Page 50 of A Duke to Steal Her
“Tell him,” Ambrose continued with silky menace, “that distance is temporary. Debts, however, are eternal. And his debt to me has only just begun to accrue interest.”
He turned and strode down the steps without saying another word, leaving the terrified servant to shut the door with shaking hands.
As Ambrose’s carriage rolled through London’s bustling streets, he forced himself to breathe, to channel his fury into something more useful than blind rage. Peirce could run to the ends of the earth, but it wouldn’t matter. Ambrose had resources, connections, and patience. He would find his moment, and when he did, he would extract every ounce of payment owed.
For Emily. For Lavinia. For every woman who had suffered at that bastard’s hands.
But not now. Now he had more pressing matters to attend to. In two days, Emily would become his wife—his to protect, tocherish, to ensure she never again faced the kind of predator who had destroyed his sister.
Focus,he told himself, though the promise he made was iron-hard and unbreakable. When his wedding was done, when Emily was safe and settled, he would hunt Peirce down like the rabid dog he was.
And this time, there would be no escape.
“Stop fidgeting with your gloves, man. You look like you’re about to bolt,” William’s whispered comment from the front pew earned him a sharp glare as Ambrose adjusted his cuffs for the third time.
The chapel’s stained-glass windows cast jeweled light across the stone floor, but Ambrose’s attention remained fixed on the heavy oak doors at the far end.
“I don’t fidget,” he muttered back.
“Papa, why is the Duke talking to himself?” six-year-old Richard, the Blackmoor’s firstborn son, piped up from beside Blackmoor, his voice carrying further than intended.
“Hush,” the Duchess of Blackmoor whispered, though Ambrose caught her amused smile.
Lady Ridgewell dabbed at her eyes. “Oh, my dear Emily. My third girl, about to become a duchess.” She sniffled. “Lord Browning, do you have another handkerchief? This one is quite soaked through.”
Lord Browning patted his pockets. “Of course, Lady Ridgewell. Here.” He handed her a wrinkled square of linen.
The organ’s first notes silenced the gentle chatter. Every head turned.
Emily appeared in the doorway with her uncle by her side, her ivory silk gown illuminated by the morning light. Ambrose frowned at the way her hands trembled slightly around her bouquet of white roses.
She and Lord Ridgewell walked toward him with measured steps, her blue eyes meeting his briefly before looking away.
When Ridgewell handed her over to him, Ambrose caught the faint scent of orange blossoms, and as Emily stood beside him, Ambrose’s whole body sizzled.
“Dearly beloved,” the vicar began once Emily’s uncle had sat down beside the family, “we are gathered together here in the sight of God…”
The familiar words washed over them. Ambrose found himself studying Emily’s determined set of her jaw and the way her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks.
After they’d spoken their vows, Ambrose pulled out a golden ring and slipped it onto her finger. Her hand was steady now, though he felt the slight tremor in her fingertips.
Just as he did, he noticed that Emily’s cheeks were a deep red. Not just because of the light rouge she’d applied, he guessed.
Applause filled the chapel.
They were married now. A sense of finality settled deep into Ambrose’s stomach.
Whether it was a positive or a negative feeling, he couldn’t tell.
“Oh, my dear, sweet Emily,” Lady Ridgewell sobbed, pressing a soggy handkerchief to her eyes as the servants loaded the last trunk onto Ambrose’s carriage. “My dear girl, leaving me for the countryside.”
“Mama, please,” Emily said gently, smoothing her traveling dress. “It’s not as though I’m sailing to the Indies.”
“But you’re a duchess now,” Lady Ridgewell wailed. “You’ll be far too important to visit your poor mother.” But then she leaned forward, whispering, “Well done, dear.”
Uncle Francis stepped forward, clearing his throat importantly. “Your Grace,” he addressed Ambrose with stiff formality, “Itrust you understand the responsibility you’ve undertaken. The Walford name?—”
“Is safe with me,” Ambrose finished curtly.
