Chapter 14
Ambrose was kissing her.
This kiss wasn’t an enticement or whisper. It was a demand, a bellow. His mouth was hot and exploring, his tongue boldly dancing between her lips.
A blast of sensation swept through her blood, thrilling her to the bone, and she lifted her arms to circle around his waist in response. She was pressed up so tightly against him, Willow swore she could feel his pulse quicken against her breast when she returned his kiss with equal heat, greedily devouring all he offered.
If there was ever a time to wonder at her sanity, it would be at that very moment, as they consumed one another in the National Art Gallery.
It alarmed her. It thrilled her.
When had the grounds of war altered to include touching, seducing, and an abundance of kissing?
Not that it mattered at that moment. Nothing quite mattered then. Not when his hand was slipping down her arching back, drawing her nearer still.
She quivered at his touch, tendrils of warmth wrapping around her. She knotted her fingers in his hair, holding onto him for support when it felt like her knees would give out.
He backed her against the pillar then, tilting her head up to deepen the kiss.
Only the movement wasn’t all that smooth. Her back hit the pillar with a rather startling thump. Shards of reality stabbed at her brain. Even before Willow felt the bust rocking back and forth, even before she heard the terrible sound of marble scraping against marble, she knew what was about to happen.
Ambrose must have felt something too, because his tongue stopped dancing, and his lips tore away from hers. Their eyes met for a heartbeat, then turned towards the catastrophe. Willow glanced over her shoulder in time—so regrettably in time—to see the bust of the faun that had been perched so peacefully upon the pillar, tilt, and tilt, and tilt, and then plummet to the ground.
Her heartbeat slowed.
Their gazes swung back to each other just as the grim sound of an ancient sculpture smashing into a thousand pieces, of marble exploding against marble, filled the gallery.
There was a moment, half of a second, where complicity passed between them, and then he breathed, “Run.”
Willow did not look back once as they dashed off, hand in hand. She did not look back at the grim event or the horrified people in the gallery. No, she did something far worse. She laughed. She did not know why it happened—lord knows it was not a laughable event. Perhaps it was the look Ambrose shot her right before he said run. But whatever caused it, the fit appeared from nowhere and once she began, she could not stop.
They burst through the doors of the Gallery and onto the slippery path of the sidewalk with scarcely contained relief. Willow skidded to a stop at once, doubling over from laughter, prompting Ambrose to skid to a halt, as well.
Heavy rain bounced off the cobblestone, the drops beating against her skin while she gasped for breath.
Within seconds, they were soaked.
Ambrose hunched down before her. “Willow?”
The sky rumbled.
“Willow,” he urged. “We must seek shelter from the rain before we freeze to death.”
She held up her hand, gasping for breath. “I know,” more giggles. “Just give—,” some laughter. “Just give,” a bit of gasping, “me a moment.”
“Willow.”
“Stop!” She attempted to draw breath through her convulsions. “Please do not sound indignant at a time like this. We just destroyed a hundred-year-old sculpture and you said run!”
She was answered by a foul curse before her laughter was captured by his lips, his mouth attempting the impossible feat of kissing away her fit of hilarity.
Oddly, it worked. Seconds later, lips glued to his, she was lifted up against his chest and carried to the shelter of their carriage. She did not protest.
Knight in moody armor, indeed.
“So,” Jonathan said, dropping down in a chair opposite to where Ambrose nursed his brandy. “Have you come to your senses or am I still to be married off?”
“I am in possession of all my senses.”
Jonathan signaled a waiter for a brandy, pulling a pack of cards from his pockets. “The entire town is gossiping about your wedding kiss. I didn’t think such a lack of decorum was in you, brother. I still cannot believe I missed your wedding. Rumor has it that the priest had to clear his throat to get your tongue out of your bride’s mouth.”
“I was thrown off balance,” Ambrose muttered into his glass. “I reacted strangely.”
“You’ve been thrown off balance for ten years, old chap, and you never reacted like that.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You know what it means,” Jonathan said, shuffling the deck. “Celia died, Ambrose. Sometimes people just die, and you don’t get to carry that on your shoulders for the rest of your life.”
