A moralistic snob,God help him.
"All you can do is your best. The rest?" Samuel shrugged. "You live with it."
Ambrose knew he had little to recommend his suit. Could he present himself to Marianne, knowing his own faults? Could he hope that she'd accept him as he was, flaws and all?
"Didn't raise you to be namby-pamby," his father commented.
Ambrose rubbed his neck. Devil take it, hewasbeing an idiot. He wanted Marianne—in his bed, by his side forever. So why was he making excuses, prolonging the torment? Either she wanted him… or she didn't. If she didn't know by now, waiting wasn't going to make a lick of difference.
He tucked the ring into his pocket. "I'll go talk to her. Wish me luck."
"Good luck, boy." Smiling, his father patted him on the shoulder. "Though somehow I don't think you'll need it."
* * *
Heading down the stairs, Ambrose encountered Violet and Polly on the landing. His sisters had Primrose in tow.
"Good morning, Mr. Kent," Primrose said, dimpling.
He couldn't help but smile at the pretty picture the three girls made with their hair in ringlets and tied with satin bows. "And to you, little one. Where are you all dashing off to?"
"We're going upstairs to play Spillikins." Violet rolled her eyes. "Can youbelievePrimrose has never played before?"
"Picking up sticks is not the only way to pass one's time. I'm sure Primrose has enjoyed other leisure," Ambrose chided his sister.
"Actually, I haven't," Primrose blurted, her face falling. "My life before... it was ever so boring."
Ambrose's chest constricted. For a young girl, Primrose had been through so many changes; the harrowing episode at the pier hadn't helped matters. Marianne had fretfully told him that Primrose sometimes suffered terror dreams at night.
As Ambrose searched for the right words to comfort the girl, to assure her that from now on everything would be alright, Polly slipped her hand into Primrose's.
With a child's simple ease, his youngest sister said, "You've got us now, Rosie."
"And we'reneverboring," Vi added.
"I wish you didn't have to leave tomorrow." Primrose's bottom lip trembled. "I shall miss you all dreadfully."
Three hopeful pairs of eyes turned to Ambrose.
"Run along now," he said gruffly. "We'll talk later."
The girls went off to enjoy their game, and he continued down the stairs. He headed to the drawing room, the place Marianne was most likely to be this time of day. As he approached, he heard the sound of female voices. Marianne's… and Lady Harteford's. The door was ajar; though he couldn't see into the room, snippets of their conversation drifted through.
"… I'm glad to have a moment alone with you, Marianne." The marchioness's voice was low, serious. "How is Primrose faring?"
"Considering all that she has been through, I should say quite marvelously. She's a resilient little thing." Despite the obvious pride in Marianne's tone, there was a quiver, too. "I still have nightmares of what might have happened if Coyner had succeeded in..."
"He didn't, and he's dead. That is justice," Lady Harteford said firmly. "Now we must focus on doing everything we can for Primrose. Have you given thought to when you will introduce her to Society?"
Though Ambrose knew he should leave the ladies to their private talk, the anxiety in Marianne's tone held him captive outside the door.
"It is too soon. She is a bastard, Helena, and I do not wish her to be harmed by my mistakes."
"Fustian. There are plenty of by-blows running amok in theton.Primrose is the granddaughter of an earl and niece to a marchioness, and she has as much right to be in society as any of them. And anyone else, for that matter."
"I don't want her exposed to ugliness," Marianne insisted. "You know how cruel so-called polite society can be."
"Indeed. That is why we must have a plan."
