Her Protector's Pleasure (41 page)

He blew out a breath.
Be patient. Give her the space with her daughter that she needs and deserves.
Take care of matters with your own family first—then bring up the future with Marianne.

Samuel finished rummaging through one of the bags. "Ah, here it is. Come have a look."

Ambrose went over and took the small wooden box from his father. Opening the lid, he found himself looking at a ring. A small emerald winked at the center of the delicate gold band, which was otherwise smooth and burnished by time. He experienced a fleeting memory: this ring upon a gentle hand, a loving touch that took away fear and pain.

"This ... this was my mother's."

"Yes. I gave it to her on our wedding day," Samuel said with a misty smile. "It brought us much joy—it brought us you."

Ambrose didn't know what to say.

"When you were engaged to that flit-wit Jane, I knew you weren't ready for this ring. But now you are. Give it to the woman you love and who will love you wholeheartedly in return."

Ambrose's hand closed around the box. God, he wanted to.

"Marianne's been through too much of late," he heard himself say. "I can't ask her to consider other life-altering changes as well."

"You can't … or you're afraid to?"

Damn. Schoolmaster Kent was indeed back in full possession of his faculties. Marianne had been right about his father's grief masquerading as illness.

"Both," Ambrose admitted. "If the circumstances were different, if she were not so high above me—"

"I thought we already covered this nonsense. Because that's what this excuse is—nonsense. What has class to do with love?"

He couldn't expect his father to understand. After all, Samuel had wisely given his heart to women who occupied the same world as he did. He'd never put his lovers in the situation where they'd have to choose between being a titled lady and plain Mrs. Kent. A policeman's wife.

"She'd be giving up much for me," Ambrose said, his jaw taut.

"And gaining much more in return. Do you love her so little, son?"

"I love her with all that I am," Ambrose said fiercely.

"Then why are you afraid to let her make her choice?"

Because … what if she doesn't choose me?

His deepest fear crystallized in his mind. Though he believed that she cared for him, she'd never told him she loved him. Their relationship had developed amidst chaos and turbulence; now that the storm had passed, would she regret her involvement with a man like him? Now that she no longer needed his assistance in finding her daughter, did she want him still? Even after he'd nearly bungled his role as her protector?

"It's not just the money." His shoulders hunched. "I failed to keep her and her girl out of harm's way. If Coyner had—"

"No one's perfect, boy, and the sooner you accept that the better. In the end, you rescued Marianne and Primrose: that's what matters." His father sighed. "If you insist on taking responsibility for everything, you'll wind up no better than a stick-in-the-mud."

A moralistic snob,
God help him.

"All you can do is your best. The rest?" Samuel shrugged. "You live with it."

Ambrose knew he had little to recommend his suit. Could he present himself to Marianne, knowing his own faults? Could he hope that she'd accept him as he was, flaws and all?

"Didn't raise you to be namby-pamby," his father commented.

Ambrose rubbed his neck. Devil take it, he
was
being an idiot. He wanted Marianne—in his bed, by his side forever. So why was he making excuses, prolonging the torment? Either she wanted him … or she didn't. If she didn't know by now, waiting wasn't going to make a lick of difference.

He tucked the ring into his pocket. "I'll go talk to her. Wish me luck."

"Good luck, boy." Smiling, his father patted him on the shoulder. "Though somehow I don't think you'll need it."

*****

Heading down the stairs, Ambrose encountered Violet and Polly on the landing. His sisters had Primrose in tow.

"Good morning, Mr. Kent," Primrose said, dimpling.

He couldn't help but smile at the pretty picture the three girls made with their hair in ringlets and tied with satin bows. "And to you, little one. Where are you all dashing off to?"

"We're going upstairs to play Spillikins." Violet rolled her eyes. "Can you
believe
Primrose has never played before?"

"Picking up sticks is not the only way to pass one's time. I'm sure Primrose has enjoyed other leisure," Ambrose chided his sister.

"Actually, I haven't," Primrose blurted, her face falling. "My life before ... it was ever so boring."

