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I stopped in my tracks. Mr Ambrose continued walking for a few more strides before he noticed I was not at his side any longer and turned, his head cocked.
‘Mr Linton?’
‘Did you…did you just agree to let me use your bodyguard to terrorize my enemies?’
‘Certainly. If he is not otherwise engaged.’
I let that sink in for a moment—then I dashed forward and threw my arms around him.
‘I’m so glad I’m going to marry you!’
He stiffened—then, after a moment, relaxed and put his arms around me.
‘Likewise.’
Suddenly, I remembered where I was and what I was still wearing. Hurriedly, I slid out of Mr Ambrose’s arms and jumped back. But the staring crowd and rude comments I expected weren’t forthcoming. In fact, there wasn’t even a single curious bystander staring at us.
‘Where is everybody?’
Mr Ambrose glanced around. He didn’t seem particularly perturbed by the empty street.
‘Working?’ he suggested.
I raised an eyebrow. ‘On a Sunday afternoon?’
‘It’s where I would be.’
‘We’ll have to have a talk about that once the formalities are over and done with.’
‘We can have it now. I won’t stop working. There. I talked. We’re done.’
‘I think we also need to look at your definition of “talk”.’
Apparently not deeming this worthy of a reply, Mr Ambrose pointed down the street, and we proceeded. I still threw confused glances right and left at the empty street, but as we approached Uncle Bufford’s house, my thoughts became more and more preoccupied with what I was going to say. Or rather, how I was going to get Aunt Brank to shut up long enough to be able to say anything.
Dump a bucket of cold water on her?
No, that would just make her screech louder.
Gag her?
Maybe with Karim’s help I could do it. But then…it would probably not make her a lot more receptive to what I had to say. And my birthday was still a long way off. I technically still needed a guardian’s permission to marry.
Well…
There would be one way to ensure her cooperation. But…
I glanced at Mr Ambrose.
‘How should I introduce you?’ I asked, cautiously. ‘As Mr Ambrose, or Lord Ambrose, Heir to The Honourable The Marquess Ambrose?’
His mouth slammed into a thin line. His face turned from marble to granite.
‘Mister. Always just mister.’
‘It might help smooth the way if—’
‘No.’
