Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE

“ T he carriage was unnecessary,” Barbara bit out, perturbed by the debacle she’d just gone through because of him.

“You are far too comfortable walking alone by yourself in the evenings,” Ambrose replied with equal bite as shot her a scolding look. “I understand that we must conduct these lessons in private, but that does not mean I am willing to put a woman in danger.”

Barbara balked. “A carriage is more suspicious than a cloaked person walking alone,” she debated. “Everyone knows that it signifies a person is waiting for it and naturally draws attention. When I am walking, I keep my hood up and my face lowered, but when I climb into the carriage, I am forced to lift my head, and my covering falls back slightly.”

“We will do this my way, or we will not do this at all,” Ambrose stated simply, shrugging his shoulders indifferently.

Barbara had been annoyed by how commanding the message she had received from Ambrose was. She was to meet him tonight and was to only walk down her street, where a carriage would be waiting for her. She had sent a message back, refusing the carriage, and when she had received nothing back, she assumed the matter had been settled. However, as she neared the end of her street, she saw the unmarked carriage and began to grow annoyed.

That annoyance turned into rage, however, when the footman approached her as she attempted to veer away from it. He had stepped in front of her directly—an extremely bold move for a servant—and when she reared back to give him a verbal lashing, she saw fear and regret in his eyes.

“My deepest apologies, my lady, but His Grace commanded that I get you into the carriage at all costs,” the young man pleaded with her. “I do not mean to disrespect you, but you must understand the orders I have been given.”

Clenching her jaw so tightly that it burst with pain, Barbara had gathered her fury and reined it back in, then allowed him to lead her to the carriage. She had not bothered with a greeting when she had walked into Ambrose’s study as she did the night before, immediately berating him for his bullying.

“You are intolerable!” she said now, stomping her foot in annoyance.

Ambrose let out a laugh, only serving to infuriate her more. Suddenly, she wanted to see the angry Ambrose she had dealt with the last time she had come.

“ Stop laughing at me,” she hissed, “you pompous, pretty-boy lunatic.”

Ambrose stopped laughing, but his smile grew wider. “I believe you were trying to insult me, but, my dear lady, you spoke only truths. I do not find the truth insulting.”

Barbara scoffed at this. “Your ego says otherwise,” she retorted.

Ambrose took a step toward her, his wide smile turning into a smaller, more mischievous one. “My ego is large, Lady Barbara, because I have been tested, measured, challenged, and have been successful each time. It is large because I push myself harder than others, expect more of myself than others, and will not stop until I achieve the perfection I know is within my grasp.”

Barbara glowered up at him as he stopped in front of her. His eyes did not flick down to hers, but to the bow that held her cloak together.

“Perfection does not exist,” she said stiffly, studying him.

“Mmmm.”

The mumbled sound of disagreement was all that came from Ambrose’s lips as he slowly raised his fingertips to the bow at her throat.

“I cannot agree with you,” he replied, his voice dropping further as his fingers brushed against the silk bow and then grasped it. “I see perfection achieved often,” he went on, slowly pulling the bow out of its knot, “in many aspects of my life.”

Barbara tried to disguise her shiver of excitement with one of disgust, but she knew her face did not match the emotion. For, as Ambrose untied her cloak and spoke, his voice had dipped lower, and his eyes had softened as he watched the bow unravel and her cloak part. She had worn a simple light blue dress. It was not by any means elegant or eye-catching for a ball, but for a private lesson, it would do.

Ambrose’s eyes, however, did not reflect that as he reached up to her shoulders and pulled the cloak off her person. The approval, the lust in those lapis lazuli eyes was unmistakable as they slowly slid down to the low neckline of her dress, the slight dip at her waist, then down to her matching blue slippered feet.

“That perfection can be achieved with you,” Ambrose said finally, snapping her out of her trance.

She blinked twice, unsure where all the vitriol she had been ready to spew had gone.

“You just need practice and guidance, both of which I shall provide,” he went on.

“I know my manners,” Barbara forced out, a little edge to her tone as her eyes followed him to the set table. “I just chose not to use them. That has changed now, though.”

“Prove it to me, then,” Ambrose replied simply, pulling out the chair for her.

