Page 53 of A Duke to Steal Her
She collapsed onto the bed with a sigh that seemed to come from her very soul. The events of the morning—the ceremony, the breakfast, the carriage ride—all blurred together in her exhausted mind.
Sleep claimed her almost instantly.
The clock on the mantel chimed midnight as Emily stood before the adjoining door, her bare feet cold against the marble floor. She’d changed into the finest of her nightgowns. It was made of white silk that fell to her ankles, with delicate lace at the throat and wrists. Her hair hung loose down her back, brushed until it gleamed.
Her hand trembled as she raised it to knock.
“Enter.”
Emily turned the handle and stepped into Ambrose’s chambers. The room was larger than hers, dominated by dark woodfurniture and heavy draperies. A fire burned low in the grate, casting dancing shadows across the walls.
Ambrose sat by the fireplace, a crystal tumbler in his hand. When he turned and saw her, Emily saw the hunger, raw and unmistakable, flash in his green eyes. His gaze swept over her, from her loose hair to her bare feet, and she watched his free hand lift slightly toward her before he caught himself, stepping back instead.
“Emily.” His voice was rougher than usual.
He turned away abruptly, draining his glass in one swallow. She noticed the whiskey bottle on the side table, half-empty, which he lifted to refill his glass.
When he faced her again, his expression was carefully controlled. “How do you find your chambers? And the dinner—was it satisfactory?”
“Very comfortable, thank you. The meal was excellent.” The words came out stilted, formal. “Martha, my maid, has been most attentive.”
“Good. That’s… good.”
An awkward silence stretched between them. Emily took a hesitant step toward the massive four-poster bed that dominated the room. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she approached it.
Ambrose remained motionless by the window, watching her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. She could feel his gaze burning into her as she reached the foot of the bed and turned to face him.
Her hands shook as she grasped the hem of her nightgown, beginning to lift the silk upward. The fabric whispered against her legs as she slowly, mechanically began to undress.
“Stop.”
The command cracked through the air. Emily froze with the nightgown bunched in her fists at her thighs.
“Leave. Now.”
Emily blinked, confusion clouding her features. “I… I don’t understand. This is our wedding night. Consummation is our duty?—”
Ambrose crossed the room in three swift strides, stopping directly in front of her. His hands caught her wrists, stilling her movements.
“Look at yourself,” he said quietly, his voice strained. “You’re white as a ghost. Trembling like a leaf. You look as though you’re preparing to leap from a cliff, not make love to your husband.”
Emily opened her mouth to protest, but he continued.
“Is that how much you hate me? That bedding me seems preferable to death by only the narrowest margin?”
“I don’t hate you.”
He released her wrists and stepped back. “Perhaps you don’t. But I won’t take you like some sacrificial lamb, fulfilling your wifely obligations with gritted teeth and closed eyes.”
Emily’s cheeks flamed. “Then what do you want from me?”
A slow, wicked smile curved his lips—the same infuriating expression that had tormented her during her captivity.
“I want you willing, my dear wife. Eager.Beggingfor my touch.”
Emily’s spine stiffened. “I will never beg you for anything.”
“Never?” His smile widened, and he stepped closer again, his voice dropping to that low, dangerous purr that made her stomach flutter traitorously. “We shall see about that, little lioness.”
