Chapter 16

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“ I cannot believe that he actually left for London despite the storm,” Helena gushed, her dainty hands flying to her mouth. “That is so romantic!”

“It is, is it not?” Barbara agreed, forcing a smile as she picked up her teacup.

She looked toward her handmaid, Sarah, who gave her a furtive nod, and she gave a grateful nod back before taking a sip. The tea—or rather a brandy with a splash of tea—sent a rush of warmth and calm down her throat and throughout her body, and she took a longer sip, draining the cup. Sarah quickly appeared at her side, picking up the pink teapot that sat apart from the other white ones, and poured her a second cup.

“You are going to be the wife,” Alice said sweetly with a teary-eyed smile, “of one of the nicest viscounts I have ever met.”

“His temperament is surprisingly… subdued for someone of his station, is it not?” Lydia pointed out gently.

Submissive, you mean.

“It is a rare quality in men these days, one I believe I shall find most refreshing,” Barbara said instead.

Her friends giggled at this, and their chatter about Kenneth’s romantic gesture of riding back to London in the storm to gain Josiah’s permission to marry Barbara resumed.

She had tried, desperately so, over the last few hours, to be as genuinely excited as they were for her. However, she found herself feeling drained within minutes and had been silently wishing for any change of subject that could possibly come up. It was only the last half hour that she had given up on this, and had at one point successfully whispered to Sarah her need for a more sedative libation.

“When do you think he will be back?” Helena asked her excitedly.

Barbara cleared her throat and picked up her full teacup again. “I believe he said he could return as soon as the day after next,” she replied. Then, as an afterthought, she admitted, “For the first time ever, I hope Uncle Reuben will be there. He will be able to convince my father to accept the proposal.”

Though they tried to hide it, all of her friends wrinkled their noses at the mention of her uncle’s name. It was no secret that they did not like him either, and would often use any excuse to have Barbara stay with them while he was in town for extensive visits. None of them really knew why—he was not worse than any other man his age, but something about him put them all on edge.

“I suppose he should be good for something,” Alice murmured, plucking a strawberry macaron from the nearby plate. She broke it in half with a snap, and Barbara’s lips quirked up at her friend’s little show of agitation.

“He said the wedding could be held as soon as next Friday?” Lydia asked. “That does not give you much time to prepare.”

Barbara shrugged. “I never truly imagined a wedding for myself,” she replied dryly. “Whatever Lord Gerville has in mind, I doubt I shall have a reception. It is not necessary.”

Her ability to feign her excitement had run out, and she could tell by the looks on her friends’ faces that they could hear it in her voice.

“We have overwhelmed you today,” Alice said in a motherly fashion, reaching for Barbara’s hand. “Forgive us. We are simply excited that you have been so luckily matched. He truly seems like a man who will give whatever you wish. You deserve that, darling.”

“You are too kind,” Barbara replied, patting her friend’s hand, “but you need not go. We can talk about the baby.”

Alice laughed tiredly as she drew her hand out of Barbara’s and rose from her chair. “We have already talked in length about the baby, and speaking of such, they are demanding a nap. I warn you, I may sleep through dinner.”

Barbara rose, her head spinning slightly from the brandy, and felt a little more relief as she hugged her farewell.

“I believe I might refrain from dinner as well,” she told them all as they embraced each other.

“Shall we just gather for breakfast in the morning, then?” Helena asked as they all made their way toward Barbara’s bedroom door.

A murmur of agreement went up around them, and after Barbara bid them all goodbye, she looked at Sarah with a grateful smile.

“You may retire too, Sarah. I appreciate everything you did.”

“Are you sure I cannot bring you anything else, my lady?” Sarah asked, her tone kind.

“Just leave what is left of the tea spread, I am sure there is plenty there to satisfy me through the evening,” Barbara replied.

Sarah curtseyed to her politely, then she too stepped out the door.

Once alone, Barbara slid the lock into place, then went to her changing curtain. Used to dressing and undressing herself after years of independence, she artfully worked herself free of the stays and buttons of her dusky blue dress. She then slipped out of her corset and shift, letting them both fall to the floor, and stepped out from behind the curtain naked.