“I have made my peace with her death,” Ambrose bit out.
“Have you? It seems to me you erected walls—thick ones—around you. And the weight of her death is burying you into the ground. How is that peace?”
“And what would you know about that?”
“Like you, I carried her death on my shoulders. I thought I could have done more to help her, to protect her. I thought I could’ve done anything other than to allow her to live her life as she wished. It took me two years to realize Celia wanted her life exactly as she had it and that she would not have wanted that guilt for us. She’d have wanted us to live our lives to the fullest, like she did.”
“I sat beside her bed for hours, waiting, watching, as she passed on to the next life, Jonathan. It tore my heart to shreds. Don’t talk to me about what you think she wanted. All that matters is that I could have saved her. That I should have saved her.”
“No, you couldn’t have saved her, Ambrose. At best, you might have prolonged her life but not saved it. Neither of us could have done that.”
Ambrose said nothing.
“And as a result of that weight of guilt, you decided that caring for anyone beyond mere acquaintanceship was not a risk you were willing to take. You erected your walls and isolated yourself behind them.”
Ambrose did not want his brother to be right. But it was hard to deny the truth of his words. For the past ten years, things that had once brought him pleasure slowly lost all flavor and taste. Each year, with the weight of her death on him, he engaged less and less with the world as it was and instead, worked hard to shape it into what it should be. Worked on it until he had become a cold, controlling bastard with little else but his sense of control.
At least, some might say that.
“So I’m still to be married off?” Jonathan asked offhandedly, shuffling the cards.
Ambrose threw back his brandy. “Holly Middleton betrayed me.”
“Only because you made her believe you fancied her.”
Ambrose lifted his eyes to glare at his brother. Jonathan knew him better than anyone. He had always possessed the uncanny ability to see straight through him. “She wanted that fairytale. I gave it to her. At least, I did until I needed to explain what her new life required. And look at where catering to her fantasy got me! She ran off. What an impractical creature.”
Willow isn’t so impractical.
But Ambrose didn’t want to admit that there was no need to pretend to be infatuated with his wife when he was quickly becoming obsessed with kissing her.
Jonathan chuckled, dealing them a hand, and pulling Ambrose from his thoughts. “Holly Middleton ran off because she had thought the fantasy was the reality. Your rules overwhelmed her.” Jonathan glanced up at him, a contemplative look entering his eyes. “It is a curious position you find yourself in. One that suits you, I think.”
“How do you figure that?”
“You are too tightly contained, brother. You need to unwind.”
“I’m contained just right,” Ambrose snapped, signaling for a refill. “And besides, how exactly does unwinding suit me?”
Jonathan arched a brow in response. “Well, for one, I can only imagine your lovely wife does not follow all your little house rules. I imagine some unwinding would help ease what must be constant frustration for you otherwise.”
Ambrose cut him a glance. “My wife will follow the rules. Eventually.”
If she ever bloody reads them.
Unlikely, that.
Jonathan smiled at him. “Does she know she is the only one subjected to them, that not even mother follows your rules?”
Ambrose glared at him.
Jonathan’s eyes widened. “Is that why you sent mother to Bath?” He laughed. “It is, isn’t it?”
“Sod off.”
“Must be an annoying thing, for your wife to flaunt your rules,” Jonathan taunted with a grin.
Ambrose grimaced. What was worse was that he was letting her. Christ knew why. But it wasn’t like he could force her to comply—she was too damn obstinate. A trait he was growing too damn fond of. But then, his wife was anything but subservient. And he was blinded by the urge to kiss her most of the time he was near her. The rules weren’t much on his mind when he was staring at her lips.
“I’ll just go ahead and say it,” Jonathan leaned forward in his chair. “Just let go.”
“Let go of what, exactly?”
“Everything.”
“If you are going to spout nonsense, at least make bloody sense.”
“Give me a minute, and I will,” Jonathan said, eyeing him over the rim of his glass. “Or not. You are bone stubborn. Of course, your wife seems to be just as—”
“Don’t say it,” Ambrose warned.
“Stubborn.”
“You’re bloody annoying tonight, Jonathan.”
“Just want you to be happy, old chap. And you’ve got to let go of your control if you want to be happy.”
