Chapter 17
Willow wasnotdoting on her husband.
Poppy was wrong. Dead wrong. Doting implied she adored and worshiped the ground her husband walked upon. And that was not the case. Completely and utterly not the case.
Now, if doting had meant something along the lines of obsessed with or absorbed by him, which it did not, that would have been another matter entirely.
She entered the drawing room where Ambrose awaited her arrival a touch out of breath. They were dining together tonight. Alone. And her heart was beating a hundred beats per second at the mere thought of sitting across a table from him for hours.
Hours.
Her body exploded with heat at the thought. Well, it was time to test whether or not she was as flammable as she seemed.
Flammable she might very well be.
Doting she was not.
Slowing at the entrance of the drawing room, she found Ambrose standing at the window, gazing out into the night. She took a moment to admire the broad expanse of his shoulders. He made an imposing figure, dressed in cream breeches that hugged his powerful legs in a fashion that ought to be outlawed.
The temperature in the room soared.
Willow smoothed her hands over her evening dress of emerald silk, dragging in a tight breath.
Ambrose turned then, his eyes burning as they fixed on her. Intense. They are always so intense. Her chest expanded, and butterflies fluttered in her belly.
“You look lovely.”
“Thank you.” Gooseflesh prickled over her scalp. “I must admit, I was surprised to receive your invitation. You usually dine at the club.”
He inclined his head. “I thought to make up for missing the last one.”
“That is thoughtful of you,” she murmured, entering the room. “I hope I did not keep you waiting too long.”
He smiled lightly, his gaze falling to her lips. “A man is accustomed from a young age to wait on a lady.”
“I loathe waiting on anyone,” Willow admitted. “And I must confess . . . I’m perplexed . . .”
“By?” Amusement colored his voice.
“The Gallery. Gunter’s. Inviting me to dinner.Smiling. You do realize we fled the scene of vandalism?”
“I already reimbursed the Gallery with a generous amount and no charges will be pressed,” he drawled, his steady composure in clear contrast with the turmoil erupting inside her.
“Oh,” Willow said, mortified when her voice came out as a croak.
He chuckled, warm and rich, and the sound sent prickles along her spine. He held out his arm, his grin turning wolfish. “Are you ready?”
“I’m ready,” she murmured, placing her fingers on his sleeve.
That smile.
She found herself grinning back at him.
Excitement stirred within her, a hint of victory in its wake.Thiswas truly progress. And though she knew she should be focusing on convincing him to let her sister be, Willow found herself thrilled for reasons far beyond that. She wanted to get to know this man, understand him. She desired a more meaningful relationship. She didn’t want him to just be a means to an end any longer—a method to get with child. She wanted him to be her husband, in every way, to become her true family.
That did not mean she was doting on him.
He escorted her into the dining room and seated her at the table. A few candles flickered, not as many as she had lit before, but much more intimate.