Chapter 4
Ambrose felt pleasantly alert, his heart buzzing in his fingertips as the door shut behind Mrs. Beck.
The evening had unfolded in ways he had not anticipated, which in and of itself was enough of a reason to have justified his attendance. Not enough was unexpected, in his estimation, and life often suffered for its predictability.
Perhaps most unexpected at all was his prospective bride, the formidably upright young woman currently sitting across from him, watching him through a pair of jet-black eyes that seemed exceptionally unimpressed, despite being appropriately engaged in the conversation at hand.
He had guessed a few things about what a sister of the large and imposing Thaddeus Beck might be, among them a hulking build, a predisposition toward over-politeness, and perhaps more visible scars than were strictly fashionable.
This woman had none of those things.
“I am shocked,” he said languidly, “that your brother would risk your reputation so, leaving you here alone with me.”
“Shocked, you say?” she answered, tilting her head so that some of that dark, glossy hair brushed her shoulder. “You seem perfectly at ease.”
“As do you,” he replied, unable to hide the delight tugging at the corners of his lips.
“I have no reputation to speak of, Mr. Aster,” she reminded him, taking up her wine to swirl it around in the glass. “You must be accustomed to those of a higher social echelon than the modest tier of the Beck family, of course. For that, you might expect apology, but I shall not offer you one.”
“Indeed not? Well, then, Miss Beck, I hope you never do, for apologies are dreadfully predictable,” he replied. “And you, it seems, are not.”
She smirked at him. “You think you are toying with me,” she said. “Don’t you?”
He smiled fully then, showing her his teeth. “I think I would like to, someday.”
She paused, her expression flickering with the faintest aura of surprise.
It delighted him.
“So, how shall we play this out?” he asked, leaning back in his chair as the door opened again and a little torte was brought in, dusted with sugar and orange peels. “A special license? Are you eager to have the thing done?”
“The thing being my marriage?” she replied, turning her face from him to indicate which slice she’d prefer.
“Certainly not. I expect things to be done in full accord with tradition. I want the banns read in full. I want announcements sent. I want a properly attended wedding. Is that acceptable to you?”
“It might be,” he said, sinking his spoon into the tip of his own slice of torte. “If you are still planning to manage the whole knighthood drudgery as my fiancée.”
“Willing?” she replied with a little scoff, turning all the orange peels off her cake with precise little flicks of her spoon, her eyes on him rather than her task. “I insist upon it.”
“Then we are in accord,” he replied, and tasted the cake. He paused to indulge in the sweetness, allowing it to dissolve on his tongue, then dipped his spoon back into the sponge as he continued. “And you have confirmed that you knew of the knighthood in advance. I expected you to play coy.”
“Perhaps you should stop expecting things without good reason,” she suggested with a smirk, lifting her own morsel to her very full lips. “Just a suggestion.”
“Ah, but then you will stop correcting me, and we’ve only just met,” he said before his next bite, enjoying the way those dark eyes almost imperceptibly narrowed. “What will you need of me, to propel the engagement forward in the correct and traditional manner?”
“Very little,” she said, so quickly, he thought it was a barb rather than the truth. “Information and signatures for the most part. You will need to come to our church to meet with the vicar so we may initiate the banns, unless you prefer to use your own parish?”
“My what?” he said, drawling out the words in an effort to see if he might get another little flash of annoyance.
This time he did not. Instead, she twisted her lips in the way she might if a child attempted to correct her grammar and did so incorrectly.
He attempted not to wince.
“My schedule is at your disposal,” he said, switching to chivalric softness, watching her hand turn another piece of cake onto the bowl of the spoon. “Truly. I will go with you to your church tomorrow if you wish it.”
“I do,” she said briskly, and enjoyed another bite of cake, watching him with an innocent blink of her eyes as though she were curious if he might have a tantrum after his second failure to extract his desired reaction.
He considered it.
After all, what was the alternative? Candor? He wasn’t sure what that would even look like, coming from him.
He ran his eyes over her again, as though searching for cracks in a suit of armor, lingering on the glint of dark pearls over her collarbone, and on the sky-blue mesh that gripped her bodice, emphasizing her generous hourglass proportions.
He swallowed and forced his eyes back up to her face, only to find that somewhat worse.
“Why are you being knighted, Mr. Aster?” she asked, as soon as his eyes found hers. “I was not told.”
“Ambrose,” he said, a bit dryer than he would have liked, but steady. “My fiancée should call me Ambrose.”
“Why are you being knighted,” she amended, flashing a little glint of her teeth, “Sir Ambrose?”
“Oh, God,” he said, grimacing. “Not that.”
She tittered then, at long last, just softly on her breath, lifting her napkin to hide it beneath a dab at her lips.
It was his turn to glare. “Oh,” he said archly, lifting his chin, “was it I who was trying to toy with someone across this table? It seems perhaps it wasn’t, Miss Beck.”
