Ambrose lifted his eyes to hers and sighed. She already knew about the clause, might as well reveal the part that prompted it. “I announced to my father I would never marry. He did not take it well.”
“Of course not, you were his heir.”
Ambrose nodded. “Yes, I was, but Jonathan could marry and supply the necessary heirs. However, my father objected.”
“Fiercely,” Jonathan agreed.
Ambrose cut his brother a look, before turning back to his wife. “Yes. My father claimed he hadn’t groomed me my entire life just for me to waste my birthright.”
“Let’s not forget the argument about howIwas the spare, and how I could not be relied upon to provide offspring before perishing, given my lifestyle, and no heirs to the St. Ives line meant the entire world would be doomed,” Jonathan joined in. “It was all very riveting.”
“There was that,” Ambrose agreed. Which, all things considered, had been a valid point. But after Celia’s death, he had wanted nothing to do with anything that could cost him his heart, so he had stood firm against his father.
“But why the aversion to marriage?” Willow asked. “You are a duke, providing an heir is one of your many duties.”
Ambrose hesitated. His aversion was based on his fear of losing another loved one—he’d never been in denial about that. But while his family, all except his father, had understood that, explaining it to his wife was altogether different, and he wasn’t sure this was the moment to do it—especially with Jonathan present to comment.
“There is no need to explain,” Willow suddenly said. Her soft whisper smoothed over him like an excellent year of cognac. “I think I understand.”
“You do?” Both him and Jonathan blurted at the same time.
“Your family suffered a painful loss when you lost your sister.”
Christ, how had she learned about Celia?
He supposed if she learned about the will, then learning about Celia wasn’t that much of a surprise. Her death was public knowledge, after all. Still, it somehow hurt to hear the truth of that statement in her voice.
“I’m truly sorry such a tragedy befell your family,” she continued further. “I'm sure your father just wished to secure your family's bloodline beyond the benefit of a doubt. You all dealt with the loss in different ways.”
Ambrose couldn’t answer, his heart in his throat.
“Well, I for one don’t think my brother married the wrong woman after all,” Jonathan said sipping his port. There was a roughness to his voice that hadn’t been there before.
“The wrong woman married me after the other one ran away,” Ambrose pointed out, drawing the topic away from the intensity that poured into the room.
He’d thought his wife long since retired when he entered his home after supper at the club. Had he known she’d still be up, he’d have sent his brother home. The last thing he wanted was for them to conspire behind his back. Or bond right before his eyes—like they were doing now.
“Yes, yes, and you are not a man that will let such a slight go, as evident from me being married off in revenge. You should work on your people skills, brother.”
Ambrose felt his jaw tighten.
“You will do your brother’s bidding, then?” Willow asked Jonathan, her eyes alight with interest.
“The answer to that, my dear,” Jonathan slanted a smile her way, “will depend on whether my brother is in the room with me or not.”
His wife laughed like it was the funniest bloody thing in the world. To Ambrose’s amazement, she did not press the issue. Instead, she smiled sweetly and asked, “Why, pray tell, did you not attend the wedding, Lord Jonathan?”
Ambrose turned to his brother and cocked a brow. “Yes, Jonathan, why did you not attend our wedding?”
“Ah, well, in an unfortunate set of circumstance, I was indisposed,” Jonathan said, a slight flush coloring his features.
Ambrose snorted, drawing their attention to him. He said nothing, only lifted his glass to sip on his port, waiting to see what his wife had to say. But she just arched a brow right back at him, taking a sip ofherport.
Ambrose felt his teeth grinding.
It was going to be a long night.
An hour later, Willow watched her brother-in-law bid his farewell, quite uncertain what to make of him. He looked nothing like her husband. His hair was a shade or two darker, his eyes a light brandy color, not as dark and intense as Ambrose’s. And his nose was slightly more crooked, as though it had once been broken.
