Chapter 11
It was two days until his wedding and Ambrose Aster had never gotten so much mail in his godforsaken life.
“Who are all these people?” he had demanded of Zeller, throwing a handful of invitations up around the breakfast table that morning like confetti. “What do they want of me?”
“Your company, Herr Ambrose,” the German had replied without moving so much as a mustache hair. “I believe.”
“Nonsense,” Ambrose retorted. “Where is my bride? She can open the rest.”
“Arriving at luncheon, to continue the decorating,” Zeller answered, brightening visibly. “Did you see the new settee?”
Ambrose had taken his pastry into the parlor at that point to finish it in silence and surrounded by dust and fading drapery.
He did not so much hear her arrive, some hours later, as he felt it in increasing degrees of unwanted sunlight coming in through windows that had not been opened in years.
The rays of it creeped over his floorboards and under the parlor door, scratching between his toes with such annoying persistence that after a while he had no choice but to emerge and hunt her down, wherever she was and whatever she was about.
Several doors had been left open, allowing a cheerful and frankly offensive early-summer breeze to wind its way briskly through the house on the back of all that glowing sunlight. It was enough to make the old wallpaper feel poorly about itself.
“Vix!” he called into the halls. “You scheming enchantress! Which room are you violating!”
“In here!” she answered, singsong and unbothered, from some door he’d never opened, then in a lower voice, likely to Zeller, she said, “Yes, I think the daffodil print is a bit too pastoral.”
He frowned, glancing at his reflection in a table that had absolutely not been polished the last time he’d come down this way some months ago, and ran his fingers over his head as he nudged the indicated door open with the toe of his boot.
He found Zeller, Vix, and some woman in a maid’s uniform bent over a stark white loveseat, where four strips of potential new upholstery had been laid over the back cushion, each adorned with different flowers.
“Not the daffodils,” he said without looking, because he knew she did not like them.
She looked up at him, surprised and perhaps a bit pleased. “Yes, I agree,” she said, blinking as though she didn’t quite believe him for saying it.
He considered parroting the opinion that it was too pastoral, but decided it was a step too far.
Instead, he put his thumbs into his pockets and looked around the room, begrudgingly impressed with how welcoming and well-lit the place looked, considering it probably had nothing but cobwebs in it before.
“A sitting room,” she said, with some degree of wry amusement, watching him marvel. “And this is Mrs. Jenkins. She will be joining the household henceforth.”
“A pleasure, sir,” the starchy woman said, giving a bob.
“Fine,” he answered, pacing over to the window to peer out of it.
He hadn’t realized he had a view of some water.
“The new mattress is here as well, ma’am,” Mrs. Jenkins told Vix. “I’ll have it brought up as soon as they finish assembling the frame. Did you choose your linens?”
“I’ll be bringing a set from home, for now,” she answered, running her finger down the fabric printed with tiny bluebells. “The new set won’t be ready in time.”
“Mattress?” Ambrose repeated, spinning around with his brow furrowed. “What’s this? My mattress is perfectly fine.”
Vix and Mrs. Jenkins looked up at him in tandem, blinking like two owls who’d been interrupted at high noon.
“For my room,” Vix said in slow syllables, like he was addled. “Not yours.”
“Your … what?!” he demanded. “Show me!”
He suspected the starchy one was amused, but he couldn’t prove it. Vix just gave a delicate roll of her dark eyes, tossed the bluebells back onto the naked couch, and nodded toward the hall as she exited toward this bedroom she apparently had.
In his house!
He emerged from the room and felt an immediate flash of irritation again at how temperate and pleasant it was in the hall. One should always either be sweating or shivering in this house and squinting in an effort to see, goddammit!
“Where are we going?” he barked after her, scuttling in her wake like an insect.
She did not answer, turning at the stairs and ascending them with delicate dignity.
He sped up, cutting her off on the landing and pointing to his bedroom. “This is where we live,” he announced. “Where we sleep.”
“That is where you live,” she replied, like it was new information for her, and then gestured to the door across from his. “I chose this one, over here.”
He stared at the door. He wasn’t entirely convinced there had been another room there this morning. And there she was, already turning and opening it to reveal a clean, glossy-floored chamber with a brand-new bed frame being assembled by two workers in dusty linen.
He gaped, glancing at the large window in the corner, and saw that blasted mystery water glimmering beyond the house like an enchanted painting again.
