Chapter 10
“My wife has declared war, Benson,” Ambrose told his valet, who had been with him for the past twelve years. The man had never been afraid to voice his opinion, and over the years, Ambrose had come to value it.
“War, Your Grace?”
“Would you perhaps have a better word for what has transpired in this house?”
And perhaps the term warwasa bit overdramatic, but it certainly felt like he had marched straight into a battlefield.
For Christ’s sake, he had expected that when he set eyes on her this morning, all the pent-up anger over the wedding and his fury over her midnight rendezvous would tumble forth in an avalanche of rage.
But had that happened?
No. Instead, she had bloody floored him with her big, blue, innocent eyes and her rumpled hair. Most of his anger had fled at the sight of her beneath the crumpled sheets and was replaced by hot burning desire. The temptation to take her into his arms right then and there had been so great, his heart had nearly exploded from his chest.
The marriage was not going the way he had thought at all.
It was damned disturbing.
“She is new to your ways, Your Grace,” Benson agreed. “But I have every confidence in your lordship’s ability to court the duchess.”
Court? If Ambrose had ever learned to splutter, he’d be doing that now. “I have no reason to court my wife, Benson, hence the word wife.”
“It is my understanding, Your Grace, that all women wish to be courted, one way or another.”
“And it is my understanding that wives ought to do wifely things and not act out,” Ambrose muttered.
Why the hell had this happened to him? He should never have given Holly those rules before their wedding. But he had foolishly suffered a moment of guilt and had not wanted her to wed him without knowing who she was marrying. If only he had held his conscience in check for a few more days.
He thought he’d be gaining a wife that would be easy to protect, easy to ensure her health and safety. Instead, he’d gotten one that would fight him at every step he took to enforce that protection. Willow was strong, resistant, and, though Ambrose hadn’t thought it possible, just as stubborn as he.
More disturbing even, as he had looked down on her sleeping, waiting for her to awaken, he recalled every soft sigh she’d given at his touch, and a single question had popped into his mind:Did he even want to master his wife?
All he could damn well think about was whether forcing his rules on her would make her touches become less eager. Would her soft moans disappear altogether? Would she still respond to him with unbridled passion or would the fire in her eyes die along with her freedom of spirit?
The answer had set his heart leaping in his chest.
What the devil was wrong with him? He never reacted this way. He never second-guessed himself.
Control meant safety.
Safety meant life.
Safetymeant never feeling that loss again.
Then why did he fear a different kind of loss if he succeeded? Why did he feel so conflicted?
Because Celia might still be alive had she taken care of her health.
“It ought to be easy enough,” his valet was saying, tugging at his jacket, “to win the duchess over.”
“Win over my wife? Have you not heard a word I said? She has declared war. Battle lines have been drawn.”
“And how does a man win a battle with one’s wife,” Benson ventured, “if not by winning her over?”
“My wife is rebelling against me, Benson. She believes me a tyrant,” Ambrose pressed on. “Winning her over with hearts and roses is out of the question.”
“No need to trouble Your Grace with hearts and roses. Just let the duchess see your lordship in a different light. A softer one, perhaps. Less tyrannical.” He gave Ambrose a once over. “Though that may take some work.”
