Chapter Five Under the Bridge #3
“You use that tone when you are trying not to.”
Mary Beth pushed his coat from one shoulder, suddenly too warm beneath it.
“Do not tell me you have remembered that I am your client.”
“I remembered that before I kissed you.”
“Then what?”
Ambrose was silent for a long moment.
“You told me yesterday that the gamekeeper understood what the affair was.”
Mary Beth went still.
“Yes.”
“No promises. No future. No claim when it ended.”
“Yes.”
“And the gentleman from York?”
Her brows rose. “You remember him remarkably well.”
“I remember everything you said.”
“That was one night.”
“Exactly.”
Understanding arrived slowly, followed by irritation.
“You think I am collecting you.”
“No.”
“It sounds very much like yes.”
“I think you have become very good at wanting men in ways that cannot hurt you.”
The words struck harder than she expected.
Mary Beth pulled his coat closed again, less from cold now than defense.
“You know almost nothing about me.”
“I know enough to be careful.”
“For yourself?”
“For both of us.”
She laughed once, without humor.
“How noble.”
“Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Turn me into Benedict because you’re angry.”
The use of Benedict’s name startled her.
Ambrose stepped closer, though he did not touch her.
“I am not telling you what a widow may do. I am not asking how many men you’ve had, and I don’t care. I told you the truth yesterday.”
“Then what are you telling me?”
“That I will not be one more arrangement whose virtue is that it can end before it matters.”
Mary Beth went very still.
The storm seemed suddenly farther away.
“You assume it would matter to you.”
Ambrose’s expression was so direct that she wished she had not spoken.
“It already does.”
Her breath caught.
Irritation crossed his face, as though the admission angered him as much as it startled her.
Mary Beth understood the feeling.
She searched for something clever and found nothing.
Ambrose picked up his hat from the stone ledge where he had set it.
“You may shock every drawing room in Yorkshire if it pleases you,” he said. “You may take lovers when you choose. You owe me no purity, no explanation, and no apology.”
He put the hat on.
“But you will not take me for an afternoon because I happened to be standing under a bridge.”
Mary Beth’s face burned.
“What makes you think that is what I was doing?”
Ambrose went very still.
The rain had begun to soften.
When he answered, his voice was lower.
“Because if it isn’t, I am in considerably more trouble than I thought.”
Neither of them spoke after that.
The storm passed as quickly as it had arrived.
Within fifteen minutes the rain had thinned to a steady patter and the thunder moved east across the moor. Ambrose climbed the bank first and tested every foothold before allowing Mary Beth to follow.
He offered his hand.
She took it.
Neither pretended the contact meant nothing.
The walk back to Blackthorn was slower.
The old cart road had become too muddy in places, so Ambrose led her along the higher edge of the wood where roots gave firmer footing. He did not tease her boots. She did not ask about the quarry.
Once, a low branch caught the borrowed coat at her shoulder. Ambrose reached to free it, and both of them stopped when his knuckles brushed the back of her neck.
He withdrew his hand first.
Mary Beth faced forward and continued walking.
She had been kissed before.
That thought became increasingly useless.
By the time the manor appeared through the trees, the rain had stopped entirely. Water shone on the slate roofs. Smoke rose from the chimneys into the pale sky. The house looked solid, familiar, obedient to its foundations.
Mary Beth had never envied architecture before.
At the terrace steps, she removed Ambrose’s coat.
He took it from her.
He took the coat carefully, avoiding her fingers.
“I will send the crew to the quarry after breakfast,” he said. “No one enters the cutting until I have inspected the upper face with them.”
“Very good.”
“The north wall work continues as planned.”
“Of course.”
“We should have the temporary drainage bypass open by tomorrow evening if the ground holds.”
Mary Beth nodded.
They had become absurdly formal.
Ambrose seemed to realize it at the same moment.
The humor left him.
“Mary Beth.”
Her eyes met his.
He glanced toward the house.
For one wild instant she thought he might kiss her again in full view of every east-facing window.
He did not.
“I meant what I said.”
“So did I.”
“You didn’t say anything.”
“Exactly.”
That almost made him smile.
Mary Beth turned toward the steps.
“Seven thirty tomorrow?” he asked behind her.
She stopped.
The question should have been about work.
Perhaps it was.
Mary Beth glanced back over her shoulder.
“Seven twenty-eight,” she said. “I would hate to keep you waiting.”
Ambrose watched her for a long moment.
Then, finally, he smiled.
Mary Beth went inside before she did something foolish.
Inside, while a maid took her damp gloves, Mary Beth caught herself touching her lower lip.
She dropped her hand at once. That was answer enough for one morning.