The Marquess Method by Kathleen Ayers

3

Ambrose Collingwood, Marquess of Haven, looked down into the defiant, shocked face of Theodosia Barrington and wished he’d just compromised her in the park the other day as he’d meant to. Because clearly, if any woman was begging to be ruined, it was the gorgeous half-blind ninny crawling around the rug at his feet.

His fingers rubbed against the small box sitting in his pocket, remembering the contents. Christ, she might have already achieved ruination on her own.

Theodosia bumped her head on the top of the desk, and Ambrose winced in sympathy. If she didn’t start wearing her bloody spectacles, she might physically hurt herself.

The moment Theodosia had arrived tonight in the company of Lady Richardson and her daughter, Ambrose’s eyes had been drawn to her stunning form. Watching as she took careful steps because she couldn’t see anything, his attention had stayed solely on her and not Miss Emerson, who was attempting a rather amusing story about a foxhunt. Miss Emerson was lovely. Wealthy. And very much the sort of woman who Ambrose should be pursuing for a wife.

However, she wasn’t Theodosia Barrington.

Ambrose found himself unable to look away and not only because he lived in a constant state of terror she was going to go tumbling into a wall or down a flight of stairs. A wealth of emotions—lust, vengeance, jealousy, guilt—all flooded through him at the sight of her. The combination was a potent invitation for Ambrose to behave badly around Theodosia, which he always did. Relentlessly teasing her. Kissing her at Granby’s. Stalking her through the park intent on ruining her and then at the last moment, finding himself unable to do so.

In truth, he’d wavered because he was unsure if his desire for her was because Theodosia was Leo Murphy’s sister, or in spite of it.

“Lord Haven.” Theodosia looked up, blinking at him, perhaps hoping he was a hallucination. Or possibly she couldn’t see him clearly. He’d no idea how terrible her eyesight really was. Despite being so impaired, Theodosia had the loveliest eyes. Shards of blue with a darker circle of indigo around the pupils.

Exactly like her prick of a brother, Leo Murphy.

“So, you can see me.” He reached down to help her up, and she batted his hand away in annoyance.

Ambrose had the urge to pull her up, toss her over his knee, and spank Theodosia until she promised not to go around painting highly erotic, naked miniatures of herself. A coil of arousal slipped around his legs as he thought of her plump bottom, bare, and her body spread across his legs. His hands on all that silken flesh.

“What are you doing here?” She floundered about a bit, bumping her elbow before standing as gracefully as possible. The luscious globes of her breasts rippled deliciously as she pulled herself upright.

Christ. He pushed the pads of his fingers against his thighs trying to still the sharp press of desire. The very second Theodosia had appeared on the terrace at Granby’s house party, tripping over a servant and bumping into a table, Ambrose had wanted her well before finding out she was a Barrington.

When he’d finally spied Theodosia sitting oh-so-primly in the park, paintbrush in hand—a scene he’d found blatantly sexual for some reason—Ambrose had forced his way into her presence. He’d lied and told her he was in the park to walk with Miss Emerson because it was better than mentioning he’d planned on compromising her.

But he hadn’t.

Compromising Theodosia on purpose, no matter Ambrose’s need for justice, had never sat well with him, though it would solve all his problems. Because had circumstances been different, and were she not so enamored of Blythe, Ambrose thought he might have courted her. Properly.

“I’m waiting for Blythe,” he informed her. “A private matter.”

Theodosia froze in front of him.

Ambrose watched the muted terror make its way across her lovely features. She wildly assumed his meeting with Blythe had something to do with the miniature which was searing a hole through his pocket. Ambrose did nothing to reassure her. What in the world would cause Theodosia to paint a scandalous miniature of herself and gift it to Blythe? Why not just put an item in one of London’s gossip columns announcing they were lovers?

A rush of anger filled him at the thought of Theodosia and Blythe. At the very least, he assumed his friend had taken liberties with her. Honestly, was her brother, the fucking duke, just not paying attention to what his sister was up to? Or perhaps Averell, like his bastard brother, was too focused on stripping drunk, grief-stricken noblemen of their wealth.

