The Marquess Method by Kathleen Ayers

5

Theodosia, lovely and heartbroken, perched on the end of the sofa in Blythe’s study, chin tilted down as she surely contemplated her future. Not so much as a sob left her throat. No tears cascaded down her cheeks. She didn’t faint dead away like some fragile doll. Under the circumstances, it would be understandable for Theodosia to do all those things. Fall into a weeping pile of silk or faint dramatically while Blythe called for smelling salts. The only discernible sign of her distress was the twisting of her fingers in her lap.

How Ambrose admired Theo for refusing to give Lady Blythe exactly what that old bat hungered for.

Violet Emerson, wealthy and beautiful, would have made a fine marchioness, but she was never meant to be Ambrose’s marchioness, despite what he’d allowed everyone to believe. Theodosia, glaring at him in obvious dislike from beneath her lashes, would be Lady Haven. A turn of circumstances which Ambrose was only too pleased about.

‘Find yourself an heiress. That’s what I advise.’

That had been Leo Murphy’s advice to Ambrose just before having him physically removed from Murphy’s office at Elysium.

Heartless prick.

So, Ambrose had taken Murphy’s advice and found himself an heiress. One he already wanted to bed.

‘It isn’t any of my affair, Collingwood, how your father chooses to bankrupt himself.’

Ambrose had been so bloody angry after that first discussion with Murphy, he’d immediately gone to confront his father. The resulting argument had led to Ambrose residing on the Continent for some time. When he’d returned, he found his father dead and nothing left of the Collingwood wealth.

Ambrose tamped down the anger he carried, always simmering just beneath the surface of his skin, boiling up at the mere thought of Leo Murphy. Murphy had taken undue advantage of an obviously grief-stricken man even after Ambrose had pleaded with him not to. The next time he’d seen Murphy, it had been to demand proof his father had signed away everything, including Jacinda’s dowry. Ambrose had cursed Murphy, vowing to take back everything the prick had taken from him.

And now he would.

Pushing aside the past, his glance fell on Theodosia, the urge to comfort her so strong, Ambrose took a step in her direction. But he stopped. Remorse was a wasted emotion, especially in this instance. He’d already felt guilt over her for months as he’d waffled about when best to put Theodosia in a compromising situation. How he would use her to take back his fortune.

He looked up as Lady Richardson, pale and stricken, appeared in the study, her daughter trailing behind her.

Lady Blythe quickly explained to Lady Richardson what had transpired, making sure to impress her absolute disapproval on Theodosia before leaving the study to return to her guests. She nodded to Ambrose.

Self-righteous harpy. He bowed.

Blythe’s mother didn’t truly care for Ambrose. He had been in far too many fistfights and rumored duels for him to receive her mark of esteem. But she cared even less for the idea that Lady Theodosia Barrington might ensnare her son. Her posturing tonight had been as much for the rules that governed social etiquette as it had been to make sure she need never worry herself over Theodosia again.

‘There’s his signature. And his seal. He signed your sister’s dowry away for a game of dice.’

Even having seen his father’s bold script, Ambrose refused to believe it. If nothing else, Edmund had loved his daughter. He wouldn’t have intentionally made her penniless, especially given—

Ambrose rubbed at the pinch in his chest. He refused to feel any more guilt over Theodosia. He’d done what he had to do, or rather, he hadn’t had to do a thing. Even he wasn’t so desperate as to ruin Theodosia at his friend’s birthday party. But fate had decided differently. As if he were meant to have her.

A nudge from Blythe brought Ambrose from his musings. Lady Richardson and her daughter hovered over Theodosia protectively, both shooting him twin looks of dislike.

Ambrose wasn’t the villain here. Lady Richardson should toss her disdain elsewhere.

“You could probably use another scotch.” Blythe nodded to the half-empty glass on the sideboard Ambrose had left once Theodosia had burst into the room.

He nodded as his friend went to pour them both a drink.

“Here.” He handed Ambrose one glass of the amber liquid before glancing in Theodosia’s direction. “She must have been in the study because of me,” Blythe said in a quiet tone. “I’d no idea she’d be so bold as to try to speak to me in private. She’d said something about a gift earlier, which I dissuaded her from giving me.”

“I didn’t see any gift when I came in, and she never explained why she was here,” Ambrose lied. The existence of the miniature was knowledge that would stay between him and Theodosia. No one else, especially Blythe, need ever know. He could spare her that much, at least. His friend had had every opportunity to claim her tonight, despite his domineering mother, and he had not. “I mentioned to the lady that she should return to the party. On her way to the door, Theodosia tripped, and I caught her.”

“You are a victim of timing, I’m afraid. I knew you meant to court Miss Emerson, which is the only reason I brought my mother to the study. She is a close friend of Lady Emerson’s.”

Ambrose took a sip of his scotch, the alcohol burning away some of the regret he’d felt at lying to Blythe. He wasn’t by nature a devious individual, not caring for subterfuge or false platitudes. That his dealings of late had been so dishonest bothered him a great deal.

“At least it won’t be a hardship to wed Theodosia,” Blythe continued, gesturing discreetly with his glass in her direction.

“No, I suppose not.” An understatement.

Blythe nodded. “I expected you were more enamored of Miss Emerson’s dowry than the young lady herself. Theodosia’s will be far richer. I suppose it was a happy coincidence for you to find her here.” There was a question in his friend’s eyes, one Ambrose wouldn’t answer.

Blythe could assume whatever he wished. All of London would speculate, especially if Lady Blythe didn’t keep her gossiping lips shut, and he doubted she would.

“Did you never think to offer for Theodosia yourself?”

Blythe looked aghast. “No. Never.” He took a sip of his own scotch. “Theodosia is a delightful creature. I like her very much. She has no idea how beautiful she is, which is a great departure from many young ladies and quite refreshing. I do worry she’ll just tumble into the street one day out of sheer clumsiness.” He chuckled softly. “But the Barrington sisters are all too bold for my tastes. And my mother would never have approved.”

“Indeed not.” Lady Blythe had been nearly giddy with relief that Theodosia hadn’t managed to ensnare Blythe.

A knock sounded at the door moments before it swung open to reveal a gentleman who diminished Blythe’s magnificence to that of tarnished silver. His brilliant blue eyes scanned the room, lingering over Blythe before settling on Ambrose, lip curling in disdain.

“His Grace, the Duke of Averell,” the footman intoned.

Ambrose choked on his scotch. He’d forgotten how much the duke looked like Leo Murphy, especially up close. Averell was probably just as much of a prick. He assumed. Ambrose had never been properly introduced to him nor had they ever spoken. Now was not the time for him to pretend to be anything other than an honorable gentleman, a victim of the same social rules as Theodosia.