Page 11 of A Duke to Steal Her
The carriage halted before a sweeping set of stone steps. Through the window, Emily could see footmen approaching. At the top of the steps stood a line of servants arranged by rank and station, their posture suggesting they’d been awaiting this arrival for some time.
The perfectly choreographed welcome could only mean one thing:preparation.This was no impulsive action. Her abduction had been meticulously planned.
The man straightened his cuffs, and as the carriage door opened, his entire demeanor shifted. The arrogant captor remained but was now overlaid with the unmistakable air of command that came from generations of unquestioned authority.
He stepped down and turned, offering his hand to assist her. Emily pointedly ignored it, gathering her skirts to descend on her own.
The sharp late evening air filled her lungs as she stood before the grand house, fighting to maintain her composure.
The stranger moved past her toward the waiting staff, his stride confident, shoulders squared.
“Welcome home, Your Grace,” the butler intoned with a deep bow.
Your… Grace?
“You’re a duke?” she blurted, propriety forgotten in her shock.
Her captor turned, one corner of his mouth lifting in that infuriating half-smile. “Did you think I made a habit of abducting young ladies without at least the courtesy of a title?” he replied with casual indifference.
Before she could formulate a response, he turned back to the assembled household, his voice carrying across the courtyard.
“This is Signorina Giulietta Bianchi. She’ll be residing here at Nightfell Hall for a time as my… esteemed guest.” The pause beforeesteemedstretched just long enough to carry unmistakable implications. “See that she is well attended, and that word of her arrival does not leave these gates.”
Heat rushed to Emily’s face as understanding dawned. She was not a kidnapping victim. Not even a respectable guest. To everyone present, she was being introduced as hismistress—his Italian mistress, no less.
“Che scandalo ridicolo,” she murmured furiously—what a ridiculous scandal.
She scanned the faces of the servants, searching for any sign of surprise or sympathy. There was none. Only carefully neutral expressions, eyes politely averted, the practiced blank masks of those who had been trained not to question their master’s actions.
The horrible truth settled over Emily like a leaden cloak. She stood on foreign ground, miles from anyone who knew her true identity, in the domain of a duke whose power here was absolute. And to every soul present, she was nothing more than his latest conquest—a foreign woman with no connections, no standing, and no credibility should she cry foul.
Chapter Four
“Oh!” The maid startled, nearly sloshing the water. “Begging your pardon,Signorina. I didn’t expect you’d be up already.” She cursed neatly, her starched apron rustling. “What are you wearing? The Duke will not have you wearing that. Not at all.”
After waking up in the morning, Emily had moved swiftly to the wardrobe, only to find her own clothes unpacked beside a collection of elegant new gowns—all her size and far finer than anything she’d ever owned.
Emily had chosen the plainest dress from her own collection when the door handle turned, and a maid, Martha, entered, carrying a copper pitcher of steaming water.
Emily looked down at her dress, indignation rising in her chest. “Of all the… what’s wrong with my dress?” she asked, eyes sending sparks at the young woman who had been introduced to her the previous evening as her personal maid.
“Oh. Nothing, Miss Bianchi. But His Grace likes things done in a certain way. I received strict orders that you are not to use any of your old dresses while you’re his guest at Nightfell.”
Emily’s eyes narrowed.
He’s already telling me what to do, is he?
She made a mental note for later. However, she had more pressing matters at hand. Perhaps Martha could be useful in other ways.
“How long have you served at Nightfell Hall, Martha?”
Martha busied herself pouring water into the porcelain basin.
“Three years this Michaelmas, Signorina.” Her tone remained carefully neutral as she laid out linen towels.
“You must know the estate well, then.” Emily dabbed her face with cold water from the pitcher beside the bed. “Is it always so quiet here?”
“The household keeps to His Grace’s preferences,Signorina,” Martha replied, selecting a morning dress from the wardrobe. “Would you prefer the blue muslin or the sage green for breakfast?”
