To Seduce a Scoundrel (34 page)

PHILIPPA awoke the following morning with one goal in mind: find Ambrose and insist upon the tour he was “considering.” She made her way to the breakfast room and stopped short at the threshold. Ambrose was eating at the table. He was never in the breakfast room.

He must not have heard her approach, for he didn’t look up. Or perhaps he was purposefully ignoring her. Either way, she took advantage of the moment to simply watch him.

His dark hair was neatly combed, and from what she could see above the edge of the table, he was immaculately garbed with a white shirt and cravat, dark blue waistcoat, and a coat of nearly the same color. A shadow fell across his face, no, wait, that discoloration wasn’t a shadow.

Philippa was beside him in a trice. “Were you in a fight last night?”

He looked up at her. His rich brown eyes raked her from head to waist until he seemed to remember himself and snapped his gaze to her face. “Yes.”

His imperfect nose was bruised, along with his chin.

She wanted to touch him, to smooth away his pains, but had vowed to take things slow. “Does it hurt?”

He shrugged. “A bit.”

“Was it a planned bout? I didn’t realize you were still fighting. I thought you were training Ackley.”

“I—” He hesitated. “I like to fight.” His gaze was direct, unapologetic.

She’d seen him fight, had cared for him in the aftermath. “I can’t imagine why.”

He stood. A waft of sandalwood and sage tickled her senses. “That’s not exactly a mark in my favor. Remember that when you’re determining my worth. Have a good day.” He inclined his head rather formally and departed.

She watched him go with a frown. She hadn’t even had a chance to ask him about taking a tour today.

“Lady Philippa?”

Philippa turned at the sound of Mrs. Oldham’s voice. “Good morning,” she said with a cheeriness she didn’t feel.

“Shall I bring your breakfast?”

“Yes, please.” Though Ambrose’s behavior was disappointing, she wasn’t about to give up that easily. “Mrs. Oldham, where is his lordship going today?”

Mrs. Oldham’s eyes lit, and her mouth curved up. Philippa had never seen the woman smile with regard to Ambrose. “He’s going to visit with the tenants.”

He was? From what Philippa had gleaned, he’d avoided his tenants at all costs. His ride yesterday had been his first foray onto the estate. What had changed to draw him out? Whatever the cause, Philippa recognized it as a good thing. Obviously Mrs. Oldham did too. She was beaming with satisfaction.

“You’ve been worried about him, haven’t you?” Philippa asked.

The housekeeper nodded. “He’s been gone a long time, and then to return for a fight and no other reason… That’s not the Ambrose we remember.”

It wasn’t the Ambrose she thought she knew either. “Will you tell me about the Ambrose you remember?”

Mrs. Oldham’s eyes took on a far-off cast. Then she smiled broadly. “He was so charming.” Just as Lettice Chandler had said. “Always eager to help, a natural leader. The tenants admired and respected him. He’d organized many improvements and increased the sheep herd by more than half after he returned from university.”

“He seems an excellent horseman.”

“Oh, indeed. He’s always been very athletic, so it’s not surprising he’s such a successful pugilist.” Her features darkened. “Though it’s a sport I never would have thought he’d undertake.”

“Why is that?”

“When Nigel—his brother—went to Oxford, he was routinely beaten by a group of boys. No one knew until Nigel came home at the end of his first year. Ambrose had vowed to thrash every one of them, though he was several years younger of course, but Nigel made him promise not to. Nigel didn’t care for violence at all.”

Philippa was confused. “Why would his brother’s opinions affect him so much? Were they close?” Given what—granted, little—she knew, she’d assumed they weren’t.

“Yes, quite. Until Ambrose came back from university. Their father had died, leaving Nigel as the viscount. Everyone assumed Ambrose would be the viscount one day. Nigel’s health was so weak. He wasn’t expected to survive to adulthood.”

Miss Chandler had provided the same information, but it was satisfying to have corroboration. “Ambrose became bitter.”

Mrs. Oldham nodded. “They argued often. Ambrose was thinking of leaving, but then Nigel went to London and things returned to the way they’d been before, with Ambrose in charge.”

“Then Nigel returned with his fiancée, and things grew worse.”

“Yes, Nigel tried to assert himself, which was absolutely his right. However, he didn’t take his brother’s role or his feelings into account. Though he wasn’t the viscount, Ambrose
was
the master of Beckwith.”

