Page 42 of A Duke to Steal Her
“Liar.” The word was soft, deadly. “You planned it all, didn’t you? The mysterious illness, the dramatic disappearance. Did you think it romantic? Did you imagine yourself as some heroine from those inane books you females like to read?”
Emily’s patience finally snapped. “I never wanted to marry you in the first place! You were forced upon me by circumstance and duty, nothing more.”
The confession hung between them like a blade. Peirce’s face went white with rage.
“So you admit it,” he whispered. “You admit you never intended to honor our engagement.”
“I intended to honor it because I had no choice,” Emily said, her voice gaining strength. “But I felt nothing for you. Nothing but obligation.”
He let out a low, sardonic laugh. “You think I care about what you feel? Our marriage was a deal. And you broke it and made me look like a fool.”
“And now you have your widow with her ten thousand a year,” Emily said coldly. “Surely that’s enough to satisfy your wounded pride.”
Something snapped in Peirce’s expression. In one swift movement, he lunged forward, grabbing her shoulders and slamming her back against the stone wall.
“You arrogant little—” he snarled, his face inches from hers. “Do you think you’re better than me? Do you think you can humiliate me without consequence?”
“Let go of me!” Emily struggled against his grip, panic flooding her system as his fingers dug into her arms.
“I should have known,” he continued, his voice venomous. “Should have seen the signs. You’re nothing but a spoiled little?—"
“Release me this instant!” Emily twisted desperately, but his grip only tightened.
“What’s wrong, Emily?” His breath was hot against her face. “Not so brave now, are you? Not so quick with your clever words?”
In his fury, his hands moved roughly, one gripping her throat while the other clawed at her bodice. The delicate silk tore with a sickening sound, exposing her chemise and the swell of her breasts.
Emily’s whimper caught in her throat as terror overwhelmed her. This was worse than any retribution or confrontation she had imagined.
She looked down at her body with mounting horror.
“Step away from her.”
The voice cut through the night like a blade—low, deadly, absolutely lethal.
Peirce froze, his hands still gripping Emily’s torn gown.
The Duke of Nightfell filled the doorway, his shoulders squared, fists clenched at his sides. His green eyes fixed on Lord Peirce with a feral intensity, sharp and unblinking, as though measuring the distance between himself and the earl.
“Now,” he added softly, but the word carried the promise of death.
Emily pressed against the stone wall with her gown torn, tears streaming down her face, while that savage Peirce loomed over her.
Something primal and murderous exploded in Ambrose’s chest.
He moved swiftly, crossing the terrace in three swift strides. His hand shot out quickly. His fingers closed around Peirce’s throat as he hauled the man away from Emily with enough force to send him stumbling backward.
“You worthless excuse for a man,” Ambrose snarled, advancing on Peirce with lethal intent.
But the coward side-stepped Ambrose, already scrambling toward the terrace doors, his face pale with terror.
“This isn’t over, Nightfell,” he gasped, but his voice shook with fear.
“Oh, but it is,” Ambrose promised softly, his voice carrying the weight of absolute certainty. “Touch her again, and I’ll kill you.”
Peirce fled like the craven dog he was, disappearing through the terrace doors before Ambrose could make good on his promise.Every instinct screamed at him to follow, to finish what should have been finished twelve years ago, but Emily’s broken sob rooted him to the spot.
She had slumped against the wall, her hands clutching the torn edges of her bodice, trying desperately to cover herself. Tears tracked silver paths down her cheeks, and her entire body trembled like a leaf in a storm.
