Where the hell was his brother when he needed him most? Now Ambrose had to deal with a treacherous little wife and a caterwauling mother on his own.
The dowager’s reaction would only fuel the gossip. She ought to know that weeping at such a time would cause rumors to rampage. Especially now when it was crucial to keep up appearances.
Ambrose shook his head, his mind spinning. He would deposit his wife in the waiting carriage and then he’d return for his mother.
But first.
“What is the meaning of this?” he hissed between clenched teeth in his wife’s ear.
“The meaning of what?” His bride countered, smiling at one of the guests.
“You know very well what I’m referring to.”
“Then you ought to have no trouble understanding the meaning of what just happened.”
“I understand a great deal. What I want to know is why I find myself married to you and not your sister.”
“I daresay you know the answer to that question as well.”
Was that censure he detected in her tone? Fromher?
Ambrose wanted to shake her. Growl. Kick something. Hard. Never in his life had he felt this rattled before. Not even when he had read the conditions of his father’s last words. Was this what marriage would always be like? Constantly angry? Forever swindledby one’s wife?
Once outside, he stiffly ushered her into their waiting carriage. He could hear his mother just behind them, and already his brain wove a tale of mothers and emotions and weddings. She was prone to dramatic behavior, after all. Everyone in London was aware of that.
A good number of guests had followed them out, along with the still-wailing dowager. He could hear them openly speculating about the bride. Somewhere off to the right, Ambrose heard the wordsheathen wedding swap, and he shot a glare that way. The guests shrunk back at his withering look, and he turned back to the carriage just as his bride cast his mother A Look.
The woman was brazen, all right. Whether that was a good or a bad thing would yet be determined. But she had spunk; it bled from her like water seeping through small cracks littered over a wall.
Of their own volition, Ambrose’s eyes dropped to her lips. His own began to tingle as he recalled their kiss. He wondered what his wife would make of it if she knew she’d been the first woman he had ever kissed in such a sensual manner. That he had only been with one woman his entire life—his former mistress—and they never kissed. At least not beyond the occasional peck on the temple or cheek.
That had been her one rule.
She had claimed kissing was an act more intimate than intercourse, and their arrangement was one for pleasure and not intimacy. Ambrose had left it at that. But that was then, and this was now.
Just then, his mother’s wailing suddenly stopped.
Ambrose frowned and swung around. Had his mother suddenly controlled herself? He doubted it.
What the bloody . . .
Surrounded by a circle of London’s worst gossips, his mother—in a heap of crumpled taffeta silk—lay sprawled in the dirt.
Hell.
