Black nodded. "Good. It's settled then."
Marianne laughed… because it was.
And she was finallyfree.
46
After the meeting with Black,Marianne returned home, brimming with excitement. She was eager to see Ambrose, to confess her heart. But he wasn't there. According to Emma, he'd stepped out and hadn't left direction. Marianne bided her time, allowing the girls to gleefully trounce her at Spillikins and Fox and Geese. When Ambrose did not return by supper, however, she began to worry. After the meal, she tucked Primrose in bed, left her in Tilda's care, and went in search of him.
She began at Wapping Station; no one had seen him there all day. Johnno suggested a nearby pub—but Ambrose wasn't there either. Finally, she headed to his apartment. She rapped on the peeling door, her belly twisting.
What if he's not here? What if something's happened to him?
On the fifth knock, the door opened.
Ambrose's lean frame filled the doorway. His hair was scruffy and his jaw stubbly with the beginnings of a night beard. His collar lay unlaced, revealing his strong throat and a glimpse of his hair-dusted chest. His trousers had seen better days, and his large, masculine feet were bare.
Lord, he was beautiful. Her pulse thumped harder.
"What are you doing here, Marianne?" he said.
She blinked at his curt tone. Not exactly the passionate welcome she'd been hoping for. Her confidence dimmed a little, but she said lightly, "You aren't in the middle of a rendezvous, are you? I know all your sisters now, so you shan't be able to use that excuse this time around."
"There's no one here but me."
"May I come in?" she said.
His lashes veiled his gaze. "If you like."
She followed him into the cramped space with mounting nervousness. Ambrose's manner was... different. He'd oft called her aselkie, but now it seemed that he was the one who'd shed his skin. His usual steady warmth was missing; in its place was that smoldering intensity that never failed to arouse her... and alarm her, just a little.
But she'd never seen Ambrose quite in this state. When he'd allowed his dominant side to show at other times, it had still been controlled, honed. Tonight, 'twas as if his self-restraint and patience had reached their limits. He was a male on the edge, and she had the fretful thought that she'd finally pushed him beyond reason. Worse yet, had he given up on her? Having suffered so much at her hands, had he decided she wasn't worth the trouble?
Her insides chilled. Licking her lips, she glanced blindly around the Spartan room. It remained unchanged from her last visit, with the exception of the pallet he'd moved next to the fire. A bottle of whiskey and a book lay on the floor beside it. Fighting nerves, she peered down at the title.
"Dante. Cheerful choice," she said.
"It suited my mood."
When he didn't elaborate, she said awkwardly, "We missed you at supper. Monsieur Arnauld made your favorite,boeuf bourginon."
"I wasn't fit for company." His thumbs hitched behind his braces, and his brooding gaze bored into hers. "Why have you come, Marianne?"
"I... I thought we should talk. Before you leave for Chudleigh Crest."
What was going on behind that amber gaze? She'd gotten accustomed to interpreting his expressions, yet at the moment she couldn't read him at all.
"Go ahead and talk," he said.
Her pulse a furious staccato, she said, "We haven't been alone this past week. And there are things we should discuss. About our relationship."
His mouth compressed. "You're right. Let's finish it, then."
Finish it?What did he mean bythat?
She swallowed. "How much have you had to drink tonight?"
"Not nearly enough." The bitterness in his smile—so foreign—caused her heart to squeeze. "Now what was it you came here to say? Or should I say it for you?"
