“Tell me the plan again.”
Willow inhaled a fortifying breath. “Drive Ambrose to drink with silly words. Once he is passed out from whatever you laced it with, you will haul him up to my bedroom and bind him.”
“You’ve given orders to the servants to remain clear of your chambers?”
Willow nodded.
“Marvelous.”
“What if he doesn’t believe I’m sincere?” So many things could go wrong. She could lose her nerve, for one.
“Trust me.”
Willow gave Jonathan one last skeptical look before deciding to trust him. After all, no one knew Ambrose better than his brother. But she felt horrid for what she was about to do.
And then he was there, appearing in the doorway, handsome as sin and sculpted in stone. His gaze flicked between her and Jonathan before they narrowed.
“Am I interrupting?”
Willow smoothed her hands over her skirts. “No, I was—”
“Speak with your wife, Ambrose,” Jonathan interrupted with a distinct note of disapproval. “And do recall our last conversation.”
Willow flung her eyes to him. Every single line of Jonathan’s face etched in stony disapproval. Remarkable! This was not a side of him she had ever seen or imagined existed. He was such a happy fellow.
Ambrose bore his eyes down on her, and she swallowed.
“Er, yes, well, I would like to speak with you.”
Her husband arched a brow, entering. Jonathan gave a curt nod and strode from the room, not bothering to spare her so much as a parting good luck glance.
She squirmed, Ambrose’s hard eyes penetrating deep into her soul.You’re doing this for Holly, Willow reminded herself.Just think about her.
When she just hovered there, awkwardly intertwining her fingers, his brows furrowed.
“You wish to speak with me?”
Willow flushed at the mocking notes infused in his voice. It gave her the courage to hold her head high. “I wish to address the matter of our marriage.”
Her palms were sweaty. Perspiration beat at her brow. If she were the swooning type, she’d be sprawled on the floor already.
“What about it?” He leaned casually against his desk, his arms crossing over his chest.
Lord, the man could be so infuriatingly composed at times. Anger sparked low in her belly.
“I want a separation.”
He stared at her—unblinking—for a torturous moment before he stalked over to the decanter and poured two glasses of brandy. Jonathan had been right. Willow just hoped Ambrose swallowed his in one breath. Then, perhaps, she might not have to go any further with this charade. She was a terrible actress.
For a moment he said nothing, handing her a glass and taking a healthy swallow of his own, his gaze brooding.
Willow bit the inside of her lip to keep from blurting out something inappropriate. She took a small sip, merely touching the liquid to the tip of her tongue, really, and sank down in one of the armchairs. He mimicked her, settling in an opposite chair.
Heavens! She hoped he did not mimic her drinking progress or their plan was doomed.
“This arrangement—” she began.
“Marriage,” he snapped, swallowing the entire glass and then jumping up to refill it. This time, he remained standing, so Willow stood as well, turning to him.
