“Your word,” Ambrose murmured. The man might be madder than Ambrose himself. “And you will incur my wrath over the word you gave a woman who left me, a duke, at his wedding?”
His wife made a gurgling sound in the back of her throat.
Fine, he knew he was an arrogant bastard. But he wasn’t in a charitable mood. His wife was nearly lost to him and it was all Warton’s damn fault. He knew that it would be a miserable path ahead to redemption and that he placed squarely on Warton’s head. It was easier than feeling the keen regret of not telling Willow about Holly hours ago—the moment he’d made the decision to let Holly go.
“I am no more afraid of you than I am of a rat,” Warton growled. “To me, her importance has never been in doubt. And let us not forget, you asked her to marry you under false pretenses.”
“A mistake.”
“You’ve made many of those, I see.” Ambrose stiffened when Warton’s gaze flicked to Willow. Bastard. “Hand her over, St. Ives. I will not ask again. I don’t give a damn about you or your supposed wrath. It is paltry against what you will experience if you incur mine.”
“I am the Duke of St. Ives, Warton. Do not forget it.”
“A duke. A bastard. It’s all the same to me. You speak as though you are untouchable, but are you? A man whose pride is so easily wounded that he keeps young women locked away as retribution? I tell you this: you might have Miss Middleton now, and you might even believe that you will marry her off to your brother, but that marriage will happen over my rotting carcass. You take my word for it.”
Well, it was apparent that Warton loved the chit. It did not soften Ambrose’s current fury towards him, however.
Ah yes, what was the beast’s next line?
“She humiliated my family name.”
“I don’t give a damn. You already have one Middleton to make miserable for the rest of her life. I’ll be damned if you take another.”
Warton shot him one last glare before he turned and marched from the residence.
“I am not an enemy you want, Warton,” Ambrose called out.
“Neither am I, St. Ives,” Warton barked over his shoulder.
Ambrose watched Warton’s retreating back, his breathing harsh.
“I can’t believe you’re holding my sister hostage while sharing my bed.”
Ambrose turned to face his wife, but she was already ascending the stairs at a brisk pace, away from him.
For the first time in more years than he cared to admit, Ambrose had found something special, too special to let go. Willow made him feel things he’d never thought he’d ever come to feel. And he wasn’t about to lose that.
He’d damn well slit his throat before he let that happen.
Unfortunately, what he needed to do was nearly as difficult.
