“But I digress,” he said, his voice suddenly stiff, drained of its vibrant passion. “That is enough history for one afternoon. One should not dwell too long on the ruins of empires but look to the future. Eyes on the horizon, boys.”
He turned to his valet, Mr. Jennings, who had been waiting silently by the door.
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” he said with a small bow. “Just wanted to inform you that the courier delivered the signed documents from Mr. Telford.”
“Very well, Jennings,” he said as he began to gather his books. His movements were jerky, uncharacteristically clumsy as he gathered the books. He nearly dropped the atlas, his hands fumbling with the leather cover. “I have… matters to attend to,” he said, his voice clipped.
“Oh Uncle, do you have to?” Arthur asked as he walked over to Ambrose and pulled gently on his sleeve.
“I am afraid so,” he said, his voice tight. He gave the boy a soft pat on the head as he began to retreat toward the door. Stoically, he refused to look at her, his gaze fixed somewhere six inches above her head. “The accounts. Correspondence. Right.”
“Thank you for the most diverting history lesson, Your Grace,” Imogen whispered, the title feeling like cold stone in his ears.
He nodded once, offering no words. It was a sharp, curt movement that dismissed her more effectively than any syllable could. He strode out of the room without another glance, his coat billowing behind him.
He listened as the door clicked shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the quiet house. He felt as though the air had been taken from him.
Ambrose retreated to the sanctuary of his mahogany-paneled study and slammed the heavy oak door shut. He leaned his weight against it, his breath coming in shallow, jagged bursts as if he had just sprinted the length of the estate. The phantom of Imogen’s skin against his sleeve still hummed beneath the surface, a localized fever that refused to break.
Get hold of yourself,he snarled to himself, the command a desperate attempt to summon the remote Duke he had spent years perfecting.
He crossed to his desk and reached for the Telford documents Jennings had mentioned, his fingers still betraying a slight, maddening tremor.
He needed the dry, soulless comfort of ledgers and logistics. He needed the world to be made of numbers and boundaries again, not the scent of old books and the alluring, wide green eyes of a woman who had seen right through him.
He dipped his quill into the inkwell, the nib scratching against the parchment as he made notes. Instead of focusing on thelegal jargon at hand, he closed his eyes and saw the curve of her delicate finger tracing the Rubicon. Instead of the ink-black text, he saw the way her rosy lips had tightened and then parted almost imperceptibly when she looked up at him.
He threw the quill down. A dark blot of ink bloomed across the expensive paper like a spreading wound, ruined and irreversible. He rose and paced to the window, staring out at the manicured gardens, but his reflection in the glass showed a man he barely recognized. In fact, he almost looked like his father then. A man who was quiet to him on the best of days, and cold and cruel on the worst. He had dismissed his mother’s illness until it was too late.
And what am I doing to Miss Lewis, to Imogen? Drat, she is a governess!
A governess who dismantled his composure with all but a single touch. He had spoken of the ruin of vast empires, yet as he stood in the suffocating quiet of his own home, it was his own carefully constructed world that felt as though it was collapsing into the sea.
Several hours later, Ambrose was dining alone in his study. He was staring at the same paragraph of Telford’s contract for the fortieth time, gnawing on a piece of crusty bread, when a hesitant knock sounded at the door, followed immediately by the door creaking open without his permission. He looked up expectantly.
Imogen stood in the hallway, looking beautifully exhausted, while the twins ducked under her arms to invade like the eager explorers they were.
“Uncle, you’ve been in here for a hundred years,” Philip declared more confidently than usual, marching straight to the desk. “If you were an Egyptian ruler, you’d be mummified by now!”
Ambrose rubbed his temples, the iron mask slipping for a moment as a small laugh came from Imogen’s lips.
“It has been three hours, Philip. And I told you I was busy.”
“You don’t even eat with us!” Philip cried out.
“You’re always busy,” Arthur said, his voice in turn was smaller than usual, but pointed. He leaned against the heavy desk, looking his uncle in the eye. “It was so much fun in the schoolroom talking about Rome. We need you. You go behind the big door, and you don’t come out until we’re asleep.”
The accusation hung in the air, sharper than any Roman sword. Ambrose looked at the boys, then up at Imogen. She didn’t look away this time, her brilliant emerald eyes peering at him beneath full black eyelashes. She was a vision, and her expression was a mixture of soft sympathy and a silent challenge to be better than he felt deep in his chest.
“Arthur,” Imogen said gently, stepping into the room. “Your uncle has a great deal of responsibility. But,” she looked atAmbrose, “the boys are right that the house feels rather empty when its master is sequestered behind closed doors.”
An invitation, he thought.Perhaps this icy dance between us can end. How though? I do not know.
Ambrose sighed, a long sound that deflated his rigid posture. He closed the ledger.
“I am… catching up on things I neglected,” he said finally.
“Then please… Neglect your duties tomorrow instead,” Philip pleaded, the softness of his countenance returning.
