Page 45 of A Duke to Steal Her
“Are you alright, dearest?”
“I amfine,” Emily responded sharply, glaring at the crowd, “Would everyone just listen for one blasted?—!”
Juliana gripped her arm and murmured something Ambrose couldn’t hear.
Emily stiffened, but didn’t fight it. Her gaze darted to him once more, and what he saw there cleaved him in two: defiance, pain, and the aching echo of something that might have been trust, if they’d only been given a few more minutes.
“I can explain all this,” Ambrose tried again, reaching toward Emily.
“Don’t.” Blackmoor’s hand shot out, blocking Ambrose’s path. “Don’t you dare touch her again.”
Emily’s sisters closed ranks around her. She didn’t stumble. She didn’t cry. But her hands were white-knuckled where they clutched his coat.
“Emily,” Ambrose called desperately. “Let me?—”
“Move,” Browning commanded the gawking crowd, his soldier’s authority brooking no argument. “Move or I’ll move you myself.”
The crowd parted reluctantly as Emily’s family formed a protective wall around her, and they guided her back inside the house.
“You don’t understand—” Ambrose called after them, his voice raw.
“I understand perfectly.” Blackmoor blocked his path, and Ambrose knew it was not the time to stop them.
They swept Emily away, leaving Ambrose alone on the terrace with the vultures.
The crowd began to disperse, already composing the letters they would write, the calls they would make, the delicious scandal they would spread.
Peirce lingered, his smile triumphant. “Well played, Your Grace,” he murmured. “I didn’t expect you to ruin her quite so thoroughly. My compliments.”
Ambrose’s vision went red. His fist connected with Peirce’s jaw with a crack that echoed across the terrace, sending the earl sprawling.
“If you touch her again,” Ambrose said, flexing his bloodied knuckles and ignoring the gasps from the people still on the terrace, “I will kill you.”
He strode from the terrace without a backward glance, leaving chaos in his wake.
Chapter Fifteen
“Ruined! We’re utterly ruined! How could you, Emily? How could you bring such shame upon this family?” Lady Ridgewell collapsed into the nearest chair, her wails echoing through the hall of their townhouse.
Uncle Francis stood in the entrance hall like an avenging patriarch, his face mottled with rage and embarrassment.
“What,” he thundered the moment they crossed the threshold, “in God’s name happened tonight?”
“Mama, please—” Ava began, but Uncle Francis cut her off with a sharp gesture.
“No! I want answers.” His pale eyes fixed on Emily with accusatory fire. “The gossips will spread their poison. Tell me how this happened.”
Emily opened her mouth, but no words came.
How could she explain? How could she tell them that Peirce had attacked her and Ambrose had saved her, when the evidence painted such a different picture?
“She’s in shock,” Juliana said firmly, moving to shield Emily from their uncle’s wrath. “Can’t you see she’s been through enough?”
“Enough?” Uncle Francis’s voice cracked like a whip. “She’s brought scandal down upon all our heads. Again! Do you have any idea what this means for Georgina’s prospects? For the family name?”
“The family name will survive,” Vincent said coldly, though his jaw was tight with barely controlled anger. “As it has before.”
“Will it?” Uncle Francis rounded on him. “A runaway bride was scandal enough, but this? Caught in a compromising position with the Duke of Nightfell? There’s no coming back from this!”
