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I cut off in a yelp as Mr Ambrose snatched my hand and with one powerful tug tore me up out of my chair. His arm came around my waist like a snake, and in a moment we were whirling off, moving towards the dance floor.
Oh God… that feels wonderful…!
‘Let go!’
Struggling against him, I tried to jam my heels into the floor - only to realize my feet were no longer touching the ground. Mr Ambrose was holding me up, effortlessly whirling me through the air. His face betrayed not the least exertion - as if he danced on air every day!
‘I do not know what is the matter with you,’ he growled into my ear, ‘but get it under control now! I will not have this operation ruined. Not by you, and not by anyone!’
*~*~**~*~*
The next days showed me how serious he was. Occasional forays into the city were fitted in between hours of dancing, dining and hand-holding. I tried to do my best, I really did! Heck, I was being paid for this, after all! But…
But I couldn’t banish that word from my head.
Fake. Fake. Fake. All of this was fake.
Yes it is. And why the dickens do you care that much?
That was a very good question. One I asked myself again and again over the next few days, but never found an answer to. My frustration grew, along with my tendency to act like a stubborn mule on union strike.
‘This isn’t working.’ Mr Ambrose’s voice was low and cold, like morning mist creeping over the ground on a winter morning. We were at dinner, and I had spent half my time stabbing at my food, the other half glowering at his impossibly perfect face. This was the first time the silence between us had been broken. ‘At least try to be convincing.’
‘I am!’ I informed him serenely. If I weren’t, my objects for glowering and stabbing would have been exchanged over ten minutes ago.
‘Your last chance!’ His voice… oh, why did that cold voice of his have to send such a delicious tingle down my spine? I ignored it - and him - and stabbed another carrot with my fork. ‘Your very last chance, I’m warning you.’
I remained silent. Why? I had no idea. I could have smiled and laughed and danced like a good little secretary, I supposed. It shouldn’t have been that difficult. It really shouldn’t, but…
But there was that word in the back of my mind.
Fake. Fake. Fake.
And then there was the French’s lady’s voice, sighing Bon Dieu, young amour is such a wonderful thing.
For reasons I could not fathom, those words made me lash out. I knew that, for no reason at all, I was behaving like a complete shrew. No, worse - I was behaving like a wicked witch who hadn’t had enough children to gobble up for a week. But then, I’d always had a thing for wicked witches, so I didn’t feel a particular need to change my behaviour.
‘As you wish.’ Nobody could convey more quiet menace with these three little words than Rikkard Ambrose. They thrummed with a freezing force that even I, sunk deep in my strange and inexplicable mood, felt to my very core. Slowly, he rose to his feet. ‘Finish your dinner, Wife.’
I looked up questioningly. His plate was still half full. ‘You’re already done?’
‘I feel like retiring early tonight.’ And with that, he turned and marched up the stairs.
I remained, my mouth slowly chewing the rest of my dinner, while my brain was busy chewing on my conflicting feelings. Let’s just say that my mouth was vastly more successful in turning everything into an easily digestible mush.
Suppressing a yawn, I finally got to my feet. It had been an exhausting day. The forays into the darkest parts of the city, the constant fear of another attack and, worst of all, the need to try and pretend to be blissful all day was really getting to me. Stretching, I crossed the dining hall and started to climb the stairs to our suite.
The moment I approached the door I knew something was wrong! Noises were coming from inside. Not the noises of a fight, or the kind you’d expect a burglar to make, thank God! No, those were unquestionably moans. It sounded as someone was in mortal pain!
My mouth dropped open in horror.
Blast! Mr Ambrose went up early because he didn’t feel well! What if he… if he…
I didn’t even want to think of what could have happened to him. Horror-stories of a thousand tropical diseases I had read about in books or papers flashed through my mind. Rushing towards the door, I made a grab for the doorknob. If he was sick…
The door crashed open. I plunged inside - and froze.
It only took me one heartbeat to see that I had been mistaken. Mr Ambrose was not sick. In fact, he appeared to be very healthy and vigorous. And so did the girl clenched in his arms.
