Tonight, however, the champagne tasted like vinegar, and the violin music was a discordant screech compared to the quiet, rhythmic sound of Miss Lewis’ voice reading in the nursery.
He shook his head and grabbed a flute from a passing footman.
“It’s the company here,” Ambrose muttered, his eyes tracking the crowd. “Such a bore. And… I keep thinking about the boys. I told Arthur I’d show him how to use a compass tomorrow morning. I should have stayed home…”
“The Duke of Welton, skipping the most prestigious event of the season to navigate parentage? My, how the mighty have fallen.”
Before Ambrose could retort, a sharp, familiar voice cut through the air. “Your Grace! What a delightful surprise to find you in such high spirits.”
The Countess of Presholm, Miss Lewis’s former employer, glided toward them, her husband trailing behind her like a sour-faced shadow. She was a vision of forced elegance, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” Lord Presholm mumbled as he sipped a glass of amber liquid.
“Good evening, Lord Presholm and Lady Presholm,” Ambrose said, his voice dropping into a formal, icy register as he tightened his grip around the flute. “What a surprise to see you here.”
“I was just saying to my husband how much we missed seeing our neighbors,” Lady Presholm purred, fanning herself and sipping from her own flute. “And how are those poor, orphaned nephews of yours? Such a tragedy. It must be a monumental burden for a man of your… active social habits.”
“They are doing quite well, thank you,” Ambrose replied shortly. “They need not be a concern of yours. I see well to their needs, Lady Presholm.”
“And the newgoverness?” Lady Presholm’s eyes narrowed, a malicious glint appearing as her voice grew shrill, like nails on slate. “I was shocked you took her in so abruptly, Your Grace, but I would not dare question someone of your standing.”
“Very wise of you not to, my lady,” Ambrose said with a tight smile, and he noticed a glimmer of amusement in Morgan’s eyes as he glanced between him and the Countess.
“Imogen was always a… difficult girl,” Lady Presholm continued, her eyes wet and red from too much drink. “Especially after her father passed, but before then, she was almost as bad! Prone to flights of fancy and quite forgetful of her station. I do hope she is not causing you too much trouble. Because if she is, I will personally see to it that she is put in her pl?—”
“On the contrary,” Ambrose said, his gaze hardening as he cut her off. “Miss Lewis is the most capable person I’ve ever had the pleasure of employing. My nephews are thriving under her care. You need not concern yourself, my lady.”
Lady Presholm’s smile twitched, the smugness that filled her thin body deflating. “How fortunate. I suppose some people have a knack for managing children, even if they cannot manage their own reputations. Do give her my…regards.”
“Let us be on, Lady Presholm,” Lord Presholm said as he gave her a small nudge. “I must have a word with Lord Bounderby, and I see he has just arrived. If you will excuse us.”
“But of course,” Ambrose said, relieved to be rid of them.
As the Presholms moved away, Ambrose felt a surge of protective fury. It took everything he had not to chase after them. Yet, he just stood there and watched Lady Presholm’s retreat. His jaw tightened further upon realizing that her puny husband hadn’t even said a word.
“She is a viper, isn’t she?” Morgan noted, his playful tone was now gone. “I remember the rumors when Presholm married her this last year. They say she practically scrubbed the late Viscount’s legacy for her own gain.”
Ambrose frowned. “The late Viscount?”
“Viscount Marden. He died with many secrets, so I’ve been told,” Morgan mused. “Lady Presholm does not like loose ends. Be careful, my friend. That woman resents anything she cannot control, and I would imagine that includes her staff.”
The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Lady Sylvia Bowman. She was the strikingly beautiful widow of Sir Geoffrey Bowman, a Baronet of no consequence who died in his sleep before any heirs were produced. Lady Bowman, however, was known for her sharp wit and sharper flirtations, along with her curvaceous body that seemed to defy gravity itself. She slidbetween the two men with practiced ease, her silk fan brushing Ambrose’s arm.
“Your Grace,” Lady Bowman murmured, her gaze lifting to his with deliberate languor. “You have been exiled to this corner for the better part of an hour, looking quite tragically neglected. I wondered whether you were enduring it by choice or hoping to be relieved of your solitude.”
Ambrose shifted, sliding back into his rakish mask. He offered her a slow, practiced smile, yet it didn’t reach his eyes. “And here I thought my brooding was doing wonders for the decor, Lady Bowman.”
“It’s far too tragic for a night this lovely,” she laughed, leaning in until he could smell her cloying jasmine perfume. “A group of us are retiring to my townhouse for a late supper once this tiresome soiree concludes. I find myself in need of a charades partner who doesn’t mind taking a few risks. Will you do me the honor of attending?”
A month ago, Ambrose would have accepted without a second thought. He would have welcomed the distraction of her bed and the thrill of a mindless game, heavy with drink.
But as he looked at Lady Bowman, he suddenly saw Miss Lewis.
There she was—a flash in front of his eyes, like a shooting star. He could see the way she looked in the lake, her clothes clinging to her perfect, curvy body. He could feel a rise in his chest as she recalled the way she had stood up to him in the nursery. Hefelt warm at the thought of the quiet dignity she carried, despite everything. She was a wonder, and he was wasting his time.
The idea of a night with Lady Bowman felt hollow. He wanted more, though he did not know what of.
“I’m honored by the invitation, Lady Bowman,” Ambrose said, his voice surprisingly firm as he stepped back. “But I’m afraid I have an early engagement in the morning. A promise to a pair of very demanding investors. Perhaps you may entice my friend here.”
