Imogen’s heart gave a sickening jolt, her stomach wrenching into a tight knot. Lord Presholm stood blocking the path to the front steps. He wasn’t wearing a coat, and his cravat was loosened. His eyes were bloodshot and glassy with drink. He looked nothing like the polished gentleman he pretended to be in the ballrooms.
“Lord Presholm,” Imogen said, her voice tight but steady. She clutched the book to her chest like a shield. “Please, excuse me. I must get inside. I was only retrieving this tome; the boys need me. Good day?—”
“Why the rush, Miss Lewis? You used to be a member of my household, if you recall. Come inside Presholm House for a drink.” He stepped closer, the smell of stale brandy and cigar smoke hitting her nostrils vigorously. He moved to block her again as she tried to sidestep him.
“I could not possibly, My Lord,” she protested.
“My wife says you’ve grown quite arrogant lately with your new position. I suppose being the favorite of a Duke has its perks. Does he pay you in gold, or does he pay you in… other ways?”
“You are in your cups, My Lord. Step aside, or I shall call for the footman,” Imogen said, her breath hitching as he moved further into her personal space. She refused to scream; she had dealt with him before. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a scene either, nor did she want the boys to look out the window and see her cornered.
I can handle this oaf…
“No one cares what happens to a servant. You are a commodity,” Presholm sneered. He reached out, his hand trembling with a mix of intoxication and malice. “Julia thinks you’re a threat.”
“A threat?” Imogen asked as her heart began to beat out of her chest.
“I know better. I think you’re just a girl who needs to be reminded where her loyalties should lie. We took good care of you; it’s time you remembered to be thankful. Why don’t you show me a little gratitude?”
He lunged forward, his hand diving toward her waist to pull her into the shadows. Imogen gasped, dropping the book as she shoved at his chest, her heart hammering against her ribs.
“Let go of me, you scoundrel!” she hissed.
“Don’t be a little fool. I know you’ve always wanted this. The lady doth protest too much!”
“How dare you!” Imogen said, not caring how improper her choice of words was, or who heard. She was beginning to fear for her safety. Her heart thudded in her chest, her throat impossibly tight.
“You are too much trouble, considering what you are worth. That pittance your father left behind was not enough for what my lady wife has endured. You must return the favor?—”
His words were cut short by the sound of the townhouse door slamming open with a force that rattled the glass panes of the windows.
The door to Welton House didn’t just open. It hit the stone exterior wall with a violent, rebounding crack that echoed down the empty street.
Ambrose didn’t shout a warning. He didn’t demand an explanation. He moved with a terrifying, fluid lethality. He was a predator who had seen his mate cornered, like a werewolf of old folk tales. It was beyond his cognition, and he moved without thinking.
He cleared the front steps in two thundering strides, his heavy greatcoat snapping behind him like a dark wing. Before Presholm could even register the movement, Ambrose’s hand shot out, seizing the man’s shoulder with enough force to bruise the bone through his fine wool coat.
He spun Presholm around with a savage jerk. The smaller man’s mouth was still open, mid-sneer, when Ambrose’s fist connected with his jaw.
The sound was sickening, a wet, dullthwackfollowed by the distinctcrackof bone meeting bone. The force of the blow was absolute, fueled by weeks of repressed longing and the sudden, white-hot explosion of protective fury. Presholm was lifted off his feet, his body reeling backward as if he’d been struck by a charging horse.
He hit the sleet-slicked pavement hard. His head snapped back against the stone with a hollow thud, and for a second, he lay motionless. Then, a pathetic, wet gurgle escaped him. He scrambled to sit up, his hands frantically clutching at a nose that had been crushed into a bloody mess, crimson liquid gushing between his fingers and soaking into his pristine white shirt.
Ambrose didn’t retreat. He stood over the fallen man, his chest heaving in ragged, violent jerks, his hands curled into white-knuckled fists that were already smeared with Presholm’s blood. He looked murderous. Every trace of the cool, aristocratic Duke of Welton had vanished, and was replaced by something ancient and raw. He was a man possessed by a primitive rage that bordered on the feral.
“If you ever touch her again,” Ambrose began, his voice a low, vibrating growl that hummed with the promise of death itself. “If you even look in the direction of my house while she is in it, if you so much as breathe the same air, I will not stop at a broken nose. Do not test me, Presholm.”
He stepped closer, his boot coming down inches from Presholm’s hand. “I will ruin you, Presholm. I will strip you of every scrap of dignity, every penny of credit, and every friend you have left in this city. I will hunt you through every drawing room in London until you are nothing but a ghost. You won’t even be able to conduct paltry dealings at White’s?—”
“What do you know of my business?” Lord Presholm barked back, rubbing his nose.
“Do you understand me? You and that wife of yours will be nothing.”
At that, Presholm looked up, the alcohol-induced bravado completely gone, replaced by a sobering, gut-wrenching terror. He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. He scrambled to his feet, his boots slipping on the wet stones as he practically fell toward his own front door, leaving a frantic trail of scarlet in the freezing sleet.
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the hiss of the rain that pounded on the cobblestone street. Ambrose did not turn around immediately; his blood was boiling, and he could hardly see anything other than red. He stood with his back to Imogen, his shoulders hunched, his breath coming in jagged plumes of white vapor.
“Imogen,” he finally said. His voice broke on the name; the rage collapsing into a desperate, hollow fear. “Are you all right? Are you hurt? Do I need to fetch Dr. Gump?”
