“Is that what you are thinking? Of taking care of yourself? Forgive me. I thought your mind was fixed on someone else.”
Ambrose didn’t answer. He could not. He simply turned and walked out onto the balcony, the chilly night air hitting his face, but providing no relief from the fever of a want he knew was a slow-motion disaster.
Don’t do something you cannot undo.
The words stung because they were true. Imogen was a woman of character, a woman under his protection after he all but saved her from her servitude next door. The distance between them was a chasm, made of centuries of tradition and duty.
It must be this way.
The swish of silk against the stone floor alerted him to company before she spoke.
“It is much more peaceful out here, is it not?”
Ambrose didn’t have to turn to know it was Lady Catherine. She stepped up to the railing, her lilac skirts shimmering under the glowing moonlight, a rich sable fur across her shoulders. She didn’t stand too close, Ambrose knew she was far too well-bred for that. Yet, she angled her body toward him, the movement intentional and practiced.
“The air is certainly clearer,” Ambrose replied, his voice as stiff as his posture.
“If I may be so bold…”
“Yes?”
“You seemed… preoccupied inside, Your Grace.” Lady Catherine tilted her head, a stray blonde curl catching the light. She reached out, her gloved hand hovering just inches from his sleeve. “I had very much hoped… well, perhaps my talk of the corn laws lulled you into a stupor? I have been told I can be rather persistent when I find a topic of interest, but also a bit of a bore.”
She laughed a light, melodic sound that was charming, or at least should have been. To Ambrose, it sounded like a rehearsed performance fit for the stage.
“You were perfectly articulate, Lady Catherine,” he said, staring out at the dark expanse of the gardens, and not at her.
“You know, my father speaks very highly of you,” she continued, moving a tiny step closer, her voice dropping to a silkier register. “He says the Duke of Welton is a man of singular focus and shrewd business acumen. I find that a very… attractive quality in a man. Most gentlemen of thetonare so easily distracted by every passing fancy.”
The silence filled the air between them, her eyes searching for his, which remained on the lawn below. It was an elegant flirtation, the kind that usually led to a dance, then a call at her father’s house, and eventually, a ring. Ambrose knew the game.
Yet, Ambrose did not see the perfect Duchess when he finally turned to look at her. All he could see was the way Imogen’s hair had escaped her pins in the wind yesterday. He felt the phantom weight of his nephews’ sleeping bodies in his arms and the wayImogen had looked at him in the hallway. Not with calculated interest, but with a raw, if terrifying, sincerity.
In fact, Welton House felt more like a home than any other residence he had ever lived in. And it was because of her.
“My focus is indeed singular, Lady Catherine,” Ambrose said, his voice sounding like grinding gravel. “And it is currently required elsewhere. You will have to excuse me…”
Lady Catherine blinked, her smile faltering. “Elsewhere? But the ball has only just reached its height, and you have not yet danced. Surely the Emerson’s hospitality?—”
“Is appreciated, but unnecessary for me,” he interrupted, already stepping back. He gave a sharp, perfunctory bow. “You must excuse me. I am… expected at home.”
Home.
“At home?” she repeated, her voice rising in confusion. “At this hour? Surely your nephews are asleep. If you would just give me a moment, Your Grace?—”
Ambrose was already halfway to the balcony doors, his stride long and purposeful. He didn’t look for Morgan, and he did not stop for his cloak.
He needed the biting chill of the night. He needed the quiet of the townhouse.
Most of all, he needed to know that the light in the nursery, or perhaps the light under a certain bedroom door, was still burning.
Chapter Sixteen
“Help! Help!”
The stillness of the house was shattered at two in the morning by a scream from the nursery, followed by jagged gasping. Imogen, who had been drifting in and out of sleep, was in the nursery before she was even fully awake, a robe hastily tied around her nightgown.
It was Philip. He was thrashing beneath his quilts, his face slick with sweat, his azure eyes wide but unseeing as he battled a nightmare that had spiraled into a feverish panic.
