Chapter 25
“I cannot believe I’m the last unmarried Middleton heathen,” Poppy declared, snatching a lemon cake off a tray from a passing footman.
“We are not heathens,” Willow corrected, contemplating the stairwell with interest. “We are just prone to trouble.”
Poppy followed her gaze. “What do you think they are doing up there?”
“Talking,” Willow murmured, a slight blush staining her cheeks.
“Talking? That’s what Holly said.” Poppy cut her a skeptical look. “Is that why we are blocking the stairwell?”
“We are ensuring their privacy so that they can discuss whatever matters they are . . . discussing.”
“Yes, yes, if kisses were words . . . they have been talking a long time.”
Well over an hour, to be exact.
Warton had carried her sister up the stairs after a passionate kiss over an hour ago and they had yet to reappear. And they were not talking. Of that Willow was certain.
It had been a blast catching up with her sisters. Like old times. They discovered that three of the duke’s lackeys had captured Holly and brought her back. Fortunately, Holly had been treated well, except for a minor incident with a horse, or Willow would have been tempted to leave Ambrose tied up indefinitely.
Speaking of her husband, while staying at Belle’s had been wonderful, Willow missed her home . . . and her surly husband.
Again and again, those blasted sheets of white paper filled her mind. His half-muttered confession. What was she to make of it all? Had it truly sounded as if he was trying to tell her he had planned to let her sister go all along or was that just her imagination wishing for it to be the case? Was there more to the story than she was aware? Her mind was a puddle of confusion.
And as if the situation wasn’t complicated enough, she definitely loved the blasted man.
A twinge of guilt pinched her heart at leaving him tied up and locked in a room for the entire night—until she reminded herself that he deserved every bit of that time to think about his actions.
“I’m sure they will be down shortly,” Willow said, snapping out of her thoughts.
“Perhaps I shall meet my future husband today,” Poppy murmured. “Would that not be splendid?”
“There are no guests at the wedding, only family,” Willow pointed out.
“There is the delectable Mr. Marcus Hunt,” Poppy pointed out with a wistful smile. “Bow Street Runner extraordinaire.”
“And he is much too smart to fall for your tricks.”
Poppy laughed. “You may be right,” she said. Thunder rolled in the distance. “At least we saved the cake. Do you think Holly will mind a wedding in the drawing room?”
“I doubt the bride or groom will notice,” Willow mused.
The front door was suddenly flung open, and a man stepped through. He was tall, soaked to the bone, and handsome as sin. Leaves rustled in alongside his boots as he stepped over the threshold, his eyes instantly landing on her.
Willow stared at Ambrose in outright amazement. Drops of rain coated his hair and face. He wore no cravat, and his shirt gaped open at his chest. He looked wild. Predatory.
The tiny hairs on her nape leaped to life.
“Is that not your husband?” Poppy asked. “I thought you said you tied him up.”
She did. They did. But no words formed on her tongue.
“Is this going to turn into one of those disasters you only read about in the papers?” Poppy whispered from the corner of her mouth.
Maybe. Probably. Lord, Willow prayed not.
Her pulse leaped in her throat. There was a sudden sting in her breast and she felt heat gather at her core. His gaze cut right through her until she feared her knees might give out. His eyes were focused and unblinking, locked onto her as he walked over to them.
“Willow.”
She inhaled sharply. Her breath froze in her lungs. His voice was pitched so low it found its way beneath her skin, sliding into her bloodstream.
Gooseflesh spread all over her body.
“How did you . . .” Her lips parted and shut again. “Where did you . . . I . . .”
“Is there a question in there, love?”
To her astonishment, amusement colored his voice. Was he laughing at her? Had he just called her “love”? After they had drugged him and tied him up? She cast Poppy a perplexing look, who, in return, lifted her shoulders in a careless shrug.
“You’re too late, St. Ives,” Poppy piped up when Willow failed to speak. “My sister and Warton are reunited, and I daresay wild horses could not drag those two away from each other.”
“I see. Am I too late for cake then, too?”
“Excuse me?” Willow croaked, at last finding her voice. “Cake?”
A smile tugged at his lips. “I’m quite famished, having been tied down to my bed for an entire night. The experience has made me fancy a slice of cake.” His eyes swept over the rushing servants. “Wedding cake, I presume?”
Willow blinked up at her husband. Ambrose, her stoic imperious duke, was casually talking about cake as if he hadn’t been tied up for an entire night. Was this a trick? He sounded so amendable.
“Is there some place we can talk?” he suddenly asked. “Or do you wish to hash this out before an audience?”
Willow cast a brief glance at Poppy who looked much too intrigued for her liking. “No, let’s go . . .” Her eyes swept the hall for a spot of privacy.
“Home?” Ambrose suggested. “I, for one, would not mind settling this in the privacy of our bed.”
Poppy made a gurgling sound.
Color swept up Willow’s neck to her cheeks. “What? You . . . That . . . No.” Willow glanced around uncertainly.
“Then shall we stay and enjoy the wedding with your family first?”
Willow’s head jerked back to him, reading only sincerity in his obsidian eyes. “You want to stay for the wedding?”
He shrugged. “Why not?”
“I’m missing something here, aren’t I?” Poppy said.
Willow paid her sister no mind. “Why are you behaving like this?” she asked, her eyes darting to Lord Jonathan, who had suddenly entered the hall from the drawing room.
“Like what?”
Willow met her husband’s gaze and motioned at his person. “Amused. Happy. Humorous. Not like yourself.”
“I am more myself at this moment than I’ve been in the last ten years, love.”