Happy.
Willow’s face flashed through his mind for the hundredth time. Could it be that simple? Just let go and be happy. He wasn’t unhappy. At least, he didn’t think he was. But he wasn’t happy, either.
What did he want, really? Did he want to be happy?
Suddenly, he realized he did know one thing he wanted; he wanted more of his wife. More kisses. More touches. More laughter. More mischief. More of everything. He did not just lust after her body; he wanted her. All of her.
Would letting go give him Willow?
Forgiving her sister might. Is that what Jonathan’s twisted logic was getting at?
“What, then, do you propose I do?” Ambrose asked his brother. “Let Holly Middleton get away with humiliating me? Let go of her broken promise?”
“Why not? You got what you wanted—a wife.”
“But not the one I chose.”
“No, but certainly one better suited for you.”
Ambrose couldn’t argue that point.
They sat in silence for a few moments, sipping their drinks.
Then, unfortunately, Jonathan spoke again. “I wonder . . . have you ever stopped to ask why your wife married you?”
“To protect her family.”
Jonathan clucked his tongue. “Do you truly believe one sister would run away without a qualm, but the other would marry you for duty alone? How unenlightened of you.”
“My wife is more practical than her sister.”
“Women are rarely practical when it comes to men and marriage.”
“My wife is an exception. She. . .” His eyes jumped to his brother.
Absolutely had another motive.
Willow might not be as impractical as Holly but she was a Middleton. Their actions were never simply straightforward in his experience.
“Bloody hell.”
Jonathan’s teeth flashed. “Putting it together, are you?”
Ambrose muttered a curse. He’d not give him the satisfaction of his panic. He wanted his wife more than he wanted to breathe in some moments, and he didn’t even know her driving motivation for marrying him. He, who prided control, was playing with unpredictable fire. More worryingly, he wasn’t sure that learning her true motive for marrying him—no matter what it may be—would even affect his desire for her at all.
That should terrify him.
It did terrify him.
But he had a feeling it wasn’t going to stop his pursuit in the least, regardless of the danger. He wanted more of her, full stop.
Ambrose glanced at his younger brother, considering him. “Why haven’t you declared your refusal to wed Miss Middleton, eh? Are you not supposed to be up in arms, refusing to wed the woman who deserted me?”
“I wager half my savings that Miss Middleton will continue to evade your clutches,” Jonathan’s eyes crinkled, and his lips pulled into a smile, “allowing me to be merely entertained by it all.”
“And if she doesn’t evade my proverbial clutches?”
“I’d wager the other half on your wife.”
“My wife?”
Jonathan gave an imperceptible nod. “To convince you otherwise.”
“And if I don’t give in?”
“Then I suppose I shall run away and live the rest of my days in destitution.”
“Whose side are you on?” Ambrose demanded, setting his cards aside.
“You are trying to marry me off like a mother hen, Ambrose, and for no good reason, so I’m not on yours.” Jonathan leaned back in his chair. “Perhaps it is time for you to decide, dear brother, what is more important to you: satisfaction for the slight against you—and let me remind you, I’m a key part of that devilish plot—or your wife, who will most certainly square the accounts should you succeed.”
Ambrose met his brother’s gaze.
“Do you want your wife raining hell on you for the next fifty years or do you want to finally let go of ten years’ worth of guilt and fear?”
Well, when his brother put it like that . . . it was most irritating.
Ambrose rubbed the bridge of his nose.
He hadn’t given thought to what his wife might do, hadn’t considered she’d exact her own brand of justice on him. But now that he thought about it, there was never any question—she’d call for his head.
That didn’t align with his single most desire at all.
Damnation.
Holly Middleton had thrown his world on its axis. She’d slipped from his fingers and Willow, who didn’t tolerate his demands, had walked into it. He was losing control by the hour. Did he simply want Holly Middleton forced to his bidding to regain a modicum of control? Or just pride.
He didn’t know.
And he didn’t know if he could let it go.
But he did know one additional fact at the end of this conversation. A truth that had the added advantage of delaying this particular debate a little longer.
He knew why he married his wife.
Now he wanted to know why the hell she had married him.