“I only meant—”
“I am well aware of what you meant,” she interrupted him. “I am leaving on the hour if my husband does not return. Who do you suppose will stop me? You, Benson? Will you tie me up and lock me in my room?”
“Of course not, Your Grace,” Benson said, looking affronted.
“I am pleased to note you are more intelligent than that.”
Turning on her heel, she stalked from the room, feeling somewhat like herself again.
She glanced down at the note clutched between her fingers, tangible proof of her husband’s beastly side. She recalled the look on Ambrose’s face when he’d revealed his childhood dream. How she wanted to kiss him right there in the gallery. And then, as if he knew her very soul, he had pulled her aside and kissed her. The world could have stopped at that moment and Willow would not have minded.
Willow balled her hands into small fists. Something hadshifted. At least, something had for her. And sure, the primary reason she’d married the duke was to get with child, and that goal hadn’t changed. But after glimpsing the carefree man her husband had once been, both while waltzing and in the Gallery, Willow wantedthatAmbrose to be her husband in all ways, too.
She wanted the beast and she wanted the prince. She wanted all of him. And since that fantasy had taken hold, it was impossible to shake. She wanted love. She wanted a real marriage. She wanted a child.
She wanted everything.
Ambrose tugged at his cravat, staring at the shut door of his wife’s chamber as though it was a hostile party. Benson had sent word that Willow had threatened to leave. He would never allow that. But it still set him on edge. She was his wife, and she was damn well staying with him.
He was only three minutes late. That did not keep his stomach from twisting into knots. Those minutes had, however, stalled him from entering her chamber. Willow did not make idle threats. And the only reason he hadn’t lost his cool was that the servants would have informed him the moment she left the residence.
Inside himself, somewhere beneath the light buzz of brandy, Ambrose searched for the cold, controlling counterpart that had served him well these past ten years. The one that would serve him well now in dealing with his wife. How bloody inconvenient that part of him was intolerably silent, leaving him with a horrific case of nerves.
He gave the cravat one last tug and entered.
The first thing that struck him was her scent. Remarkably sweet, the aroma of flowers tempted him to toss down his boxing gloves then and there. Not that he planned to spar with her. He did not fight. He ordered.
That said, perhaps sending a note forbidding her to leave hadn’t been wise. In fact, that had been Jonathan’s exact words. But after being soaked to the bone just hours before, she wished to go for ices? It was deuced irresponsible. She could catch a cold. Which could lead to inflammatory infection. Which could lead to infection of the lungs.
Nevertheless, he ought to have chosen his words with more care, especially after the morning they had shared—a morning that left his head spinning in all directions.
Then his brain deserted him and he’d penned a careless note.
He was a marvelous idiot, yes.
But did she have to bloody threaten to leave him?
For a man who thrived on control, he had lost all of his. It had been years since he allowed his emotions to take command of his actions. Then there was the question: Why had his wife married him? What secrets did his little duchess hold?
She faced the armoire when he entered, hands on her hips, brows pulled together in thought. His eyes missed no detail, from the suitcase at her feet to the dresses scattered over the bed and the low fire burning in the hearth.
Bloody hell, she reallywasleaving.
“You do realize,” he drawled, venturing further into the chamber, “there’s no place you can go where I cannot find you.”
She swung around to face him, anger flashing in the depth of those stormy blue eyes. Gone was the soft, powder blue he had come to expect from her—gone was the gentle pull of her mouth, replaced by a firm, unyielding line.
Her chin lifted a notch. “Thatremains to be seen.”
“If you are referring to your sister—that is different.”
“She still managed to slip through your fingers.”
“Again, not the same. There is no leaving me, love. I will never let you go,” Ambrose murmured, and when she slanted him a scathing look, he lifted his hands in surrender. “Not to mention I did not pin you as a woman who gave up so easily.”
“Oh? And what sort of woman did you take me for?”
“The sort that slayed arrogant dukes,” Ambrose said with the lift of his mouth.