Rolling her eyes, Barbara dropped her shoulders, marched to the chair, and plopped down into it. She gasped in surprise when the chair she sat on was suddenly tilted forward at a rapid rate, and she tumbled to the red-carpeted floor on her hands and knees.

“Incorrect,” Ambrose intoned, looking down at her with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. “Up you get. Try again.”

“You tossed me off my chair!” she growled, struggling to her feet as she pushed loose strands of her dark hair from her face.

“You did not take the lesson seriously,” Ambrose replied with a shrug, then nodded over to the spot she had been standing in earlier. “Now,” he commanded, his eyes glittering with the challenge. “Get back over there and let us try this again. If you are going to be this stubborn, we shall not even make it to the dining part this evening.”

“Do you seriously expect me to do this over and over again?” she asked, her fists going to her hips.

Ambrose mimicked her stance, almost making her laugh. “Do you seriously want to find a husband?”

Barbara’s smirk dropped, and with a sigh, she walked back to her spot and began again.

An hour later, she found herself humbled. Though she had once known to properly carry on at a dinner party, she had spent the last few years purposely unlearning manners as a way to rebel against the patriarchy.

Upon seeing for herself just how much she needed the reminder, she had kept her temper, pulled the forgotten lessons from her distant memories, and focused on Ambrose’s remarks. They were annoying, yes, but they were helpful, and in time she found herself and Ambrose nearly finished with the meal he had prepared for the lesson.

She had been surprised to discover there was a meal to be had, thinking the act rather intimate, but Ambrose had insisted he needed to stop any bad eating habits.

She had rolled her eyes at this but chose to prove her ability to pay attention to his teachings. Upon doing so, his curt corrections came less and less, and she found herself actually enjoying the meal before her. Perhaps, even slightly, the company as well.

“Why do you look so surprised?” she asked as she caught him staring at her in the silence.

With care, she slid her knife through the tender cutlet of chicken, slicing off a thin piece of it. Ambrose kept his eyes on her hands as she used her knife to delicately slide a drop of creamed potatoes onto the fork, and then followed her right as it brought the bite to her mouth. The intensity of his stare as he watched her chew made her blush, and she almost forgot to swallow when his eyes suddenly snapped up to hers.

“I suppose I was wondering how you learned all of this in the first place.”

His response startled her so much that she nearly dropped her fork. It was not said irksomely, but instead thoughtfully, as if he truly wanted to know.

“Did you have a governess after your mother passed?” Ambrose asked.

Barbara set down her knife and fork, then smoothed her hands over the napkin on her lap. This was not like them, to talk like this. It felt strange and slightly taboo, but Barbara still found herself answering.

“My mother passed during my birth,” she explained.

“I am aware,” Ambrose said softly.

She could have sworn she heard a tinge of sympathy in his voice.

“I forgot,” she sighed, picking up her wine glass. “You listen in on Helena and my conversations.”

“I know your mother passed because the first day after meeting you, Helena came to me so relieved,” he explained. “Relieved that she had finally met another girl who knew what she had felt in losing a mother so young.”

Barbara’s eyes fell to her plate, a warmth blooming in her cheeks. “My father could not… he was not able to fully recover from my mother’s death,” she added. “He was able to pull himself together enough for me to have a nanny, then a governess. At least until I was fifteen. That’s when Papa started making mistakes with the money. He used to be able to balance drink and figures quite well, believe it or not. But then he… he lost that ability, somehow, and he needed my help. So, we dismissed the governess, and when I was not helping my father or putting on a show for the ton that our family was in good financial standing, I was reading and studying on my own.”

“Fifteen,” Ambrose echoed, his brow creasing. “You were that young?”

Barbara shrugged, then took a sip of her wine. “You were younger when your mother died. Only sixteen when your father died. We both had to step into our responsibilities early.”

“I am different,” Ambrose replied with startling roughness. “I am a man, I was raised to take care of certain things. You are a woman, your birthright is to be provided for, not be the provider.”

Barbara felt conflicted, not sure whether to be offended or flattered by the statement. “Are you saying a woman cannot do what a man can?” she asked warily.

