Page 13 of A Duke to Steal Her
“If the lady will not come to dinner, dinner must come to the lady,” the Duke said, dismissing the servants with a nod.
Emily stood rigid by the window. “Most gentlemen respect a lady’s wish for privacy.”
“I’ve never claimed to bemost gentlemen,” he replied, closing the door behind the departing servants, and strode to the table, pulling out a chair. “Will you not sit? The salmon is excellent, though it will not remain so if allowed to cool.”
“You find all this amusing, don’t you?” she accused, reluctantly moving to the table. Pride demanded defiance, but practicality suggested she maintain her strength. “Kidnapping a woman two days before her wedding, imprisoning her in your home,dictating her wardrobe—all a grand entertainment for the Duke of Nightfell.”
The Duke took the seat opposite, unfolding his napkin with deliberate care. “Not entertainment, my lady. Necessity.”
“Necessity?” She speared a piece of salmon with more force than required. “What possible necessity could justify such behavior?”
“The necessity of preventing a grave mistake.” He poured wine into both their glasses.
“That mistake is mine to make and should not bother you.” Emily took a defiant sip of wine. “My family will be searching for me. My sister?—”
“Ah, yes. The devoted Duchess of Blackmoor.” Ambrose cut into his salmon with precise movements. “I imagine she will be quite relieved by the letter she received this morning.”
Emily’s fork clattered against her plate. “What letter?”
His smile was entirely too self-satisfied. “The one in which you explained that you simply couldn’t go through with the wedding, that you needed time away to collect yourself, and that you are perfectly safe, though you cannot disclose your location.”
“You forged a letter in my hand?” Her voice rose dangerously.
“I employed someone with considerable talents in that direction, yes,” he admitted without a trace of remorse. “Your family will not be searching for you, Lady Emily. They believe you fled willingly. Another classic case of a runaway bride.”
Emily stared at him, genuine shock mingling with outrage.
“You are despicable,” she said, though the words lacked their intended venom.
“So you’ve mentioned.” He seemed entirely unperturbed as he continued eating.
“So, it was all staged? The note to leave Wicklow? The letter from my mother?”
“The letter you received outside Wicklow Academy was genuine. Your mother did indeed summon you home earlier than planned to prepare for your wedding.”
Somehow, beneath her outrage lurked a treacherous whisper of relief.
She had never truly wished to marry Lord Peirce.
Now, officially, she was free.
She quickly suppressed the thought.
“And instead, I find myself dining with the devil,” she muttered.
He produced a genuine smile that was so disarming it momentarily stole her breath. “The devil? I’ve been called worse, though rarely by such pretty lips.”
Despite herself, Emily felt a small, unwelcome pleasure in the Duke’s company. There was something in his presence that filled the room, a magnetism that drew her attention even when she tried to focus elsewhere. Like sitting near a fire on a winter’s night, one couldn’t help but be warmed by it, regardless of whether one had sought the heat.
“Since you’ve successfully ruined my wedding day,” Emily said, pushing her plate away, “there’s no further need to keep me here. The deed is done. Why not release me now?”
Ambrose studied her over the rim of his wineglass. “You clearly know nothing about your fiancé, my lady. Lord Peirce is not a man who accepts defeat gracefully. He will search for you.”
“Then let me return to my family,” she countered. “My sister and her husband can hide me away in the country until this charade is over.”
He shook his head, setting down his glass with deliberate care. “Lord Peirce has connections throughout England. He will find you eventually. You are safer here, under my protection.”
His protection?
