Roses and Flames

Chapter 23

Ambrosia tugged the bodies back into place and laid a hand against her cheek, waiting for the blush to subside. If she sat here a while longer, she would be as cold as he was, but not as emotionless.

She was angry.

Patrick Hastings was all she had ever wanted. She had tricked him into coming here and followed him like a fool, only to be refused again. He had brought her to the brink of fulfilment. And then he had delivered nothing more than threats and speeches, like some Drury Lane villain.

Did he not realize that she might have taken some pleasure in the act that he found so base and unworthy? Her body still seeds with desire. It was as if she was waiting for some gift that only pat could give her. He had shown it to her, held it close and then snatched it away, at the last minute. Then he behaved as though she was the one who was cruel. Well, it would never happen again. Tonight, she would make her choice once and for all. She would go to another man and would never turn back.

At least the Duke of Marburry would not reject her without even trying to love her. She would tell herself that what she felt for Pat had been a childish infatuation. And now, as he claimed, it was nothing more than lust. Neither of those things had placed in her future. She would leave the memories of the good doctor Hastings and nursery where they belonged.

And someday she would visit the memories of this night and find it as brittle and faded as a dried flower. She would look at her children, hers and Michael’s. And she would wonder why she had ever been so silly as to want another man. But not today. Today it would be difficult.

She thought of the Duke and his many good qualities. And, slowly, she felt the ardour subside. Samuel was handsome. He was kind. He had an excellent sense of humor. When he saw her, he would walk towards her and not walk away. There would be a smile on his face that showed promise and a joyful anticipation of their future together. She stood and took a breath. The air was clean and cool, and if it smelled also man’s cologne, it was probably just her imagination. Then she straightened her dress back and went back to the house.

“Lady Ambrosia has made me the happiest man in London today.”

 Patrick had returned to the ballroom in time to see the announcement. The Duke was grinning like an i***t, oblivious to the fact that the woman beside him was still flushed from the kisses that pat had given her. As he had for so much of his life, he stood by mute, struggling with his own base desires and allowed it to happen. He had stood in the garden for the time, waiting to see that Ambrose got back to the house without help. There were no tears from her. No passionate cries that he returned. A profound silence seemed to emanate from the spot that they had been. A few minutes later she got up and walked away from him.

It felt like the day he had first put out to sea and watched England retreating until it was a dot on the horizon. He had seen the water as nothing more than distance between him and the woman that he could not help but laugh. It was now the same. The ballroom seemed to stretch before him as couples filled the dance floor for awards. And Patrick was the only solid spot, losing her all over again.

He took a sip of his drink, wishing that it was something stronger. Another hour, perhaps, and he could make his excuses and depart. But he did not have to stand here, watching her be happy without him. It had been so easy in the garden, when all innocent, brotherly thoughts had fled like animals before advancing on fire.

She wanted him. He must have her, or he would go mad. He felt the pressure building, the desperation to drag her to the ground, throw up her skirts and lose himself in the softness of her body. He imagined entering, in one quick thrust, the tightness of her, the rush. Her cry or shock at the loss of her maidenhood.

 And discovery. Her father’s shout of outrage. The discovery of the truth.

Disgusting. Obscene. Profane.

He had pushed her away, horrified at what he had done, but secretly, sinfully triumphant. She was his in always that mattered. She would marry the Duke. But each time he touched her, she would be thinking of his this moment and how much he had wanted another. It must never happen again. He would go to the Americas this time. Or Jamaica. With some luck he would succumb to fever and his suffering would end. He turned away from the crowd, hoping to find a diversion, in cards, in Brandy or perhaps a pretty face that might distract him from the only woman he actually cared to look at.

“Doctor Hastings.” Lord Thorne had tracked him down in the crowd of well wishers and Pat checked the height of his raised glass the fullness of his mild, searching for any telltale signs of his personal behavior that might show him to be less than enthusiastic for the match.

“Pat.” Lord Thorne’s tone was as it had been, when he had still been a favored son. Before he had made his stammering offer for Ambrosia.

“My Lord,” he said, with a half smile that he hoped was not too strained.

“The Duke and Ambrose have nearly finished their dance. There is no reason to wait any longer.”

For what? He wondered. Was he expected to depart already? But it seemed Thorne was speaking more to himself, than to patch, as though there was some duty that he had been delaying.

“I… we… wish to speak to you, in my study.” If anything, Thorne looked as uncomfortable as pat felt. It was the odd that he could not match his move to the festivities. Surely, this must be a moment of triumph.

“Of course, my Lord.” Patrick glanced at the clock. “On the half hour, perhaps? That should give enough time for the crowd to settle.”

“Twenty minutes.” Thorne seemed to see this as some sort of reprive. “An excellent idea. Until then.” He moved off through the crowd again and Patrick washed him absolutely accepting congratulations for his daughter’s successful match. It was damned odd.

 And there in the center of the dance floor was Ambrose. Dear, sweet Ambrose, looking almost overwhelmed as him. As she spun past him, in the arms of the Duke, her eye caught his, if only for a moment. She gave him a smile of triumph, but her eyes shining not with tears but with an almost evil Glee. She had done what he had requested. She hoped he was satisfied. If he must lose her, not that she had ever been his, it was better that it be this way. She was angry with him and would be so for some time.

If she had doubts about this decision, he would be gone before she even expressed them. But all their proclaimed Duke an exemplary man, truly a golden child, who had not allowed the ease of his success to taint his innate goodness. He was worthy of his Ambrose. And he obviously adored her.

The Duke would treat her as she deserved to be treated. Patrick doubted he could ever bring himself to like the duke. But he would have no cause to see the man again so it did not really matter.

The dance ended. And the precious Duke of Marburry was not at her side, damn him. He had won. The least he could do was to enjoy the prize. But he had seen that Lord Thorne had spoken about something to the duke and then the man had disappeared.

Ambrose had watched. And though she would not have been able to hear what was said, she nodded. There was the strangest look upon her lovely face as though she was remembering some troublesome detail that rendered the moment less sweet. Then she had turned back to the crowd, perfection again.

Something was afoot.

But Patrick would be damned if he could imagine what could that be. The clock ticked out the minutes until his appointment.