Chapter 16
Willow paused beneath the branches of a maple tree, glancing up at the light piercing through the canopy of leaves. It was the perfect spot to meet with Poppy, and the fresh air was marvelous. She missed this, missed spending time with her sisters. And it didn’t hurt that Gunter’s was one of the most fashionable haunts in London. It would go a long way for society to see her happy, out and about.
“I will never understand why they’d mold something as delicious as this ice into a lamb chop,” Poppy groused, stepping over a large root. “I prefer my ices in a simpler style.”
Willow glanced down at her lavender-flavored ice cream, mounded up in a cone-shaped glass.
“I agree,” Willow murmured, studying her purple creation.
“I still cannot believe your husband agreed to let you come for ices,” her sister said. “I had begun to believe he had you locked away in a tower somewhere.”
Willow shrugged, her gaze lazily following one of the waiters dashing from a carriage back into Gunter’s. “I’m not a prisoner, Poppy; you really ought to come for tea.”
“Is he still set on his diabolical plan to wed our sister off?”
“Probably, but have you heard? Lord Jonathan has always been in town. And I saw him yesterday and he is nothing as I imagined. The complete opposite from his brother.”
“So he will not follow through with his brother’s wishes? Or have you threatened the young buck with his life?”
Willow laughed. “No, I haven’t gotten to that part yet.”
“Just as well, threatening Lord Jonathan was Belle’s idea. I vote for locking him away until the duke comes to his senses.”
“Which might never happen,” Willow muttered, thinking about her husband’s stubborn nature, and then decided not to think further on it. “What do the gossips say?”
“Oh, the gossips have quite turned the tide.” Poppy’s eyes sparkled. “Apparently anyone who is anyone is gushing about a certain duke and duchess kissing at the Gallery and then fleeing the scene of vandalism.”
“Vandalism!”
“Apparently.”
Dear Lord.
“How is father faring with Holly’s absence?” Willow cleared her throat. “He must be beside himself with worry.”
Poppy’s tongue darted out to lick her ice. “Oh, I told him she is well taken care of and waiting for the dust to settle.”
“And he did not demand her whereabouts?” Willow asked, shocked.
“He did.” Poppy winked. “I haven’t cracked.”
“And he said nothing else?”
Poppy shook her head, enjoying another lick of ice cream.
Willow sighed.
The fact was Willow felt a pinch of guilt at coming for ices since it was so clear Ambrose was worried she’d become ill from the cold. She could have spared him that worry, had she not been so furious at being told she could not meet up with her sister at Gunter’s.
In truth, she didn’t think Ambrose a tyrant—she thought him a man left too long alone with his pain. A man who had lost his sister, terrified of losing anyone again.
Moment by moment, Willow began to understand what drove Ambrose’s need to live by such strict rules. The question was how to coax him back to the boy who dreamed of being an artist. It seemed to Willow she just needed to convince her husband that he could trust her, beyond any fear, beyond any doubt, to take care of herself.
“Father has always been surprisingly supportive. As for Ambrose, he is . . .” An obsession.
“Misunderstood?” Poppy offered, a hint of sarcasm coloring her tone.
Willow shot her sister a glare.
“What? It seems rather perilous to me to give your husband such benefit of faith. His actions have argued otherwise.” She licked her lamb chop ice. “Then again, rumor has it the Duke of St. Ives is doting on his wife.”
“You shouldn’t be listening to rumors, Poppy. And Ambrose is not a beast. Not much of one, certainly.” Willow paused, feeling a small smile spreading across her face involuntarily. “Except if you count kissing, we have been doing that a lot.”
“You are doting on your husband.”
“Am not! But I shall admit I enjoy kissing. It’s all about exploring limits.”
“There are limits to kissing?” Poppy gave her an arched look. “Well, you know what they say about men and limits.”
“I assure you,” Willow answered bemused. “I do not.”
“Insanity lay at the end of a man’s limits.”
“That’s absurd.”
“What do you imagine lay at the end then?”
“Progress?”
Although, in Ambrose’s tightly wound world, just perhaps, his barking at her to wear a coat did count as progress. He’d yielded, hadn’t he?
