She didn’t dare look at Julia. Her eyes sought Ambrose’s, searching for the inevitable flicker of disgust, the moment he would realize he had bled for a woman who was nothing.
He must hate me…
But Ambrose didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away.
“I don’t care who Miss Lewis’s parents are,” Ambrose said.
Julia blinked, her mouth falling open in a stupid, uncomprehending gape. “What? Did you not hear me? She is a bastard, Ambrose! A dancer’s brat! She is literally nameless!”
“I heard you perfectly well,” Ambrose said, stepping forward so hurriedly that it made Julia stumble back. He positioned himself directly in front of Imogen, his broad shoulders acting as a fortress.
“Pardon me, but you are mad, Your Grace!”
“I don’t care who her father was, or what stage her mother danced upon. Miss Lewis has more dignity in her smallest finger than you have in your entire, bitter pedigree. She is a woman of character, intelligence, and a nobility of spirit that you couldn’t recognize if it were served to you on a silver platter.”
He leaned down, his face inches from the Countess’. “She is a member of this household. She is under my personal protection. And if you, or that sniveling, lecherous coward you call ahusband, ever breathe a word against her birth again, I will not stop at a broken nose. I will make the Presholm name a punchline in every salon from London to St. Petersburg. I will buy your debts and call them in by morning. I will erase you, Lady Presholm. Do you understand?”
“You… you are a fool,” Julia hissed, her face turning a mottled, ugly purple. “You would choose a gutter-born girl over your own kind? You are throwing away your reputation for a distraction that will be forgotten by next Season!”
“Perhaps you should ask your husband what he was doing at White’s just a few days ago. I observed him making quite an interesting transaction with an unsavory fellow.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“That is enough, Lady Presholm.” Ambrose dismissed her without answering her question. “Please take your leave before I forget that I was raised a gentleman and treat you with the same lack of ceremony I gave your husband.”
The Countess’ eyes darted between them, clearly realizing the power she thought she held had vanished. She gathered her sodden, heavy skirts with a violent jerk.
“You’ll regret this, Your Grace! When thetonhears that the Duke of Welton is harboring the bastard of a Viscount and a harlot, they will shun you! You’ll be a pariah in your own city! I had kept quiet, for propriety’s sake, but I will do no more!”
She turned on her heel, her silk boots squeaking on the wet marble. She didn’t just leave. She made a meal of her exit, throwing the door open so hard the glass rattled in its frame. She may as well have been the actress.
“I hope she was worth the ruin of your house!”
And with that, she swept out into the freezing sleet and slammed the door behind her with a finality that felt like the earth was cracking open.
Ambrose remained where he was, his back to Imogen, his chest heaving. The silence that followed Julia’s departure was thick and suffocating, vibrating with the echoes of the wordbastardthat still seemed to hang in the rafters.
Then, the soft, rhythmicthud-thud-thudof small feet broke the spell.
Arthur and Philip appeared at the top of the grand staircase, peering through the banisters like two frightened sparrows. Their faces were unnervingly pale, their eyes wide as they took in the scene below, the puddles of rainwater, the heavy breathing of their uncle, and Miss Lewis, who stood as still as a statue of salt.
“Is everything all right?” Philip asked, his voice small and trembling, cracking the heavy air. “We heard shouting. We heard a door slam.”
Imogen’s shoulders jerked, and she finally moved, though it looked as though she was pulling herself through deep water. She forced a brittle, heartbreakingly brave smile onto her face, one that didn’t reach her swimming eyes.
“Everything is… fine, Lord Philip,” she said, her voice thin and high. She clutched the book of maps to her chest so hard the edges bit into her palms, realizing she had never set it down. “Just a disagreement with an unexpected visitor. Nothing for you to worry about.”
“Are you sure?” Arthur pressed, raising an eyebrow to her.
“Yes,” she answered. “I am sure. Why don’t you show your uncle this book you purchased for him?” She said as she handed the book to Arthur, then finally risked a glance at Ambrose.
Her eyes were brimming with tears she refused to let fall, a mixture of gratitude and devastating, raw shame.
To have been defended by him was a miracle. To have her illegitimacy stripped bare before him was her death toll.
“Your Grace,” she whispered shakily. “If I may… I would like to go to my room. Just for a moment.”
Ambrose turned then. His movement was sudden and desperate. He reached out, his hand finally finding her arm, his fingers brushing the damp wool of her cloak.