“But I have a nice bed,” he attempted, frowning.
She sighed.
“I do!” He grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her out of the room she’d claimed and kicking the door shut as he marched her over the hallway threshold to his own chamber. “I will show you.”
“You will do no such thing!” she protested, squirming as he wrenched his own bedroom door open and tossed her inside. “Ambrose!”
She came to a standstill in what appeared to be genuine shock at the tidy state of his living space, her eyes scanning over the dark, tasteful furnishings and the neatly made bed with something adjacent to disbelief.
It was not enough to stop her from snatching her wrist away from him, then turning and shoving him for good measure.
It made him laugh, which did not seem to help matters.
She frowned, rubbing her wrist and looking back over the room again with a shake of her head. “I don’t understand,” she said sharply. “If you are … if you are capable of this, why …”
“Why is the rest of the house a cobweb?” he asked, still chuckling that she’d had the audacity to shove him like that, even if it had barely moved him where he’d stood.
He crossed the room and collapsed into the little reading chair next to his wardrobe, drawing his ankle up over his knee.
“Because I don’t need to live in more than a room or two when it’s just me. ”
“Poor Mr. Zeller has to live here too,” she pointed out, having turned in slow measures to follow his progress. She watched him where he sat with a wary distrust.
“He also has a room,” he informed her patiently. “I know that might shock you. He does not, in fact, sleep at the foot of my bed.”
“Ambrose, I am not above doing you physical harm,” she told him sharply, making him laugh again.
“Come sit on my lap to do it,” he suggested, low enough that she stumbled backward a little, glaring at him. “What? We will be married in a matter of days. You’ll discover the pleasures of sitting there soon enough.”
“Oh, will I?” she retorted, hissing like a wet cat. “I don’t believe we ever agreed upon carnal contact as part of our negotiations. In fact, you asked me to be unpredictable, if you recall.”
“Did I?” he asked, giving her a lazy, taunting smile.
She clenched her jaw. “Crawling into your bed after our vows would be terribly predictable, wouldn't you agree?”
“For you? I’d say the opposite,” he drawled, dragging his eyes over her body in a way he knew would make her bristle. “Maybe I’ll crawl into yours if you dally too long.”
She inhaled sharply, not descending so far as to sputter at him, but coming as close as a creature like Vix Beck could manage while still contained within that glossy veneer of pure ice.
Her eyes glinted, her golden skin practically shimmering with indignation while he grinned at her from his chair.
“Even less predictable,” he continued casually, “would be circumventing the wedding entirely. We’re both here now, after all, in this serviceable, neat, and surprisingly tasteful bedchamber.”
“Do not touch me,” she breathed, all the while a flush fanning over her décolletage as it heaved with increasing speed.
“I think you might be surprised,” he said softly, “what I could accomplish without touching you.”
She exhaled then, all that shallow breath escaping her in a warm gust through her lovely lips. “Don’t.”
His smile widened, his fingers tapping at his knee as he considered her, tilting his head as options played through his mind. Shadows played across her upright form through the open curtains, caressing several tempting little curves along the path of her lilac dress.
“You’re not wearing one of your new dresses,” he observed. “That one screams stern governess.”
She looked down at herself, her lips pressing together, and then back up at him. “Your house is dusty. Why should I risk something fine before I can air the filth out?”
“Oh, darling,” he purred. “You’ll never air it all out. You might as well embrace my filth here and now.”
She glowered at him, her incisors flashing briefly through her pretty lips.
“I could help you take it off if you like,” he offered, thoroughly entertained by her outrage. He rose smoothly to his feet, prowling toward her as she took several rapid steps backward. “Look at you,” he taunted, “getting ever closer to my bed.”
“I …” She turned briefly over her shoulder in horrified realization before snapping back around to him as her knees came up against the foot of it. She snapped a hand out and steadied herself against one of the posts, its gleaming wood catching between her fingers. “Ambrose!”
He stopped himself just a whisper from her, close enough to feel her breath against his mouth, and flicked his eyes down over her face.
“You see?” he said, soft and low. “I told you you would know when I was toying with you.”
She blinked, her lashes clashing with the strength of an orchestral gong.
He chuckled and backed away, turning on his heel. “See you at the wedding,” he called without turning around, “my Vix.”
He did not need to see the way he left her there, standing in his chamber.
He could picture it perfectly well.
And he would, in every lingering moment until he could put her back there again, this time with a ring on her finger.