Exactly like her prick of a brother, Leo Murphy.
“So, youcansee me.” He reached down to help her up, and she batted his hand away in annoyance.
Ambrose had the urge to pull her up, toss her over his knee, and spank Theodosia until she promised not to go around painting highly erotic,nakedminiatures of herself. A coil of arousal slipped around his legs as he thought of her plump bottom, bare, and her body spread across his legs. His hands on all that silken flesh.
“What are you doing here?” She floundered about a bit, bumping her elbow before standing as gracefully as possible. The luscious globes of her breasts rippled deliciously as she pulled herself upright.
Christ.He pushed the pads of his fingers against his thighs trying to still the sharp press of desire. The very second Theodosia had appeared on the terrace at Granby’s house party, tripping over a servant and bumping into a table, Ambrose had wanted her well before finding out she was a Barrington.
When he’d finally spied Theodosia sitting oh-so-primly in the park, paintbrush in hand—a scene he’d found blatantly sexual for some reason—Ambrose had forced his way into her presence. He’d lied and told her he was in the park to walk with Miss Emerson because it was better than mentioning he’d planned on compromising her.
But he hadn’t.
Compromising Theodosia on purpose, no matter Ambrose’s need for justice, had never sat well with him, though it would solve all his problems. Because had circumstances been different, and were she not so enamored of Blythe, Ambrose thought he might have courted her. Properly.
“I’m waiting for Blythe,” he informed her. “A private matter.”
Theodosia froze in front of him.
Ambrose watched the muted terror make its way across her lovely features. She wildly assumed his meeting with Blythe had something to do with the miniature which was searing a hole through his pocket. Ambrose did nothing to reassure her. What in the world would cause Theodosia to paint a scandalous miniature of herselfandgift it to Blythe? Why not just put an item in one of London’s gossip columns announcing they were lovers?
A rush of anger filled him at the thought of Theodosia and Blythe. At the very least, he assumed his friend had taken liberties with her. Honestly, was her brother, the fucking duke, just not paying attention to what his sister was up to? Or perhaps Averell, like his bastard brother, was too focused on stripping drunk, grief-stricken noblemen of their wealth.
“Did he say what he wished to discuss?” Her lower lip, luscious and begging to be pulled between his teeth, trembled. She glanced at the chair, then back at Ambrose. It took her longer than he expected to draw the likely conclusion. “You opened it.”
“I did.”
No more than a quarter-hour ago, Ambrose had come into the study and headed straight for the sideboard, sitting behind the desk. The annoying, mindless conversations he’d been subjected to in the other room, as well as Lady Blythe’s censure, demanded a moment of quiet before Blythe joined him. He’d seen the box sitting in the middle of the chair as he started to pour a scotch. Admittedly, it was bad form to open another’s gift. It was Blythe’s birthday, and the box was obviously meant for him, but Ambrose’s curiosity had won out.
Once he’d opened the box, staring at the contents while the clock ticked in the background, Ambrose had poured himself amuchhealthier portion of scotch. The freckles were a dead giveaway. And it was a bloody miniature. Something Theodosia Barrington was known to paint almost exclusively.
“You had no right to do such a thing.” The tops of her cheeks turned an alarming shade of red.
Nor did she have a right to present such a thing to Blythe. At least in Ambrose’s opinion, which was admittedly colored with more than a hint of possessiveness. Jealousy was such a complex emotion. Fraught with peril for all involved. Especially Theodosia.
“It’s exceptionally detailed.” His gaze traveled over her bosom. “Every curve andpeakclearly defined. You’re very talented.”
At the wordpeak, Theodosia’s luscious mouth popped open.
He couldn’t seem to tear his gaze from her lips. Rose-colored. Plump. Like tiny pillows. Ambrose still dreamt of her mouth, the way she’d surrendered to him so beautifully when he’d kissed her at the house party.
“You are easily recognized, my lady.” His forefinger reached out, gently tracing the spray of freckles above one breast. The pattern reminded Ambrose of the Corona Borealis,a constellation his father had once pointed out to him long ago, before Edmund Collingwood had become a miserable sot.
A slight arch of her back in his direction betrayed her before she stepped away.
Theodosia was a bloody magnificent creature, absurd and yet so beautiful. Clumsy yet graceful. Bold yet shy. Ambrose wanted so badly to touch his tongue to the line of freckles, taste the warm smell of lemon emanating from her skin, bite—
Theo’s hand shot out, disrupting his thoughts, her fingers wiggling beneath his nose. She was gulping deep breaths of air, agitated and annoyed at him, the tops of her breasts pushing against her bodice.
The movement fascinated Ambrose, especially because he now knew what lay beneath the silk.
“Haven,” she sputtered. “Give it back to me. Bad enough you took it upon yourself to open it. Gazed upon it. But it isn’t meant foryou. It wasn’t addressed toyou.” The color of her cheeks deepened further.
“In all fairness,” Ambrose replied as calmly as was possible with the object of his erotic imaginings standing before him, “it wasn’t addressed to Blythe either.” A strand of dark, silky hair fell from her coiffure and bounced against the rounded curve of one breast, teasing the spot where he knew her nipple must be.
Pink. Like the underside of a seashell.
His mouth went dry thinking of that partially hidden peak so artfully depicted on the miniature. Ambrose struggled to remember what he’d been saying. Finally, he said, “How was I to know it wasn’t meant for me? Or for Blythe’s butler, for that matter?”
