In that moment, he realized he could not stay behind this door forever without becoming the ghost he feared he was.
I will not be my father…
“Very well,” Ambrose said, his voice regaining some of its deep resonance. He stood up, rounding the desk. “Then, I suppose I must make a grand gesture of reappearance.”
The boys perked up instantly.
“There is a fair at the market tomorrow in the middle of the city,” he said, watching a slow smile spread across Arthur’s face as they both began to clap. “Jugglers, small livestock, perhaps even those mechanical wonders you both enjoy. If, and only if, you goto bed this instant without any trouble for your governess, I shall take you both.”
“What a grand idea,” Imogen said as she put her arms around the boys’ shoulders.
“And Miss Lewis?” Philip asked.
Ambrose hesitated, his gaze finally meeting hers. The air grew still. “And of course Miss Lewis will join our party,” he clarified, stifling a cough at the thought of an afternoon with her in such an atmosphere. “It wouldn’t be much of a lesson without our best teacher, would it? There is much to be learned, sociologically and historically, at such events. Purely educational, of course, but?—”
“A fair!” Arthur cheered, already sprinting toward the door. “I’m going to see the fire-eaters!”
“And I am going to eat until I burst!” Philip said with a soft giggle.
“To bed, you two!” Imogen called after them, laughing as they thundered down the hall. She turned back to Ambrose, her hand lingering on the doorframe.
How I wish that was on my chest.
“That was truly kind of you, Your Grace. They deeply miss you.”
“And you, Imogen?” he asked, the name slipping out before he could take it back.
She paused, the iron mask of the shrewd governess mirroring his own.
“The schoolroom was very quiet after you left,” she whispered, then slipped out into the hall, leaving him alone with his swirling thoughts.
Chapter Fourteen
“Look! Miss Lewis, look!” Arthur cried, pulling her toward a large wooden tub filled with water and bobbing red apples. “You must try! I bet you can’t get the biggest one!” He teased.
The city fair was a riot of color and noise, a welcome contrast to the order of Welton House. Stalls draped in striped canvas lined the square, and the air was thick with the scent of roasted nuts, sawdust, and coal smoke.
Imogen laughed at his charge, the sound bright. “Arthur, I am a grown woman. I cannot possibly?—”
“I should like to see it,” Ambrose interrupted, his voice low and equally teasing. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, looking entirely out of place in his fine wool coat, yet his eyes were dancing. “Or is the governess afraid of a little water?”
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”
“You heard me.”
The challenge hit its mark. Imogen handed her bonnet to Philip, knelt by the tub, and tucked her chestnut curls behind her ears. She leaned over the water, her reflection shimmering.
“On the count of three, Miss,” the man running the game called out. “One, two, three!”
The first few attempts were disastrous. The apple skittered away, and she came up gasping, her face splashed with droplets. She refused to quit, her competitive streak flaring under Ambrose’s steady gaze.
Finally, with a determined snap of her jaw, she submerged her face and came up triumphant with the stem of a large, tart apple firmly between her teeth. She turned to Ambrose, her skin glowing and damp, her eyes sparkling with victory.
Ambrose didn’t look away. For every widow he had been with in his bachelorhood, perfectly powdered and adorned with diamonds, paled in comparison to the soaking wet vision in front of him. He stepped forward, his gaze fixed on her mouth. He reached out, his fingers brushing hers as he took the wet apple from her hands. Without breaking eye contact, he turned the fruit and took a deliberate, slow bite from the very spot she had held.
“Tart,” he murmured, the word sounding like a secret. “But sweet.”
BANG! SNAP!
