Chapter 22
Ambrose stared down at his sleeping wife in wondering fascination, tracing the side of her face with a gentle finger. The room was dark with only a few embers still illuminating the bed in a soft glow. He drew in a deep breath, inhaling the scent of her sweetness into his lungs. Her hair fanned over his shoulder where her head rested, soft and silky. She looked so sweet and innocent in her sleep; her beauty tore at his heart.
Ambrose hadn’t expected to find happiness or even a measure of joy in his marriage. And the truth was that he hadn’t tried all that hard. He had been nothing but a beast ever since he set out to find a wife, had thought only of himself and his resentment towards his father.
His wife’s words came to mind.Let it go already. . .Your father meant well in his own way.
His wife was right. Whatever Ambrose’s thoughts might be over the clause, his father’s intentions had come from a place in his heart. A strange place. But a place in that region, nonetheless.
In a way, Ambrose was much like the late duke, who had also valued structure and order. His heir was his heir. There was no spare for the spare. And yes, Ambrose had gone overboard with his sense of protection after Celia’s death, but he was working on that.
And even after all that, a miracle had still landed on his lap. A miracle within a miracle. A miracle that drew him in and slayed the beast inside him with every look.
That he felt happiness now scared the hell out of him. He was in a constant flustered state.
And the fact that he held her sister prisoner at the moment was deuced foolish. Yes, in a few short hours she’d be free, but he still felt like a royal bastard.
Maybe he should wake his wife and simply tell her now. He stroked his fingers through her silky strands, studying her face. She was sleeping so soundly, he couldn’t bear to wake her.
Only a few more hours.
He pressed a soft kiss to Willow’s temple, his lips lingering against her skin.
She might still be furious with him for not informing her sooner, but Ambrose was confident he could cross that bridge unscathed. After all, in the end, he’d done the right thing. His heart was in the right place. His heart was with her.
Closing his eyes, he savored this moment with her in his arms, and felt himself drifting off to sleep.
The sudden shout of a muffled voice from somewhere in the house snapped him back to alertness. He slowly pulled away from his wife.
Warning flared in his gut—trouble.
He planted a soft kiss on the tip of her nose before leaving the bed.
He barely cleared the chamber before the unmistakable boom of his name vibrated through the halls.
“St. Ives!”
“Get your rotten ass down here or I’ll tear this place apart,” the voice blustered.
“St. Ives!”
Ambrose quickened his steps, mindful that the shouts could wake Willow at any moment. Displeasure, annoyance, and anger consumed him all at once. Who the hell dared to enter his home in such a shockingly improper manner?
He halted in the center of the stairwell and could not believe his bloody eyes. The Marquis of Warton stood in the front hall, his eyes colliding with his like a flash of thunder. Warton was all but frothing at the mouth.
Had the world gone to hell?
“What the devil is the meaning of this?” Ambrose demanded. His voice cold and laced with steel.
Behind him the air shifted, the sweet scent alerting him to the arrival of his wife. Tension curled in his chest. He dared not look back at her.
“Where the hell is she?” Warton growled.
Ambrose stiffened. His heart thudded so hard a light whir began to ring in his ears.
Behind him, his wife gasped.
And in that gasp, he heard it. Willow knew. She’d known the whereabouts of her sister all along. Had known Warton was involved, too.