“I am saying a woman should not have to do what a man can,” Ambrose replied, his tone still firm. “Does it truly not bother you?” he then asked. “The way your father uses you so? The way his drinking problem and lack of responsibility impedes your education? Not just about etiquette, but about everything you wish to study.”

“Would you give up on Helena if she developed a problem?” Barbara asked back, careful not to inject any sarcasm or hostility into her tone. She wanted an honest answer.

Warily, she kept her eyes on him, waiting for the anger lying beneath the surface to rear its head. But it never did.

“I would never give up on Helena for anything,” Ambrose asserted quietly, sitting back in his chair. His eyes flicked to the fireplace, and he let out a breath.

Ambrose suddenly looked weary. Rumpled. Human, she realized. Imperfect, but still incredibly handsome. He stared into the flames for some time, and as Barbara studied him, she wondered what other problems were plaguing the man who—what was he to her? Teacher? Debtor? Brother of a friend? Bully? All of the above, she supposed.

“Might I ask you a question in return?” she ventured. Then, with a grin, she added, “Or is that not proper etiquette?”

Ambrose’s eyes suddenly snapped to hers, making her jump. A smile that did not touch his eyes spread across his lips, and he gave her a nod.

When she spoke next, Barbara was careful with her tone, wanting him to know she was no longer jesting.

“Helena has spoken to me at times about the loss of your parents. She is well adjusted and happy, I assure you, but… she does worry for you.”

“That is a statement, not a question,” Ambrose said dryly, his face a mask of emotion.

Barbara felt her annoyance spike, but she pushed it down. “Since you asked how my mother’s death affected me, I wanted to know how your parents’ deaths affected you.”

Ambrose somehow went even more still, his features hardened, his blue eyes glinting like chips of sea glass. There was no anger in that look or annoyance. There was nothing. A black wall that came up so thick and fast that it caused a shiver to run through her.

“I rose to my responsibilities like I needed to,” he said in a grave tone, his lips barely moving. “If this is another analogy made for your devotion to your father, consider the point made.”

“What?” Barbara asked, taken aback. “No, that is not at all why I?—”

“You did well with this lesson,” he stated, changing the subject, “but you should know that I have ruled out Lord Dashwood and Lord Violetti as proper husbands.”

He drew his napkin from his lap as he looked away from her and then tossed it on his plate, before he rose.

Barbara blinked twice. “ What? Why?” she asked, her annoyance spiking again as she stomped toward him. “Without Sempill, they are my only prospects!”

“They certainly are not,” Ambrose scoffed, gathering her cloak for her. “They were just practice. You and I shall have one more lesson, and by then I shall present you to another gentleman or two who are just as suitable.”

Barbara felt her face redden with anger as he draped her cloak across her shoulders, not meeting her eyes.

“You are dismissing me?” she asked, batting his hand away from the ribbons as he attempted to tie her cloak together. “And taking away my prospects because I what? I proved my point about my life a little too well?”

“Our lesson is concluded because you did well,” Ambrose replied curtly, finally meeting her eyes with annoyance. “Your prospects were practice, as stated. Your leaving my study is not a punishment, Barbara, and if you feel that way, perhaps you should be asking yourself why, not me.”

Her fury at him renewed, she stepped back with a snarl on her face, then turned toward the patio door. “Put your carriage away,” she said stiffly as she opened it, “I am walking home.”

Ambrose was before her in an instant, his eyes glittering with annoyance. “Go to the carriage, Barbara.”

“Go. To. Hell, ” Barbara hissed.

He stepped up to her, but she had her hands on his chest in an instant, pushing him back with a burst of surprising strength. It sent him stumbling back onto the stone patio, though not hard enough to fall, and Barbara took flight.

Wrapping her cloak tight around her, she dashed through the back gardens, circumventing the gate where his carriage waited for her and heading instead toward the small, nearly hidden entrance that she and Helena had once used every so often to taste a bit of unchaperoned freedom.

Behind her, she heard a low, animal-like rumble, and it was her only warning before she felt something solid wrap around her waist and pull her to a dramatic stop. Body still moving, her legs and arms swung out in front of her as she was halted by the sudden force, and before she knew what was happening, her body was being twirled, then tossed, and then she let out a groan as her stomach slammed into Ambrose’s shoulder.