Poppy made a snorting sound. “And here I planned on persuading you to return home if you weren’t happy, but alas, we’d then be harboring a criminal, wouldn’t we?”
“It was accidental,” Willow said with a roll of the eye. “And I am not leaving my husband.”
“For what it’s worth, I wouldn’t leave my husband if he looked like that.”
“Honestly, Poppy!”
Poppy smirked. “Come now, the duke is astoundingly handsome. What woman wouldn’t want to stare at his face all day long?”
“You are impossible.”
“I’m envious.”
“You’ve never clamored for a husband before,” Willow said, tilting her head curiously. That had always been Holly’s dream.
“True, but I do fantasize about muscled men with impossibly arrogant swaggers.”
“Then go find yourself a muscled husband with an impossibly arrogant swagger.”
Poppy waived Willow’s retort away. “I have other pursuits I first wish to see fulfilled before I marry.”
“Such as?”
“For one, I wish to partake in a play,” Poppy said thoughtfully. “Perhaps write or direct one, as well.”
“Acting?” Willow suppressed a laugh. “I shall wish to see that.”
“Wouldn’t that be grand? Oh, and I plan to commission a portrait of myself. To capture me while I’m still young and spirited.”
“You make it sound as if you are approaching death.”
“We are all approaching our death.”
“That sounds rather macabre.”
“I was going for dramatic, but macabre will do.” She dabbed her tongue over the tip of her ice. “Can you imagine the backstage of a theatre? Surrounded by actors and dancers, the loveliness of that?”
“I suppose,” Willow murmured, feeling concern creep up on her. Was Poppy lonely? She studied her sister over her ice. “Are you certain you are alright?”
“Of course, why should I not be?” Poppy inquired.
Willow shook her head, and was about to question Poppy further when her sister said, “I say, is that not your husband over yonder?”
Willow whirled around so fast her ice slipped from her fingers. It took two seconds to scan the streets before her eyes landed on the tall figure crossing the square toward them. Their eyes locked. The impact was so strong the air rushed from her lungs.
“What on earth is he doing here?” Poppy asked, perplexed. “I thought this was supposed to be a private sisterly outing.”
“I have no idea,” Willow murmured, appreciating the fine form of his gait as he marched over to them. “But we are about to find out.”
Ambrose stood shadowed by his carriage, cloaked in a jacket and top hat, his brows drawn together in a fierce scowl as he stared at his wife. The scowl, it should be noted, was meant for him and not his wife.
He made no move to interfere with her rendezvous, but listened to her laughter, such a sparkling sound it made his chest ache. He didn’t know why he had followed her. He surely hadn’t intended to stalk her. But he had been restless after she’d gone, and before he knew what was happening, he found himself across the street from Gunter’s.
She was safe and sound.
He had thought that. . . What had he thought? That she would not return home? That Holly would join them? Or that she’d be exhibiting signs of illness from being soaked earlier that day?
With a curse, Ambrose drew a hand through his hair.
What was he doing? Account ledgers, estate matters, and parliament, those were important things. Spying on his wife? What trouble could she get into going for ices?
Ambrose shook his head.
He told himself he had followed her because there were too many elements beyond his control for his liking.
Bollocks.
He had followed her because he was obsessed. Plain. Simple. Bloody annoying. How can a damn man of his station be so obsessed with his wife? Her presence. Her scent. Her lips. It was ludicrous.
Who chased after their wife? This was the most powerless he’d been in ten years. When had he last spun so far away from the center of his axis?
Ah yes, his wedding.
And the night he kissed his wife outside her chamber.
Let’s not forget this morning.
Right now, this very moment.
But the indisputable fact remained—his world had been thrown into chaos by his ex-fiancé.
But Ambrose had made his demands to his father-in-law and soon Holly would resurface. It would all come together, and his honor would be restored. Why, then, did he feel like he was sinking into a bog?
It was deuced easy to forget his goal—and how he had been slighted—when confronted with Willow’s wide innocent eyes, the sweet taste of her tongue on his. And last night, his wife had the audacity to invade the sanctity of his dreams. Even now, he could think of nothing else but how her gown perfectly accentuated the rise of her breasts. It was impossible to forget the slope of her sensual hips, the perfection of her legs.
