As soon as the door closed behind us, Mr Ambrose turned towards me. While his face remained as expressionless as ever, there was a partly quizzical, partly intrigued, and most of all challenging look in those dark, sea-coloured eyes of his.
'You really think you can convince me to spend exorbitant amounts of money on this event? To pay for a big church, and flowers, and Mammon only knows what else your sister has cooked up in that pink, fluffy brain of hers?'
I waved his words away. 'Oh, I didn't pull you in here to talk about that.'
He blinked. 'You didn't? But...after what you said to my mother...'
'Forget about your mother. She doesn't know what's really important. After all, what does it matter if you make her cry on the day of her son's wedding, just so long as you save a few pennies here and there?'
He cleared his throat. 'Yes. My thoughts exactly.'
I nodded at him, earnestly. 'What does it matter if you smash years of cherished, long-held dreams in one instant and forever tarnish the memory of this supposedly happy event? After all, we both know all that matters is the bottom line.'
'Um. Indeed. I am gratified to hear that our thoughts on the subject coincide, Miss Linton.'
'So am I, so am I.'
'So...if that is not the problem, why exactly did you pull me in here?'
'Well...' I gazed at him fondly. 'Just a little matter that has occurred to me. I'd like to discuss it with you if you do not mind.'
'Does it involve expenditures?'
'None whatsoever.'
'Then by all means, go ahead.'
'Well...' Smiling sweetly, I stepped towards him. 'It occurred to me that, since our wedding is fast approaching, and we will soon be living together, we should start calling each other by our first names.'
'Hm. First names?' He regarded me intently. 'Are you sure that's all you wanted?'
'Oh yes. It would not only be more appropriate, but also more time-saving, especially if we use shortened versions. So, what do you say?'
'Well...' Considering, he stroked his chin. The sight of his long, elegant finger stroking along that chiselled jaw made me want to reach out, but I kept myself tightly reined in.
Stay focused, Lilly. Think of Lady Samantha. This is important!
'Hm.' Once again, that finger stroked along his chiselled chinâthen, he abruptly nodded. 'As you wish. No one can say I am an unreasonable person.'
Yes. Because you'd send Karim to take them out before they could manage to get a single word out.
I pounced. 'So you agree? We're on a first-name basis now?'
'Affirmative.'
A grin spread over my face. A grin of pure, delicious, devilish delight. 'I'm so glad you agree...Dick.'
He froze.
'What did you say?'
Standing up on my tiptoes, I gave him a kiss on the cheek. 'Just your name, Dicky-Wicky.'
'Miss Linton?'
'Yes?'
'Call me that one more time and...and...'
Silence.
More silence.
'Damn!'
'What is it?' I asked innocently, although of course I knew perfectly well what it was. He'd just realized the worst thing that could happen to a man about to enter a marriage had befallen him: he had run out of threats.
Ice-cold eyes bored into me, seeing straight to the core of my devilish little soul.
'What is it you want?'
I blinked up at him. 'Pardon? What do you mean, Dicky?'
'Stop calling me that! What are your demands?'
'Well, since you mention it...There is this one little thing, my dearest Dicky-Wicky.'
'I swear, Mr Linton, if you use that word one more time...!'
Sidling closer, I stroked a gentle, loving hand over his face. 'What word, my darling Dicky-Dum-Dums?'
Under my hand, I could feel him take in a very, very deep breath. Holding it in, he squeezed out between clenched teeth, 'What. Is. It. You. Want?'
'Well...' Gently, I stroked a finger along his cheek, down to his chin, and forced it down until he was looking straight into my eyes. 'There's a nice lady out there, a relation of yours if I'm not mistaken, who would really love for her son to have a wedding at a beautiful venue. And just in case we're unclear on the definition of "beautiful", I'm not talking about the central vault of the Swiss National Bank. I had something more romantic in mind.'
His arctic gaze pierced me like a deadly shard of ice. 'Are you trying to force my hand?'