Still out of breath, she fought him, tearing at his shirt, pushing at his shoulders, until he slid her down his chest and captured her mouth with his. Barbara felt the fight leave her body the moment he kissed her, and a rush of desire and relief chased away the fury that had consumed her.

Ambrose’s kiss was hard and possessive, not at all entrancing or hypnotizing like before. This kiss was one of fury, frustration, and lust. This was a kiss shared by two feral creatures with no thought for propriety.

Her fingernails dug into the shoulders of his jacket, then when she pushed it away and found his shirt-covered chest, she splayed her hands there. Even through the fabric, she felt the broad, hard expanse of muscle that was his chest. It heaved with breath and heartbeat, calling to her to press her body even closer.

She did so, listening only to the primal, wanton voice in her head, and Ambrose responded with a growl deep in his chest as he cupped her backside and lifted her up. Her body seemed to know what to do without any instruction, and her ankles locked with one another as her legs and thighs wrapped around his waist.

A beautiful, deeply ragged, and masculine sound escaped Ambrose’s throat as one arm held the apex of her thighs tight to his groin while the other hand cradled the back of her head as they kissed. Something warm and wet gushed between her legs as she ground her sensitive center against his hard length, and her replying moan was the exact opposite of his—soft, sweet, a divinely feminine sound that surprised even herself.

Then, in a whirl of movement, it was all over. Barbara was somehow on her feet again, panting for breath as Ambrose stood a few paces away, struggling to catch his own breath. She tried to take a step, but the world spun around her—she was still dizzy from being moved so quickly. Her legs nearly gave way beneath her, but before she could fall to the ground, Ambrose was there to stop her.

“I do not know what you think you are doing,” he said bitingly through quiet, panting breaths after breaking the kiss far too quickly, “but if you disobey me about your safety one more time, I swear to the Virgin Mother that I will put you over my knee and spank some sense into you.”

His voice might have been barely above a whisper, but the power and promise in his deep tone needed no volume.

Barbara only drew in a breath, her mind still blurry and whirring from their second kiss. She tried to call on her anger to steady and clear her mind, but it would not come. Instead, she was plagued with images of Ambrose’s hand slapping the flesh of her bare backside. Would her flesh sing with pleasure and pain as it reddened, just as one of Alice’s books had described?

Ambrose’s eyes continued to search hers as if he was trying to figure out what to do with her. He seemed to vibrate as she did, but she could not tell if it was from rage at her actions or desire.

That’s what it was, she realized.

Oh no . No, no, no. Not him! Not this arrogant fool!

Without a word, Ambrose released her from his tight hold. Cold crept between them in a way she did not like, and it only abated slightly as he took her hand. He walked her quietly through the gardens and toward the gate where the carriage awaited, his body seeming to grow more tense with each stride.

“Ambrose…” Barbara trailed off. What was she going to say?

Ambrose did not respond to her saying his name, nor did he stop pulling her behind him until they were at the carriage door. Without meeting her eyes, he let go of her hand, closed his hands around her waist, and lifted her into the carriage.

“I shall send word when it is time for your next lesson,” he stated matter-of-factly, gripping the door handle tightly. “Until then, I suggest you take your uncle’s guidance with great caution.”

Ambrose slammed the door shut with force and stood in a tense, statuesque state long after the carriage took off.

What the hell? What the actual hell? He had been absolute in not letting Barbara unravel him tonight, had pulled his focus, and carried out his lesson with the utmost professionalism. She had fought his reins at first, as he had expected, but he knew that all he had to do was be patient.

The attraction, the desire he had felt as he began to obsess over the way the small bits of food were carried so delicately on the edge of her fork and then savored was beyond ungodly. Had her cupid’s bow lips always been so full? Had they always been that deep shade of mauve?

Memories of her taste and touch began to battle with his senses then, making it more difficult to give out more than just the quipped instructions. He had needed to hear her speak instead of being so silent, so willing. It was not like her, and yet… it had created pleasure in him as intense as the alarm he felt at her quiet acceptance.

