Ambrose’s brow furrowedas he watched his wife flee into the massive tomb of a mansion that he had deliberately avoided since inheriting it. Halfway there, she dropped his coat in a puddle, causing a rare grin to flit across his face.
Mara was far bolder than he remembered. Brazen, even.
She was also beautiful.
No, not beautiful,he thought as he departed the carriage.Fucking gorgeous.
Mara had never been ugly, but her shyness—hunched shoulders, aversion to eye contact, clothes that were obviously too big—had given the illusion of a dull, quiet little kitten. A little kitten, that, over the course of his absence, had evolved into a fiery tigress complete with a wild red mane and a dress plastered so tightly to her delectable curves it might as well have been invisible.
He hadn’t given her his greatcoat out of concern for her wellbeing as much as concern forhis. Ambrose prided himself on his ruthless control, but in that moment, sitting across from his soaking wet wife with her dusky rose nipples pressing against damp fabric... he’d been close to losing it. Closer than he’d ever been before.
And that was... unsettling.
Even more unsettling than learning she still fully intended to go forward with her outrageous plan to take a lover in London.
Mara, in the arms of another man?
He struggled to picture her inhisarms.
It was so long since last they’d touched that his memories of any intimacy shared between them were as fleeting as fog floating above a pond at sunrise. Although he did recall, with vivid clarity, their first kiss—their first real kiss. It had been raining, just like it was now. Heavy layers of water that had pounded relentlessly on the roof of the Lyceum Theater, drowning out of the voices of the actors on the stage. He had been seated beside Mara high up in a balcony box, and while she’d watchedHamlet, he’d watched her.
She’d worn a drab gown of gray, and whatever lady’s maid had taken great pain to slick every auburn curl to her head with pomade deserved to be dismissed. Her only jewelry was a pair of small pearl earrings. Her throat was bare, her wrists as well, and he’d taken a mental note to have a sapphire choker and matching bracelet delivered to her doorstep the next morning. The rich blue would complement her ivory skin in a way that all of that dour gray did not.
As a dramatic scene unfolded across center stage, her eyes had widened. Drenched in candlelight, her irises were a shade lighter than they’d appeared at the ball. Amber, almost, with flecks of gold. He found them to be almost her most intriguing feature, second only to the light spattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose.
Ambrose had never fancied himself as a man that even noticed such minute details on a woman, let alone took a liking to them. Breasts, bottoms, calves, even the slender curve of an exposed shoulder was worth a whistle of appreciation. But with the way that Mara dressed, all of those body parts were covered and then some, leaving him with her face... and her freckles.
He’d wondered if she had freckles elsewhere and was mildly surprised that he genuinely wanted to find out the answer. Lady Marabelle Holden was not his guest that evening due to any sort of desire or attraction, but rather for the simple fact that she possessed nearly all of the qualities he was seeking in a duchess.
She was biddable, quiet, and came from a family of decent lineage. His solicitor had been unable to find a whiff of scandal attached to her name, and she was, presumably, a virgin. Not that he’d really cared one way or the other (the more experience in the bedroom the better, in his mind), but he didn’t want any doubt cast upon the parentage of his future son and heir.
He’d also liked that she appeared organized and studious; two qualities that were often overlooked but quite necessary if a wife was to manage a household without constantly turning to her husband to solve problems. Because after he planted a babe in his future duchess’s womb, Ambrose didn’t want her turning to him at all. Not out of bed... nor in it. Their lives, for all intents and purposes, would be completely separate. She would remain primarily at Southwick Castle, while he maintained a permanent residence at Glendale Manor. An unconventional requirement that was, for him, non-negotiable.
Thus far, his search for a wife had yielded women that were either too stutteringly shy or too incessantly chatty. He’d met a blonde that he had to physically pry off his arm, and a brunette whose eyes had glazed over when he broached the subject of estate management. But Mara... Mara was seemingly perfect.
Except for those damned freckles.
He hadn’t liked their power to distract him. He’d always enjoyed the theater, and this acting troupe in particular. But instead of his gaze remaining on the stage where it belonged, it had kept wandering to his right where Mara sat, hands folded demurely in her lap, pure and utter enchantment scrawled across every inch of her face... including the miniature specks of gold dust sprinkled high on her cheeks as if put there by fairies.
After the play had concluded and the actors had taken their final bows to a roar of applause, Ambrose had escorted Mara and her sister—whose countenance, while beautiful, did not sport a single freckle—out of the Lyceum via a private exit and immediately into his carriage before the throngs of curious onlookers and gossipmongers could descend upon them.
“What did you think?” he’d asked, a politely empty smile claiming the corners of his mouth as they pulled away from the curb, the wheels clattering over uneven cobblestone before finding purchase on a smoother stretch of freshly laid gravel.
“Too much dialogue for me,” said Kitty, catching a yawn in her hand. “Talk, talk, talk. This above all, to be or not to be, be true to yourselves... it was all a tad boring, wasn’t it?”
“I believe the lady doth protest too much,” Mara had said softly.
Against his will, Ambrose’s teeth flashed in a grin.
Biddable, quiet,andin possession of a quick wit.
Yes, she’d do.
She’d do quite nicely.
“Have you attended a showing at the Lyceum before, Lady Marabelle?” he’d asked, finding and holding her gaze in the dimly lit interior of the carriage.
“Oh, no. We’ve never been able to—that is, no.” A curl pinged loose from her tight coiffure in a desperate bid for freedom as she shook her head from side to side. “This was the first time. It’s a beautiful theater. The quality of the sound was quite remarkable despite the rain, especially during the monologues.”
