The drenched Marquess Ambrose stood in the entryway, glaring at us as if we were another vat full of smelly water.

"What do you want?" he barked. "I have things to do!"

Things that involved siccing the local constable on Patsy and Amy, no doubt. Hm... As a loyal friend, I couldn't allow that, now, could I?

"Well, since you ask, Your Lordship..." Smirking, I produced a certain tattered piece of paper and thrust it under his nose.

"What the blazes is that?"

"Read it and find out."

With a dissatisfied grunt, the marquess snatched the paper and started to peruse it. As he read, it didn't take long for his face to darken and his hands to clench into fists. Growling, he thrust the paper towards me and my husband.

"What is the meaning of this?"

"This," Mr Rikkard Ambrose stated in a voice cold enough to freeze a volcano, "is the end of your machinations." Was it just my imagination, or was there a hint of smug satisfaction in his voice? "Read it again, and then think about what it really means—especially for you."

Throwing a suspicious look at his son, the marquess did as requested, then stiffened, and abruptly looked up to glare at my dear husband again.

"I suppose your meaning is that women can inherit certain titles. So what if they can? It doesn't matter. You are my oldest son and heir."

"Not," Mr Ambrose shot back immediately, "if I refuse my inheritance."

The marquess froze. "You would not dare."

"Indeed?"

Knowing my husband as I did, that was probably Ambrosian language for "Go frig yourself, old bastard!"

I smiled.

"You!" Overcome with rage, the older man took two steps forward. "Have you forgotten what I told you before? If you do not do your duty as my heir, Adaira and the vicomte—"

"Really?" Mr Ambrose cut him off without hesitation and pointed at the paper. "If I were you, I would think about that very carefully. Or do you want your heiress to marry a Frenchman, and your lands and titles to be subsumed by his?"

All colour fled from the marquess's face. It was clear he had never even considered that possibility.

"That...that would be the end of the family!"

"Do I look like I care?"

"You would truly do a heinous thing such as this?"

I almost snorted. That question, coming from a man who tried to sell his daughter to blackmail his son? I could hardly keep myself from laughing out loud. Looking at the arctic storm in Mr Ambrose's eyes, however, he did not appreciate the humour of the situation. Not at all.

"You and I clearly have very different definitions of the word 'heinous', father. Now, if you excuse me, I have better things to do."

"Such as?" the marquess growled.

"Packing." Levelling a last, arctic gaze at his father, Mr Ambrose whirled around. "For some reason, I do not feel like spending much more time in this house."

I couldn't help but smirk.

My husband wasn't the most loquacious of men. But when he did open his mouth, his words were worth their weight in gold.

"Mr Linton! Wipe that grin off your face and come."

"Yessir! Right away, Sir!"

Smirking even wider, I skipped after him and towards the stairs. Ah, how I was looking forward to seeing Berty again! I hadn't gotten my daily dose of cuddly cuteness yet. And now that everything was going to be all right, I could indulge all I wanted. But before I had taken two steps, from behind me, came an all too familiar voice.

"Stop right there!"

"Oh?" Without stopping, Mr Amborse glanced back. "Do you still have something to say?"

The marquess narrowed his eyes. "If you do this, if you truly abandon your heritage, I will marry Adaira off!"

Still, Mr Ambrose didn't bother to stop.

"Haven't you listened to a word I said, father?" My husband nodded at the piece of paper still clutched in his father's hand. "You cannot marry Adaira to the vicomte. Not if you want your line to continue as part of the British peerage."

"Is that so?" The marquess cocked an aristocratic eyebrow. "Who says it has to be the vicomte?"

Mr Ambrose froze.

So did I.

A sudden chill went down my back.

"What do you mean?" Mr Ambrose demanded.

"There are plenty of respectable, if not very wealthy, gentlemen among the British gentry. Most of them would jump at the chance to give up their name in return for becoming a marquess's son-in-law."

"Is that...legal?" I enquired, my voice sounding far too uncertain for my liking.

He shrugged. "Legal is a matter of perspective, young man. The perspective of important people. And I know a lot of those."

"So do I!" growled Mr Ambrose, whirling to fully face his father once more.

"Rich upstarts." The marquess made a dismissive gesture that somehow clearly conveyed the unimportance of ninety-nine percent of the world population. "We both know what kind of people truly make decisions in this country."

"Snobs?" I enquired sweetly.

He glanced over at me. "I see your dog still hasn't learned how to stay silent, son."