'Why yes, I believe I am.' Beaming up at him, I tapped the tip of his nose. 'I learned from the best.'
Strong hands suddenly gripped my arms and slammed me against the nearest wall. Towering over me, Mr Ambrose brought his chiselled face down until only inches separated us.
'And what, exactly,' he breathed, 'did you have in mind for this frivolous festivity?'
'Well...a church, definitely. The bigger the better. We'll need it for all the guests.'
'How many guests?'
'Well, at least fiveâ'
'Five? Hm. That will be expensive, but I suppose I could grant you that much.'
'âdozen.'
'What?'
I gave him another happy bridal smile. 'Or maybe six, who knows. I'm feeling festive. And it would be nice to marry in a place that's bigger than a shoebox. Don't you agree, Dicky-Wicky?'
'You...!' Growling, Mr Ambrose plunged down to seal my mouth with his. His kiss was hungry, demanding, taking everything I had, with interest. His lips were like a searing brand of arctic ice, hot and cold, burning and flowing, taking me to places I'd never even dreamed of. I gave back as good as I gotâuntil he tore away, to stare down at me, his eyes alight with need.
'You...are you planning to ruin me?'
Grabbing his lapels, I pulled him close until our lips were almost touching once again. 'Thoroughly. But I'll wait for the wedding night.'
'You...my little Ifrit!'
Once more, he took my mouth, hard, fast and unrepentant. When he finally released me, I was so shaken to the core, I had almost forgotten what we had been talking about. Which probably was his plan, the sneaky devil!
'Well?' I whispered, holding on to his solid, immovable shoulders. 'Do we have a deal?'
There was a moment of silence.
And another one.
A long one.
A muscle in his cheek twitched. 'This wedding you imagine...'
'Yes?'
'Does it have to be extravagant?'
I pounced on the crack in his armour. 'Not at all! You know your mother. She doesn't really care about pomp. All she wants is something beautiful. Something meaningful. Something happy, for everyone she cares about to share in.'
He gave a curt nod. 'Yes. She is strange like that.'
'She won't mind if the wedding happens at Westminster Cathedral or in a pretty country church somewhere in Yonderdingleshire. All she wants is a beautiful day she can remember forever.'
And we can, as well.
It wasn't until that moment that I realized: maybe a tiny part of me wanted this kind of wedding, too. Maybe a tiny part of me dreamt of pretty dresses and flowers, and of showing off the man I had caught to all world.
I lowered my head.
Thank you, Lady Samantha. Thank you.
'Hm...' Mr Ambrose stroked a finger over his chin, deep in thought. I stared at him, trying to figure out what thoughts were stirring in that stony head of his. 'A country church, you say? Rural? Moss-covered, with most irregularly coloured windows and decorations? What some irrational people might call "picturesque"?'
'Yes! Yes, that would be just the thing.' Cocking my head, I tried to read his face. I might as well have tried to read the Oxford Dictionary of Undeciphered Languages.
'With a charming vicar? Parishioners that would dance attendance on us? Flowers galore to be picked from the fields for free?'
'That sounds wonderful. But how on earth are you going to find such a place without spending huge amounts of money? It sounds as if you plan on renting a whole manor house!'
'Oh no.' Taking my right hand in both of his, he took a step towards me. 'There's no need to rent one. We can simply go to my own.'
I stared at him, not quite sure I had heard correctly.
'You have a manor house.'
'Yes.'
'A manor house. A big one, in the country, with servants, and lands and actual rooms for living and sleeping and other things besides working?'
His cool, sea-coloured eyes pierced me. 'Certainly, Miss Linton. I told you I wanted you to take charge of my household, didn't I?'
'I...I just thought you meant the people at Empire House.'
'I did not.'
'But...I don't understand! Why would you of all people have a manor house?'
'Isn't the manor house essential for being an English Gentleman, Miss Linton?'
'Well, yes, but...'
I closed my mouth.
'Yes?'
