“Where is she?” Ambrose barked, his voice a growl.
He followed the sound of a scuffle toward the side hall. He burst through the door just as Imogen managed to slip inside from the garden where he had first heard her cries, only to be backed against the wall by Lord Presholm.
Ambrose lunged. He grabbed Presholm’s shoulder, his fingers digging into the man’s expensive coat, the smell of drink and smoke filling his nostrils. He hauled him back with enough force to make the older man stumble clumsily.
“Get away from her,” Ambrose commanded, his voice vibrating with a lethal authority. “Now.”
“Your Grace?” Presholm exclaimed, hastily adjusting his waistcoat, color rising in his cheeks as his gaze darted about. “What is the meaning of this? You have forced your way into my home!”
“I heard a woman in distress,” Ambrose snapped, stepping between them, his tall frame shielding Miss Lewis completely. “And I see a coward cornering his staff. Leave. Her. Be.”
“She is a member ofmystaff!” Presholm huffed, finally regaining his footing. “You have no right to meddle in my domestic affairs! Come now, Your Grace! What madness is this?”
Miss Lewis trembled. Her hands were white-knuckled as she clutched her apron. Ambrose glanced back at her. “Are you hurt, Miss Lewis?”
“It… it was nothing, Your Grace,” she whispered, her voice shaky and eyes glassed over, looking into the distance. “I… am fine…”
This is not the first time he has done this, but it will be the last.
“We were… discussing household matters,” she whispered, bringing him back to the moment. “Truly.”
She is terrified of the fallout, Ambrose realized.This poor lamb is trying to protect her only means of survival. I will not have it.
“What is this infernal racket?” Lady Presholm’s voice cut through the hall as she swept into the room. She stopped, her eyes darting from the Duke’s fury to her husband’s indignance, and finally to the maid. “Your Grace? To what do we owe this… most unconventional visit? Is there a problem with my maid?”
“Your husbandwas accosting your maid, Lady Presholm,” Ambrose said coldly.
Lady Presholm’s face hardened, but not toward her husband. She turned a venomous look on Miss Lewis as she pointed a bony finger at her, wiggling it.
“You,” she hissed, walking forward and grabbing Imogen’s arm, hauling her toward her. “You insolent, common temptress! Just like your wretched mother! I knew you were trouble from the moment you were born. You’ve been preening for him, haven’t you? Trying to cause a scandal withmy husband?”
“She did nothing but defend herself,” Ambrose barked, his blood boiling. “This was not of her making, Lady Presholm. I swear it on my name as the Duke of Welton.”
“She is a liar and a burden, Your Grace! You have no idea the pains this wretch has caused me after all we have done for her,” Lady Presholm whined, dragging Imogen toward the servant’s stairs. “I’ll have you whipped for this insolence! You’ll sleep in the scullery until you finally learn your place!”
Ambrose reached out, his hand like a bar of iron as he stopped Lady Presholm’s movement with a firm, but gentle touch. He looked at Imogen, saw the fear and the exhaustion in her eyes as a sudden, sharp clarity took hold of him.
“Stop,” Ambrose said.
The room went silent.
He looked at Lady Presholm, then at Lord Presholm, and finally settled his gaze on Miss Lewis.
“Miss Lewis, come work for me instead.”
The silence that followed was deafening until Lord Presholm finally spoke.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he sputtered. “She is but a lowly maid, Your Grace! And not even a good one at that!” He laughed, a vain attempt to diffuse the situation.
“She will be my nephews’ governess,” Ambrose stated, his voice calm and resolute. “I will triple whatever pittance you pay her. She will have her own chambers, proper respect, and the protection of my House.”
The Countess of Presholm gripped Miss Lewis’ arm even tighter, and he saw her nails digging in. It took everything he had not to carry her out without delay.
He gritted his teeth, trying to think of his next move, when Lady Presholm spoke once more.
“She is going nowhere! She belongs here. She isnothingwithout this house.” She leaned into Miss Lewis’ ear then, her voice a poisonous low hiss, which Ambrose still managed to catch. “You have nowhere else to go, girl. Remember what you are.”
Ambrose watched Imogen look up at her, then she gazed at him. Into him. She was a sweet, soft lamb, and he needed to be her lion. He would be her fortress, offering her a hand out of the darkness and into the light. In turn, she would be the solution to his own problems, a source of comfort for his nephews.
