Page 61 of A Duke to Steal Her
Time seemed suspended as his gaze traveled slowly over her form. Emily held her breath, her heart hammering against her ribs as heat pooled low in her stomach. For a wild moment, she thought he might close the distance, might finally?—
“We’re returning to London,” he said abruptly, with a rough voice. “Tomorrow morning.”
The spell shattered. Emily reached for her wrapper, pulling it tightly around herself. “I… why? I thought we were to remain at Nightfell for the month.”
“Lord Pemberton is hosting a garden party. It would be impolitic to refuse.” His eyes still held that dangerous intensity, though he remained carefully distant. “Besides, I’m sure you’ll be able to see your sisters.”
Emily felt a flutter of excitement at the prospect. “Truly?”
“Indeed. So no protests about the inconvenience.”
The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving Emily alone with her racing pulse and the uncomfortable truth that her body was betraying her more with each passing day.
Chapter Twenty
“Remember,” Ambrose murmured as he handed her down from the carriage, “you’re the Duchess of Nightfell now. You outrank most of the women here.”
The gardens had been transformed into an enchanted wonderland, with fairy lights strung between ancient oak trees and small orchestras positioned throughout the grounds.
Emily moved through the crowds on Ambrose’s arm, accepting congratulations on their marriage with practiced grace.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Ambrose said after they’d completed the initial round of greetings, “I see Pemberton by the fountain. There are some business matters we need to discuss.”
Emily inclined her head. “Of course. I believe I’ll admire the rose garden while I wait for my sisters.”
“Very well. You look spectacular, by the way,” Ambrose smiled with genuine charm that made her feel instantly more confident. “You know where to find me.”
Despite her new status, Emily was not one to socialize easily. She immediately went about the business of keeping herself occupied by trying to name the different species of flowers. She was examining a particularly beautiful climbing rose when familiar voices reached her ears.
“My goodness, if it isn’t Lady Emily Walford. Or should I say, Your Grace?”
Emily turned to find three young women approaching: Miss Catherine Sheffield, Penelope Smith, and Diana Morton, all former classmates from Wicklow Academy. All now making their debuts in society.
“Ladies,” Emily replied with polite coolness. “How lovely to see you.”
“We were just saying how remarkable your journey has been,” Catherine said with a sweet smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “From fleeing one altar to finding yourself at another so quickly. Quite the adventure.”
Fortuna caeca est,Emily thought grimly—fortune is blind.
Outwardly, she maintained her composure. “Indeed, life has a way of surprising us all.”
“Oh, but such a convenient surprise,” Penelope giggled. “To go from wallflower to duchess in a matter of weeks. However did you manage it?”
“Though I suppose,” Diana added with false sympathy, “after the scandal with Lord Peirce, any marriage was preferable to spinsterhood.”
Emily felt heat rise in her cheeks but kept her voice level. “I’m quite content with my circumstances, thank you.”
“Content?” Catherine laughed, but her eyes told Emily how much she envied her. “That is not what I have heard. I?—"
But before she could formulate a response, a familiar voice cut through the group.
“Ladies, how charming to find you cackling in the shadows like the witches inMacbeth.”
They all turned to see Ava, resplendent in bronze silk, her expression coolly disapproving.
“L-Lady Browning,” Catherine stammered, clearly recognizing the wife of a prominent member of society.
“We meant no harm—” Penelope began.
