“Just one more kiss,” came the male response, equally soft. “Come on, Sylvie. One more to sustain me till tonight.”
Ambrose’s breath caught in his throat.
“You are truly wicked,” Sylvie replied, a hint of laughter in her tone. “There’ll be an awful scandal if we’re caught.”
“Then we mustn’t be caught, my sweet,” the man replied, and cradled Sylvie’s face in his hands as he pressed his mouth to hers.
Ambrose staggered back, kicking up the gravel beneath his feet as he did so.
“What the…?” The man shot to his feet, eyes widening as he peered over the hedge. “Oh, crikey.”
Sylvie also rose to her feet, her jaw dropping at the sight of Ambrose. “My lord!” Her shocked gaze flicked from him to her companion and back again. “I thought you were… I mean, this is not what you think. I swear, it isn’t.”
The man’s expression had melted into one of dismay, with perhaps a touch of fear. “Er, no, milord, it is not what you think,” he said, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Not at all.”
Anger, ice-cold and oddly placating, replaced Ambrose’s initial thrust of shock. Narrowing his eyes, he regarded the woman who, not a minute earlier, had been destined to become his countess. “You thought I waswhat, Miss Grissom?”
Cheeks flushed pink, Sylvie opened her mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. “I… I suppose I didn’t think you’d be here, my lord.” She cast a brief glance at the man beside her, whoseface had now assumed a grayish hue. “But this isnotwhat you’re thinking. It meant nothing.”
Ambrose furled his lip. “I can assure you, Miss Grissom, you have no idea what I’m thinking.” Bile burned the back of his throat as he raked a gaze over Sylvie’s companion. “Who are you?” he asked. “What is your name?”
“Um.” The Adam’s apple bobbed again. “Snodgrass, my lord. Edwin Snodgrass.”
“My lord, please.” Sylvie linked her fingers beneath her chin. “I swear this is not how—”
“Snodgrass,” Ambrose repeated, eyeing the man’s common apparel. “Tell me, Snodgrass, are you a guest here?”
Crabtree’s face paled even more. “No, my lord. Not a guest.”
“Then who the hell are you?”
“Please, my lord,” Sylvie said, her voice almost a squeak. “You misunderstand.”
Ambrose ignored her. “Answer my question, Snodgrass. Who are you?”
“Um, actually, my lord, I…I’m the stablemaster. Please, I meant no har—”
“The stablemaster?” Ambrose tussled with a sickening urge to laugh. “Here? At Spruce Court?”
“Aye… I mean, er, yes, my lord.”
Ambrose nodded. “I see.”
Sylvie shook her head. “No, my lord, you do not see. It was just a bit of fun. Quite innocent.”
“A bit of fun.” Ambrose gave her a cold smile. “Yes, Miss Grissom, you certainly appeared to be enjoying yourself. My apologies for the interruption. I shall leave you to get on with it.”
Fists clenching and unclenching, he turned on his heel and strode away, his mind in an escalating state of chaos. How could his judgment of her been so misplaced? So wrong?
“No, wait my lord, please,” came the female cry, followed by the sound of hurried footsteps on gravel. A moment later, a panting Miss Grissom tugged on Ambrose’s sleeve. “I was told you wouldn’t be here today.”
Ambrose laughed. “As it happens, Miss Grissom, I’m glad I came. It has been an enlightening experience, to say the least.”
“You misunderstand, my lord.”
“I do not think so, madam.” He strode on. “Let go of my sleeve.”
She did so. “I’ve told you, it wasn’t what you think. The ghastly fellow wouldn’t leave me alone. In fact, I should probably have him dismissed.”
