“And instead,” Morgan prompted quietly, “you found a woman who can handle the twins’ tantrums and looks at you like you’rejust a man, not a title. A woman with heart, wit, and substance. Unconventional, yes. But you could do much, much worse. Even I know that.”
“We cannot speak of her,” Ambrose barked.
The carriage jolted to a halt in front of the club. They climbed out in silence and retreated to a private, wood-paneled corner in the back of the lounge. A waiter appeared, deposited a bottle of aged scotch and two glasses, and vanished at a dark look from Ambrose.
Ambrose poured a heavy measure and downed half of it in one go. The peat and fire burned his throat, but it couldn’t touch the coldness in his chest that festered like a blizzard.
“I saw her today,” Ambrose admitted, his voice barely a rasp.
“She lives in your household. One would assume you see her every day.”
“It was in the stairwell. Just for a second. She barely looked up,” Ambrose went on, his eyes glassy. “And all I wanted to do was stop her. I wanted to catch her hand and tell her… I don’t even know what, Morgan. That I’m sorry? That I’m bloody miserable?”
“How about that you’re in love with her?” Morgan suggested, swirling his drink as he raised an eyebrow at him.
Ambrose flinched as if he’d been struck. “Do not mess with me, Morgan. I am leveling with you here, as my friend. Do not push me.”
“I meant what I said.”
Love.
“That word is a luxury I do not have. If I take her as a mistress, I destroy her. If I marry her, thetonwill tear her to pieces. Lady Presholm is already circling like a shark in the water just next door.”
“So, you’re just going to pine away until you’re a bitter old man in a big, empty house? Let someone else have her?” Morgan leaned over the table, his expression uncharacteristically fierce.
“I didn’t think about that part,” he barked as he refreshed his glass.
“Ambrose, think this through carefully. She is not another widow you’ve bedded as a distraction that you can barely stand. Forget the peerage altogether for five minutes. Can you do that?”
“Yes,” he rasped.
Ambrose stared into the amber liquid in his glass. He thought of the way Imogen’s hair felt under his hand, the way her wit challenged him, and the way the house felt like a tomb whenevershe wasn’t in the room. He could almost taste the sweetness of her kiss.
“Is she worth the fight?”
“She’s worth the world,” Ambrose whispered, the admission sounding like a confession of a crime. “Are you happy now?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“And I don’t know if I’m the man who can give her the world… without breaking it first.”
“Have you ever thought that perhaps it is meant to be broken, Ambrose?”
Chapter Twenty-One
The next afternoon, Imogen took the boys to St. James’s Park to feed the ducks, hoping the fresh air would clear the fog of Julia’s previous barbs.
“Look, Miss Lewis! Philip is trying to feed the swan his entire biscuit!” Arthur shouted.
“Oh goodness, Lord Philip! The poor thing will choke!” She laughed. As she turned to intervene, a shadow fell over her.
“Still playing at mother, I see,” Lady Presholm remarked, appearing from the gravel path with a small party of gossipmongers in tow. “Not that you would know what that is like to have one, you poor little thing. It is a charming look for you, though, Miss Lewis. So… domestic.”
Imogen curtsied against her will, her spine like steel. “The boys enjoy the park, Lady Presholm. As their governess, it is my dutyto see that they are properly educated and cared for. I bid you good day.”
The Countess stepped closer, her silk gown rustling under her heavy fur coat. She gestured toward the boys, her eyes cold. “Did you know that His Grace was at the ball last night? It has been the talk of theton.”
“No, My Lady,” Imogen answered through gritted teeth, though she could not deny she was interested in whatever Julia had to say.
