“Women are rarely practical when it comes to men and marriage.”
“My wife is an exception. She. . .” His eyes jumped to his brother.
Absolutely had another motive.
Willow might not be as impractical as Holly but she was a Middleton. Their actions were never simply straightforward in his experience.
“Bloody hell.”
Jonathan’s teeth flashed. “Putting it together, are you?”
Ambrose muttered a curse. He’d not give him the satisfaction of his panic. He wanted his wife more than he wanted to breathe in some moments, and he didn’t even know her driving motivation for marrying him. He, who prided control, was playing with unpredictable fire. More worryingly, he wasn’t sure that learning her true motive for marrying him—no matter what it may be—would even affect his desire for her at all.
That should terrify him.
It did terrify him.
But he had a feeling it wasn’t going to stop his pursuit in the least, regardless of the danger. He wanted more of her, full stop.
Ambrose glanced at his younger brother, considering him. “Why haven’t you declared your refusal to wed Miss Middleton, eh? Are you not supposed to be up in arms, refusing to wed the woman who deserted me?”
“I wager half my savings that Miss Middleton will continue to evade your clutches,” Jonathan’s eyes crinkled, and his lips pulled into a smile, “allowing me to be merely entertained by it all.”
“And if she doesn’t evade my proverbial clutches?”
“I’d wager the other half on your wife.”
“My wife?”
Jonathan gave an imperceptible nod. “To convince you otherwise.”
“And if I don’t give in?”
“Then I suppose I shall run away and live the rest of my days in destitution.”
“Whose side are you on?” Ambrose demanded, setting his cards aside.
“You are trying to marry me off like a mother hen, Ambrose, and for no good reason, so I’m not on yours.” Jonathan leaned back in his chair. “Perhaps it is time for you to decide, dear brother, what is more important to you: satisfaction for the slight against you—and let me remind you, I’m a key part of that devilish plot—or your wife, who will most certainly square the accounts should you succeed.”
Ambrose met his brother’s gaze.
“Do you want your wife raining hell on you for the next fifty years or do you want to finally let go of ten years’ worth of guilt and fear?”
Well, when his brother put it like that . . . it was most irritating.
Ambrose rubbed the bridge of his nose.
He hadn’t given thought to what his wife might do, hadn’t considered she’d exact her own brand of justice on him. But now that he thought about it, there was never any question—she’d call for his head.
That didn’t align with his single most desire at all.
Damnation.
Holly Middleton had thrown his world on its axis. She’d slipped from his fingers and Willow, who didn’t tolerate his demands, had walked into it. He was losing control by the hour. Did he simply want Holly Middleton forced to his bidding to regain a modicum of control? Or just pride.
He didn’t know.
And he didn’t know if he could let it go.
But he did know one additional fact at the end of this conversation. A truth that had the added advantage of delaying this particular debate a little longer.
He knew why he married his wife.
Now he wanted to know why the hell she had married him.
