Finally, he withdrew his hand, his skin warm where he had touched her. He stood, adjusted the duvet one last time to be sure she was comfortable, and slipped out of the room, leaving the moment behind in the shadows.
Ambrose slipped out of Imogen’s room; the click of the latch sounded like a gunshot in the quiet corridor. A distant clock ticked, and he realized it must have been two in the morning.
He leaned his back against the wood, his chest heaving as if he had just run a great distance. His skin still hummed from the contact. He could feel the phantom weight of her in his arms, the silk of her curls, the way she had almost sighed his name in her sleep.
Or did he imagine that?
He took a step toward his own quarters, only to freeze.
Standing at the far end of the hallway, bathed in the dim light of a single wall sconce, were Mr. Jennings and Mrs. Higgins. They didn’t move, nor did he. They simply stood there like a pair of ancient, sentinel gargoyles.
Ambrose straightened his waistcoat, his jaw tightening as he crossed the distance toward them. He tried to summon the icy, untouchable mask of the Duke, but he knew his eyes were a bit too bright, his breathing too ragged.
Pull yourself together, Ambrose. Think of something…
“Your Grace,” Jennings said, his voice a low, smooth vibration that felt uncomfortably knowing. “Is everything…”
“Is everything quite all right, Your Grace?” Mrs. Higgins finished for him.
“It is nearly two in the morning, Jennings,” Ambrose snapped, though he kept his voice to a harsh whisper. “And you, Higgins! Why are you not in bed?”
“We were concerned, Your Grace,” Mrs. Higgins replied. She didn’t look at the door he had just exited, but her gaze lingered pointedly on his shirt sleeve, where a single strand of dark hair clung to the linen like an ever-fixed mark of shame. “The girl has been at her wits’ end. We thought perhaps she might need… assistance with the boys.”
“She was asleep in the chair,” Ambrose said, the defensiveness rising in his throat, along with bile. “I merely moved her to her bed when I checked on my nephews upon returning from a social engagement. She was exhausted.”
“Indeed,” Jennings murmured. “Exhaustion of the spirit is a heavy burden as well. Especially for one so young and so… isolated.”
Ambrose felt the walls closing in on him then. Of course she was lonely. He felt the weight of their long years of service, too, as the ceiling seemed to come down on him. They had seen him as a boy, had seen his father’s temper and his mother’s grief. They knew him better than he liked on most days, and right now, they were looking at him not as their master but as a man who was playing with fire.
“She is an incredible young woman,” Mrs. Higgins said softly, stepping closer. “She has a way with the boys that no one else has managed. It would be a great tragedy if she were made to feel unwelcome in this house because the burden of her station became too much to bear.”
“Or because of the complications of others,” Jennings added.
They are taking… her side?
Ambrose looked from one to the other. He saw the loyalty they held for Imogen and the warning they were issuing to him. They were telling him that they knew something. They clearly knew that he was drawn to her. They knew the ruin it could bring to a woman of her standing if he were not careful, notwithstanding his own.
“I am well aware of my responsibilities,” Ambrose said, his voice regaining its iron edge. “To the boys, and to this staff, which I am grateful for. Miss Lewis is under my protection. That has not changed.”
“Protection is a broad word, Your Grace,” Jennings said, bowing his head just enough to remain respectful while delivering a final barb. “Sometimes the greatest threat to a bird is the very hand that keeps the cage. She needs a bit of life beyond the boys. It is only right.”
Ambrose’s eyes flashed red, but he could find no retort.
He is right.
“Goodnight, Jennings. Mrs. Higgins.”
“Goodnight, Your Grace,” they chorused in hauntingly perfect unison.
One ought to wonder about their goings on…
He strode past them, his boots silent on the runner. Yet, he could feel their eyes on his back until he reached the safety of his own door. He entered his room and threw himself into the armchair by the cold hearth, the silence of the house pressing in on him once more.
He was the Duke of Welton, master of all he surveyed. Yet, he felt utterly ambushed by the truth. His servants saw his heart more clearly than he did, and they were right to be afraid for her.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The following Tuesday, a thin, biting November rain began to fall over London, turning the cobblestones into mirrors of slate. To escape the oppressive, silent gloom that had settled over the townhouse, Imogen had ushered the boys into the carriage for a trip to Hatchards.