For a moment, she simply stood in the empty room, taking in the stillness of it all. It was the first quiet she had heard all day. It swallowed her as she worked her hair out of its pins and braids, and by the time she put on her robe, the first few quiet sobs escaped her throat.

This marriage was needed. There was no way around that, and she had known this day would come. But this really was it. The end of her spinsterhood—the end of her freedom to do as she pleased. The end of the life she had always known. No matter how embarrassing or stressful it might have been, it had been hers . There would be no more covering for her father, no more putting herself in danger. No more lessons from Ambrose.

No more Ambrose.

Barbara went to the tea table, still laden with teapots and trays of treats and tiny sandwiches, and picked up her teacup, downing the spiked tea in one swallow. With another sob, she picked up the pink teapot, her hands trembling a little now, and poured herself another glass. She downed this one whole as the rain outside suddenly went from gentle to wild, and a bolt of lightning flashed through the sky, illuminating the well-polished floor that she stared at.

A gush of wind, followed by a grand rumbling of thunder, made her balcony doors vibrate, and she did nothing but sigh in relief as they burst open with a cooling force. Not bothering to turn toward the door to shut it, Barbara slumped back into her chair, candles guttering, and poured herself another cup of tea.

“You do not look particularly happy for a bride-to-be.”

Barbara smirked softly, not at all surprised to hear Ambrose’s voice. Of course, he was here, seeing her at her weakest moment.

“I am simply overwhelmed with happiness,” she sighed dryly, raising her teacup, still not bothering to look at him. “Another breaking and entering, I see,” she added, finally turning.

But her witty comment died on her tongue as she spotted the drenched, swaying Ambrose leaning against the door frame.

Blood trickled down from the knuckles of his left hand, dripping into the puddled water on the balcony floor. As if the weight of the blood was too much, a small red river formed from the puddle and trickled into Barbara’s room.

As usual, a smirk rested on his face.

“What happened to you?” Barbara asked, rising from her chair. “Get inside this instant!”

“So motherly.” Ambrose chuckled, his words slurring slightly as he swayed toward her. “Your future husband will absolutely love that about you.”

Barbara gave him a wary look, ignoring the stir of guilt she felt as she took his uninjured hand and led him out of the pouring rain and into her room.

“How much have you had to drink?” she asked.

She led him to the sofa before the fireplace, and with a firmer push than necessary on his chest, she got him to sit down. Ambrose laughed at her again but regained his balance with surprising speed. In an instant, his fingers were wrapped around her jaw, holding her in place as his face paused just a hair’s breadth in front of her own.

“You think I cannot smell the brandy on you, my little nymph?” he asked, his voice seductively low and clear.

Barbara’s skin prickled with desire as he leaned in until their lips were nearly touching, and he inhaled softly. A soft sound of pleasure escaped his lips as he exhaled, and Barbara’s heart began to thunder as his smile grew slightly more wicked.

“I can smell the peach brandy on your tongue,” he whispered, sending a shiver down her spine. “It is so strong that I can practically taste it. What has you needing to drink so heavily on your proposal day?”

Barbara pulled back, slapping him across the face so forcefully that it stung her palm. It was the only thing keeping her from shutting him up with a kiss, and she could not let that happen. Not again.

Ambrose only laughed wickedly as his head only moved slightly to the right, and then he let out a snarl as he captured her hips and dragged her down into his lap. His wet clothes soaked her robe instantly, making it transparent and cold against her skin. Yet, despite the chill, it did nothing to slake the heat emanating from her core as she slid up against his rigid manhood. In fact, it only made it worse, and she scrambled off him in the most unladylike fashion.

“Ambrose, that is enough,” she warned, sliding out of his slippery grip. “What is wrong with you? What happened to you?”

Needing the distance, she turned away from him and went to the fireplace, busying herself with throwing more logs into the fire.

“Why are you worried about me?” Ambrose asked behind her.

“Because this is twice now that you have broken into my room, and this time you are drunk and bleeding. Now explain or get out.”

Ambrose tsked as he shook his head. “Poor Kenneth won’t know what to do when he sees this side of you,” he remarked. When Barbara moved to grab his arm, he pulled back and confessed, “I was riding in the storm when my mount got spooked. He didn’t throw me, but I was not holding the reins properly, so it dragged me with it when I lost my grip.”

