Chapter Five Under the Bridge #2
She had slept beside a husband for nine years and taken lovers afterward. She knew the scent of a man’s clothing. She knew how little it ought to matter.
The unsettling part was that this time the familiar scent mattered.
She resented herself for noticing.
“Thank you,” she said.
Ambrose leaned one shoulder against the opposite side of the arch.
The distance between them was perhaps four feet.
It felt artificial.
The rain came harder.
Mary Beth watched the water.
“Do you know what people will say if someone finds us here?”
“Yes.”
“You sound unconcerned.”
“I am considering whether being found under a bridge with you would improve or damage my professional reputation.”
She stared at him. “Yours?”
“I have clients.”
“So do I.”
“No. You have tenants, tradesmen, creditors, neighbors, and people who attend dinners for the pleasure of discussing your sins afterward.”
The humor left her.
“You have been at Blackthorn less than a week and already understand Yorkshire society.”
“I understand people.”
“Do you?”
“Enough to know they forgive men for wanting what they punish women for admitting they want.”
Mary Beth studied him, unsure whether the remark had been meant as comfort.
The rain filled the silence.
“Was that meant to comfort me?” she asked.
“No.”
“What was it meant to do?”
“Tell you that I see the arithmetic.”
She turned back toward the racing beck.
“I have spent four years refusing to care about the arithmetic.”
“Have you?”
The question was too quiet.
Mary Beth’s fingers tightened on his coat.
“Yes.”
Ambrose did not answer.
She turned.
“You don’t believe me.”
“I believe you don’t care whether Lady Casterleigh invites you to tea.”
Mary Beth almost smiled. “I do not.”
“I believe you don’t care whether men repeat stories about the gamekeeper at their clubs.”
“I don’t.”
“I believe you enjoy making some of them uncomfortable.”
“That I certainly do.”
His eyes stayed on hers.
“But I don’t believe you stopped caring altogether.”
The smile died before it formed.
Mary Beth felt suddenly exposed in a way the old stories had never managed.
“You presume a great deal.”
“Yes.”
“At least you admit it.”
“I also notice a great deal.”
She stepped away from the wall.
“Such as?”
Ambrose remained where he was.
“Such as the fact that you make a joke whenever someone comes close to something you don’t want examined.”
“That is absurd.”
“You did it when I asked about your husband.”
“I answered you.”
“Eventually.”
“You had no right to ask.”
“No.”
“You did it again about the gamekeeper.”
“You asked that too.”
“And you answered.”
Mary Beth took another step.
“Is this how you inspect walls? Annoy them until they confess where they are cracked?”
“Usually I use a hammer.”
Despite herself, she laughed once.
Ambrose’s gaze dropped to her mouth.
There was no mistaking it now, and none of the ambiguity that had protected them all morning.
The teasing was gone.
Mary Beth felt the air change.
Her heartbeat gave one hard, unreasonable stroke.
Ambrose met her eyes.
“Don’t,” he said.
She had not moved.
“Don’t what?”
His jaw tightened.
“Whatever you’re considering.”
Mary Beth became very still.
“You continue to make decisions on my behalf.”
“No. I am warning you about one of mine.”
“And what decision is that?”
His gaze went to her mouth again.
Mary Beth understood.
She should have stopped.
Instead she crossed the remaining distance between them.
Ambrose did not retreat.
That was all the permission she needed to become reckless.
She touched two fingers to the front of his waistcoat.
His breath changed.
“Mary Beth.”
She had heard her name from husbands, servants, friends, lovers, creditors, and women who meant it as an accusation.
No one had ever said it quite like that.
She lifted her face.
“Tell me to move away.”
Ambrose’s eyes closed for the space of one breath.
When they opened, there was nothing uncertain in them.
“I should.”
“But?”
His hand came to the side of her neck.
Nothing about the kiss could be mistaken for accident or courtesy.
Ambrose kissed her as if restraint had been a task he had grown tired of performing. Mary Beth felt the stone of the bridge at her back a moment later, though she could not remember stepping toward it. His hand remained at her neck, warm and firm, his thumb beneath her jaw.
She caught the front of his waistcoat in both hands.
He tasted of rain.
Mary Beth had expected control from him even here and discovered, with a jolt, that she had been wrong.
For several breathless seconds, Ambrose seemed every bit as reckless as she was. His other hand found her waist beneath the borrowed coat and drew her closer. The movement sent heat through her so abruptly that she made a sound against his mouth, and that sound stopped him cold.
Mary Beth opened her eyes.
He was still close enough that his forehead nearly touched hers.
His breathing was uneven.
So was hers.
“Why did you stop?” she whispered.
Ambrose’s hand remained at her waist for one dangerous second longer.
Then he let her go.
He stepped back.
Mary Beth blinked at the sudden distance between them.
Rain thundered above them.
“You wanted to kiss me.”
“Yes.”
“You were kissing me.”
“Yes.”
“Then I fail to understand the sudden engineering difficulty.”
His mouth almost moved.
It did not become a smile.
“This isn’t funny.”
“I am not laughing.”