Reaching the landing, he froze. A figure sat huddled in front of his apartment. Her head rested against the doorframe, disheveled raven locks obscuring her visage, but he would know her anywhere.
"Emma?" he said incredulously.
She came awake with a start, pushing the hair from her face. His gut lurched at the sight of her swollen, reddened eyes, the dirt smudging her delicate cheekbones. She swayed to her feet.
"Ambrose?" she whispered.
Concern flooded him as he opened his arms. "What has happened, Em? Why are you here?"
His sister hurtled toward him, a sob breaking from her lips.
* * *
Marianne peered out the carriage door at the tenements. Despite the late hour, raggedy bits hung neglected on the clothing lines that crisscrossed the dreary buildings. A few scruffy ruffians loitered at the entryways, swigging from bottles and clearly headed for oblivion. The din of squalling babes and arguing adults was nearly as loud as the clanging church bells had been. Life in Cheapside was not quiet.
"You are sure this is the correct address?" she said.
Standing by the carriage door, Lugo pointed to a door on the second floor. "Mr. Kent lives at number eight. Do you want me to fetch him, my lady?"
"No, thank you," she said. "I'll go myself."
She felt Lugo's watchful gaze as she made her way toward Ambrose's apartment. The drunks she passed were too far gone to do more than leer. The odor of cooking onions turned her stomach as she ascended the creaking steps. Her pulse quickened, not from the physical exertion, but from the uncertainty that had plagued her ever since she'd shared her secret with Ambrose.
Stop worrying and being so dashed suspicious. You can trust him.
Old habits died hard. She knew she'd overreacted when Ambrose had told her about questioning Leach's clerk. It had been a knee-jerk response: suspicion and paranoia left over from her past. All thatwasin the past, she told herself. Ambrose had done nothing to rouse her anxiety. He'd protected her, believed her. And he'd vowed to help her get Rosie back.
Ambrose was like no man she'd ever met. He made her feelherselfin ways that sparked opposingfrissonsof delight and alarm. For so long, she had mastered her emotions; she hadn't recognized the price of that self-control until he had come along and showed her the thrill of letting go. Of just being. With his persistence and tenderness, he was teaching her to trust bit by bit.
She could see herself changing in ways that both excited and frightened her. The impulsive nature she'd kept buried had come charging to the fore, brought her here to Ambrose's residence because she didn't want to wait until tomorrow night to see him. She wanted to see himnow. She approached his door, her heart thudding with the giddiness of a debutante waiting for her first dance.
Has he missed me these past two days? Has he longed to make love again as I have?
She raised her gloved fist, rapped on the door.
No response came. She fought the disappointment. Perhaps he had not yet returned from work. Or perhaps he'd gone out with friends, to unwind as men were wont to do over drink… and wenches? She frowned—no, Ambrose wasn't the whoring type. Mayhap he was simply inside asleep in his own bed… The notion of Ambrose's bed made her heart pump faster. Not expecting success, she reached for the door handle. It turned in her grasp.
Anticipation quickening her breath, she went in. Her gaze skimmed over the dingy space with its sparse furnishings—and honed in on Ambrose. He was not alone. He occupied a chair next to a young woman, their dark heads bent together. Needles prickled in Marianne's chest as he cupped his guest's cheek, the gesture imbued with infinite tenderness. The two were so engrossed in their intimate conversation that neither looked up at her approach.
Marianne heard herself say in a strangely calm voice, "Iamsorry to interrupt."
Ambrose jumped to his feet. He blinked, as if trying to register Marianne's presence, the bloody bastard. Marianne got a good look at the other woman for the first time, and a hot, foreign feeling swelled beneath her breastbone. With inky hair and large, doe-brown eyes, the female was younger than she'd first thought—young and quite pretty, with a smooth countenance that exuded freshness and innocence, qualities Marianne herself had lost years ago.
"Who are you?" the cheeky miss said.
"Emma, let me explain…" Kent began.
"Emma, is it?" The acid in Marianne's tone cut Kent off. The line she'd once found charming deepened between his brows. Her heart twisted painfully, but pride came to her rescue. "I am Lady Draven. Kent's lover," she said with absolute hauteur. "Who are you?"
The blasted creature's eyes got even bigger. Her cheeks turned crimson, and Marianne had the cold satisfaction of knowing that she had not been the only one duped. Her gaze shot accusingly to Kent.
He was watching her, the corner of his mouth twitching oddly. He cleared his throat.
"Lady Draven, may I present to you my sister, Miss Emma Kent?" he said.
* * *
Despite the grim situation that had necessitated Emma's visit, Ambrose experienced an odd, buoyant feeling in his chest. He chalked it up to the fact that it wasn't every day that gorgeous widows showed up at his rooms and gave a spectacular display of feminine jealousy. Jealousy—over him. 'Twas novel and rather delightful. As if tuning into his thoughts, Marianne's eyes flashed at him, brighter than the fireworks at Vauxhall.