Ambrose's chest constricted. For a young girl, Primrose had been through so many changes; the harrowing episode at the pier hadn't helped matters. Marianne had fretfully told him that Primrose sometimes suffered terror dreams at night.

As Ambrose searched for the right words to comfort the girl, to assure her that from now on everything would be alright, Polly slipped her hand into Primrose's.

With a child's simple ease, his youngest sister said, "You've got us now, Rosie."

"And we're
never
boring," Vi added.

"I wish you didn't have to leave tomorrow." Primrose's bottom lip trembled. "I shall miss you all dreadfully."

Three hopeful pairs of eyes turned to Ambrose.

"Run along now," he said gruffly. "We'll talk later."

The girls went off to enjoy their game, and he continued down the stairs. He headed to the drawing room, the place Marianne was most likely to be this time of day. As he approached, he heard the sound of female voices. Marianne's … and Lady Harteford's. The door was ajar; though he couldn't see into the room, snippets of their conversation drifted through.

" … I'm glad to have a moment alone with you, Marianne." The marchioness's voice was low, serious. "How is Primrose faring?"

"Considering all that she has been through, I should say quite marvelously. She's a resilient little thing." Despite the obvious pride in Marianne's tone, there was a quiver, too. "I still have nightmares of what might have happened if Coyner had succeeded in ..."

"He didn't, and he's dead. That is justice," Lady Harteford said firmly. "Now we must focus on doing everything we can for Primrose. Have you given thought to when you will introduce her to Society?"

Though Ambrose knew he should leave the ladies to their private talk, the anxiety in Marianne's tone held him captive outside the door.

"It is too soon. She is a bastard, Helena, and I do not wish her to be harmed by my mistakes."

"Fustian. There are plenty of by-blows running amok in the
ton.
Primrose is the granddaughter of an earl and niece to a marchioness, and she has as much right to be in society as any of them. And anyone else, for that matter."

"I don't want her exposed to ugliness," Marianne insisted. "You know how cruel so-called polite society can be."

"Indeed. That is why we must have a plan."

"You sound like you already have one." Ambrose could imagine Marianne's leveraged brow.

"I do. In these situations, one must rally the troops. You, my dear, must make a point of courting those with social influence."

Ambrose tensed, his gaze dropping to his worn boots.

"You know I detest the snobs," Marianne protested.

"You don't detest me or Harteford, surely. We will throw a party for Primrose and make sure my father is present. If you are comfortable, we will make our connection to her and support of her indisputable."

"Thank you," Marianne said.

"But we will not be enough. You will have to reform your reputation, my dear. No more scandal and running with the fast crowd. From here on in, you must gain acceptance from the sticklers. Only then will you be able to help Primrose gain entrée into the best drawing rooms."

As Marianne again murmured her assent, Ambrose's jaw clenched. He could not argue with Lady Harteford's reasoning. Because of the circumstances of her birth, Primrose faced disadvantages—and possible rejection by society if she did not have the protection of a good name. One associated with wealth, privilege. A title.

Primrose Kent would have none of those things.

"Which brings me to the matter of the Kents," the marchioness said in a hesitant manner.

Ambrose knew he should go. He leaned closer.

"You know I adore them. And Mr. Kent has done so much for you and Primrose. But what do you intend for the future?"

Ambrose waited, his heart thumping. He knew he should relinquish his selfish desires. Knew it would be best for Primrose. Yet if Marianne gave him even the slightest reason to hope—

"I can't speak of it now," Marianne said.

"Why not?"

"I just can't." Marianne sighed—in disgust? Frustration? "It's complicated, Helena. But I've never lied to Ambrose. I haven't made promises to him because the truth is …"

She paused, and every fiber of his being tensed, his breath held, his soul waiting.

"The truth is, I can't keep them," she said flatly.

The words struck him like a direct blow to the gut. Before he could recover, Ambrose heard Lugo's rumbling voice coming down the corridor. He came to his senses and walked away from the drawing room. The box bumped heavily in his pocket. As he mounted the steps, he cursed himself for being an idiot. For letting his heart rule his head so completely. For believing, even for an instant, that dreams had anything to do with reality.

