“Lady Catherine,” he acknowledged, his jaw tightening, as he dared not say more.
“You look too tense, Your Grace,” she whispered, stepping into his personal space until her silk skirts brushed his evening breeches. She reached out, her gloved fingers trailing daringly close to his cravat as passersby looked at them. “Perhaps you need a distraction from the burdens of your estate? My father has purchased a new carriage, I am sure you would love to see… very private. We could take the long way home. What do you say?”
Ambrose felt a wave of revulsion at the notion. He thought of the way Imogen’s hand had felt in his during the fever, so small, so honest, and so terrified. Lady Catherine’s flirtation felt like a cheap performance, for which he no longer had time.
“I’m afraid my schedule is quite full, My Lady.”
“Surely notthatfull,” she pressed, her voice dropping to a sultry hum. “Even you must find time for some fun, Your Grace.”
“Actually, Lady Catherine, it is,” a deep voice interrupted. “Please excuse me.
Morgan appeared like a well-timed ghost, sliding between Ambrose and the Lady with a practiced, charming grin. He leaned against the wall, effectively breaking the intimacy Lady Catherine was trying to build.
“I am so sorry to intrude! Terrible business, Your Grace,” Morgan said, sounding profoundly grave. “The… ah… the architect you have been consulting with on your latest project asked to speak with you.”
“Architect?”
“He’s in the library,” Morgan said, shooting him a knowing glance.
“Ah, quite right!”
“He says the north wing of your new acquisition is practically sliding into the pond as we speak. Total catastrophe.”
Lady Catherine huffed, her fan snapping shut. “An architect? Now? Really, Your Grace, your timing is abysmal.”
“I am a man of many talents, My Lady, but timing is my masterpiece,” Morgan quipped, offering her a mocking half-bow.
Seeing the opening as comic as it may be, Ambrose did not wait. He gave a sharp nod and beat a hasty retreat toward the darkened balcony, Morgan trailing behind him with a low chuckle.
Once they were in the cool night air, Ambrose gripped the stone railing. “There is no bloody architect, is there?” He laughed at the ridiculousness of it.
“Not unless you’ve hired one in the last five minutes,” Kirkhammer said with a wink, pulling a flask from his inner pocket and offering it. “You were doing a terrible job of it, you know. Lady Honoria looks like she wants to cry, and LadyCatherine looks like she wants to eat you for dessert. You are supposed to flirt back, Welton. That’s how the game is played. You’ve been playing it long enough… Has something changed?” He teased.
“I have no stomach for games tonight,” Ambrose growled, pushing the flask away.
Kirkhammer sighed, his levity fading as he took a swig and returned the flask to his pocket. “It isher, is it not?”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about?—”
“The girl with the books and the simple soap. You’re standing in the middle of the finest soiree in a decade, surrounded by the most beautiful women in England, and you’re brooding because you’re not in a dusty nursery in Mayfair.”
Ambrose didn’t deny it. He couldn’t anymore. He didn’t have the stomach for games anymore, and he meant it. He just looked out at the dark silhouette of the city, his heart aching with a yearning so sharp it felt like a stab.
“I am a Duke, Morgan. I know what I must do. But God help me, I don’t want any of them,” he said.
Ambrose did not wait for his friend to respond. He hurried down the steps of the home and vaulted into the dark interior of his carriage, the leather groaning under his weight as he slumped into the seat. He threw his head back against the squabs andclosed his eyes, trying to blot out the dizzying image of spinning gowns and calculating smiles.
The carriage rocked. Kirkhammer hopped in after him, uninvited as always, and rapped his cane against the roof.
“White’s,” Morgan shouted to the coachman. “And do not spare the horses. His Grace is in a foul humor. A generous tip for you if you get there in half the time!”
Ambrose did not open his eyes as he put his hands on his face. “I’m going home, Morgan.”
“You’re going to have a glass of something that didn’t come from a champagne flute or a damn punch bowl,” Morgan countered, settling into the opposite seat. “You looked like you were ready to commit murder back there. Or an extremely dramatic exit via the balcony. Did I press a nerve?”
Ambrose finally turned his head. His eyes were shadowed.
“It should not beher. I know the rules as well as you do. I spent thirty years learning them. I am supposed to choose a woman who can navigate a court, who brings a dowry and a pedigree, who will produce an heir without a whisper of scandal. I have waited long enough; people will gossip more than they already do.”