Philippa’s heart ached for the brothers, both trying to carve their places and hurting each other in the process. “I believe I’ll ride out today as well.”

Mrs. Oldham nodded briskly. “I’ll just fetch your breakfast.” She turned to go, but then paused. She looked back over her shoulder. “You’re a lovely young woman. I don’t know what happened to bring you here, but I do hope his lordship will realize what’s within his reach.”

Philippa thought Mrs. Oldham meant her, but asked anyway, just to be sure. “And what’s that?”

“Love.”

As Mrs. Oldham retreated to the kitchens, Philippa staggered to a chair. Yes, it was within his grasp, but would he take it? Philippa’s life flashed before her—marrying Ambrose, loving him, but he didn’t love her back.

Just like her mother had fruitlessly loved her father. And oh, how that hurt.

When Ambrose arrived at the stables, he jerked to a stop. Welch was leading Orpheus from his stall. The horse put his nose up and immediately began dancing toward him.

Welch gripped the lead tighter. “Sorry, my lord. Didn’t know you were coming.”

Ambrose swallowed, his throat suddenly tight. He stepped forward. “You’re going to exercise him?”

Welch nodded. “Unless you’d like to do it?”

Orpheus whinnied and tried to move closer to Ambrose. Ambrose clenched his hands with resolve. Just as he couldn’t continue to punish the tenants of Beckwith for his wrongs, he could no longer punish Orpheus. The fall that had killed Nigel hadn’t been the animal’s fault. It had been Ambrose’s.

“I’ll do it,” Ambrose said.

The groom came forward and handed him the lead.

Orpheus nuzzled Ambrose’s head. His throat closed tighter, but he managed to get out, “Fetch my saddle.”

Welch’s brow furrowed. “You’ll ride?”

Was that a problem? “Someone’s been riding him, yes?”

“I have, and so has Oldham, periodically.”

“Yes, I’ll ride.”

Welch nodded and took himself off to the tack room.

Ambrose petted Orpheus’s nose. He’d missed this animal. More notably, he’d missed this pull of emotion, this sense of fitting together. He’d had a taste of it with Philippa. He recalled that first night, holding her in the coach on the way to Herrick House, their series of disasters behind them. In that moment he’d belonged to her and she to him.

Orpheus whinnied louder and met Ambrose’s palm with his questing nose. He allowed a small smile. “I’ve been an ass. None of this was your fault.”

Orpheus nuzzled him and rested his nose against Ambrose’s cheek. He closed his eyes a moment and patted Orpheus’s dark head. He’d no idea how good forgiveness—albeit from a horse—could feel. He ought to try it with himself some day.

Welch returned. Carefully, as if he were completing an act of contrition, Ambrose saddled Orpheus. He spoke to him quietly, affectionately, slowly rebuilding their bond. When he was finished, Ambrose took him out into the yard. The morning was bright; pale clouds skimmed across the blue sky. The breeze was strong off the bay, carrying the salty tang of the sea. Ambrose was glad he’d left his hat behind this morning, preferring to feel the air through his hair.

He swung himself atop Orpheus, and they launched down the path as if they’d never been apart. He cut west across Beckwith’s lands. His lands.

He took Orpheus to a canter, but only for a moment. Time and regret fell away, and they were moving at a full run.

The wind whipped over him and the fields blurred, his sheep white streaks as he and Orpehus flew by. Instead of going to see a tenant as he’d planned, he found himself at the ruins of the small cottage he and Lettice had used for their rendezvous. Though he’d ordered the building demolished, memories he’d kept long buried returned with blistering force.

Nigel throwing open the door. Lettice shrieking. Ambrose pulling on his breeches and following Nigel outside. Nigel shooting him in the shoulder and then riding off. Ambrose chasing him. The sickening crack of Nigel’s head as it struck the rock.

Ambrose shook as he recalled the blood and his brother’s unresponsiveness. Then the sheer horror of knowing Nigel would never wake up.

Hoof beats drew him to turn in his saddle. Philippa was bearing down on him.

He turned back, swearing. Every time he saw her, he was reminded of how he could barely control himself. How he’d ruined her and how he couldn’t hope to fix the situation.

She rode up beside him and offered a brilliant smile that squeezed Ambrose’s chest. “I was hoping to take that tour.”