I had just about to say 'but you're about as far from a gentleman as a ladybug from an actual lady.'
That might not be the best idea.
'But, um...manor houses are, well...big! They're huge, expensive piles of stone, full of servants who do jobs you don't need them to do, horses you won't ride, coaches you won't use and hounds you won't hunt with! Believe me, I know! My father owned one of those things. I might not remember much from those days, but I do remember how he groaned about the amounts of money to keep it up.'
He lifted both shoulders exactly half a millimetreâMr Rikkard Ambrose's version of a nonchalant shrug.
'Well, I found a way to make it profitable.'
I threw him a suspicious look. 'You have?'
'Indeed.'
All that one word did was make me more curious. There was something he wasn't telling me.
Well...there always was something he wasn't telling me. About ninety percent of the normal conversation one would have with any other person. But this time, it was more than that.
'What are you hiding, Mr Ambrose, Sir?'
'Hiding? Me?' He gave me a look that...well..., it wasn't exactly innocent. Granite was neither innocent nor guilty. It just didn't give a fig. 'Whatever are you talking about, Miss Linton?'
'Hm.'
I gazed at him through narrowed eyes. I still was pretty sure he wasn't being entirely open. A manor house, owned by Rikkard Ambrose? What was wrong with the place? Was it falling down? Did he have an insane ex-ladyfriend hidden in the attic? Well...maybe. If she paid enough rent.
My mind conjured up images of a hauntingly beautiful Gothic ruin, perhaps with some secret passages and an underground dungeon where Mr Ambrose held prisoner all those who had dared to try and cross him, or ask him for charitable contributions. Or maybe there was a deep, dark cave underground where he hoarded all his money and occasionally rolled around in it, calling out "Mine! Mine! All mine, mwahahaha!"
Yet in spite of my sinister imaginings...I just couldn't resist. The moment I had heard the words 'my house', I was overtaken by a burning desire.
I had to see it!
And why not? Soon, it won't be just his house. It will be ours.
Our home.
The heady thought made my knees want to buckle.
'Well?' Cocking his head at me, Mr Ambrose gave me a challenging look. 'What do you say, Miss Linton?'
I met his gaze head-on. 'I say let's go!'
When, a few moments later, Mr Ambrose and I stepped back into the drawing room, everyone's eyes zeroed in on us. Adaira's eyes found our joined hands, and a broad smile spread over her face.
'Wipe that smirk off your face,' Mr Ambrose ordered.
'Sorry. I've never been good at cleaning. So...has she talked you around?'
'No woman could sway me!'
'No, of course not.' Adaira's eyes were dancing.
'We have, however, reached an acceptable compromise.'
In quick, precise words he explained our plan. Ella eyed him suspiciously. 'And this place you're talking about, this manor, it has a church? A real church, with an altar, and pews, an organ and everything?'
'Yes.'
'And the house is big enough for all the guests?'
'More than big enough. It's larger than Battlewood.'
My head whipped around to stare at him. Larger than Battlewood? What kind of monstrously majestic place was this? And how, in the name of everything expensive, had Mr Ambrose ever brought himself to part with enough money to buy it? Most importantly, why would he? Something smelled fishy here.
Lady Samantha, however, didn't seem to smell any salmon or sharks. She was beaming, looking so proud and happy I couldn't bring myself to say a word.
'Can we leave tomorrow?' she demanded, eagerness gleaming in her eyes. She threw a glance at my hand, and I got the distinct impression that, if she'd had a wedding ring with her, she would have jammed one onto my ring finger right then and there. 'Or maybe today? I'm sure I can get a special license from the Archbishop of Canterbury, and you two can be married in justâ'
'No.'
'Butâ'
'No special license, mother. Do you have any idea how much those cost?'
'I would be happy to pay forâ'
'No. A special license will not do us any good. Whether we have one or not, the staff at my estate will need a few days to open up the house and prepare it for our arrival. Especially,' he threw me a look, 'if my bride persists in this nonsensical idea of wanting to have guests.'
