“I am a known conjurer.”
“Ah yes, you thought my brother a monster.” He leaned in closer. “What else are you known for?”
“Whimsical notions?”
“Now that I find hard to believe.” His eyes gleamed.
“Because I haven’t fallen at your feet?” Willow suggested.
“I’m somewhat a legend in that regard, so it is most exasperating.”
“I’ll just bet, it must frustrate you so that your wife is an unmanageable heathen.”
He pulled her closer and immediately heat bloomed, beckoning, enticing. Then he whispered five little evocative words that wrapped around her like silk.
“Less and less each day.”
Ambrose had lost his mind. There was no perhaps about it. He was dancing, bloodydancing—something he never did—with his wife. Never mind the madness that had besieged him last night. But he’d decided not to dwell on that—overmuch—but who was he fooling? He thought about her every second of his day. And that was nothing compared to his hot and steamy dreams.
Which brought him back to the present. Why was he dancing? Because the waltz had struck up and he had this absurd desire to see a flush of desire on her skin again.
He resisted the urge to snort at himself.
Ambrose ought to be more concerned about the sudden flush he was feeling.
And then he’d mentioned Celia, a topic he never talked about. Ever. This was all Benson’s fault for planting ideas in his head. He should not have allowed the seeds of his valet’s words, of all people, to grow in his mind. As always, he hadn’t intended to dance and as always, he did the complete opposite. Now she was in his arms, smiling up at him. And the worst part—he didn’t want to stop dancing.
She intrigued him.
She challenged him.
She made him question himself.
Had he known waltzing with her would cause such a reaction in him, he’d never have asked. He’d wanted to seeherdesire for him, not go mad with desire himself.
So far, she had been a model duchess, holding her head high in the wake of all the stares and whispered speculation. He knew—or at least, strongly suspected—she hadn’t read his rules. The radiant light sparkling in her eyes burned too bright. And like a fool, he found himself not wanting to do anything to diminish it.
More absurd sentiments.
His rules were in place for a reason. They werenecessary. So why then, did he appear to waver in his resolve?
She disorientated him, that’s why.
“You must have been the most proper youth in the kingdom,” she murmured, drawing him from his thoughts.
“I would not venture so far as to say that.” He had been quite the rascal growing up. Carefree even. Before . . . He hardened his mask. He had to keep his mind focused. “That was a long time ago.”
“I have always wanted a brother. We’d have had a smashing time.”
Her features lit up for a moment. Indeed, he could very well imagine her getting into all sorts of trouble with a brother at her side: riding bareback on horses, chasing each other in the field, and lighting firesin the conservatory. Smashing, however, was not the word he would’ve used. Incorrigible, perhaps.
Ambrose was suddenly struck by how much his wife reminded him of Celia. She had been just as full of life as Willow.
A disconcerting thought.
Alarming, really.
His shoulders stiffened, and his back snapped straight. He did not want to see the goodness, the once vibrant light that had shown in his sister’s eyes, in his wife. It disarmed him. And that was dangerous. It would lead to a lack of rules, a lack of control, and eventually a lack of light. Just like Celia.
