Page 6 of A Duchess to Reclaim

“Go on, girl,” the emcee ordered, clearly trying to hide her frustration as she nodded toward the masked man waiting. “Go to your winner. He has earned you.”

Seconds stretched with tension as Amelia still felt herself unable to move, save to meet her winner’s eyes. She knew those eyes. Had looked into them before. But when? Where?

A hushed rumble came through the crowd as she remained frozen with fear, and the emcee’s smile slipped into a look of irritation. She looked ready to unleash some most unkind words when the winner suddenly climbed the stairs of the stage and walked with a powerful confidence toward her, and then held out his hand just a scant space above her.

“Amelia,” he said calmly, startling her greatly as he said her name. “Come.”

That command. That small, one-word command spoken in that deep, patient tone, sent a shot of startling heat through every vein in her body, and as if her body had chosen without her mental will, she stretched out her hand, and took his.

* * *

“What a curious twist to the evening,” Wallace mused as Dominic approached him.

Amelia, pale as a ghost, had said nothing after he’d led her off the stage, and was moving with stiff, strange steps as he held her hand. He was worried she was going to collapse at any moment, so he tampered his annoyance at Wallace’s wit, and nodded.

“Indeed it is,” he replied. “Take my cut from this evening, and if there is anything left owed, send the invoice to my office. It will be paid within the day.”

“Your cut will cover her cost and we shall call it even,” Wallace replied, surprising him. It was not like him to round out payments; to not make sure he received every cent.

When he gave him a questioning look, Wallace merely replied, “My conscience was bothered by this one. Consider it my penance for accepting her.”

“Who brought her in?” Dominic asked. He glanced at Amelia again, and immediately regretted asking. He had to get her out of there. Now.

“Her father,” Wallace answered, looking perturbed.

Fury laced through Dominic as he heard this, but he bit back any further questions he had and bid Wallace farewell. Amelia’s hand was limp and cold in his hand, only serving to worry him farther as he led her through the crowd and to the exit.

To his surprise, once they made outside, Amelia spoke.

“I know you, my lord,” she said, her voice hollow.

“You do.” He confirmed, waving a hand at his driver parked down the street. “And you are safe.”

“How do I know you?” She asked.

“Into the carriage,” he commanded as his driver stopped the horses right before them.

“Who are you, my lord??” She shouted.

“Amelia,” Dominic growled, losing his patience over the situation. He let loose her hand only to snatch her by her waist and lift her up into his arms.

“I said get into the bloody carriage.”

He ignored her sudden struggle with ease, and carried her inside the moment the driver opened the door.

“Take us to an empty street and stay there until I give you further direction,” he commanded to the driver.

“Let me go!” She demanded, squirming in his grasp.

He did so the moment the door shut, and Amelia sent herself sprawling onto the floor from the momentum of her struggling.

“Serves you right,” he barked, ignoring the flash of guilt that moved through him as he watched her scramble up and into the seat opposite, her back pressing tightly to the cushions as she tried to put as much space as possible between them.

“I am not doing this,” she declared, her nostrils flared, honey eyes wide.

She looked like a feral kit trapped by hunter; trying to appear vicious in spite of her fear. Dominic admired her for that, but it did nothing to tamper his annoyance. He roughly pulled off his mask, flinging it at her, and leaned forward on his knees so she could see his face plainly in the carriage’s lamplight.

Somehow, her eyes widened even further and her mouth dropped open.

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