Her father had been the safest choice, knowing such a subject would douse his arousal, but he had not expected her to hit back at him so hard. Asking him about his feelings ? Was she serious? It was too far. Much too far. Even Helena knew not to broach such a subject.

Then on top of that, for some bloody reason, Barbara’s interest in his feelings suddenly brought back the desire he’d just tamped down, this time a raging force. He knew she was going to try to avoid the carriage, even if they would have not argued, but he was still caught off guard when he had to chase her through the back gardens.

Something primal, starving, rose inside him as he chased her through the rows of flowers, watching her try so desperately to outrun him. And when he had caught her, when his arm wrapped around her waist and slammed her back into his chest, his manhood had stiffened so fast that it blinded him for a moment.

Then the kiss—Satan’s curse, that kiss had been both relief and torture, more so the latter as he now watched Barbara being driven away. This was twice now he had compromised her. Twice now that he touched her in a way that would have him dueling with a man had he done so to Helena. Where was his control?

He needed to get her married off, he realized, willing his body to move out of its frozen state. With effort, he coaxed his nerves into relaxing long enough that he was able to drop his shoulders and flex his joints. He needed to get her married off soon .

“You look quite sallow,” Helena told him over breakfast the next morning. “Did you go out with Ezra again last night?”

“I struggled with the heat,” was all he said as he rubbed his throbbing temples.

Though he had not gone out with Ezra, he had accidentally drunk nearly an entire bottle of scotch as he contemplated his many thoughts and stared into the fire. He had indeed struggled with the heat, and yet he had needed the flames somehow. Needed to focus on them.

Unlike Duncan, who had a reasonable fear of fire, Ambrose had a fascination for it. Staring at it seemed to help his jumbled thoughts straighten out better than boxing or sex or anything else, as ironic as that was.

“It is quite stuffy in town this Season,” Helena agreed, taking this excuse in a willing fashion, much to his relief. “Perhaps we should travel to the country soon for a break.”

Ambrose nodded, feeling more at ease. The last few weeks had been rather tense between the two of them, with Helena either brooding or jibing at him, and he was happy to see that she seemed improved this day.

“It will take me some time to make the arrangements for both our house and my dealings, but I am certainly agreeable to getting out of town.”

“Can we be ready in nine days?” Helena asked, her doe eyes lighting up with excitement.

Ambrose’s heart swelled upon seeing her like this. “That is a bit specific.” He chuckled.

“Alice and Duncan shall be arriving back at their country estate then,” Helena said quickly. “Barbara, Lydia, and I would all love to be there when they arrive.”

His heart rate spiked upon hearing this, and he had to fight to keep himself in his seat.

“They are returning in nine days?” he asked as casually as possible. “I had not heard from Duncan when I last wrote to him. I assumed they had extended their trip.”

Helena grinned at him brightly, her eyes twinkling as if she knew a secret.

“What?” he asked, furrowing his brow.

“It is not my secret to tell,” she replied, giving him an impish grin.

Ambrose chuckled at her. Let her keep her secret. For now. He was too relieved that Duncan was returning to be curious. He was also joyous to see his sister acting so like herself.

“What would you like to do today?” he asked, standing up. “Whatever you would like. It has been far too long since I have seen you in such a mood, and we must celebrate.”

Somehow, Helena’s happy expression grew even happier, and Ambrose’s heart melted. He would do anything, anything to see her always like this.

Just like Barbara would do for her father, an annoying voice whispered in the back of his head.

He ignored it and walked to her seat before leaning his hip against it.

“May we promenade this morning?” Helena asked eagerly, pulling him from his thoughts before they turned too contentious. “Then perhaps we could visit the ice cream shop and… and maybe even the modiste? Just for new gloves and hats! The new dresses you bought me are far too lovely to only wear once, and new accessories shall be just the things to set each look apart!”

“Of course,” Ambrose replied quickly. “The jeweler as well. Ezra informed me that a new shipment arrived at Stoker’s. He claims they are extraordinary.”

“Oh, I love you!” Helena squealed happily, jumping up from her seat to throw her arms around his neck.

Ambrose chuckled, holding her lightly and carefully. “And I love you. Now, go fetch your parasol and gloves. We shall leave straight away.”

“Who are those for?” Helena asked him as they left the jeweler’s.

