Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

Eleanor Westbury, doting daughter, mistress of Westbury House, and darling of their hamlet, made it her mission to bring together lost souls in a love match. At twenty-six, she'd been deemed a spinster and resigned herself to a quiet country life as caretaker for her father, who was prone to dramatic bouts of illness.

She was the only child of the marriage between her father and her mother, who'd sadly passed when she was twelve. If only she'd had a maternal influence, perhaps she'd have been raised more ladylike and found herself a husband.

As it were, Eleanor would much prefer roaming the lands of her ancestral home and engaging in long hikes or horseback riding with her neighbor, August Ambrose. They were the most unladylike pursuits, but Mr. Ambrose was more a brother to her than a neighbor. And he was the furthest thing removed from husband material as she could imagine.

Yet, as a man of thirty and five, it was high time he found a bride, as her father and the town gossips liked to remind him. Eleanor couldn't bear to see anyone unhappy, so she directed her questionable matchmaking skills to the momentous task of finding Mr. Ambrose a wife .

"Mr. Ambrose, are you by chance available tomorrow?"

An innocent enough question, except Eleanor's motives were anything but pure. While inviting Mr. Ambrose for tea was a regular occurrence, including her close acquaintance, Sarah, was most unusual. Not that she would let Mr. Ambrose know that fact. It may indeed cause him to have any manner of engagements that would prevent his attendance.

The man in question merely glanced her way as he lined up his croquet shot. The crack of the mallet making contact with the ball resulted in a broad grin that lit up his face. Further proof the man needed a wife to enjoy that playful expression every day.

"Yes, Miss Westbury, I'd be delighted to attend tea tomorrow. Consider this my formal acceptance of your kind invitation." He executed a deep, exaggerated bow that had her giggling in a most unladylike way.

While Eleanor was a stickler for etiquette, their long and warm friendship allowed for the occasional exception. Still, she'd send over the formal invite later this afternoon. She made a mental note of this task before stepping forward to line up her own shot.

It wasn't as good as Mr. Ambrose's shot, yet he clapped enthusiastically anyway. "Good shot, Miss Westbury. I say, you're getting better by the day."

Eleanor arched an eyebrow. "I dare say you will win this match." As he did most every afternoon. Except that one time in which he attempted the throw the game in her favor and she sulked for the remainder of the week. Eleanor Westbury was capable of being a gracious loser but was a cantankerous winner of thrown matches.

Mr. Ambrose's mouth tugged up in the corner as he tried to hold back a laugh. Eleanor looked down, making a show of inspecting her skirts for dirt, in order to avoid returning his disarming smile. Her stomach flip-flopped the way it always did when Mr. Ambrose turned on his charm. Even further reason he needed to find a wife posthaste.

Eleanor was resigned to her spinster status and couldn't suffer the consequences of Mr. Ambrose's considerable charms without a focus. If he had someone to court properly, it would be a great relief to her nerves. As it were, she was on a constant tightrope between a racing pulse and butterflies in the stomach with each unbidden smile from the man.

And she suspected he had no idea how much his friendliness grated on her nerves. She watched him now under lowered lashes as it wasn't polite for a woman to stare at a man. Even one as insufferable as Mr. Ambrose. She noted how his coat stretched between his broad shoulders as he lined up the next shot. He was significantly taller than she, despite being unusually tall for a woman—a fact which her father reminded her of daily.

Her wandering thoughts were interrupted by a fat drop of rain that landed right on her head. "Ohhh!"

Another drop landed and as she looked to the distance, dark clouds had gathered, threatening to spill any moment. A crack of thunder roared in the distance and she jumped.

Mr. Ambrose followed her gaze in the distance. "Best we take cover," he advised.

They ran towards the gazebo as rain pelted them and thunder roared. Reaching the shelter, Eleanor leaned against the railing, panting. "I'm soaked to the bone."

Mr. Ambrose scanned her person, his eyes searing heat into her damp clothing. She shivered, not from the cold but from the intensity of his stare. He recoiled as if burned himself, then retreated to the opposite railing, back facing Eleanor.

"I dare say it will be a while before the storm clears." As if to emphasize his point, a clap of thunder shook their shelter.

An awkward silence descended over them, which was most unusual. The one thing Eleanor could count on was lively conversation with Mr. Ambrose. Except he seemed to have gone mute, sullenly staring at the clouds as if to will them away.

Without warning, the rain began to fall harder, forming a curtain around them, effectively closing them in. Eleanor rubbed her arms in an attempt to warm up from the sudden chill. Autumn storms were usually her favorite, but something about this intimate setting, alone with Mr. Ambrose, set her nerves on edge.

The man in question turned to face her, expression as thunderous as the storm outside. He paced to one side of the gazebo, then the other.

"Could you desist at once, please? You're making me dizzy."

Mr. Ambrose turned to her and she was instantly aware of just how close they stood. He towered over her, those dark eyes boring into her very soul. Warmth flooded her, and now she had the urge to pace. Anything to put some space between her and Mr. Ambrose.

Had they ever stood this close? She thought not. It was most unusual for an unmarried woman to be alone in the presence of an unmarried man without a chaperone. The issue hadn't occurred to her before as their jaunts were usually outdoors in the great expanse of nature. She'd never felt claustrophobic in his presence until now.

At eye level, she watched his chest move with his every breath. He swallowed hard, yet didn't move. Her pulse skittered and she rested her hands on the railing behind her. Mr. Ambrose had her effectively trapped. Instead of trepidation, she felt the heavy weight of anticipation settle over them.

Something was happening. She could not describe exactly what, but the thread of awareness running between them was new and wild. She licked her lips and willed him closer. Yet he held his ground. The rain they had not quite escaped formed droplets that clung to his hair and his white linen shirt. The damp material clung to the planes of his defined muscles.

Eleanor couldn't remember ever noticing something so specific before as the way a bicep muscle might twitch when a man balled his hand into a fist, just as Mr. Ambrose was now.

"The effort of staying still is taxing," he rumbled, eyes darting to the rain. "When will this infernal weather improve?"

While Eleanor was familiar with the subdued grumpiness of her friend, she'd never experienced the nearly feral grumpy mood he was now exhibiting.

"I had no idea you felt so strongly about rain. "

He grunted. Another new experience. He didn't reply, but rather moved back to his post on the opposite side of the gazebo. He turned away from her and stared out at the rain as if it held the secrets of the universe.

She studied his profile while he was not paying attention. Strong jawline with a shadow of scruff already appearing despite it only being early afternoon. Tall and lithe, with a broad chest and strong thighs. All details she catalogued now and committed to memory. Perhaps she would draw this image later—she'd call it Barely Leashed Power .

She fanned herself with her hand. How had it become so warm when she was chilled just moments earlier? Eleanor found herself willing the rain away as well. She had the disconcerting feeling that something significant had shifted in her friendship with Mr. Ambrose, and she didn't like it one bit.