“I suppose,” Willow murmured, feeling concern creep up on her. Was Poppy lonely? She studied her sister over her ice. “Are you certain you are alright?”
“Of course, why should I not be?” Poppy inquired.
Willow shook her head, and was about to question Poppy further when her sister said, “I say, is that not your husband over yonder?”
Willow whirled around so fast her ice slipped from her fingers. It took two seconds to scan the streets before her eyes landed on the tall figure crossing the square toward them. Their eyes locked. The impact was so strong the air rushed from her lungs.
“What on earth is he doing here?” Poppy asked, perplexed. “I thought this was supposed to be a private sisterly outing.”
“I have no idea,” Willow murmured, appreciating the fine form of his gait as he marched over to them. “But we are about to find out.”
Ambrose stood shadowed by his carriage, cloaked in a jacket and top hat, his brows drawn together in a fierce scowl as he stared at his wife. The scowl, it should be noted, was meant for him and not his wife.
He made no move to interfere with her rendezvous, but listened to her laughter, such a sparkling sound it made his chest ache. He didn’t know why he had followed her. He surely hadn’t intended to stalk her. But he had been restless after she’d gone, and before he knew what was happening, he found himself across the street from Gunter’s.
She was safe and sound.
He had thought that. . . What had he thought? That she would not return home? That Holly would join them? Or that she’d be exhibiting signs of illness from being soaked earlier that day?
With a curse, Ambrose drew a hand through his hair.
What was he doing? Account ledgers, estate matters, and parliament, those were important things. Spying on his wife? What trouble could she get into going for ices?
Ambrose shook his head.
He told himself he had followed her because there were too many elements beyond his control for his liking.
Bollocks.
He had followed her because he was obsessed. Plain. Simple. Bloody annoying. How can a damn man of his station be so obsessed with his wife? Her presence. Her scent. Her lips. It was ludicrous.
Who chased after their wife? This was the most powerless he’d been in ten years. When had he last spun so far away from the center of his axis?
Ah yes, his wedding.
And the night he kissed his wife outside her chamber.
Let’s not forget this morning.
Right now, this very moment.
But the indisputable fact remained—his world had been thrown into chaos by his ex-fiancé.
But Ambrose had made his demands to his father-in-law and soon Holly would resurface. It would all come together, and his honor would be restored. Why, then, did he feel like he was sinking into a bog?
It was deuced easy to forget his goal—and how he had been slighted—when confronted with Willow’s wide innocent eyes, the sweet taste of her tongue on his. And last night, his wife had the audacity to invade the sanctity of his dreams. Even now, he could think of nothing else but how her gown perfectly accentuated the rise of her breasts. It was impossible to forget the slope of her sensual hips, the perfection of her legs.
Clearly, his control had gone up in flames the moment he’d married the wench.
It was time to take back that control.
He crossed the street. Her sister noticed him first, and moments later, Willow spun around, eyes widening, cheeks flushing a pretty pink. She was staring at him in a way that made him rock hard.
He flashed his teeth—a smile meant to disorientate. She looked startled for a moment and then she stepped forward—directly onto a root. A stifled scream tore from her throat as she lost her balance.
Without thinking, Ambrose leapt forward, his arms reaching out to circle her waist, catching her in a dip.
The heat from her body seeped into his skin, and he was aware of every rise and fall of her chest. Their gazes touched, held, and neither made a move to part.