“Did he say what he wished to discuss?” Her lower lip, luscious and begging to be pulled between his teeth, trembled. She glanced at the chair, then back at Ambrose. It took her longer than he expected to draw the likely conclusion. “You opened it.”

“I did.”

No more than a quarter-hour ago, Ambrose had come into the study and headed straight for the sideboard, sitting behind the desk. The annoying, mindless conversations he’d been subjected to in the other room, as well as Lady Blythe’s censure, demanded a moment of quiet before Blythe joined him. He’d seen the box sitting in the middle of the chair as he started to pour a scotch. Admittedly, it was bad form to open another’s gift. It was Blythe’s birthday, and the box was obviously meant for him, but Ambrose’s curiosity had won out.

Once he’d opened the box, staring at the contents while the clock ticked in the background, Ambrose had poured himself a much healthier portion of scotch. The freckles were a dead giveaway. And it was a bloody miniature. Something Theodosia Barrington was known to paint almost exclusively.

“You had no right to do such a thing.” The tops of her cheeks turned an alarming shade of red.

Nor did she have a right to present such a thing to Blythe. At least in Ambrose’s opinion, which was admittedly colored with more than a hint of possessiveness. Jealousy was such a complex emotion. Fraught with peril for all involved. Especially Theodosia.

“It’s exceptionally detailed.” His gaze traveled over her bosom. “Every curve and peak clearly defined. You’re very talented.”

At the word peak, Theodosia’s luscious mouth popped open.

He couldn’t seem to tear his gaze from her lips. Rose-colored. Plump. Like tiny pillows. Ambrose still dreamt of her mouth, the way she’d surrendered to him so beautifully when he’d kissed her at the house party.

“You are easily recognized, my lady.” His forefinger reached out, gently tracing the spray of freckles above one breast. The pattern reminded Ambrose of the Corona Borealis, a constellation his father had once pointed out to him long ago, before Edmund Collingwood had become a miserable sot.

A slight arch of her back in his direction betrayed her before she stepped away.

Theodosia was a bloody magnificent creature, absurd and yet so beautiful. Clumsy yet graceful. Bold yet shy. Ambrose wanted so badly to touch his tongue to the line of freckles, taste the warm smell of lemon emanating from her skin, bite—

Theo’s hand shot out, disrupting his thoughts, her fingers wiggling beneath his nose. She was gulping deep breaths of air, agitated and annoyed at him, the tops of her breasts pushing against her bodice.

The movement fascinated Ambrose, especially because he now knew what lay beneath the silk.

“Haven,” she sputtered. “Give it back to me. Bad enough you took it upon yourself to open it. Gazed upon it. But it isn’t meant for you. It wasn’t addressed to you.” The color of her cheeks deepened further.

“In all fairness,” Ambrose replied as calmly as was possible with the object of his erotic imaginings standing before him, “it wasn’t addressed to Blythe either.” A strand of dark, silky hair fell from her coiffure and bounced against the rounded curve of one breast, teasing the spot where he knew her nipple must be.

Pink. Like the underside of a seashell.

His mouth went dry thinking of that partially hidden peak so artfully depicted on the miniature. Ambrose struggled to remember what he’d been saying. Finally, he said, “How was I to know it wasn’t meant for me? Or for Blythe’s butler, for that matter?”

A small cry of outrage left her. Theodosia slapped a gloved hand atop the desk, knocking aside a paperweight Blythe kept atop his ledgers. A hideous bird of some sort. It fell to the floor and landed on Ambrose’s foot.

“Ouch. What is that thing anyway? A stork?”

“I came here because I changed my mind.” She stuck her fingers out again. “I’m not giving it to Blythe. So you may return it to me.”

“Are you and Blythe lovers?” The words erupted from him before he could stop them. Envy made his voice sharp. “Or are you just stupidly impulsive?”