Barbara winced, imagining the pain such a wound would cause. “And you are foxed because?”

“I was to be drunk alone or with my friends, and I simply chose to be drunk alone,” Ambrose replied with a shrug, then looked her slowly up and down. “I am not as drunk as you think I am, though.”

The blood from his wound was seeping into his wet shirt, dark blue pants, and now a little into the sofa. Whether she liked it or not, she needed to get him out of his wet clothes and cleaned up.

“You have no idea what I am thinking,” she said offhandedly, going to her washing stand.

She picked up the empty bowl and full pitcher along with the towel and carried them over to the small table beside the sofa. Her bedding was next. She stripped the blanket and sheet off with quick tugs and brought them over to the fireplace.

“Strip,” she demanded, holding up the sheet high enough so that it blocked her view of him.

From behind the sheet, she expected Ambrose to come back with a witty retort. Instead, she watched his silhouette rise obediently, and he began to remove his clothes. Barbara could not help but gape at the outline of his pelvis as he pulled his drawers down and revealed the shape of his manhood. Need shot through her as she watched it bob stiffly, and she forced herself to look away. She wanted to taste him again, feel his big, strong body bend to her will like it had twice now.

A moment later, Ambrose raised his hands to hers, closed his fingers over where she held onto the sheet, and gently took it from her. Their eyes met, and they said nothing as he wrapped the sheet around his waist and returned to the couch, laying his injured hand out on the armrest. She picked up the damp clothes, laid them on the stone hearth to dry, then returned to kneel by his hand. Not meeting his eyes, she brought the bowl to her, filled it with fresh water, and then reached for his hand.

“Kenneth has gone to London to speak with my father,” she said, needing to fill the silence.

Ambrose’s hand was warm and heavy in hers, and he let her guide it to the bowl so she could wash the wound. “I know,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

Barbara felt her cheeks burn as she focused on using a gentle touch to clean the fibers of leather out of his wounded knuckles.

“He has also already acquired a special license, due to the nature of his father’s Last Will and Testament. We shall be married by the end of next week.”

Barbara tried to inject her usual sarcasm into her tone, but it only came out bland—defeated almost.

“I was aware of the special license,” was all Ambrose replied.

He had yet to wince at her ministrations. Even his tremors from the drink and the cold rain had stopped. He was still. Almost lifelessly so. It sent a chill of concern through Barbara, and she quickly wrapped the towel around his clean wound so she could stand up and go to her dresser. There, she pulled out the first handkerchief she spotted and brought it back to him.

“So, I ask again, Ambrose, if you know what is happening, why are you here?” she asked, pulling away the towel to bandage his hand. “We agreed that we would not?—”

“I realized I had one more lesson to teach you,” he said, his low tone passive.

Desire and sadness swirled together inside of Barbara as she slowly lifted her eyes to his. Dull. Those deep blue eyes were so dull now compared to how they had twinkled and sparkled the night before. She could hardly handle seeing them so devoid of fire—of life. She thought, for a moment, to slap him again. She would try anything to get some sort of emotion to flicker in those eyes.

“Your lessons have already succeeded,” she pointed out, instead securing her kerchief around his knuckles. “I do not believe I need any more of your help.”

Ambrose’s hands moved quickly, confirming his earlier statement about not being that drunk, and slid off the sofa to the floor beside her. His grip was not rough, but firm, keeping her still as some light finally began to flicker in his eyes. Heat poured into the spot where his hand touched her thin robe, and she felt dizzying anticipation rush through her as Ambrose lowered his concerned face to hers.

“Yes, you do, Barbara,” he replied, his voice hoarse as his hands loosened on her arms and rose to her neck, his touch turning feathery soft as he stroked the delicate flesh there. “You need this last lesson.”

Barbara’s tongue darted out between her lips before she drew a tiny bit of her bottom lip between her teeth, and Ambrose nearly lost himself at the sight. Yes, they had said that last night would be their last, but out in the storm, with his thoughts as chaotic as the lightning and wind around him, he had realized he had one more lesson to teach her.

“What is it?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper as she looked at him.

The fear in her eyes from earlier had vanished, much to his relief, but now the longing he saw made him feel a different type of agony.

