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13
Awedding was meant to be a happy occasion. A smiling bride. Gracious family, thrilled to be united. Friends offering well wishes and congratulations. A carriage bedecked with ribbons and flowers to carry the couple as they waved to well-wishers.
At the very least, a wedding should not possess the atmosphere of a funeral.
Ambrose’s wedding to Theodosia Barrington was very much the latter.
Averell and his duchess, a small, delicate woman who seemed far too intelligent to have married the duke, watched Ambrose warily, as if Ambrose were about to make off with the silver as well as Theodosia. Even the duke’s son, Lord Welles, a plump child held in his mother’s arms, let out a wail when he caught sight of Ambrose.
If Theodosia ever deigned to appear, she might well do the same.
The Dowager Duchess of Averell, looking like an enraged fairy queen in her pewter silk, tiny diamonds dangling from her ears, greeted Ambrose as politely as could be expected under the circumstances. Her acceptance of Ambrose had dimmed significantly since the evening at Lady Molsin’s when he’d absconded, no matter how briefly, into a parlor with her daughter, then promptly disappeared.
Lady Richardson, thankfully, was not in attendance today. Theodosia’s cousin, despite her outward show of support, didn’t care for Ambrose. In Lady Richardson’s defense, she hadn’t liked him before he’d compromised Theodosia.
The Barringtons’ ward, Miss Olivia Nelson, allowed him to take her limp hand in greeting, a delicate sniff her ladylike dismissal. Miss Nelson was the granddaughter of the Earl of Daring. Her status as the ward of the dowager duchess puzzled Ambrose. Daring was still very much alive. One would think he’d wish his granddaughter to live with him.
Ambrose supposed he’d learn why she didn’t eventually.
Only Phaedra, Theo’s audacious younger sister, seemed at all happy to see Ambrose. Plying him with questions on swords and dueling pistols the moment he arrived, Phaedra ignored the pointed look the duke sent her to cease. Either Phaedra was truly interested in weaponry, an odd habit for a young lady, or several members of Theodosia’s family were planning on murdering him. Or possibly the duke’s butler.
Ambrose shot a glance at the stoic Pith, hovering just outside the drawing room.
He’d worried over the last few days that Leo Murphy would somehow appear, rather dramatically, just as the vicar started the ceremony. But as the morning dragged on, the idea became more unlikely, even though Ambrose was sure the duke had written to Murphy of their sister’s impending marriage. Perhaps Murphy was even now on his way back to London and simply wouldn’t get here in time. More likely, he didn’t remember beggaring the Marquess of Haven or even Ambrose and his threats. The Collingwood family was a mere footnote in Murphy’s life. Not worth recalling.
Insulted or relieved? Ambrose wasn’t sure how he should feel.
‘My father would never have signed away my sister’s dowry for a game of dice and a whore.’
‘And yet, he did.’
Once, he’d relished the thought of relaying the news to Murphy that he’d married Theodosia. Taken her and her dowry. Repayment for what Elysium had taken from the Marquess of Haven.How does it feel, Ambrose would sneer to Murphy,to know she’s been taken advantage of as my father was?
Ambrose’s heart, the organ least consulted in any of his machinations, squeezed tightly for an instant. Except, he hadn’t been able to make himself ruin Theodosia. The night in Blythe’s studyhadbeen an accident.
Somehow, Ambrose didn’t think Theodosia would agree. Especially not if her brother remembered the threats Ambrose had hurled at him. She would recall how he’d taken the miniature instead of giving it back and assume he’d done so to keep her in the study. Remember how he’d nearly kissed her. Theodosia would assume the worst. And she would be right.
Christ.
Theodosiamatteredto him. His mistake had been in thinking he could pretend she did not.
A sound rustled through the group of Barringtons, drawing Ambrose out of his thoughts.
Theodosia was making her way down the massive double staircase of the duke’s home clothed in a spectacular gown of ice-blue silk. Brilliants and pearls peeked through the dark coils of her hair.
Ambrose frowned as he looked up at her. Theodosia’s complexion, usually a delightful peach color, because much like her sister she rarely used a parasol, was dreadfully pale. Almost sickly. Most alarmingly, there were no spectacles sitting atop her pert little nose.
Theodosia, at the sight of Ambrose, or at least the blurry outline of him, immediately tilted her chin at a mutinous angle, a clear signal she’d defiantly and intentionally decidednotto wear her spectacles.
He should never have declared he found them appealing.
Ambrose spent the next few minutes in terror, holding his breath until Theodosia safely reached his side. He’d had visions of her tripping down the stairs because she couldn’t see and breaking her beautiful neck. As she neared him, his eyes lingered over the slope of her shoulder, a fascinating expanse of skin he couldn’t wait to touch again.
She took his arm, refusing to look directly at him. “Lead me to my doom, my lord.”
Gorgeous, hostile little thing.
“As you wish, Theodosia,” he answered solemnly.
