A firecracker exploded nearby, sending a plume of colorful smoke into the crisp autumn air. Philip let out a small cry and instinctively grabbed Imogen’s hand, burying his face in her skirts.
“It’s all right, my dear,” she said. Imogen immediately knelt to soothe him, but Ambrose’s eyes lingered on the way Philip sought her for safety. It was a silent admission of how much she had become the center of their world, and his.
“Oh, Uncle Ambrose! Look! The knives!” Arthur shouted, dragging Ambrose toward a booth where a man was expertly flipping silver blades. “You must try! You’re a Duke, you must be good at everything. Oh, please!”
“Come now,” Ambrose balked, looking at the rustic targets. “Arthur, that is hardly a gentleman’s pursuit.”
Imogen stood up, smoothing her damp hair as she raised an eyebrow to him. “Perhaps His Grace is simply wise enough to know when he’s outmatched,” she said, her voice laced with mock pity. “It would be a shame to be seen losing to a common circus performer in front of his favorite nephews.”
Ambrose’s shoulders squared instantly. He shed his coat, handing it to a bewildered Philip. “Outmatched, Miss Lewis? I think not.”
He stepped to the line as a man handed him a blade, the heavy knife balanced perfectly in his large hand. With a fluid, powerful motion, he released it.
THWACK.
It buried itself in the center of the wooden target. He was handed two more and he threw them more in rapid succession, each hitting the bullseye with terrifying precision. He may as well have been a murderer and yet, the crowd cheered. The stall-keeper handed over a carved wooden soldier and announced to the crowd he was the winner.
“Oh, Uncle Ambrose,” Arthur clapped. “I knew you could do it!”
Ambrose handed the small figure to Arthur, though his eyes went straight to Imogen, a triumphant, dark glint in them.
Challenge met.
As they wandered further, savoring roasted nuts and sweets, Imogen stopped at a ring-toss game. The top prize was a simple, shimmering silk ribbon of deep cornflower blue.
“You should play, Miss Lewis,” Arthur said. “I can see how much you like it!”
“I really shouldn’t,” she sighed. “I must keep an eye on the two of you.”
“I am perfectly capable of watching my own nephews for five minutes,” Ambrose said, stepping closer. His presence was a warm weight on her back as he leaned close. “Go on. I insist.”
“Very well,” Imogen said as she took the wooden rings, but her hands were shaking. Her first two tosses fell short, clattering uselessly on the grass.
“You’re aiming too high,” he rumbled in her ear, suddenly and very directly behind her. He leaned into her until his chest brushed her shoulders. He reached around her, his large, warm hands covering hers on the ring. The heat of their touch enveloped them, the scent of her sweet lavender soap making his head spin.
“Steady, Imogen,” he whispered, his breath fluttering the hair at her temple.
He guided her arm, his thumb stroking the back of her hand as they moved in a slow, synchronized arc. The tension was so thick it felt as though the air might spark, and the whole of the fair would explode with them. They released together. The ring looped perfectly over the center peg.
“You did it!” The boys called out as they began to clap loudly, along with everyone else in the crowd who had begun watching.
The man handed her the blue ribbon. With trembling fingers, he watched Imogen pull her hair back and tie it into a loose knot. Ambrose watched her every movement, his throat working as he swallowed.
“It suits you,” he said, his voice unusually strained. “Beautiful.”
The ride home was quick and quiet as the afternoon sun began to set, the boys slowly dozing off after the day’s excitement. After a few minutes, when they reached the townhouse, both Arthur and Philip were fast asleep, slumped against each other and snoring softly.
As they pulled up to the gates of Welton House, Ambrose gathered them up, one in each arm. He carried them up the stairs and to their quarters with an effortless strength that Imogen found herself watching anxiously. She could not believe the strength he held in those broad shoulders and muscled arms. Her mouth watered at the thought.
In the darkened nursery, she helped him pull off their boots and tuck the heavy quilts around their chins.
Then, they stepped out into the quiet, dimly lit hallway.
“Thank you, Imogen,” Ambrose said, using her name once more without a title attached, filling her stomach with butterflies. “For today. For the way you… for everything you do for them. They are happy… because of you.”
Imogen leaned against the doorframe, her heart aching. “It is my pleasure, Your Grace. They are wonderful children. They give me immense purpose. I am grateful for this opportunity…”
And for you.