Instead of shooting back a barbed remark, I simply smiled up at him and touched his cheek. 'Definitely. I want all my friends at my wedding. I want the whole world to see what a lucky girl I am to get to marry you.'
He opened his mouthâand closed it again. From somewhere in the background came a female chorus of 'Awwws'.
Well, what do you know? I should try evil attacks of niceness more often.
'A week!' Lady Samantha offered, sensing weakness.
Mr Ambrose cleared his throat.
'Two months,' he shot back.
'A week and a half.'
'Six weeks.'
'Two.'
'Five.'
Grinning, I watched the two of them. I could say with fairly great certainty that this was the first time Mr Rikkard Ambrose had tried to haggle upwards.
'Three.'
'Four. My last offer, Mother. Take it or leave it.'
Lady Samantha hesitated, throwing me another longing, motherly glance. I determined I would have to lock my windows at night, just in case she came to abduct me and stage an impromptu wedding under the light of the full moon.
'Oh, come on, Mother.' Adaira nudged the Marchioness in the ribs. 'She isn't going to wake up tomorrow and decide to run! Besides, the four weeks will give us plenty of time to prepare. There is so much to do before the actual wedding.'
Lady Samantha brightened. 'That's right! There are the dresses, the flowers, the invitations...'
'Exactly.' Adaira smiled around at Ella and Eve. 'We should all go dress-shopping the day after tomorrow.'
Ella beamed. 'Why, that sounds wonderful!'
I nodded. 'Why not? It sounds interesâ'
'The day after tomorrow is impossible,' Mr Ambrose cut me off. 'That is a week day. Miss Linton is busy on weekdays.'
All female eyes in the room turned on him.
'Busy?' Adaira blinked up at her big brother innocently. 'With what could an as-yet-unmarried lady possibly be busy during the week, dear brother?'
He sent her a look that, if it couldn't kill, could at least mortgage and foreclose on you, and throw you into debtor's prison.
'Yes, what?' Ella demanded, her normally so innocent eyes narrowed in suspicion.
'I'm sure my dear brother just misspoke,' Adaira's smile widened. 'I'm sure there's nothing that could keep Miss Linton from going out with us. After all, only men are busy on work days, and Miss Linton definitely is no man. Am I not right, brother mine?'
Silence.
A long, bone-chillingly arctic silence.
Finally...
'Yes,' Mr Ambrose ground out between clenched teeth.
'And I'm sure you'll be happy to pay for...'
Another silence. An even longer one.
'I...I will be happy to pay for thirty per cent ofâ'
'Ah?' Adaira held up a finger.
'âfor all of your purchases tomorrow.'
'There you go! That wasn't so hard, now, was it?' Patting his cheek, she grabbed me by the hand and started pulling me from the room. 'Come, everybody, we've got work to do! See you in a few days, dear brother!'
But as I was pulled out of the room and threw a look over my shoulder towards him, I met his dark, sea-coloured eyes and knew that I would see him far earlier than that. And when I saw him, I would pay.
I grinned.
Bring it on, Sir!
-------------------------------------------------------------------
My dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,
You might have heard this term already somewhere before, but a special license is something you may need if you want to jump in a time machine and get married in 19th-century Britain. In such a situation you have two choices. If you belong to the parish you want to get married in, you will have to do something that is called "posting the banns", which means officially announcing that you and so-and-so are going to get married on a certain date, and then you have to wait for a period predetermined by law. However, if you want to get married outside the parish you live in, or you want to be married without going through this whole annoying banns business, then you can get what is called a 'special license'. You'd have to be pretty influential, though, since the only person in the UK who can give special licenses is the Archbishop of Canterbury. So this system mostly ended up being used by wealthy aristocrats with connections, who were too impatient to wait for their wedding night.
And in case you think this system of 'special license' is terribly Victorian and outdated, brace yourselves: it's been this way since 1533, and has remained pretty much unchanged to this day.
Yours Truly
Sir Rob