Chapter 11
Ambrose was dreaming. That was the only explanation for finding a hundred lit candles glowing in his dining room. That was his first clue that it must be a dream—he did not even ownthatmany candles. And even if he did, he’d never light them all at once. It was a hazard—a fire begging to burst out. The second clue was the presence of his glowing wife—a sparkling diamond—who was covered in a deep plum gown of velvet silk and standing in the center of the room. She exhumed radiance. A picture of grace. A goddess bathed in brilliance. Ambrose could not tear his gaze away.
A dream, certainly.
“Ambrose,” she greeted him with a smile. “You are just in time. I was about to retire.”
He physically jolted at the sound of her sultry voice, which plunged him into reality. This wasn’t a dream. It was really bloody happening.
“In time for . . .” Ambrose hedged.
“Port.”
His gaze flicked to the table that had been set for two. One plate remained untouched. “I usually take dinner at the club.”
She nodded. “So I gathered, but nevertheless, you are in time for a glass of dessert.”
He crooked a brow, his eyes darting to all the candles again.
“The room lacked warmth,” she said as if reading his mind. But she could not possibly know what he was thinking. Because he was thinking of all the different ways the house could go up in flames.
Along with all the ways he might erupt into flames as well.
“Was it necessary to light a hundred candles?” Ambrose muttered, his brows snapping together. “Two or three candles would have sufficed.”
“It’s notthatmany,” she said, her gaze sweeping the room with delight. “It’s rather homely, do you not agree?”
No. Not homely. Dangerous.And if they did not accidently set the house on fire, then maybe he could enjoy the ambiance. Maybe. But not having the heart to erase her smile, he said, or rather grumbled, “I suppose.”
“Shall we . . .” she trailed off as her gaze drifted to a point beyond him.
Ambrose groaned.
“It’s blazing cold tonight,” his brother said, shouldering past him, shaking off his coat. Jonathan came up short when he spotted Willow. “Well, what do we have here?” Then his mouth spread into a wolfish grin. “You must be the lovely, famed duchess I’ve heard so much about.”
Ambrose had forgotten about his brother.
“You must have another duchess in mind,” Willow said, walking over to the nearby table to pour them each a glass of port. “I’m certainly not famed.”
“Then there’s another Duchess of St. Ives?” He sent Ambrose an amused look. “I’m not sure that’s legal, brother.”
Willow whipped around. “Wait,you’reLord Jonathan?”
“The resemblance is uncanny, right?”
“Not even a little bit.”
He accepted the glass of port from Willow and Ambrose did the same.
Jonathan cocked his head then, swirling the glass in his hand. “Though I imagine I bear little resemblance to your imaginings of me, generally speaking.”
“Imaginings?”
“Yes, the ones with horns and a tail.”
“And why would I imagine that?”
Jonathan shrugged. “I missed your wedding. Surely, I am a devil for that. I thought that would elicit some angry imaginings, at least.”