In response, I gifted him with a saccharine smile. "Ah, but he has learned how to punch people in the face. Would you like to see?"

The bastard completely ignored me. Turning his gaze back towards his son, he stared him down with a stony expression on his face.

"You will have to decide, son. What is more important to you? Your sister's happiness, or the money you've collected over all these years with your miser's ways. Make your choice. And if you make the wrong one, don't blame me for selling her to the highest bidder."

That son of a...!

I was just about to make good on my earlier promise and demonstrate my face-punching skills when, from behind me, I heard a sudden sound. Almost like...a gasp?

Instantly, I whirled around—and there she stood. Adaira Louise Jannet Melanie Georgette Ambrose, standing at the top of the stairs, a hand in front of her mouth. Had she been there the whole time? Had she heard everything?

One glance at the marquess out of the corner of my eye told me: yes, she had been. And he had known it.

Bloody spawn of a bastard's rotten bollocks!

I glanced back at Adaira again, who, by now, had started to tremble ever so slightly. Taking a quick step towards the poor girl, I reached out a hand, even though I couldn't hope to reach her.

"Adaira, you—"

Before I could get out another syllable, she whirled around and dashed away.

"Adaira!"

She must have heard my shout. She definitely must have. But she didn't stop. She didn't even seem to register anything. In a blink, she was gone.

"You...!" Spinning to face the cause of all of this, I sent a death-glare at the marquess. Only the restraint cultivated through years of being Mr Rikkkard Ambrose's secretary, gofer and all-around errand boy stopped me from lunging at him. I opened my mouth again to rail, to yell, to shout abuse at him—and then closed it again, for the first time in my life unable to find a bad enough insult.

He cocked an eyebrow. "What? Nothing to say?"

"You are a horrible father," I told him. "I would make a better father than you."

And that's coming from a crossdressing lady with a sock dick, you spineless bastard!

"Agreed," came Mr Ambrose's voice from beside me.

Why, thank you for the compliment, darli—

Wait a minute. Did he just imply I would make a better man than woman?!

However, I didn't really get a chance to think about that. Around me, the atmosphere was rapidly growing colder and colder. As my husband pinned his father to the spot with a fierce, arctic glare, more terrifying than any I had ever been subjected to, all colour seemed to bleed from the world and I instinctively took a step back to distance myself from the murderous intent spreading through the room. I had heard the phrase "if looks could kill" before, but...

Could they?

The marquess certainly seemed to think it was a possibility, judging by the way he was slowly retreating.

"Last chance, father," my husband said in a voice that sent shivers down my back. And not the good kind. "Stop this."

It was not a request.

"That is what I should say," the older man shot back without remorse or hesitation. "Stop this childish tantrum. Do your duty by your family. If you don't...well, you know the consequences."

Mr Ambrose looked his father in the eye for a moment—then nodded. "Yes. Yes, I do. I just don't think you do."

And, without another word, he whirled around and stalked back towards the stairs. I followed without a moment's hesitation. What was there left to say to a father who would sell his own daughter?

It wasn't long before we had reached the first floor. But by then, any trace of Adaira had long disappeared. My eyes met those of Mr Ambrose.

"Our room?"

He nodded. "Our room."

Soon, we were ensconced in our private chamber, the door firmly locked behind us.

"What now?" I asked, unable to conceal the worry in my voice. "What can we do now? Except for agreeing on what a humongous bastard your father is."

Absent-mindedly, Mr Ambrose gave a nod in agreement. Other than that, however, he remained motionless and silent—until, suddenly, his gaze firmed and he spoke three harsh, cold words.

"Enough is enough."

Never had I agreed with anything so much in my life.

"If my father thinks he is getting away with this, he is very much mistaken," he continued, his voice chilling me to the bone. "We are taking Adaira away tonight, consequences be damned! And if my father or that vicomte try to stop us again..."

He placed his hand on a certain gun-shaped bulge on his hip, his meaning abundantly clear.

I swallowed. "You know...you're really hot when you're like this."

"I know," he immediately agreed, the arrogant son of a bachelor. Then he snapped his fingers. "Karim!"

A servant in plain, grey clothes swiftly emerged from the shadowy corner of the room. "Apologies, Sir. Mister Karim is still standing guard in front of the vicomte's room. I believe that, after the gentleman in question started to recite French love poems to the young Miss, he thought it prudent to keep him contained."

"Is that so?" Mr Ambrose's eyes flashed. "I will have to have a word with the vicomte later then."

Judging by his tone, the word would not be "goodwill".

