Page 49 of A Duke to Steal Her
“But I want to know what’s happening,” Georgina protested, her sleepy confusion giving way to bright curiosity. “Why is everyone standing about looking so serious? Emily, why are you wearing a gentleman’s coat? Is this some new fashion I haven’t heard about?”
Emily’s hand flew to Ambrose’s coat. The black wool suddenly felt heavy because it served as a reminder of everything that had transpired.
“It’s nothing that concerns you, poppet,” Ava said gently, moving to guide their youngest sister back toward the door. “Just some adult matters.”
“Adult matters are always the most interesting ones,” Georgina observed with alarming wisdom for her age. “And they usually involve someone getting married or into trouble. Sometimes both.” Her sharp eyes moved between Emily and Ambrose with uncomfortable perception. “So, which is it?”
The silence that followed was deafening.
“Both,” Emily said quietly, causing Georgina’s eyes to widen with delight.
“I knew it!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “I could tell something exciting was happening. When’s the wedding? I hope you take care of the preparations, Your Grace, because Mama almost lost her mind completely with the flower arrangements?—”
“Bed,” Lady Ridgewell commanded, rising from her chair with renewed maternal authority. “This instant, young lady, before you say something else completely inappropriate.”
As Georgina was bustled from the room amid protests that she was “just being friendly” and “asking perfectly reasonable questions,” the tension in the parlor seemed to ease slightly. Her innocent observations had somehow managed to cut through the worst of the drama, reminding them all that life—and family—would continue regardless of scandal.
Ambrose caught Emily’s eye again, and this time, she thought she detected the faintest hint of warmth in his gaze.
Perhaps, she thought,we will manage to find our way through this mess after all.
“Where is he?”
The brass knocker had barely finished echoing through the morning air before Ambrose’s voice cut through the silence. He stood on Peirce’s front steps, his hands clenched into fists inside his leather gloves, violence simmering just beneath his controlled exterior.
“I say, where is he?”
The door creaked open, the ancient butler’s weathered face immediately creasing with worry upon recognizing the caller. “Your Grace,” the man stammered, his voice shaking. “I’m afraid His Lordship is not?—”
“Where?” Ambrose repeated, his tone deadly quiet—the kind of calm that preceded storms.
It was two days until the wedding, and he’d tried to focus on the preparations, forcing himself through meetings with solicitors and discussions about settlements. But every quiet moment brought back the same image: Emily pressed against that stone wall, tears streaming down her face, her gown torn by that bastard’s hands.
But that wasn’t all that vexed Ambrose. Thoughts of Lavinia had drifted through his mind. Sweet, trusting Lavinia, who had loved Peirce with all the innocent devotion of a girl who believed in fairy tales.
Lavinia had waited at the altar in her wedding gown, surrounded by flowers and guests, only to discover that her bridegroom had fled like the coward he was.
The memory of finding her weeks later, hollow-eyed and broken, refusing to eat, refusing her medicine, refusing to live—that was when the careful control Ambrose had maintained for days finally snapped.
Two women. Twelve years apart. The same predator.
Enough.
The butler’s hands trembled as he gripped the door frame. “Gone, Your Grace. Left yesterday morning for Hertfordshire. The widow—that is, Lady Portwich—has family there, and His Lordship wished to make their acquaintance before the nuptials.”
Coward.The word burned through Ambrose’s mind like acid.
Of course, Peirce had fled London. The man had always been a snake, striking from shadows and slithering away when confronted with real consequences.
“When will he return?” The question came out like a blade sliding from its sheath.
“I… I couldn’t say, Your Grace. Perhaps after his own wedding? Lady Portwich has extensive holdings in the north, and there was talk of an extended wedding journey…”
Ambrose’s jaw clenched so hard he thought his teeth might crack. Peirce was running—not just from London, but from anypossibility of retribution. Hiding behind his wealthy fiancée’s skirts and thinking he had gotten away with what he did.
“I see.” Ambrose’s voice remained perfectly controlled, though rage burned like molten steel in his veins. “When you next correspond with your master, give him a message from me.”
The butler nodded frantically.
