Page 48 of A Duke to Steal Her
“It isn’t,” Ambrose cut him off, his voice sharp with conviction. “I know what you think of me, but I won’t see Lady Emily destroyed because of Peirce.”
Their eyes met again, and Emily gulped. Before she could say anything more, her sisters took her to the side of the room.
“Emily, darling,” Juliana began carefully, “I need you to tell me truly. Are you certain about this? Because if you’re doing this out of some misguided sense of obligation because of what happened tonight?—"
“It’s not obligation,” Emily said quietly. “It’s necessity.”
“That’s not the same as certainty,” Ava pointed out. “Marriage is forever, Emily. Even if society demands it now, there might be other options.”
“What options?” Emily’s laugh was bitter. “Hide in the countryside? Hope people forget? You heard Uncle Francis. The gossips are already spreading the story. By tomorrow, every drawing room in London will be buzzing with tales of my latest scandal.”
“So, you’ll marry a man you barely know to silence them?” Juliana’s voice was gentle but probing.
Emily was quiet for a long moment, staring down at her hands.
The truth was that she knew the Duke. More than they thought she did. And a part of her, a secret, hidden one, wished to know even more of him.
“This… this is inevitable.”
Emily’s fingers tightened around Ambrose’s coat. The memory of those moments on the terrace—before Peirce’s return, before the crowd, before everything fell apart—flickered through her mind. The gentleness in Ambrose’s touch, the way he’d looked at her as if she were something precious.
Emily met her sister’s concerned gaze with surprising steadiness. “On the bright side, I’ll be a duchess with the power to protect myself. That’s more than I have now.”
The practical truth of it hung between them, undeniable and heartbreaking in its stark reality.
The men were still standing in what could only be described as a tensedétente. Vincent and Oliver flanked Ambrose like prison guards, while Uncle Francis hovered nearby, apparently trying to look menacing and failing spectacularly.
Then, Ambrose’s gaze immediately found hers, a question burning in his green eyes. The weight of everyone’s expectation pressed down on her once more, but she found herself oddly calm.
She gave him the smallest of nods.
The relief that flooded his expression was so profound it was almost painful to witness. His shoulders drooped slightly, and for just a moment, she saw how achingly vulnerable he felt.
Before anyone could speak, however, the sound of bare feet padding down the hallway interrupted the charged silence.
A moment later, Georgina appeared in the doorway, her dark hair tousled from sleep, wearing a white cotton nightgown and blinking owlishly at the assembled crowd.
“Good heavens,” she said, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. “How long have I been sleeping? Why are you all here? Did someone die?” She paused, taking in the formal evening wear and serious expressions. “Or are we planning someone’s funeral?”
Despite the gravity of the situation, several people struggled not to smile at her artless confusion.
Georgina’s sleepy gaze wandered around the room until it landed on Ambrose. She blinked several times, as if trying to focus, then tilted her head with the frank curiosity of youth.
“Oh,” she said with refreshing directness. “You’re quite handsome.”
“Georgina!” Lady Ridgewell shrieked, her face flushing crimson. “This is the Duke of Nightfell, and he is to marry your sister!”
Georgina’s eyebrows shot up, “Marry Emily?” she glanced at Emily now. “Is this true?”
Emily nodded.
Ambrose, however, looked genuinely amused for the first time all evening. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he executed a proper bow.
“Your sister has excellent taste, Lady Georgina,” he said gravely. “I consider myself flattered.”
Georgina beamed, completely unrepentant despite her mother’s scandalized expression. “Well, you are. Much more distinguished than that awful Peirce man with his wet-fish handshake and?—”
“Georgina!” This time it was Uncle Francis who interrupted, though he looked more exasperated than truly angry. “Bed. Now. Before you insult half the peerage.”
