Chapter 20
Ambrose sat behind his desk in his study and stared unseeingly at account books. There were numbers in them, which was as much as he could discern. The rest was gibberish. His eyes caught on one word: tenants. Yes, he had those. Tenants. Responsibilities. Estates to manage.
His gaze flicked to his disregarded cravat, carelessly cast aside over a stack of books, evidence his wife had been present not so long ago.
And what impact her presence had on him.
If desks could talk .. .
He looked over the ledgers again and sighed.
He could not even spare a thought to the people that relied on his quick-witted brain for their livelihood at the moment.
It was as if he was back at Cambridge again, staring cross-eyed at papers after a night of heavy drinking. Only today, he suffered no such after-effects. But he was drunk. Heavily intoxicated, in fact, walking around the halls of his home and over-imbibing on the scent of his wife.
His mind was filled with Willow, with images of her naked body writhing beneath him. And his mind had plenty of images to call upon. After their exploration in the library three nights ago, they’d since taken advantage of cloakrooms, darkened conservatories, and once, a linen closet.
And now,desks.
He couldn’t get enough of her. The way she returned every touch with the same enthusiasm overpowered him.
He wanted to marvel in those moments forever.
He never wanted them—or this—to end.
Which was why it came as a chilling blow that it would, indeed, end. Soon.
Twenty minutes ago, he had received word from his men that they’d found Holly Middleton and were returning her to London.
Bloody, bloody, bloody hell.
The timing could not have been worse.
He ought to be gloating. After all, he had been right—there was nowhere his wife, or anyone else, could go where he could not find them. He had won. This should have been a victory for him. And yet it did not feel like a victory.
What it felt like was a devastating loss.
Ambrose pushed the books away with disgust. The choice ought to have been easy. Demand justice for the slight against him. Regain control over the chaos Holly Middleton had caused. Show everyone that rules—that agreements—could not be broken without consequences. And there needed to be consequences or everyone did as they pleased. At which point, society crumbled.
His brother’s words came to mind:You got what you wanted—a wife.
Yes, he had gotten a wife. And technically he hadn’t been jilted or deserted. Some might argue no slight had been made. But it had. And his pride had sought justice for that slight, his honor had demanded it, and his need for control had pressed for it.
But now another word had wormed its way into his mind.
More.
He wanted more. More of Willow. More of her smiles. More of her touches. More of this life he’d glimpsed with her over the last week.
No more fear. No more rules. No more resentment.
A dangerous bloody word, that “more,” but it was also a word filled with promise.
Ambrose scowled down at the ill-fated letter he had tossed aside. How to deal with his sister-in-law?
Low and behold, as if fate had spoken, his brother sauntered into the room, his usual sunny self.
“Don’t you look all flustered and out of place,” Jonathan said, dropping into a chair. He stretched out his long legs and crossed them at the ankles. “Tell me it’s not your reluctant duchess that has darkened your mood so?”
