Page 55 of A Duke to Steal Her
Idleness is the devil’s workshop.
She descended the stairs with measured steps, her chin held high. The two gossiping maids looked up, their faces flaming crimson as they realized she’d overheard every word.
“Ladies,” Emily said coolly, her voice carrying the authority of generations of nobility. “I trust you have more pressing duties than idle speculation.
“Y-yes, Your Grace,” one stammered, bobbing a frantic curtsey. “Forgive us, Your Grace.”
Emily swept past them without another word, leaving them to contemplate the uncomfortable truth that their new duchess was not a woman to be underestimated.
Chapter Eighteen
“So, you’re telling me the widow’s family has embraced him with open arms?”
Jonas Flint shifted uncomfortably in the leather chair, clearly out of place in the elegantly appointed study. The room was one of several Ambrose maintained in a discreet townhouse near Covent Garden—officially owned by a shell company, useful for meetings that required absolute privacy.
“Aye, Your Grace. Lady Portwich’s brother practically rolled out a red carpet. Seems Peirce has been spinning tales about his… unfortunate circumstances. Claims he was the victim of a hysterical bride who fled at the altar.”
Ambrose’s knuckles whitened around his tankard. “And they believed him?”
“They’re not asking too many questions. Word is the lady’s fortune is considerable. Coal mines in Yorkshire, shippinginterests in Liverpool. Conservative estimate puts her worth at ten thousand a year.”
The staggering number hit Ambrose. Ten thousand pounds would make Peirce wealthy and powerful enough to buy his way back into society’s good graces.
“There’s more,” Flint continued, lowering his voice. “He’s already talking about investments. Plans to expand his holdings, maybe even purchase a larger estate. Seems he’s got his eye on political ambitions too.”
Ambrose forced himself to breathe slowly, evenly. In his mind, he saw Lavinia’s face—pale, broken, destroyed by this man’s cruelty. The same man who was now poised to rise higher than ever, his crimes not only unpunished but rewarded.
No. Not while I draw breath.
He took another measured breath, his mind already working through possibilities, discarding options, calculating risks. Conventional approaches wouldn’t work anymore. Peirce had insulated himself too well, surrounded himself with too much wealth and influence.
But unconventional approaches… those might prove more effective.
Ambrose looked up at Flint, noting the man’s sharp intelligence behind his rough exterior, his talent for deception that had served them both so well in their previous arrangements.
“Have you ever been to Spain, Flint?”
Flint’s eyebrows shot up. “Spain, Your Grace? Can’t say I have. Why?”
Ambrose’s smile was cold as winter steel. “I believe it’s time you paid a visit, then.”
When Ambrose returned to Nightfell that afternoon, the sun was slanting low through the trees, casting long shadows across the manicured grounds.
He’d expected to find Emily reading in the library or playing the piano in the music room.
Instead, he discovered her in the rose garden, on her hands and knees beside the head gardener, her morning dress of deep blue wool hiked up to protect it from the dirt. Her sleeves were rolled to her elbows, revealing slender forearms smudged with soil, and she was carefully transplanting what appeared to be a struggling rosebush.
“Gently now,” she was saying to the elderly gardener, her voice patient and instructive. “The roots are more delicate than they appear. If we damage them further…”
She paused to wipe perspiration from her brow with the back of her wrist, leaving a faint streak of dirt across her forehead. Several strands of sun-like hair had escaped her careful chignon, curling damply at her temples.
Ambrose stopped short, completely frozen by what was unfolding before him.
This was not the polished, untouchable lady he’d married. This was something altogether more dangerous. His wife was a woman unafraid of honest work, competent and capable, her cheeks flushed with exertion and her eyes bright with genuine interest in her task.
She looked magnificent.Real.Utterly unlike the parade of pristine society beauties who’d never so much as touched soil with their gloved hands.
The sight of her like this—rumpled, slightly breathless, completely absorbed in her work—sent heat coursing through his veins in a way that had nothing to do with the afternoon sun.