“Once your father’s debt is settled and you are settled into your new life, you have to show him who you truly are, Barbara,” he told her, his hand moving up her neck to slip into her silky dark strands.

Pleasure shot through him as she melted into his touch, and he stroked her scalp and cheek almost lovingly as they inched closer to each other.

“Promise me you will show him how fierce you are, how intelligent and quick-witted you truly are. How much you are worth beyond your grace and beauty.”

A soft gasp escaped Barbara’s lips as her green eyes grew wide. She began to pull away from his grasp, as if suddenly uncomfortable with the intimacy, but Ambrose did not let go.

“Stop it, Ambrose,” she warned, venom lacing her tone. “What are you?—”

“I am serious, Barbara,” he cut her off, his tone holding a warning of its own. His other arm moved to wrap around her waist, and she did not stop him. “You need to let him know who you are because you are far too extraordinary to keep covered up. Do you understand me, Barbara? You do not hide. You do not mold yourself into something someone else needs ever again once you are secure with this marriage. Live unapologetically as yourself and love yourself for it.”

Anger flashed in Barbara’s eyes before her eyebrows drew together and her lower lip began to quiver.

“You dare say such things to me?” she whispered, tears welling up in her eyes. “Now? After tearing me down bit by bit to be the perfect bride so that I can settle a debt owed to you?”

Pain lanced through Ambrose’s heart as the truth blasted from her hurt tone. Yes, this was partially his fault. He had refused that fact for a while now, blaming it all on Josiah’s patheticness and lack of responsibility. But he had put Barbara in this awful situation just as much as her father had. If the gambling hell was his and his alone, he would cancel the debt right now. But there were investors who would never stand for it, even if he was the original owner and operator.

“Just do it,” was all he answered. “Be yourself. He will fall in love with all of those parts of you, too, if he is as romantic and smart as my sister claims he is. Just show him, Barbara.”

The tears that had filled Barbara’s eyes never fell, and she drew in a shaky breath through her nostrils, raised her chin slightly, and gave him a small nod.

“I will.”

It was a whisper, her last sign of obedience to him, and it grated on his ears like a pained scream.

Barbara did not fight him when he pulled her back to him, did not push at his chest or slap him when he took her lips more tenderly than he ever had before. He let his tongue slowly graze her bottom lip, the tip of her tongue as her small hands came up to slide around his broad, bare shoulders.

Unlike the previous nights, they did not tear at one another and clash together, but they slid against and caressed one another as they moved as one to the fur rug before the crackling fire.

This would be their last time, Ambrose knew as he took his time kissing down the column of her throat. It would be so because he could never see her again. Helena would get what she wanted—she would be relieved from his supervision until Barbara was wedded and settled in Gerville.

Barbara melted beneath his touch, her gasps breathy then sharp as his lips trailed from her collarbone to the neckline of her soaked robe. Her skin was cold from the wet fabric, making each inch prickle and tremble under the heat of his touch. Needing to feel her warmth beneath him, his fingers dragged the clinging, wet fabric down her shoulders and pulled it off her, flinging it across the room.

Barbara cried out softly as his hot mouth enveloped her cold breast, her poor nipples so taut and red that he could practically feel her ache, her need to be warm again. Sliding his arms around her waist, Ambrose shifted her until he was comfortably nestled between her thighs, and licked her breast again, this time letting the flat of his tongue drag heavily across her quivering flesh.

Ambrose felt Barbara’s hands delve into his hair and her legs wrap around his back as he continued his calm, slow ministrations, moving from one breast to another as if he had all of the time in the world. He savored every texture, every taste, and contour as he moved slowly from her breasts to her navel, her body growing warmer by the second.

“I want to taste you, too,” she whispered, and he felt a piece of his heart shatter.

His seductive, thirsty nymph. He had used sex as a coping mechanism for over a decade. He enjoyed it, sometimes even obsessed over it. He’d had partners skilled beyond a man’s wildest dreams, but none of them had made him feel like this. Made him feel like he wanted to push the boundaries— devour and conquer . In all of their times together, Barbara had never been satisfied with just her release.

“You will,” he promised, his voice thick and raspy.

