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.Theydid. 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.
