“She is all right, boy,” Ambrose said, patting him gently on the shoulder as he tended to her.
Imogen, shivering violently and coughing up a bit of lake water, immediately reached out for the child once she came to.
“No! Oh no, Philip,” she panted, her voice raspy but gentle. She pulled the boy closely into a wet embrace. “I’m quite all right. Just a bit… more aquatic than I intended to be for today’s lesson. I fear I am now one of the reeds.”
“I was running,” Philip cried, burying his face in her damp shoulder. “It’s my fault. I’m sorry, Miss Lewis. Please don’t go away. I wasn’t trying to disobey; I was just having fun and we?——”
“Oh, darling, look at me.” She pulled back, cupping his face with wet hands. “It was an accident. The stone was slippery. I’m not going anywhere; do you hear me? Not for a bit of water, not for anything. There is nothing you could do to make me leave you, sweet boy.”
She turned, still shivering, toward the man standing beside her. “And thank you, Your Grace. For… for getting me out of the water.”
The words died in her throat. She was too overwhelmed by having almost died to process how she felt having been so close to a man she could have only conjured in her dreams. The water had been so cold, so heavy, so dark. Then he appeared, like a knight in shining armor, pulling her up to safety once more, just as he had done when he’d rescued her from Presholm House.
The Duke stood over them, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. His fine shirt was completely translucent, plastered to the heavy, corded muscles of his perfect torso. The dark fabric of his trousers clung to his powerful thighs like a second skin. Water dripped from his beard and his golden-brown hair, which had fallen over his forehead in a wild, rakish mess.
He looked less like a Duke or more like a titan rising from the depths of the earth. If it were not for the chill of the water, Imogen surely would have overheated.
She tried to look away, but her eyes seemed betrayed by her own senses as she stared at him. The sheer masculinity of him, stripped of his stiff ducal armor, was overwhelming. He was almost a dream.
More than that, she knew that the Duke noticed her gaze. He looked down at her. The brightness of his cerulean eyes looked at the places where her thin dress clung to her curves, with a searing awareness. The air between them sizzled, electric and hot.
The Duke cleared his throat, the sound sharp in the quiet park. “We must get you home,” he said, his voice lower, more intimate than she had ever heard it. “All of us. Before the lung fever sets in and we catch hypothermia.”
He reached down, offering her a hand. When her palm met his, a spark of static seemed to jump between them. Imogen jerked her hand back slightly before letting him haul her to her feet. She searched for words, for some joke, but they fell silent on her tongue.
As they walked back toward the waiting carriage, Imogen kept her head down, her face still flaming.
She could feel him walking just a step behind her, a towering, damp presence, whose muscled body would linger in her mind for far longer than proper.
Chapter Seven
“Where are the twin terrors of theton?” a voice boomed, echoing up the grand staircase.
The following Tuesday, the somber atmosphere of Welton House was shattered by the arrival of a carriage that sounded more like a parade.
Morgan Sedgewick, the Duke of Kirkhammer, sauntered into the foyer with a footman trailing behind him, laden with boxes wrapped in bright ribbons.
“It is a pleasure to see you, Your Grace,” Mr. Jones said as he opened the door.
Arthur and Philip didn’t wait for permission. They scrambled down the stairs, nearly toppling a poor footman who stood at the bottom. “Uncle Morgan! Uncle Morgan!”
Ambrose emerged from his study, a faint, rare smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re late, Your Grace. And you’re already overstimulating them. Really, must you make such a scene?”
“Nonsense! I am providing the fun that you so meticulously prune out of their lives, Welton,” Morgan laughed, tossing a box to Arthur. “You should have been a gardener.”
He then paused, his eyes landing on the woman standing at the top of the stairs, watching the chaos with an indulgent smile.
Miss Lewis descended slowly, her posture as elegant as ever, showcasing her perfect frame. Ambrose let his eyes roam over her, as all were looking at her and would be unable to witness his blatant staring. A reluctant smile pulled at the corners of his mouth as he bit his tongue, willing his poker face to return.
“Ah,” Morgan breathed, his playful expression shifting into one of genuine intrigue, raising a knowing eyebrow at Ambrose. He stepped forward, sweeping into a bow that was far more theatrical than necessary for a servant’s entrance. “And this must be Miss Lewis. His Grace told me you were capable, but he neglected to mention you were a vision of spring in the middle of a cold London autumn. What a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”
“You are too kind, Your Grace. And I assure you that the pleasure is all mine,” Imogen said as she finished walking down the stairs, then curtsied gracefully. “I am merely the one who ensures they don’t burn the library down.”
“A most valiant task,” Morgan joked, taking her hand and brushing his lips just above her knuckles. “If you ever tire of this old man’s company, my estate is in desperate need of such… grace.”
Ambrose’s smile vanished instantly at his words. His friend’s flirtations with women had never given him a second thought, until now. A sharp, cold pang of jealousy shot through him, a sensation so sudden and sharp it made his hands clench tight by his sides, that he could hardly name it. It took everything he had not to punch his dearest friend square in the nose.
“That’s quite enough, Kirkhammer. She is here to work, not to be the subject of your mediocre poetry,” he settled on.
