“What the hell does that mean?”
“Be nice to your wife, Your Grace,listento her wishes. Take her to the theatre.”
“Let me tell you something, Benson. Women are like bloodhounds. Once they sense any form of weakness, they’ll go straight for your throat. If I suddenly court my wife, she will smell blood in the water.”
And what did Benson know about being nice, anyway? Most of the time the man was as sour as an old bottle of wine. Besides, Willow knew she was not his chosen bride. She’d smell the insincerity of the action.
Therefore, he could not beniceto his wife.
Ten curses upon his father’s soul! He’d never be in this mess if it weren’t for his old man’s machinations.
There had been a moment, after he’d done everything in his power to contest the will, where he decided to hell with it, he did not need any of the unentailed land. He would restore the family coffers on his own.
But his father had been a clever bastard.
While Ambrose did not mind losing all that wealth and lands, he still had to think of his mother and brother. And in the event that Ambrose failed to marry, all that lands and wealth would be donated to a distant relative Ambrose had never even heard about. Meaning he’d have no funds to support his family. Meaning they’d suffer as he worked to build his wealth back up.
Ambrose would never allow that.
Yes, his father had been a clever bastard.
“Damn my father and his rotten hide,” he muttered, his words imbued with bitterness.
“The late duke meant well,” Benson said, though his words lacked conviction.
“You are still hanging on to that fairytale, Benson? The bastard meant to control me from his bloody grave.”
The irony wasn’t lost on him. He, Ambrose Brandon Jonathan Griffin, who sought to control all things, was controlled by a ghost.
“He controls you no longer, Your Grace. The requirement of the will was met. The late duke has no hold over you anymore.”
“But he won. He got what he wanted.”
“He only wins if you are miserable for the rest of your life, Your Grace. Your resentment towards him is what’s keeping his hold,” Benson reasoned. “Let go of that, find happiness and you win.”
“Only you would think that makes a wit of sense,” Ambrose muttered. Unfortunately, he suspected his valet might be right. His father hadn’t taken well to his announcement that Ambrose, his heir, planned to remain unwed and let the title pass on to the spare. Because the spare had no spare. And according to his father, he hadn’t spent Ambrose’s entire life preparing him for the ducal responsibilities just so he could toss it aside.
Their relationship had been strained ever since.
And since he’d caved to his father’s dictate, he’d been deserted at the altar, married the wrong woman, and was now at war with his wife.
“Your Grace has already taken the first step, even if your lordship doesn’t realize it yet.”
“And how is that?”
“You sent your mother to retire to the warm waters of Bath.”
“That hardly signifies anything, except to alleviate the strain on my nerves.”
“If Your Grace says so,” his valet murmured, a smile curving his lips.
“I do say so,” Ambrose growled, glaring at the man.
Impetuous valet. And damn outspoken. And an utter nuisance. Because now Ambrose was calling into question the reason he sent his mother away.No, Ambrose told himself. He was not. He sent his mother away to give them all the chance to adjust and for the dust to settle on any scandal.
“Then perhaps I may offer some advice, Your Grace?”
“Don’t let me hold you back.” Ambrose gnashed his teeth. “You never do.”