Ambrose felt the weight of strangely beautiful alexandrite stones that lay protected in a black velvet bag within his breast pocket. They were strange because if one looked at them from one angle, they were a startling amethyst purple, but if one looked at them from another angle, they shifted into a deep emerald green that nearly matched?—

“Myself,” Ambrose replied. Then he quickly asked, “Are you satisfied with your choices?”

Helena beamed at him, then looped her arm through his as they began to stroll. “Very much so. I cannot wait for the next ball. I shall be wearing the new pearl combs and earrings, my new pink gloves and hat, and my new pink and crushed pearl painted fan. I shall be the talk of the evening!”

“So you shall,” he replied, grinning at her in earnest.

“You know, Brother, with all of the attention my new ensemble shall garner, I shall be very much looked after,” Helena began.

Ambrose knew by the way her jubilant tone slipped into a more timid, careful one that the bliss he shared with her was sadly about to end. His success in his ventures depended on him picking up such details to get ahead of issues before they arose. Sadly, in this situation, the day of laughter, shopping, and ice cream, was about to devolve into a fight.

“No. You are not attending a ball unchaperoned,” he stated as calmly as he could, but that did little to delay the detonation of his sister’s temper.

“I would not be unchaperoned!” she hissed.

Though Helena had the decency to keep her voice down, she pulled her arm away from his in defiance.

“I would be with Barbara and Lydia, and in two weeks, Alice. I would never leave their side!”

“Do you not remember that I know how Alice and Duncan met?” Ambrose scoffed. “How it was Barbara who dared Alice to go around looking for a stranger to kiss? Lydia was at that ball, too, was she not? And Alice and Duncan still ended up in a scandal.”

“They are perfect for one another, and you know it!” Helena replied defensively, her delicate brow furrowing. “You cannot name another couple more in love!”

“That is not the point, Helena,” Ambrose replied, growing exasperated. “The point is that they were there to chaperone Alice, and they failed. I like your friends, sister. Truly, I do. But I will chaperone you until you find a husband to take over my responsibility.”

“How am I to find a husband if you chase away every man who greets me?” Helena asked, then let out a sound of frustration that resembled an angry growl.

“Your Grace, is that you there?” a male voice called.

Ambrose was both relieved and frustrated by the interruption, but he plastered on a pleasant smile and looked toward the approaching man and woman.

“Lord Sturgis, Miss Sturgis, how lovely to see you,” he greeted politely.

Helena, to her credit, hid her rage immediately, and politely introduced herself to Lord Sturgis’s daughter, Amelia. She smiled brightly and curtseyed with perfection, showing no sign of her foul mood.

“Oh, goodness,” Helena said suddenly, her eyes drifting past Amelia’s head as they truly lit up with joy this time.

Curious, Ambrose followed her gaze, and something stirred in his veins as he saw Barbara on the nearby hill. She was lying on a white blanket in a simple white and red striped dress, with a book in her hands and a basket beside her. It was clear she was oblivious to the world, her entire attention drawn to the pages before her.

Ambrose found himself transfixed by the image. Her hair was pulled into a bun atop her head, but several strands had escaped from their pins and were now lazily fluttering in the breeze.

“Lord Sturgis, Miss Sturgis, I see my dearest friend on the hill there. Please, do forgive me for my early departure, would you?”

Helena was off and heading toward Barbara before Ambrose could stop her, and he was left alone with the confused smiles of the gentleman and his daughter before him.

“She gets… rather excited when she sees her friends,” Ambrose offered as an excuse. “I suppose that is the way things are when one is raised by a brother who knows nothing about girls.”

Lord Sturgis and his daughter laughed politely, and Ambrose chanced a glance at Barbara. Her eyes were still on her book, and she had not yet noticed Helena approaching.

“As I was saying, Your Grace, my daughter here has been most looking forward to making your acquaintance,” Lord Sturgis said, pulling Ambrose’s attention back to him. “It is most fortuitous that we ran into one another today, was it not?”

“Of course, it is,” Ambrose replied amicably, giving a polite nod to the petite blonde woman. She was pretty, young, polite, but he was barely able to take her in.

