“I am sorry, but that will be a talk for another day,” Ambrose said as he set down his glass. “I am afraid I am needed… elsewhere.”
“Ah, a young lad as yourself surely has his fun, eh?” Lord Morton laughed as he elbowed Lord Cavendish playfully.
“I remember those days, we were quite a pair… eh, Morton?” Lord Cavendish laughed, his pot belly jiggling under his crossed arms. “Then my Lady made an honest man of me. Is it as fun as we remember, Your Grace?”
“Something like that,” he said as he bowed and exited the room.
The carriage lurched to a halt before the darkened facade of his London home. The footman opened the door, the cool Autumn mist swirling into the cabin. Ambrose stepped out, the damp air biting at his throat.
Inside, the foyer was a cavern of flickering shadows, the home quiet as servants slowly retired below. He handed his top hat and gloves to the lone remaining servant without a word, his gaze instinctively drifting toward the grand staircase that led to the upper floors, to the nursery, and to the woman who had turned his own house into a labyrinth of unspoken things.
He walked up the stairs and turned toward his quarters. He opened the heavy mahogany door and clicked it shut, leaningagainst it. He breathed in and out for a few moments, his heartbeat quickening as he thought of her.
Damn it.
He soon found himself on the other side of the door, walking the lonely hall toward the nursery wing. He told himself he was merely checking on Philip’s lungs, but his heart knew the lie. The boy had been well for some time now.
The nursery was bathed in the soft, flickering amber of a dying hearth. The boys were sprawled in their beds, tangled in linens, their breathing deep and rhythmic. It was a soothing sight, and for a moment, Ambrose thought of himself and his brother as young boys in a remarkably similar setup. Yet, it was the figure in the armchair between the two beds that stole the air from Ambrose’s lungs as soon as his eyes landed on her.
Imogen was fast asleep. She looked like an elven maiden in the firelight, the fierce armor of the governess fallen away to peaceful sleep.
She really cares for them.
Her head was tilted back against the velvet wing of the chair, and an open book of poetry rested precariously in her lap, her slender fingers still tucked between the pages as if she had been overtaken by slumber mid-sentence.
Ambrose moved with the silent grace of a ghost toward her, his future actions unbeknownst to himself. He found himself reaching down, his pulse jumping as he carefully slid the book from her grasp. He set it on the side table, his eyes lingering on her hand, so small, so capable.
I know I should wake her…
Propriety demanded he wake her and send her to her own bed. But the sight of the dark circles under her eyes, born of her relentless caring for the boys, both in sickness and health, pulled him like a siren’s song.
I must care for this creature…
Moving with agonizing slowness, he slid one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back. He braced himself, expecting her to startle awake, but she only sighed. It was a soft, broken little sound that warmed his heart as she leaned her head instinctively into the crook of his neck. She nuzzled her nose against him, sighing a softMmm.
Her weight was sweet torture. As he lifted her, her scent, lavender and old paper, wrapped around him, more intoxicating than any brandy Lord Cavendish was offering the men that remained at his after-dinner party. He carried her through the door just outside the hall into her small, neat bed chamber. The room was dim, smelling of the fresh night air from a slightly cracked window.
He laid her down upon the coverlet with the reverence of a man handling spun glass. She didn’t wake, though her brow furrowed in the transition. He felt butterflies in his stomach at the reaction, the understanding that she preferred his arms to any surface, at least in her sleep.
Ambrose knelt by the side of the bed, his fingers trembling as he reached for the ties of her sturdy walking shoes. He eased them off one by one, placing them neatly on the floor.
She is so delicate.
He didn’t dare touch the buttons of her dress, much as a deep part of him wanted to sneak the smallest peek. Instead, he reached for the heavy duvet at the foot of the bed. He pulled it up, covering her to the waist, tucking the edges around her to keep out the midnight chill. He walked over to the smoldering fire and threw on another log, then shut the cracked window.
As he turned to leave, Imogen stirred restlessly. A soft moan escaped her lips, and she turned her head from side to side, her hand clutching at the air as if reaching for something she had lost.
“Don’t… Please! Stop!” she whispered nervously in her sleep, her face twisting with a phantom grief. “Not again. Do not make me?—”
Ambrose froze. He knew she was dreaming of the lake, the cold, biting words of the wretch next door, or perhaps something even worse; he did not know. Without thinking, he sat on the edge ofthe mattress and reached out to her. He needed to comfort her then, and so, he began to stroke her hair. His large hand moved in slow, rhythmic sweeps from her forehead to the nape of her neck.
“Shh,” he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration in the small room. “You are safe, Imogen. I have you. No one will hurt you here. Never…”
Under the gentle pressure of his hand, he felt the tension melt from her limbs. Her breathing leveled out, and the frantic clutching of her fingers ceased as she settled into the pillow with another soft moan. She turned toward his touch, her cheek almost brushing his wrist, a look of profound peace settling over her features once more. She was a beautiful and remarkable sight.
Ambrose stayed like that for a long time, watching her sleep, his heart aching with a yearning so sharp it felt like the air in his lungs had been sucked out.
He was a Duke. Imogen was a girl with nothing, at least when it came to the material world. Yet in the stillness of the nursery wing, and in her bed, the world felt small… small enough that he could almost imagine a life where he never had to let her go.
