Chapter 5
Boundaries. Rules. Limitations.
Ambrose thrived on them.
Required them.
A lack of them was what had gotten Celia, his sister, killed ten years ago. And Ambrose would never forgive himself for that. He ought to have taken better care of her. He ought to have done a great many things. But he could not change any of that now. He could, however, ensure that it never happened again.
Because Ambrose refused to suffer from the pain of such a loss again.
Ergo, rules.
Good, dependable, rules. Rules for a balanced, healthy life. Rules his wifewouldfollow even though she posed no threat to his heart. She posed other threats, such as driving him mad with her scent and occupying his mind, but not his heart.
He paced the length of his study.
Ambrose never paced.
But threat or no threat, she was part of his family and would be protected as such.
He pinched the bridge of his nose.
He still didn’t know his wife’s name.
“My dear,” “sweetheart,” and “honey” were what her family had called her all day, never her name. Ambrose could almost believe she had no name.
His head jerked up when Charles Middleton, his father-in-law, and Bradford Middleton, the Earl of Dashwood, entered his study. He motioned for them to take a seat.
“You are aware of your daughters’ actions,” Ambrose stated, getting to the point as he sank into the chair behind his desk.
“Hard to miss you marrying the wrong woman,” Dashwood drawled.
Ambrose glowered at him before turning to Charles Middleton. “Your daughter breached our betrothal contract.”
“My daughters have always been willful,” Charles Middleton said in way of agreement. Or apology. Ambrose wasn’t quite sure. “I fear I am to blame for that having indulged them their every whim.”
And yet there was no remorse in the man’s voice. Not a hint of regret.
“Of course, we will cover any sum of penalty you require,” Dashwood said in a business-like manner.
“I don’t want your money,” Ambrose growled. “I want you to honor the betrothal agreement—except now to my brother, Lord Jonathan.”
Both men stiffened.
“Forgive me, Your Grace, but if my daughter did not wish to marry you, she will not wish to wed Lord Jonathan,” Charles Middleton said, disapproval etched in his features.
“And yet she did wish to marry me, up until four minutes before the ceremony.”
“That does make one wonder, does it not?” Dashwood folded his arms across his chest. “What could have changed my cousin’s mind?”
Charles Middleton nodded in accord. “That it does.”
A rueful smile curved Ambrose’s lips. If they wanted to get a rise out of him, they would wait to eternity. “This is a matter of honor, not what your daughter desires.”
“As far as I am concerned, the betrothal agreement has been met,” Charles Middleton said. “You wished to marry my daughter and you have. Or am I to understand you have grown fond of Holly?”
“Holly was the name on the betrothal contract,” Ambrose said, deadpan.