“Wonderful!” Lord Sturgis beamed, clapping his hands together. “I shall leave you two to stroll. Do not mind me, I shall be a few steps behind you.”

Ambrose bowed once to Amelia, but before he could raise his head, she was looping her arm through his and pressing her side into him, moving into a brisk walk away from Helena and Barbara. Ambrose looked over his shoulder once more and locked eyes with Barbara. Something simmered inside him, but he shifted his gaze to his sister. She had joined her friend on the blanket and was chatting away, oblivious to Barbara’s distraction.

“I must say, Your Grace,” Amelia stated in a sickly-sweet tone, distracting him, “for someone of your stature, I am quite astounded by the company you keep.”

His attention entirely on her now, Ambrose stiffened and schooled his features. “What company do you speak of, Miss Sturgis?” he asked casually.

Ambrose attempted to put some distance between them, but wherever he went, Amelia stayed glued to him.

“The Hatcher girl,” she stated as if shocked she had to extrapolate. “She is abhorrent, you know. Every ball, every garden party I see her at, she is always saying the most awful things to young ladies—behaves in the strangest of manners. As your younger sister’s guardian, I suppose I am just surprised that you allow her to befriend such a creature. Her father is a drunk too, you know. It is not kind to speak of the downtrodden, I know, but everyone whispers of how it drained their coffers. Some say Barbara has not had a handmaid in years. Can you imagine?”

Ambrose had to take a moment to rein in his disgust at Amelia’s words. Her statements were not facts, but low-based opinions of a simpleton. Suddenly, his confusion around Barbara cleared, and he knew what he needed to do. He would ignore the growing lust—and fury—he felt for her and continue with their lessons until she found a husband worthy of her. Someone who could give her the sanctuary and compassion she deserved. Not just to get away from her father but from people like Miss Sturgis.

“What I cannot imagine, Miss Sturgis, is how someone so beautiful can become so gruesome simply by the act of opening her mouth,” Ambrose said in a low, aloof tone, stopping in his tracks.

Amelia turned to him suddenly, her large blue eyes somehow growing even wider with her shock.

“I wish you the best of luck in finding a suitor, Miss Sturgis,” he said curtly as he stepped away and offered a stiff bow. “But kindly take my name off your hunting list. Good day.”

A devilish pleasure filled him as he heard the rude woman’s surprised gasp behind him, but he kept his smirk of satisfaction inside and strode calmly and confidently toward his sister and Barbara.

Barbara saw him first but said nothing as he approached them. Their eyes met briefly, sending a thunderclap through him, and then her eyes dashed back down to her lap, where Helena had laid her head. A soft clearing of her throat pulled Helena’s attention away from her book, and when she looked up at the noise, her eyes narrowed as they landed on Ambrose.

“Is she going to be my new sister-in-law?” Helena asked with disdain.

It was Barbara’s smile and laugh that broke out first, but Ambrose’s came shortly after, and he shook his head.

“I fear not,” he replied as apologetically as he could. “It seems that she and I have very different… tastes.”

Helene merely sighed in relief before proceeding to get up, but Barbara’s eyes swept over him, a look of contemplation in those dark green pools as the softest blush spread across the bridge of her nose.

There was no look of disgust on her face today. The stone earrings, actually, set in delicate copper strands that created a teardrop, once more seemed to grow warm in his pocket. He had known why he had bought them. Even if he had denied it to himself and to his little sister.

“We should head home,” he said to Helena, tearing his gaze away from Barbara. “It’s growing late, and the carriage with your new things will be arriving any moment.”

“Very well,” Helena sighed, closing her book and handing it to Barbara. “Thank you for the company, darling,” she said to her friend, giving her a hug. “Shall I see you tomorrow?”

Barbara hugged her back warmly, though her eyes darted to Ambrose more than once as she answered, “I shall be free in the afternoon. I will call on you then.”

Helena nodded and stood back, allowing her brother to bid her friend goodbye.

Ambrose felt his skin prickle as he lifted Barbara’s hand. This time as he bowed, he did not kiss her knuckles. Instead, he stepped close and murmured, “Come back to my study after you leave through the front door. We shall have our next lesson. Bring the dress I had made for you.”