“And why are you calling me ‘love’?” she asked with a skeptical scowl. “I tied you up and you aren’t even angry?”
“And he’s smiling,” Poppy remarked. “It’s making my skin crawl. Downright scary.”
“I only wish to talk,” Ambrose insisted. “I mean no trouble.”
“And about what do you wish to talk?” Willow challenged.
“My feelings. Apparently, believe it or not, I have a ton of those,” Ambrose said, his eyes never leaving hers.
“You do?” Willow blurted. She hadn’t meant to sound so surprised, but merciful heavens, he’d said the word feelings.
“Of course, I believe it’s the nature of humans to have those.”
“You’re human?” Poppy muttered.
Willow shook her head. “I meant . . . What I meant is that you have them—feelings—for me?”
“Of course. Is that not clear by now? I will say that I never expected you to drug me and tie me up, though I should have, I suppose. You hail from the Middleton bloodline, after all.”
“You . . . you . . .” Willow spluttered, staring at him wide-eyed.
“Orchestrated this,” Poppy finished in awe. “He orchestrated it all.”
“I did no such thing,” Ambrose denied.
“But you let us free my sister, knowing some sort of rescue would be underway.” Willow’s brows narrowed speculatively. “Why?”
“Madness, mostly, but I suppose that’s to be expected when one falls in love with one’s wife and has to find a way to prove it to her.”
Jonathan’s laughter crackled through the air. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
Willow sucked in a breath, her eyes glued to his. The lines of his face were cut deep, but the hard edge to his features was gone. Lord, had he just told her he loved her? The brandy and sleeping draught must still be in effect. That’s it. He couldn’t possibly have said that.
“Then why did you not call off your henchman?” Willow demanded.
“I was too late.”
“And when you learned they found Holly? Why not let her go then?”
“I planned on releasing her, but Warton ruined the surprise.”
“Surprise?”
Ambrose nodded. “I planned on letting her go that very morning. You were supposed to enter the dining room, feast spread out, your sister smiling at the table.”
Willow swore she felt her heart melt there and then. “Why did you not tell me then?”
He took a step forward. “I froze, love, and behaved like an ass. I truly never meant for it to go this far.”
“You still could have told me,” Willow said in a small whisper, her heart pumping madly.
“Would you have believed my sincerity? That I had decided to let go of any grievance before my men found her? Before Warton barged in and yelled bloody murder?”
“I . . .” Would she have? Perhaps not. No, definitely not. She’d never have believed him, not in that moment—for why hold Holly without telling her if he decided not to go through with his plan?
As if sensing her thoughts, he added, “It all happened so fast, much faster than I expected, and before I knew it, I had your sister tucked away and no damn clue what to do with her. Then Warton ruined my plan. It was supposed to be romantic.”
“So you sat back and did nothing?” Poppy asked, looking more fascinated by their conversation than she ought to.
Honestly.
Ambrose nodded. “I knew, for me to convince Willow of my sincerity, I had to give up the reins and let her do what she does best. Which, in this case, would mean rallying the troops and liberating your sister.”
“Which happened,” Willow murmured, inhaling the earthy scent of her husband—he smelled of tobacco and rain. She allowed it to fill her senses, to wash away the doubt that clenched around her bones. But first, she had to make sure . . . “So you were not planning on forcing a match between my sister and your brother?”
He shook his head, staring at her with those dark, intense eyes. “I’ve recently come to appreciate the word more.”
More.
She knew the feeling tied to that word well.
Willow felt a smile spreading across her face. “You shall have to tell me about this word and how you have come to appreciate it.”
The corners of his mouth lifted. “I am looking forward to doing just that.”
“Wait a minute,” Poppy interrupted their spell. “Can we please revisit the part where a husband falls in love with his wife and all that?”
“Oh!” Willow exclaimed. “I’d like to revisit that too.”
“Was I not clear enough?” Ambrose asked. A grin broke out on his face.
“Not nearly clear enough,” Willow proclaimed.
“Then I shall be clearer,” he murmured and dropped his head to take her mouth in an achingly sweet kiss. A kiss that conveyed much more than words.
He lifted his head slowly, his eyes burning into hers. “I love you.”
Willow sighed, content. “I might have gathered as much.”
He arched a brow. “You did?”
“Your set of rules, I read them. But honestly, Ambrose,” Willow teased. “I haven’t a clue how to read blank pages.”
“I’ll help you. They read: My heart belongs to you, and always will.”
Suddenly, it was hard to breathe. It felt like her heart would simply explode right there on the stairs. Sweet Mary. Her husband truly loved her. He had given up his rules for her.
How was she supposed to respond to that? This was no small thing. Of course she loved him back. And now that he’d told her the truth of what happened with Holly, now that he’d given up his rules, there was nothing to hold her back from flying into his arms.
“Do you love me, Willow?” he asked when she only stared at him, at a loss for words.
“Of course she does!” Poppy exclaimed with exaggeration. “It’s the most obvious thing in the world.”
“Botheration, Poppy! Must you be so forward!” Willow chastised, though she nevertheless found herself grinning up at Ambrose. “But she might be right.”
“What the hell is going on here?” Dashwood thundered, filing into the hall, along with the rest of her family.
Another botheration!
A low growl deep in Ambrose’s chest was the only warning she received before she was swung up in her husband’s arms, him ascending the stairs two at a time.
“Where the hell is the bride and groom?” Dashwood snapped behind them. “And where are those two rushing off to in such a hurry?”
“Take the third room to the left,” Poppy called out after them, her laughter following them up the stairs.