Theodosia peered at him from beneath her lashes, possibly attempting to appear worldly. Or she was simply squinting because she couldn’t see. It was difficult to tell. “That, Lord Haven,” her lips curled, “is none of your business.” Her fingertips trailed suggestively along the edge of Blythe’s desk as she shot Ambrose a coquettish look. “I know why you kissed me at the house party.” She tucked the stray piece of hair back up into her coiffure. “You’re as transparent as you are prone to fistfights.”

Theodosia couldn’t possibly know. She’d been so bloody tempting, stumbling about the dark hallway, in danger of knocking herself unconscious with a giant candlestick. And he did envy Blythe her affection. But there had also been a whisper in the back of his mind that Theodosia, desirable thing that she was, could be his solution. After all, it was far easier to compromise a woman you actually wanted than one you did not.

Unless you found you liked her. Quite a bit. Then things became much more complicated.

“I doubt you are so intuitive,” he replied. Theodosia smelled of lemons and an underlying slightly oily scent he didn’t immediately recognize. Paint, maybe. The swell of her hips was barely discernable beneath the silk, the deep valley between her breasts beckoning him forward.

His trousers became entirely too uncomfortable.

“Blythe,” she stated with assurance.

“Blythe?”

“Your jealousy of him speaks volumes. You covet everything that belongs to him. This house, for example.” She lifted her hands. “The gift I painted expressly for him.” She paused for effect. “Me.” A smile crossed her lips at his stony silence as she allowed the word to sink in. “It’s obvious. As blind as I am, even I can see it.”

Ambrose was incredibly envious of Blythe and did a poor job of hiding it. There was also a competitive edge to their friendship, one that led to arguments and stretches where they didn’t speak to each other. Blythe liked to bait him. Ambrose had a temper. Even so, he and Blythe were close friends, just not always in agreement.

“Does it bother you, Haven,” Theodosia continued, eyes gleaming with satisfaction, “that the only reason I returned your kiss was because I thought you were Blythe?”

“You didn’t think I was Blythe. At least have the courage to admit it.”

Theodosia’s mouth tightened. She took two steps in his direction before suddenly flinging herself at Ambrose as if she meant to tackle him to the floor.

Jesus. I underestimated her.

Her fingers grabbed at him, sliding beneath his coat, searching along his ribs and the inside lining. Another strand of hair fell down her shoulders as she pinched and prodded him with ruthless efficiency.

The entire lower half of Ambrose’s body coiled, thrilled beyond belief at her touch. “Theodosia, stop this instant. While I find this delightful foreplay—”

A hiss of outrage was her response.

“— and your wrestling skills seem to be finely honed—” Ambrose’s eyes widened as she pinched him again, this time hard enough to leave a bruise.

Good God, had the late Duke of Averell taught his daughters to brawl?

He grabbed her hands, attempting to pry them away from his chest. When that didn’t work, Ambrose wrapped his arms around her, pulling Theodosia to him. Hugging her tightly, he heard her gasp for breath. “Stop,” he insisted.

Theodosia’s wrists, trapped against his chest, relaxed a fraction.

Small bits of lightning crawled up Ambrose’s skin, sparking wherever Theodosia’s curves molded to the length of his body. His cock, always thrilled to be in the vicinity of Theodosia, tightened to stone in his trousers. There was no way she could fail to notice, even through layers of skirts and petticoats separating them.

Christ, she’s beautiful.

Her eyes, a vivid blue with their distinct ring of indigo, looked up at him. She wiggled against him, confusion and something much more tempting lighting in her eyes before her gaze dropped to his mouth. A ragged sound escaped her.

“Theodosia.” The pull to her was like nothing he’d ever felt before. Despite having planned to compromise her for months, he wasn’t thinking about vengeance or the fact that they were alone together as his head tilted, intent on covering her lips with his.

Unfortunately, Lady Blythe’s scream pierced the air, sounding as if she were being attacked by wild dogs.

It completely ruined the moment.