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A mbrose sat up in his bed chambers at the crack of down.

He hadn't slept a single moment that night. How could he after...

Their kiss.

The thought of it had all but consumed him. Every time he tried to push it away, it came back with full force—the softness of her lips, the way her body had instinctively leaned into his.

The kiss had been burned into his memory. But it wasn't just the kiss itself that haunted him, but the implications of it. This wasn't just any woman. This was Daphne. The woman who, if things progressed as planned, would marry his brother.

And that thought alone felt like a knife twisting in his chest.

He had to leave.

So at the crack of dawn, Ambrose dressed himself in haste and made his way out of his room.

His mind was made up. He would leave for a few days, clear his head.

Maybe after some time away, he could return and things would be back to normal.

Maybe, after some distance, he could forget about Daphne and move on. He had to. There was no other choice.

The estate was still asleep as he moved quietly through the halls. He wasn't sure where he would go yet, but anywhere was better than here.

But as he reached the hallway, something made him stop.

Daphne's room.

His hand hesitated mid-air as his gaze drifted toward the staircase, toward the wing of the house where Daphne was undoubtedly still asleep. Her door was somewhere down there, closed, maybe even locked. He wouldn't dare knock, wouldn't dare approach. But still, the temptation lingered.

What would happen if I stayed? The thought crossed his mind unbidden.

But Ambrose knew better. He knew that staying would only make things worse. He couldn't trust himself around her anymore, and the thought of seeing her— seeing her with Richard —was more than he could bear. He couldn't put himself through that.

With a final, conflicted glance toward the upstairs corridor, Ambrose turned on his heel and made his way downstairs, out the door and then towards the stables.

And then, without another word, he urged his horse forward, galloping away from the Estate and from the woman he couldn't get out of his mind.

Whatever he was feeling for Daphne, whatever this connection was—it had to end.

For both their sakes.

He had hoped that the speed of the ride would provide some clarity or at least a brief reprieve from the images that had been tormenting him since last night.

But it was no use. Every time he blinked, he saw her.

The kiss haunted him, not just because it had happened, but because of how much he wanted it to happen again.

He clenched the reins tighter, scowling to himself. It was a mistake, he repeated in his mind. A fleeting moment of weakness. He wasn't the type to lose control, especially over a woman. This was ridiculous. He needed to pull himself together.

He needed a distraction. It was not until afternoon till he reached Hartfield Manor and Ambrose exhaled in relief. It was where his friend Benedict resided – who it appeared to be the perfect distraction.

Lord Benedict had always been good at lightening Ambrose's mood—an easygoing, carefree soul who never took life too seriously. Exactly what Ambrose needed right now.

As Ambrose approached the grand entrance, a stable boy hurried out to greet him, taking the reins of his horse. "Good day, Your Grace," the boy said, bowing his head respectfully.

Ambrose nodded and dismounted, stretching his tense muscles as he handed over the reins. "Thank you. Is Lord Benedict in?"

The stable boy nodded, "Yes, Your Grace. The doorman shall escort to you him."

Ambrose nodded, and made his way inside the Manor.

A booming voice echoed down the hallway before Ambrose could even fully take in his surroundings. "Ambrose! You old dog, what brings you to my humble abode unannounced?"

Ambrose turned to see his childhood friend, striding toward him with a wide grin on his face. Benedict was a tall man, slightly broader than Ambrose, with sandy-blond hair.

"Benedict," Ambrose said with a small smile, extending his hand. "I thought I'd stop by and see if you were still lazing about."

Benedict barked a laugh, gripping Ambrose's hand firmly. "You know me too well, old friend. I thought you were meant to be hosting a house party."

"My mother is, yes," Ambrose replied, stiffly. He did not want to think about what he had left behind.

"Ah, convey my apologies to her that I could not attend," Benedict laughed. "She sent me a very nice invitation letter."

"If anything, I am grateful that you did not," Ambrose nodded. "For I would much rather speak with you here, rather than surrounded by so many people."

Benedict gave his friend a weary look. "I know you're not particularly fond of large crowds. But this feels out of character, even for you. Seriously, what brings you here? It's been, what, months since we last saw each other?"

Ambrose shrugged, trying to play it off. "I needed to get away from the estate for a while. Some time to clear my head."

"Not having a fun time at the party?"

A kiss is very fun. Dealing with what comes after is not. "I suppose not."

