And after, when it became apparent his wife would never lift the damn lace from her face, he reached out and lifted the thing, already knowing, but still praying, he was wrong.
He wasn’t.
Sky-blue eyes stared up at him, set in a face that didn’t belong to his betrothed. Astonishment engulfed him even though deep down he’d known. The emotion was so unexpected he had no time to school his features from the shock.
His mask slipped.
For one, gut-wrenching moment, Ambrose felt exposed, as though she,thisMiss Middleton, could see straight through his purposely erected armor.
Fury began to unfold in the inner reaches of his heart.
Ambrose had been deceived.
Outwitted.
Jilted.
He dropped a curtain over any emotion, pushed down his disbelief. In its place rage churned, retaliation beckoned.
A tiny part of him, a sliver of thought really, wondered whether it mattered. He was married. His father’s will was met. Perhaps he should leave it be. But that was only a fleeting moment of weakness. It bloody well did matter. It was a matter of principle. And pride. He was a Duke. Powerful. And he had been tricked. He had been weighed and found wanting by Holly bloody Middleton. On the day of their wedding.
He would not stand for it!
Ambrose noted with some measure of satisfaction that a flush crept across his bride’s cheeks as she recognized his anger.
This Middleton possessed some sense.
Ambrose ignored the rising chatter of the guests. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see some of their heads bent low, attempting to piece together whether they had gotten the details of the wedding wrong. But Ambrose knew what the invitation read. He had written the lines himself. This would turn into a nightmare if he did not put a stop to it right this moment.
So he did the only thing that came to mind.
He lowered his head and kissed the bride.
At first, he felt her hand rest against his chest and half-heartedly push, but he did not stir. Before the entire Church, before their family, before God, he claimed her as his. She and her sister might have tricked him, but over his dead body would he allow thetonto question their union. The kiss made his position clear—she was his chosen bride.
Then she breathed a soft note of peppermint into him and Ambrose found himself knocked off balance. The delicate curve of her lips softened beneath his and the sensation hit him like a ton of bricks.
He felt her grip his lapel in response to his tongue grazing along her lower lips. She was holding onto him, pulling him closer. But even her sultry, pliant mouth wasn’t truly what caused his heart to hammer in his chest. It was the sweet flavor of the fragrance mixed on her skin, the light notes of jasmine that elevated him to heaven.
A throat clearing broke the spell and Ambrose pulled away from her. Bewilderment swamped him. He glared down into equally dazed cerulean eyes with grim displeasure.
So the kiss had stirred her too? Well, he would pretend his lips didn’t burn at the loss of contact. But he did intend to warn her that there would be no backing away from this commitment, no running like her sister, so he leaned forward and whisperedwifein her ear.
The word sent a zap of something sharp through him. He pushed the unruly feeling aside. What he needed to do was gather his wits to salvage the situation, not feel unfamiliar sensations.
Ambrose turned away and swiftly signed the registry and waited for his wife to do the same.
Done. It was done.
He offered his arm, keeping his features cool, not daring to betray how much she or that kiss had disturbed him. He strolled past all the curious stares, back straight and head held high like he wasn’t a duke that had just been duped.
Wouldn’t that make for a grand title in the gossip rags?
In truth, Ambrose was on the verge of exploding. Only those who knew him well would recognize his rigid posture for what it was: fury. And he was furious. But these people, this flock of vultures, would see nothing but an arrogant duke.
Ambrose cringed at the familiar wail of his mother.
Not bloody now.
