Glaring at his back, she tossed a pillow at him, but it connected with the wall. The devil with him and his threats so nonchalantly declared! The man was a beast. An appealing beast, but a beast all the same.
And she was just the woman to tame him.
Ambrose cursed a string of foul oaths as he slammed the adjoining door shut. He was supposed to remain detached and stoic. He was supposed to be a master at it. What the hell, then, had happened? Where had all the years of control gone?
In the short time he’d spent with his wife, he’d felt desire, fury, possession, protectiveness, jealously, pleasure, and even—he couldn’t comprehend it—affection. He hadn’t actually thought she’d go through with the wedding night. He had gone to her chamber fully intending to disrobe and fully expecting her swift word that the marriage would not be annulled.
He wasn’t even sure why he had given her the choice, only that it seemed right. And yes, while he had meant for the marriage to be one of convenience, there had been nothing convenient about what had just happened. His world had been pushed over a ravine and was now careening down into some unknown abyss.
Never had he known such raw hunger for a woman. The anger that had burned inside him all day had transformed into wild lust the moment his wife faced him, eyes flashing with defiance, and declared she refused to follow his rules. And then she turned and asked him to unlace her.
The memory still burned against his skull.
With a groan, he fell back on the mattress, staring at the canopy of his bed. He had planned on treating his wife with detachment and distance. But tonight his control had snapped. Just snapped. As if it was nothing more than a thin piece of centuries old rope.
The thought rightly terrified him.
Ambrose needed the ever-present constant of what control provided in his life. Predictability. Routine. Not bloody surprises lurking around each corner. Or underneath petticoats.
He rose to his feet and sauntered over to the window, pulling another robe over his shoulders. The moon had slid behind a cloud, casting gloomy darkness over Mayfair. He lifted a trembling hand—trembling, for Christ’s sake—watching the moonlight play over his fingers with a scowl. If he had been in a mood to summon up any form of humor, he’d have laughed for being so unsettled over a woman.
Denial, however, was a waste of his time. Tonight had disturbed him. His wife disturbed him.
But he could not help his mind returning to the memory of how she’d come undone in his arms.
Confusion swamped him.
Why hadn’t that been enough? Didn’t that make a point about who was in charge?
It should’ve, but it hadn’t.
He hadn’t felt in control in the slightest. It was as if, on hearing her pleasure, on seeing her satisfaction, he panicked. And in his panic, he slammed his mask on and tossed out a challenge—said anything to prevent her from looking at him with affection, with hope.
And it had worked. Fury and shock had overtaken her softer emotions instantly.
But bloody hell. What was he getting himself into? He’d incited a war. War was notdetached.
A movement drew his attention to the shadows where a slight contour flitted over the garden. His eyes narrowed on the silhouette, certain he was hallucinating. But sure enough, a slender figure dashed over the lawn and down the street.
Everything inside him ceased to function.
His gaze ripped away from the window to his wife’s chamber and before he could even blink, he threw open the adjoining door. Rage exploded in him, throbbed at his temples. The bed was empty, as was the chamber.
His gaze swept to the open window. Anger choked him. Had the bloody woman been idiotic enough to climb down the window?
It was two stories up!
This,this, right here was why he required control in his life. Because once control slipped and the woman in your life ran rampant, nightmarish things happened. God only knows what she was up to—though he suspected it had to do with Holly Middleton. God knew whether she would be safe. He didn’t even know where she might have gone. He was powerless to protect her should trouble happen upon her.
How the hell was he supposed to manage an unmanageable wife?
Reason? Threaten? Command?Beg?
He stomped back into his room and sank down onto the bed to wait. His mind raced, considering what to do about his wife. Kissing her had been a huge mistake, and he could not repeat it. He had to keep his distance, remain detached. Detachment allowed him the best control.
So Ambrose waited and waited until he heard the tell-tale sound of the floorboards creaking, signaling her return. Only then did he let loose a breath and climb into bed, still no wiser as to how to handle the new Duchess of St. Ives.