Clearly, his control had gone up in flames the moment he’d married the wench.
It was time to take back that control.
He crossed the street. Her sister noticed him first, and moments later, Willow spun around, eyes widening, cheeks flushing a pretty pink. She was staring at him in a way that made him rock hard.
He flashed his teeth—a smile meant to disorientate. She looked startled for a moment and then she stepped forward—directly onto a root. A stifled scream tore from her throat as she lost her balance.
Without thinking, Ambrose leapt forward, his arms reaching out to circle her waist, catching her in a dip.
The heat from her body seeped into his skin, and he was aware of every rise and fall of her chest. Their gazes touched, held, and neither made a move to part.
“Careful,” Ambrose drawled. “You can hurt yourself falling head over heels.”
Color rushed up to her neck and cheeks, and he chuckled. Yes, he was totally losing all of his faculties.
“You truly ought to work on your humor,” she breathed. A bare breath of a whisper, but he heard it.
His eyes dropped to her lips, full and luscious, begging to be kissed again. He was a man always in control. Always. Control was what had gotten him through the harsh months after his sister’s death. Control was what he had structured his life upon after it had crumbled to the ground. Control kept him and the people around him safe.
But every time his body connected with hers, touched her in any way, everything in him responded. Hungered. Needed. Burned.
“What are you doing?” she murmured.
“Breaking my own rules it seems.”
He heard her slight gasp before he swooped down and crushed his mouth to hers. He kissed her because his life depended on it. His sanity depended on it. He kissed her as though they weren’t at war. Or perhaps he kissed her as though they were. He wasn’t sure.
But the detail his mind focused on was the wintry sting on her lips, starting a raging fire in him. A slow burn starting at the pit of his stomach. Hungering, consuming, and threatening to explode. She kissed him back as though her life depended on it, too. At least that was how it felt. Her hands skimmed through his hair, mussing it up from its perfect style, and he groaned in response.
He heard his sister-in-law huff. “Not doting on each other, my eye.”
Ah, yes, they were in public.
He didn’t care.
There was a long list of reasons he ought to loathe the fact that his wife’s soft flesh against his had him leaping into a world of chaos—a world of broken rules. But the reasons faded away as he kissed her, until the only thing left to feel was how desperately he wished to broach the distance currently separating their bodies.
“You are aware I am standing here, watching you, as is every other person in spying distance,” Poppy’s dry voice carried over to them again.
Reluctantly, Ambrose lifted his head.
“Why did you do that?” His wife breathed.
“Damned if I know,” Ambrose whispered back, out of breath.
And damned if he did.
Straightening, he carefully set her back on her feet. “Ladies, I’ll leave you to your ices,” he murmured, offering a small bow before walking back to his carriage.
Willow stared dazedly after her husband. She wasn’t at all certain she understood what had just happened. His presence had been unexpected and confusing. Then he’d swept her up in a soul-searching kiss. Which in itself was remarkable.
Not the act of kissing itself. No, they had done quite a bit of that lately. But the soul-searching aspect. They’d kissed tentatively, flirtatiously, seductively, and lustily before, but never like this. Never like their very lives depended on it.
But it had felt right.
Intrinsically right.
Day by day, moment by moment, Ambrose revealed greater and more intriguing depth to his character. Facets she found deeply appealing. Almost as if he was stepping back into the light, and suddenly, there were more dimensions present, ones she hadn’t imagined he possessed.
He was almost . . . delightful.
“Is he whistling a merry tune?” Poppy asked, the question jerking Willow back to reality.
“I believe he is,” Willow confirmed, having half convinced herself she had to be imagining the sound as Ambrose walked away.
“Well, I for one cannot believe he just kissed you and then walked off as if nothing happened. Are you still going to deny the man is doting on you?”
“Of course I am, because that was . . .”
Lovely. Enthralling. Deeply moving.
Something she wanted to do again.
Something she was sure she’d dreamed up in her mind.
“It’s worse than I first thought,” Poppy stepped up to her side, examining her flushed cheeks closely. “You are doting on him, too.”