shot out, seizing the man’s shoulder with enough force to bruise the bone through his fine wool coat.
He spun Presholm around with a savage jerk. The smaller man’s mouth was still open, mid-sneer, when Ambrose’s fist connected with his jaw.
The sound was sickening, a wet, dull thwack followed by the distinct crack of bone meeting bone.
The force of the blow was absolute, fueled by weeks of repressed longing and the sudden, white-hot explosion of protective fury.
Presholm was lifted off his feet, his body reeling backward as if he’d been struck by a charging horse.
He hit the sleet-slicked pavement hard. His head snapped back against the stone with a hollow thud, and for a second, he lay motionless.
Then, a pathetic, wet gurgle escaped him.
He scrambled to sit up, his hands frantically clutching at a nose that had been crushed into a bloody mess, crimson liquid gushing between his fingers and soaking into his pristine white shirt.
Ambrose didn’t retreat. He stood over the fallen man, his chest heaving in ragged, violent jerks, his hands curled into white-knuckled fists that were already smeared with Presholm’s blood.
He looked murderous. Every trace of the cool, aristocratic Duke of Welton had vanished, and was replaced by something ancient and raw.
He was a man possessed by a primitive rage that bordered on the feral.
“If you ever touch her again,” Ambrose began, his voice a low, vibrating growl that hummed with the promise of death itself. “If you even look in the direction of my house while she is in it, if you so much as breathe the same air, I will not stop at a broken nose. Do not test me, Presholm.”
He stepped closer, his boot coming down inches from Presholm’s hand.
“I will ruin you, Presholm. I will strip you of every scrap of dignity, every penny of credit, and every friend you have left in this city. I will hunt you through every drawing room in London until you are nothing but a ghost. You won’t even be able to conduct paltry dealings at White’s—”
“What do you know of my business?” Lord Presholm barked back, rubbing his nose.
“Do you understand me? You and that wife of yours will be nothing.”
At that, Presholm looked up, the alcohol-induced bravado completely gone, replaced by a sobering, gut-wrenching terror.
He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. He scrambled to his feet, his boots slipping on the wet stones as he practically fell toward his own front door, leaving a frantic trail of scarlet in the freezing sleet.
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the hiss of the rain that pounded on the cobblestone street.
Ambrose did not turn around immediately; his blood was boiling, and he could hardly see anything other than red.
He stood with his back to Imogen, his shoulders hunched, his breath coming in jagged plumes of white vapor.
“Imogen,” he finally said. His voice broke on the name; the rage collapsing into a desperate, hollow fear. “Are you all right? Are you hurt? Do I need to fetch Dr. Gump?”
She did not answer, and at that, he turned.
He did not wait for her to move or respond.
He reached out; his hands still trembling with the aftershocks of the adrenaline, and hauled her against him.
He didn’t care who was watching from the neighboring windows or the servants’ quarters.
He crushed her against his damp wool coat, burying his face in the crook of her neck.
His grip was so tight it was almost bruising, his fingers digging into the fabric of her cloak as if he were trying to pull her into his very skin.
“Speak to me. Are you hurt?” he whispered into her hair, his voice raw and frantic. “Tell me he did not hurt you. If he touched you, if he did anything, I’ll go back and finish it.”
“I-I-I’m fine,” she breathed, her own hands finding the lapels of his coat and clinging to him as if he were the only solid thing in a world turned to ice. “Nothing I haven’t had to deal with before. Ambrose, please stop. I am fine. I’m safe.”
He let out a shuddering, broken breath, holding her for one more long, forbidden moment. The rain soaked through their clothes. When he finally pulled back, it was only an inch.
His thumbs, stained with Presholm’s blood, brushed the freezing rain from her cheeks. He searched her gaze with a desperate, aching yearning that no amount of duty or avoidance could ever hide again.
In that moment, in the middle of a London street, the Duke was gone. There was only a man who had nearly lost the only thing that made him feel alive.