“Victoria,” she corrected. “My fiancé should call me Victoria. Or Vix, if you like.”
“Vix,” he repeated, a little concerned at the way his stomach dropped directly into his groin as the word left his mouth. “I like that.”
“Oh?” she said, still amused, dropping that napkin back onto the tablecloth. “Do you like it enough to tell me why you are being knighted?”
“No,” he lied. “We’ve only just met, after all.”
“I will need to know at some point,” she told him, “if I am to arrange all the drudgery, as you requested. I imagine you already have a date for the ceremony?”
He nodded. “I will bring it tomorrow, to your church. You may take custody of the cursed thing in perpetuity.”
“Why, thank you,” she replied, fluttering those dark lashes at him. “And I suppose I ought to ask, Sir Ambrose—”
“Don’t,” he groaned, rubbing his thumb over his brow.
She smiled again as she spoke, “—where will we be living? Do you have a home here in London?”
“A townhouse, yes,” he acknowledged with a little sigh. “It’s a dreary, dark thing, though. I’m afraid I only really use the parlor and the bedroom. You may turn it out how you see fit, if you feel the need.”
Her face shifted, a brightening there that he hadn’t seen before. She leaned forward, color rising in those very high cheeks.
Oh?
His mind tingled a little, filing away the shift—what had gotten her, at long last, to react properly.
“It isn’t far from here,” he continued, watching her. “I can take you after the church if you wish to begin your scheming straightaway.”
“How very romantic,” she breathed, as though she wasn’t dripping sarcasm like a second language. “Have you a staff?”
“Of a sort,” he said with a shrug. “I have Zeller. And he has people, I think? You may ask him tomorrow.”
“Zeller,” she repeated, as though his manservant was a famed institution, nodding along in understanding. “Very well.”
She paused, touching her chin as her eyes swam briefly out of focus, something immense and likely horrifying whirring into motion in that mind of hers as she considered what he’d said.
He was content, for the moment, just to watch it occur.
He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d agreed to when he woke up on that chaise this morning, but he was beginning to suspect that it was going to upheave absolutely everything he held comfortable and reliable in his horrifying, silky-smooth existence.
His mother was going to be deeply distressed over this, he thought smugly. A wife with no name to speak of, a golden complexion, and an impatient demeanor was a potent trio of the things that likely kept her up at night in fear, when imagining the future her most wayward son might have in store.
It would at least balance out the knighthood, he thought.
Maybe.
He found himself staring at her lips again. They really were remarkably lush, almost pillowy in texture and a very pleasing shape, when they weren’t saying things that made him feel ridiculous.
It was enough to make him wonder what in the blazes of hell she was getting out of this arrangement.
Surely there were more competent husbands out there that Beck could’ve secured for this creature. Significantly more competent, even if they weren't quite as pretty as Ambrose himself.
Maybe this was ultimately just a gambit to get him to stop winning games at the Fox, night after night.
Surely not? He didn’t keep the money, did he? He wasn’t causing any lasting harm.
He frowned.
“If the townhouse requires major renovation, it will take some time to accomplish,” Vix said, so suddenly, it startled him. “I will require access to your home and to a budget to begin the process, if you are amenable, especially if I must outfit my own living quarters in a currently unused space.”
“Oh,” he said, blinking, trying to push away the frown. “Yes, all right. I can do that.”
“Wonderful,” she said. “Aren’t you going to finish your cake?”
He stared down at it, mangled and a bit squished under his spoon, the sugar creating a little footpath toward the edge of his plate.
“Oh, and on the matter of a dowry,” she continued as he lifted his spoon and poked at the remains of his cake slice, “Teddy will assemble one, of course, alongside a trousseau, but we will need a concept of what your expectations are in advance. This is new territory for the both of us, you understand.”
“Dowry?” he repeated, glancing up at her in bafflement. “No dowry.”
“No? Are you certain?” she said, looking legitimately taken aback. “It is the way of things, isn’t it?”
“I haven’t a clue,” he answered, sighing and dropping the spoon. “How many times do you think I’ve been married?”
“I hadn’t considered it,” she answered, blinking. “Have you been?”
He was startled enough to release a short bark of a laugh. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “At least, I don’t think so.”
She pressed those lips together, the hint of something like a blush on her cheeks. “I suppose we will learn together, then?” she said. “To be frank with you, my education prepared me to be a cog in a functioning household, not a wife. I promise to be patient with you if you promise the same to me.”
“Patient,” he repeated, tempted to tease her with skepticism, if only she didn’t look so damned earnest about it. “I can be patient.”
“That is well, then,” she said, giving a little sigh and planting her hands on the rim of the table as though announcing that dessert had concluded. “You shall be patient and I shall endeavor not to be predictable. What more could anyone wish?”
He shook his head, pushing his own plate away in agreement. “I can’t think of anything else,” he told her.
And it was the truth.