“He was half-right,” Ambrose said with a faint, bittersweet ghost of a smile. “He was always arguing with our father, and I would step in to help him out of trouble…”
“What did you and your brother do for fun, Your Grace?” Miss Lewis interjected, redirecting his speech.
“I was the one who planned the raids, as the eldest,” Ambrose began, gaining confidence from her encouragement. “But he was the one who carried them out. I remember one August, the heat was so thick you could taste the dust in London. The cook, old Mrs. Gibbons, now she was a woman with a temper, had just received a crate of Ribston Pippins. The finest apples in the orchard are early for the season.”
Philip lifted his head from his knees, his tear-streaked face illuminated by the firelight. “Oh! Did you steal them?”
“We didn’t just steal them, Philip. We waged a campaign,” Ambrose said, his eyes brightening. “I distracted her by releasing a jar of crickets in the pantry. While she was shrieking and batting at her skirts, your father scaled the window. He filled his tunic so full of apples that he looked like a lumpy sack of flour. We ran until our lungs burned, all the way to the old hayloft.”
He chuckled, a dry, rusty sound that reminded him of how long it had been since he had let himself reminisce in this manner.
“We spent three hours up there, hidden in the sweet-smelling hay, eating until our stomachs ached. Your father tried to juggle three of those apples to impress me, but he dropped two through the floorboards right onto the stable master’s head!”
“Oh, my goodness,” Miss Lewis said, laughing hard.
“We had to stay silent for an hour, buried under the straw, praying the man wouldn’t look up. I could feel your father shaking next to me, trying so hard not to laugh that he turned the color of a beet.”
The boys were enraptured. Arthur had drifted closer to Ambrose, his hand resting on his knee, his expression softening from jagged anger into a fragile, searching wonder.
Ambrose observed how Imogen watched from the shadows of the doorway.
“He kept the last apple,” Ambrose whispered, his voice thick. “He said he was saving it for later, but he ended up giving it to a carriage horse that looked particularly tired. That was your father. He couldn’t keep a prize if someone else needed it more.”
Philip climbed off the window seat and took a small, hesitant step toward Ambrose. “Do you think the hayloft is still there? At your old home, Uncle Ambrose?”
Ambrose looked at the small boy, and for the first time, he didn’t pull away. He reached out, his hand hovering before settling gently on Philip’s shoulder. “I am sure it is. And, when the sun is up, we might go see if we can find any apples left in the orchard. I am sure the new owners would oblige a visit.”
“Can you tell us another story, Uncle Ambrose?” Philip asked, his appetite for his family’s history suddenly ravenous.
He looked so much like Ambrose’s brother. The likeness was unsettling. It made the Duke want things he had learned not to want—to speak of family, of before—and the ache that followed was reason enough to keep his distance.
“Perhaps after you get ready for bedtime,” Miss Lewis intervened, stepping forward with a smile. “Then you can say goodnight, as I think a certain Uncle Morgan is still downstairs wondering if he’s been forgotten.”
The boys nodded, their spirits visibly lifted. As they began to chatter about the apple story, Imogen guided Ambrose toward the door.
“Thank you,” he said, stopping in the hallway. He looked back at the room, then at her.
“You did well, Your Grace,” she murmured. “Go to your guest. I’ll see them readied and brought down for a proper goodbye and a glass of warm milk before bed.”
Ambrose waved a dismissive hand. “Morgan won’t mind the wait. He’s likely found my best brandy by now.”
He just looked at her then, his gaze lingering on her lips before returning to her sharp eyes that saw everything. It was a quiet, intense look that felt like a promise and a confession all at once. He’d had dalliances with beautiful women, but no one compared to the vision of loveliness in front of him now. Miss Lewis mystified him.
I cannot do this…
“I will have milk and bread sent up so they go to bed full. No need to come down.” He cleared his throat, the Duke returning to his post.
“Are you sure?” She asked, her eyebrows raised.
“Yes. Carry on, Miss Lewis.”
Chapter Nine
“You look like you’re contemplating murder, Your Grace,” Morgan whispered, leaning against a marble pillar beside him. “Or perhaps a very dull lecture on mathematics, like when we were at Eton.”
The ballroom belonging to the Earl of Danbury was a cavern of gilded opulence, filled with the scent of calla lilies and champagne, and the droning hum of high-society gossip.
Normally, Ambrose would have navigated such an environment with practiced ease, nursing a glass of claret while scanning the room for a charming widow to distract him.
