He reached out, his gloved hand twitching as if he meant to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear before he pressed it against the wall, leaning over her.
This is dangerous…
“Imogen,” he breathed, the name a jagged prayer.
It has been too long; I cannot help myself.
She looked up, her lips parting, her pulse visible in the hollow of her throat. The air between them hummed, thick with the memory of the hallway and the taste of salt and desperation.
Then, the front door opened downstairs. The sound of his carriage arriving acted like a bomb, the moment exploding into embers and dust. Ambrose’s hand dropped to his side. His face shuttered, the iron-clad reserve of his station slamming back into place.
It must be this way.
“Good evening to you, Miss Lewis,” he said, his voice a flat, distant baritone. “See that you have a piece of chocolate gateau from the kitchen.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Um, yes,” he said awkwardly, wishing he had thought of something cleverer to say.
He brushed past her, desperate to exorcise the memory of her lips. And so, Ambrose threw himself into the social season vigorously.
The ballroom of Lady Elderwell’s mansion was a dizzying swirl of silk, candlelight, and the scent of hundreds of hothouse lilies. He stood near a fluted column, his hand tight around a glass of champagne he had no intention of drinking. It was too sweet for his taste, and he craved something dark and strong. His gaze drifted toward the exit for the tenth time in as many minutes as he sighed and downed the glass in a single sip.
So much for that.
“Your Grace,” a voice purred from behind him, sharp and bright as a gemstone, as it stole his attention.
Lady Honoria sashayed into his line of sight, her fan clicking open with the precision of a duelist’s blade. She was a diamond of the first water, her golden hair intricately coiled and pinned with pearls.
“Good evening, Lady Honoria,” he sighed as he grabbed another flute from a passing footman.
“I heard you have become quite the family man lately,” she said, her voice as soft as the coo of a dove.
“Oh, have you?” He said drily.
“How do you find the quiet life? Or have the little terrors finally driven you to seek asylum in Mayfair?”
Ambrose looked at her, but his mind’s eye was miles away. He didn’t see Lady Honoria’s perfect, powdered skin. He closed his eyes and saw Imogen’s face as it had looked yesterday in the schoolroom, as he had passed, smudged with ink, a stray dark curl falling over her eye as she patiently explained a sum to Philip. He breathed in deep and could still smell her lingering lavender scent as he had used every reserve of self-control not to press against her in the hallway before he stormed out.
“Caring for my young wards is demanding, and is… educational,” he said, his voice flat as he settled on the words.
Ever since Imogen entered his household, he was tongue-tied more often than not. He used to excel at having such conversations, but now the desire to engage in small talk with ladies of the ton had lost its appeal.
Lady Honoria leaned in, the scent of her expensive French perfume thick enough to choke him. “I should love to see your gardens at Welton this summer. I’ve heard the roses are divine. Would you show me?”
“Yes, well, they are mostly thorns this time of year,” Ambrose replied.
He realized with a jolt of cold horror that he was bored, and as alone as a man could be in a room filled with social climbers. Lady Honoria was everything a Duke should want. She was polished, titled, and impeccably bred. And yet, she was entirely the wrong woman.
“If you will excuse me,” he said as he managed a stiff bow, murmuring a desperate excuse about the heat, and stepped away. But as he navigated the edge of the dance floor, a hand clamped onto his bicep.
“Ambrose! Just the man I was hoping toensnare.”
Lady Catherine.
She was a stunning young woman with loads of ambition. She blocked his path with a small bow that showcased her ample cleavage. She adjusted the lace at her bodice, her eyes roaming over him with a hunger that made him want to wash.
“You have been hiding, darling. And after that lovely dance we shared a few weeks ago, I felt quite abandoned. What must a woman do to get your attention?”
