Chapter Six Respectability Calls #3
Ambrose set down his pencil.
“I see.”
“No, you do not.”
Mary Beth closed the door behind her.
His eyes flicked toward it.
“Should you do that?”
“I own the door.”
“That does not answer the question.”
“It is becoming one of my favorite kinds of answer.”
Ambrose leaned both hands on the table.
“What do you want, Mary Beth?”
There was no title in his voice. No distance either.
“You told me beneath the bridge that you would not be something I kept separate from the rest of my life.”
“Yes.”
“Then this morning you saw Benedict and immediately decided he belongs in the part of my life where you do not.”
“That is not what I said.”
“It is precisely what you said. His world. Your contract.”
Ambrose’s mouth tightened.
“I was being realistic.”
“Men use that word when they want fear to sound intelligent.”
His eyes flashed.
“You think I am afraid of Sablehurst?”
“I think you are afraid of what wanting me might require.”
He came around the table.
Mary Beth’s pulse changed.
Ambrose stopped several feet away.
“You have no idea what wanting you requires.”
“Then explain it.”
“You want an explanation now?”
“Yes.”
“In a stable room?”
“It is a carriage room.”
“Forgive me. That improves everything.”
Despite herself, she almost smiled.
Ambrose did not.
“I spent half the day trying not to remember the way you tasted under that bridge.”
The words struck lower than her heart.
Mary Beth’s breath caught.
He continued before she could answer.
“I stood in your drawing room while a lord kissed your hand and invited you back into a life that can give you everything I cannot. I did not enjoy it. I am not proud of that. But I will not make my jealousy your obligation.”
“Then stop disguising it as advice.”
Ambrose stared at her.
Mary Beth stepped closer.
“You do not decide which world is mine.”
“No.”
“You do not decide whether Benedict is sensible.”
“No.”
“You do not decide whether I go to his dinner.”
“No.”
“Good.”
He exhaled slowly.
“Are we finished?”
“Not remotely.”
Mary Beth closed the remaining distance, caught the front of his coat, and kissed him.
For one heartbeat Ambrose did nothing.
Then one hand came to the back of her neck and the other to her waist, and the careful distance of the entire day disappeared.
This kiss was nothing like the first.
There was no rain to excuse it. No storm. No bridge. No cold that could make two bodies seek warmth and pretend afterward that weather had been responsible.
Mary Beth had crossed a dry room and chosen him while fully aware of what she was doing.
Ambrose kissed her as though he understood the distinction.
His mouth was hard, then searching. Mary Beth’s fingers tightened in his coat. He drew her against him, and the solid heat of his body made her forget every prepared argument.
The edge of the worktable pressed into the back of her skirt.
Ambrose broke the kiss only long enough to breathe.
“Mary Beth.”
She kissed him again.
A rough sound left him.
His hand slid from her waist to the small of her back, pulling her closer until there was no polite space left between them. Mary Beth felt the strength he spent all day disguising beneath restraint. She wanted more of it.
Her mouth moved to the corner of his jaw.
Ambrose went still.
Then he stepped back.
The loss of him was immediate.
Mary Beth stared.
He dragged one hand over his face.
“You cannot do that every time I annoy you.”
“I can try.”
Despite his breathing, despite the tension in his body, he laughed.
It was brief and helpless and the most unguarded sound she had heard from him.
Mary Beth smiled.
Ambrose looked at her mouth.
The laughter disappeared.
“Do not.”
“Do not what?”
“Look pleased with yourself.”
“I am extremely pleased with myself.”
“I noticed.”
She reached for him again.
Ambrose caught her wrist.
His grip was not painful, only firm enough to make the point unmistakable.
The warmth of his fingers around her pulse was almost worse than the kiss.
“Tell me something first.”
“What?”
“Was that because of Sablehurst?”
Mary Beth’s amusement faded.
“No.”
“Because you wanted to prove I was jealous?”
“No.”
“Because you were angry?”
“I was angry.”
“That was not the question.”
She held his gaze.
“No.”
His grip loosened but did not leave her wrist.
“Then why?”
Mary Beth could have answered lightly.
She had done that all her life when truth threatened to demand too much.
Instead she said, “Because I wanted to kiss you.”
Ambrose’s eyes closed for a fraction of a second.
When they opened, the restraint was back, but thinner.
“That,” he said quietly, “is the first sensible thing either of us has said all day.”
Mary Beth glanced at his hand around her wrist.
“Are you going to let me go?”
“I should.”
“That was not my question.”
His thumb moved once over the inside of her wrist.
“No,” he said.
When Ambrose kissed her again, the edge of the plans table pressed into her hip and one sheet slid crooked beneath her hand. She laughed against his mouth, and the sound surprised them both. Whatever Benedict had offered that morning felt very far from the carriage room.