He walked Orpheus away from her. “I’m busy today.”

She pressed her lips together. “Yes, I understood you were visiting tenants, but there aren’t any around here, so forgive me if I argue you don’t appear
busy
.” Her brows drew together. “What happened to the Ambrose I met at Lockwood House? The one who leapt to my assistance, who kept me from harm and from scandal—at least for a while.”

“That Ambrose is the same one who ultimately plunged you headfirst into ruin.”

She inclined her head. “I like him just the same. As well as the one who somehow caused his brother’s death.”

Ambrose flinched. He turned Orpheus from her.

She followed him. “I see how tortured you are. I would help you. If you’d let me.”

He pivoted to look at her. “I’m here for a prizefight, not to face the past.” That had been his intent anyway, but he could not longer deny that he
had
to face it. That or leave his beloved home again.

“And I’m here to determine my future. Unless you’d rather I go before the ten days are up.”

She sat very still, as if she were holding her breath. Allowing her to stay meant keeping his distance, physically. The one thing he couldn’t go back on—at least not now—was his vow of celibacy. It was a five-year-old promise he’d managed to keep, and breaking it seemed somehow dishonorable. He feared doing so would make him feel less like the man he was trying to be.

“You can stay, but my sentiments haven’t changed.”

She nodded. “Would you at least let me try to help you? As your friend?”

As his friend. It was the most he could hope for. How he wished he’d met her at a different time, in a different life.

“How do you propose to do that?”

She shrugged, her frame seeming to relax. “Why don’t we start with that tour?”

What harm could come from showing her around Beckwith? He had calls to make anyway. “Let’s go.”

Three days later, Philippa accompanied Ambrose on a now-routine afternoon ride. In fact, the past few days had followed a welcome pattern. In the morning, Philippa walked to Gerrans and visited the market stalls. She chatted with the various merchants and met the town’s residents who greeted her with kindness and warmth. They were delighted to meet a guest of Lord Sevrin’s—nearly as delighted as they were to have him back on the peninsula.

After taking luncheon with Ambrose and Mr. Ackley, she and Ambrose rode around the estate, as they were doing now. They approached a cottage, and Ambrose motioned for them to dismount.

He helped Philippa from her horse. “I need to speak with Mr. Lerner. His shearing shed needs repair.”

Philippa nodded. Each afternoon they listened to the tenants’ concerns and complaints. Ambrose heard them all with interest and care, and often stayed to provide assistance. While he was busy, Philippa spoke to the tenants’ wives who were universally complimentary of Ambrose’s return and inquisitive about Philippa’s presence. She merely smiled and said she was a guest from London.

Ambrose led her down the path to the cottage’s door and knocked three times. Mrs. Lerner—presumably—answered.

She bobbed a simply curtsey. “Good afternoon, your lordship.”

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Lerner. How are your boys?”

Philippa was amazed at how Ambrose recalled every tenant and every member of their family. She could see how he was truly master of Beckwith—or had been.

Mrs. Lerner regarded Ambrose skeptically. “Well, thank you. Mr. Lerner is out back.”

Ambrose nodded once. “May I present my guest, Lady Philippa Latham? Will it be all right if she remains here while I speak with your husband?”

Mrs. Lerner eyed Philippa. “Certainly, my lord.”

Ambrose leaned down to Philippa. “I won’t be long.” His breath caressed her ear, and she suppressed a delightful shiver.

After he left, Mrs. Lerner invited her inside and closed the door. “Would you care for tea?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Mrs. Lerner retreated to a back room. Philippa moved further into the cottage, to a main living area furnished with a worn settee and three rather comfortable looking chairs. A few minutes later Mrs. Lerner returned with a small tray. She set it on a table and poured the tea. “Cream and sugar?”

“Yes, thank you.” Philippa had been nervous during her first such encounter a couple of days ago, but everyone had been so welcoming, she now felt at ease.

Mrs. Lerner handed Philippa her cup then tended to her own. “It’s good his lordship finally came home. Will you be staying here with him?” She glanced up at Philippa.

No one else had chanced such a forward question, but Philippa had been expecting it. And since thus far she had no cause to believe otherwise, she answered, “I’ll be returning to London in a few days.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Lerner sounded a bit disappointed.

Philippa didn’t know what to make of that and so she ignored the reaction. “Are the shed repairs extensive?”