The air was thick with the scent of lilies and expensive French perfumes, catching in his throat.
“Your Grace, may I present the Lady Catherine Cromwell,” Morgan announced, pulling Ambrose from a dark reverie as he was nursing his brandy. “If you will excuse me for just a moment.”
Lady Catherine was, by every objective standard of theton, the perfect specimen of a future Duchess. She had bright blonde hair, blue eyes that rivaled his own cerulean shade, and a spine so straight it seemed reinforced by steel. She offered a practiced,graceful curtsy as her lilac gown pooled around her as though it had been painted there.
“It is an honor, Your Grace,” she said, her voice a well-tuned harpsichord.
“The honor is mine, Lady Catherine,” Ambrose replied, shifting into the persona of the Duke he knew he must maintain.
They fell into the expected rhythm of small talk. Lady Catherine spoke of the upcoming Season, of her preference for the opera, and of the charity work she performed in her father’s parish. She was poised, elegant, but entirely predictable.
As she spoke, Ambrose found himself cataloging her failures. Her voice was pleasant, yet it lacked the sharp, intellectual fire that sparked in Imogen’s when she debated history. Her eyes were such a clear, pale blue, but they didn’t hold the warmth or the fierce protectiveness he had seen in Imogen’s emerald gaze just yesterday at the fair. Lady Catherine was a polished diamond, cold and decorative. Imogen was a living flame, and his cheeks heated at the thought of her.
“…and so, my father believes the corn laws must be addressed with the utmost delicacy,” Lady Catherine concluded, looking at him expectantly.
Ambrose blinked. He had drifted so far into thoughts of a blue silk ribbon tying Imogen’s hands between her back as he ravaged her, that he realized he had no idea what she had just said, or had been saying at all.
“Indeed,” he stammered, his usual eloquence failing him. “Delicacy is… often the hallmark of… maize.”
Lady Catherine’s delicate brow furrowed in confusion, as she had clearly anticipated more of a response. Silence stretched between them, awkward and heavy, until a sharp bark of laughter sounded from behind him.
“Maize, Welton? Truly? Is that the height of your ducal wit tonight?”
Ambrose stiffened as the Duke of Kirkhammer stepped back into the light with a refreshed drink, looking insufferably smug in his charcoal evening coat and green silk cravat. Lady Catherine, sensing a shift in the weather, offered a hasty excuse and retreated toward the punch bowl.
“It was a… pleasure, Your Grace,” she said over her shoulder.
Ambrose turned on his friend, a low growl vibrating in his chest. “Be quiet, Morgan. I’ve had enough of this already. You dragged me here. No need to punish me.”
“I’ve seen you navigate the House of Lords during a riot with more grace than that,Your Grace,” Morgan teased, leaning against a marble pillar.
They both watched Lady Catherine go, then Morgan looked back at Ambrose with a raised brow.
“You know… she’s exactly what the world expects of you, my friend. High-born, well-bred, and unlikely to cause a scandal.”
“Yes.”
“So… are you finally looking for a Duchess?”
A duchess…
The word hit Ambrose squarely. He closed his eyes tight, and the image of Imogen, damp-faced at the apple tub, laughing with his nephews, tucked into the shadows of his hallway, flashed through his mind with agonizing clarity.
“I am looking for nothing,” Ambrose snapped, his voice louder and more defensive than he intended as passersby looked at him. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I have a duty to my house and the boys. That is all. I do not need to plague myself with such things. Perhapsyouare the one who should be in search of your own duchess.”
Kirkhammer’s smile faded. He straightened up; his playful demeanor vanished in an instant. He had known Ambrose since they were boys. Ambrose knew that he felt the difference between when he was bored and when he was haunted.
“You reacted a bit strongly to that one, don’t you think?” Morgan said softly. “And I’ll find a wife when I feel like it.” He took a sip of his champagne, his eyes scanning the room to ensure they weren’t being overheard.
“It’s the heat in here,” Ambrose muttered, looking away.
“It’s not the heat, and we both know it,” Morgan countered. He stepped closer, his voice dropping. “Listen to me. I see the way your mind wanders. I see the way you look at the door every time a servant enters. But you are the Duke of Welton. You have a legacy to protect, and two boys whose futures depend on your reputation.”
“I am aware of my responsibilities,” Ambrose growled. “That is why I don’t dally about like you do!”
“Ha!” Kirkhammer emitted a boisterous laugh. “Preposterous! One minute you are a rake and the next you are…What are you exactly, old friend?” Morgan asked, his gaze piercing. “I can no longer define you or your behaviors. Last Season, I fully understood, but now… I cannot make out your motivations. You are making unwise decisions. Some bridges are built to be crossed, Ambrose. Others are meant to be burned before they lead you off a cliff. Don’t do something you cannot undo. Be careful.”
“I can take care of myself.”