"And?"

"As I said," Ambrose reiterated, "I came here to clear my head."

Benedict's eyes narrowed slightly as he studied Ambrose's face. "Clear your head? You?"

"Friend, I thought you'd be quite happy to see me," Ambrose decided to shift his strategy if he was going to get his friend to stop badgering him with more question. "But here you are, acting like the local respondent for the newspaper."

That got a chuckle out of him.

"All I am saying that you are not one to clear your head like this often. You always boast about how nothing gets to you. Something's bothering you."

Ambrose waved it off, already regretting his vague explanation. "It's nothing," he muttered.

"Ah, I see. It's always nothing with you, isn't it?" Benedict smirked, gesturing for Ambrose to follow him. "Well, come on then. Let's get you settled and we can have a drink. You look like you could use one."

Ambrose followed Benedict into the drawing room, and settled on one of the sofas. Benedict poured two glasses of brandy, handing one to Ambrose before collapsing next to him.

"So," Benedict began, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, "what's got you all knotted up? Don't tell me it's the weight of the dukedom. You've handled that since you were practically a boy."

"No," he said, chugging down his drink quickly. The liquid burned the back of his throat, but he did not mind.

"No?" Benedict's voice grew concerned. "Would you like to speak about it?"

Ambrose shook his head immediately. "I'd rather not."

Benedict stood abruptly, stretching his arms above his head. "Well, in that case, I have just the thing. You need a distraction—a real distraction. Something that'll get your blood pumping."

Ambrose raised an eyebrow. "What are you suggesting?"

"A fencing match," Benedict declared with a grin. "You always used to love it, and I've been practicing. I think I might actually stand a chance against you now."

Ambrose allowed a small smile to creep onto his face. "You think so, do you?"

"Oh, I know so," Benedict replied, already heading toward the door. "Come on, let's see if you've still got it."

Benedict had a knack for spontaneity. It was exactly the reason why Ambrose had chosen to visit him.

He followed, grateful for the change in pace. Maybe a fencing match would be exactly what he needed to burn off some of this restless energy. If nothing else, it would force him to focus on something other than the swirling mess of emotions that had been plaguing him since he left the Estate.

"Some healthy competition," he muttered to himself as they began to suit up.

Soon enough, the clinking sound of steel echoed through the fencing room as Ambrose and Benedict faced each other, their foils raised, masks in place.

And they began. It was easy enough – for Ambrose had years of practice in the sport. It almost came as second nature to him. But today, his precision seemed off.

Benedict, ever the opportunist, quickly seized on the distraction. He lunged forward, landing a hit square on Ambrose's shoulder.

"Point to me," Benedict called with a laugh, lowering his foil. "It seems the great Duke is a bit off his game today."

Ambrose grunted, pulling off his mask and wiping the sweat from his brow. "I'm just getting warmed up," he muttered.

"Warmed up?" Benedict teased. "You're usually faster than this, my friend. If I didn't know any better, I'd say something—or rather, someone—was on your mind."

Ambrose tightened his grip on the foil, determined to push Daphne from his thoughts. He raised his weapon again. "Shall we continue?"

They resumed the match, the sound of their foils clashing filling the room. But no matter how hard Ambrose tried to focus, his mind kept drifting—back to the estate, back to the kiss. Benedict quickly took advantage of another lapse in Ambrose's concentration, landing another hit.

"Another point for me," Benedict announced with a grin as he lowered his foil. "I'm starting to think you're letting me win on purpose."

Ambrose exhaled sharply, frustration bubbling inside him. He tossed his mask to the floor and walked to the side, pulling off his gloves. "I'm distracted, that's all," he admitted, his voice clipped.

"Well – you refuse to talk about it, and you do not wish to spar either," Benedict sighed. "Tell me, friend. How am I meant to help you in these circumstances?"

Ambrose shot him a look. "It's.. complicated."

Benedict raised an eyebrow, undeterred. "Complicated. Right. Sounds like code for ‘a woman'.'"

Ambrose tensed at the mention of a woman, and Benedict's grin widened.

"So I'm correct?"

Ambrose sighed heavily, setting his foil aside. "I didn't come here to discuss my personal affairs, Benedict."

"No, but you came here to forget about them," Benedict replied, and then gestured to the foil that lay discarded on the floor. "Clearly, it is not working."