The door was locked?
Then, a moment later, realization sunk in. Had he just called her—
“Willow.”
There it was again, the soft purr of her name. Which rolling off his tongue sounded like sweet honey dripping from his lips when he pronounced it.
She shuddered.
And just like that, panic set in. What had she been thinking! She married her sister’s jilted betrothed to get with child! She’d lost her mind. Her reasoning was flawed. And how did she think that she would enjoy the consummation? She didn’t even know what it entailed! She belonged in Bedlam!
On instinct, she dashed to the bedroom door and yanked it open, resolved to hide away in the servant quarters or behind a curtain somewhere, just for the night, and bolted straight into a broad chest.
Strong arms circled her waist and crushed her against a hard frame while walking her back into the room. Her head tilted back to meet the dark, smoldering eyes of her husband, wicked amusement flashing in their surface.
“Going somewhere?”
She bit her bottom lip. “I, er, no, I . . .” Willow trailed off, breathless.
“Not running away from your husband, then?” he mocked. “It must be a family trait.”
“Of course not,” Willow scoffed, feeling more herself when her temper sparked.
He chuckled, setting her back on her feet, kicking the door shut. “Little liar.”
“I see you recalled my name?” Willow remarked, choosing to ignore his devilish expression.
“Indeed.” He smiled then, a look so dazzling she hastily backed away, nearly stumbling over a footstool. He reached out to steady her.
She blinked a few times to ensure she was not dreaming. Her husband stood in the centre of her chamber in nothing but a robe. Hewasa robe man. And she was acting like a nitwit at the sight of it. Which was why, of course, she said the first thing that popped into her brain, anything to keep her mind from the flush spreading up her neck and the quickening beat of her heart.
“Well,Ambrose, you ought to know, I will have at least three pieces of toast in the morning.”
For a moment, confusion shone in his features and then his eyes narrowed. “If you read the—”
“I did not read that pile of rubbish,” Willow motioned at the papers on her desk, “I heard this particularrulefrom my sister and I’m making it clear that I will not be following it.”
She stepped right up to him, daring him to contradict her. She could feel the heat coming off his body and struggled to ignore its beckoning. What sort of wanton creature was she? And the feelings he aroused in her just served to set fire to the glowing embers of her annoyance. She was feeling all sorts of things she ought not to feel. And yet for all her annoyance, she feltawakened.
His jaw tightened, but his mask of amusement did not slip.
“Willow, the rules are—”
“Preposterous, I imagine.”
“Stop interrupting me when I’m trying—”
“To say you agree with me?”
Finally, anger flashed across his features, cracking through his good-humor. She felt satisfaction trill through her.
“Deuce take it! I am trying to protect you,” he ground out.
She smiled up at him sweetly. “From toast?”
A low growl rumbled deep in his throat. It was her only warning. Hunger, starkly raw, flashed in his eyes before he brought his mouth down on hers. There was nothing gentle about the kiss, though nothing bruising. But it didn’t matter. Because the moment he touched her lips, flames lapped up her skin.
Everything she’d been holding back, everything she’d been fighting to ignore overwhelmed her. Fear, annoyance, guilt, and desire all poured out in the kiss. Their locked horns became something else as their tongues dueled. And she recalled that his purpose for being here, in her chamber, in this moment, was another one altogether different from negotiations over toast.