And she would, too. Like the night before, he planned on letting them get lost in one another until the night’s dark blue sky began to bleed into the dove gray of dawn. Unlike the night before, though, he would not restrain her, not at all. He wanted her free, wild. He wanted her to purely be herself.

Ambrose moaned her name as he finally lowered his mouth to her already dewy folds. Barbara murmured his in response as her back arched and her nails found his shoulders, renewing the map she’d drawn there before. He relished the sting of her grip, and clung to it as he lost himself in her essence.

He did not count her orgasms tonight, only felt them as they racked through her over and over again, her juices soaking the rug, his chin, neck, and chest. Only when his cock felt like it was going to burst out of his skin did he finally give in to her whispered pleas.

He lay on his back and watched with growing arousal as saliva poured from her lips as she opened them and took him into her mouth, her eyes holding his the entire time.

Sweet, warm, wet tightness enveloped him as Barbara’s throat began to somehow undulate around him as she bobbed her head up and down, letting her tongue run from his base all the way to the tip, swirling to catch any precum gathered there before swallowing him whole again. Bliss, pure bliss, flooded his veins as his hands delved into her thick, silky hair, and he held her still, letting his hips take on the work. Understanding what he wanted, Barbara melted into his hold, trusting him not to hurt her, and relaxed her throat.

Ambrose did not care that his release came quickly, nor did Barbara, as her lips remained sealed to his manhood until he thickened again and began to once more ride out his pleasure into her waiting mouth.

Hours later, exhausted and barely able to move, the two of them lay naked by the fire—Barbara draped atop him, her head resting on his chest. Ambrose drew intrinsic designs on her back, occasionally pulling a shiver and a sigh of pleasure from her.

Would Kenneth touch her like this? Would he be willing to learn what she liked? Or was he one of those men who only lay with their wives in the biblical sense? He shuddered at the thought. Barbara would despise such a dull relationship.

“You must be honest with him about what you like,” Ambrose said, breaking the silence.

He didn’t know why he said it. It was terrible timing, but it came out, and he felt Barbara go stiff in his arms.

“Why do you keep concerning yourself with him?” she asked, shoving away from his chest.

“No, wait?—”

Barbara leaped out of his reach, going to her changing curtain for her longer, more modest gown, and covered herself with it. Hurt flickered in her eyes as he told her he did not mean to say it, but she only responded by picking his now-dry clothes from the hearth and hurling them at him.

“You do not need to worry about me,” she said icily, glaring at him. “You need to worry about yourself. Go find your perfect duchess. I shall be fine now.”

Ambrose growled as he shoved his legs into his drawers. “That is the second time now that you have said this. Why? Why do you think my future wife has to be perfect?” he demanded.

Barbara let out a hollow laugh as she shook her head. “Please, Ambrose, everyone knows how high your standards are,” she retorted, her bitterness clear in her words. “How important to you it is for Society to see you with your perfect match in looks and title.”

Ambrose pulled his breeches on next, unable to find a response. She was right. He needed someone like that. Someone who could carry his name and title with grace and beauty.

“And why is that wrong?” he asked testily, pulling his shirt on next. “I do not judge you for the traits you require in a husband. Why do you get to do so for my future wife?”

Barbara glowered at him as she threw open her balcony doors, the storm still raging outside, and pointed toward the black night.

“Trust me, Your Grace, I hold no judgment against your needs,” she replied, her voice tight and restrained as she fixed him with an icy look. “In fact, I hold nothing for you. At all. Thank you for your lessons. They have truly helped. But it is time to focus on yourself now.”

Anger, hurt, and guilt rose in Ambrose as he remained standing by the fireplace. This was where they always ended up.

“It is good you are getting married,” he retorted tersely, approaching her. “And you are right. There is a perfect duchess for me out there. Perhaps it is time I go find her.”

“I believe it is,” Barbara shot back, her nostrils flaring as she sneered. “Best of luck, Your Grace. May you find the perfect dolt.”

Ambrose flinched at the sting in her tone, the bite of it sinking into his soul. His anger beat down upon him in heavy waves, making his fists tremble. This was not how he intended the night to go, but perhaps it was for the best anyway. Now he was certain that they would stay away from one another.

“Have a pretty wedding,” he muttered, breezing past her to the open balcony. “I shall be awaiting my payment.”