“I have those? I thought they all answered to you now?”
“If only I can bring my husband to heel, then my life would be complete.” She gave him a teasing look.
“And if only my wife would fear me.” He reached out to place his hand on the small of her back and dropped his voice. “She would read my rules and life would be so much simpler.”
“And spoil the suspense of discovering your beloved commandments from the utter vexation on your face when I break them? Surely not.”
He inhaled deeply and exhaled a rich, completely mesmerizing laugh. She stared at him, fascinated that such a melodious sound could come from him.
She moved on to the next portrait, deciding not to break the lighthearted mood that had settled over them. They gazed at the paintings in silence before Willow’s eyes landed on a portrait of two men who resembled each other. Brothers, most like.
She cast the duke another sidelong glance.
Dare she?
She might as well.It was impossible to say when he’d be in such a semi-charitable mood again.Her gaze returned to the portrait.
“You will not reconsider forcing a match between Holly and Jonathan?” she asked.
“You are finally asking me about your sister?”
His voice was soft, a mere murmur, but Willow detected nothing but amusement there. “She is your sister now, too. Just as Jonathan is my brother.”
“In-law,” he corrected. “Nevertheless, the brother you always wanted but never had, I suppose. What mischief will you and Jonathan get into, I wonder?”
“If he is anything like you, not much, I imagine.”
He raised a brow. “Will you not press me about your sister?”
Willow shrugged, her gaze locking with his. “I am easing into that conversation.”
He chuckled at that.
“Extremely unlike me, I’m aware, but given that I am bound to you,” she gave him a once over, “and your moods, till death do us part, prudence might be more fitting in this case.”
“Prudence, there is that word again.”
“I’ve grown quite fond of it since our nuptials.”
“Is that so?” he murmured, but a smile tugged at his lips as his gaze returned to the painting. “So you are not horrified at the prospect of until death do us part?”
“Horrified, no.” Oh, the look on his face. “After all, you did not respond with a pompous remark and that is what I call progress.”
When he stiffened suddenly, Willow’s senses went on high alert. She slanted him a glance. But he wasn’t looking at her or even aware of her probing gaze. She followed his line of vision to a woman standing a few yards to their right, viewing—quite arguably—the smallest portrait in the gallery. Her face was the embodiment of classic beauty: high cheekbones, plump lips, and porcelain skin. She had a wealth of sandy curls neatly pinned on her head.
Ambrose stared at her, frozen still.
“Ambrose?” Willow murmured, her voice soft with concern. “Do you know that woman?”
“I—” Ambrose shook his head. “No, she just reminded me of someone I once knew.”
Willow’s gaze fell on the girl once more and understanding dawned. Did the woman look like Ambrose’s sister, Celia? The sandy hair, her youth, and her delicate frame all matched the descriptions Willow had heard.
Willow was not sure what to do. She wanted to comfort him. Show him support. She recognized a man in pain, and despite their differences, she felt that ache right alongside him.
So she did the only thing she could think of to show him comfort: she entwined her fingers with his.
Ambrose swallowed, heart in his throat, and focussed on his wife, who was examining a painting of a woman in a pose of reversed adaption of the classical statue, theVenus de' Medici, her fingers weaved through his.