"Um...begging your pardon, Sir, but..." The minion in the corner cleared his throat. "...should I fetch Mr Karim? Do you need him for something?"

"Let's not send Karim to Adaira," I advised, guessing what my husband was up to. "Everyone knows Karim is your man. If you send him, the marquess will hear about it right away."

"Hm. Adequate point." My husband's gaze swept back to the servant. It was one of the men in grey that seemed to be wherever Mr Rikkard Ambrose was. Completely average and forgettable. "You there!"

"Yes, Sir?"

"Get one of the local servant's livery and disguise yourself. Go to my sister. Try and find an opportunity to enter her room unobserved. Tell her to pack and be ready tonight. She is going on a holiday."

"Yes, Sir! Right away, Sir!"

The man gave a swift bow and retreated from the room. For a long moment, we just stood there, looking at each other. Then he stepped over to me and slid his arms around me. Wordlessly, he pulled me against his rock-hard pectorals.

"We should get some sleep," I murmured into his chest as I relaxed against him. "We have a busy night ahead of us."

"Yes. We really should." He tightened his hold on me, showing no intention of letting go. In the light of the sinking sun, his eyes glinted with desire. And for once, it probably wasn't desire for money.

"Then why are we not going to bed, Sir?" I whispered.

"Oh, we are going to bed, Mrs Ambrose." In a blink, his grip tightened around me and I was lifted into the air. Three long steps carried me all the way to the large double-bed at the other end of the room, and suddenly I landed in soft pillow heaven. "We most definitely are. We just won't be sleeping."

A moment later, he was upon me, his embrace like an iron vice. And...and was he trembling?

He was.

Was it anger? Desire? Fear?

Maybe a little bit of each.

Not that he would ever admit it. But then again...over the years I had grown extraordinarily good at understanding the things he didn't say.

"Come here," I whispered, sliding my arms around him.

"Lillian, I...I..."

I cut him off with a gentle kiss. "I know. For now, don't worry about all your troubles. Later tonight, we have a kidnapping to do. But right now, just relax and forget everything but you and me. Right now, nothing and no one will interrupt us."

"Waaaah!"

I froze.

Mr Ambrose froze.

I hadn't heard that correctly, right? My ears must be playing tricks on me right no—

"Waaah waaaaaaaaaaah!"

Drat.

One corner of my mouth curled up. "Berty really has an amazing sense of timing, doesn't he? Must have inherited that from his father."

A muscle in his cheek twitched. "I disagree."

"Just a moment, all right?" Placing a bribe in the form of a lingering kiss on his cheek, I batted my eyelashes at my husband. "I'll see what he wants, then I'll be right back."

"Half a moment," he bargained, desire flashing in his dark eyes.

"Half," I agreed, and he released me from his grip.

Sliding out from underneath him, I rose from the bed and made my way over to the local alarm siren, also known as Berty. With a sigh, I bent over and picked up the little cacophony catastrophe.

"You really don't like to make life easy for your mother, do you? I've got important business to take care of tonight—you know, breaking and entering, kidnapping, that kind of stuff—and here you are, robbing me of my well-earned relaxation. You are a naughty boy, you know that?"

He blinked up at me innocently. "Waah waah?"

One of my eyebrows twitched. "Drat. If only it were easier to be angry at you! Why do you always have to be so darn cute?"

"Wah waah!"

With a sigh, I checked his diaper—only to find nothing. Hm. Strange. I had fed him just a little while ago, so it couldn't be that either. Don't tell me...

I narrowed my eyes at the little twerp. "You just want to spend some quality time with your mama, don't you?"

In answer, Berty gave a happy giggle. "Wawa!"

One of my eyebrows twitched again—something that seemed to happen more often recently. "Come on, little fellow. If you've got to keep me awake at night, couldn't you at least say 'mama' for me?" Trying to tempt him, I tickled him beneath the chin. "Come on, you can do it. Say 'mama'. Ma-ma."

"Ma—"

My eyes went wide.

Had...had I just really heard that?

Was it finally, actually happening?

"—nee!"

Yes! Yes, he called me mama! He called me...

Only then did it register what he had actually said.

"Ma-nee!" Berty happily exclaimed, grabbing at the air with his greedy little hands. "Ma-nee! Ma-nee!"

I took a very, very deep breath.

"Mister! Rikkard! Ambrose!"

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Mwhahahaha! What do you think of Berty's first word, my dear readers?

One more chapter in this book!

Yours Truly

Sir Rob