FORTY-FIVE

The morning light imbued the soft green drawing room with tranquility, an emotion far removed from Marianne's own state as she sat with her bosom friend.

"
Why
can't you keep a promise to Mr. Kent?" Helena said. "You care for him, I know you do. And it's obvious he returns your affection. Harteford and I both agree that you two make the perfect pair."

Marianne bit her lip. "I will tell you, Helena. But you must promise me not to tell Ambrose. Not yet, anyway."

Though Helena's brows lifted, she gave a quick nod.

Blowing out a breath, Marianne confided her debt to Bartholomew Black. When she was finished, Helena stared at her with rounded eyes.

"Heavens, you agreed to
anything
Black wanted?"

"What choice had I? He was my only hope of finding Primrose. I don't regret it," Marianne said, though her palms grew clammy, "and given the same choice, I'd make it again."

"No one doubts your devotion to Primrose, dear. But what of your own happiness?" Helena's hazel eyes reflected her concern. "You do deserve it, you know."

Marianne blinked away sudden moisture; Ambrose had said the same thing. "Oh, Helena, do I? Do I deserve a man as good as Ambrose Kent?"

"Why, of course you do! Why would you even ask such a thing?"

"Because ..."

Marianne had to clamp down on her lower lip again to stop it from trembling. Lud, what was happening to her? She was
never
a watering pot, and yet the events of the past days had eroded her famed self-composure. Hidden floodgates opened inside her. She felt things she was not accustomed to feeling. She yearned for things she was afraid to want.

"You can tell me, Marianne. After all, you saw me through my troubles with Harteford." Her friend reached for her hand. "Can I not offer you the same comfort when it comes to matters of the heart?"

Marianne returned the squeeze. "Of course you can, Helena. The truth of it is ... I am most wretchedly in love with Ambrose." Saying the words aloud was like pulling on a loose thread. Her emotions unraveled with stunning speed. "He's everything I could hope for. He's loyal and steady, strong yet tender. And after everything he's done for me ..."

Her cheeks flushed as she realized how much she'd taken Ambrose for granted. He'd been there when she needed him, saving her and her daughter and vanquishing Coyner once and for all. In the week since the villain's demise, Ambrose had provided a shoulder for her and a calm, kind presence for her daughter. Yet he had made no demands of her. At night, he'd retired to the guest bedchamber, and given her preoccupation with Rosie, she'd given little thought to his needs.

It wasn't until he'd quietly announced his intention to return his family to Chudleigh Crest that she realized the unsettled nature of their relationship. Feelings came crashing over her, intense and confusing. She wanted him so badly, and she was ... terrified.

"It's clear that Mr. Kent loves you," Helena said. "I don't see what the problem is."

"What have I to offer him in return? I've made so many mistakes ..." Swallowing, Marianne forced herself to speak her fears. "How can I expect him to take on ... damaged goods?"

Helena stared at her. "I cannot believe you just referred to yourself in those terms."

"It's true, isn't it?" Marianne lifted her chin. "I've always called a spade a spade. I have a bastard, I've done things no lady should have done. And then there's my debt to Black, what he may want ..." Shuddering, she couldn't make herself give voice to the vile possibilities. "Can you in all honesty say that I am the sort of woman a decent man would want for a wife—to bring home to his family, to be the mother of his children?"

"I begin to think I do not know you as well as I believed." Blinking, Helena said, "All these years, I thought you were the one with the confidence."

"Self-possession is an excellent mask for insecurity," Marianne said wryly.

"Be that as it may, how can you doubt Mr. Kent's devotion to you? You yourself have said that he's protected you time and again. And the way he looks at you …" Helena gave a heartfelt sigh. "As for the Kents, they adore both you and Primrose. When I see all of you together, I see no mismatch. No inequality. What I see is …"

"Yes?"

"A family," Helena said gently.

Dash it, there were those blasted tears again.

"Truly?" Marianne dabbed at her eyes. "You aren't saying these things just to make me feel better?"

"Not at all. But I do agree that a significant barrier remains to your happiness."