Page 19 of A Duke to Steal Her
After a moment, she regained her composure, though it was clearly an effort. “You know nothing about me.”
Ambrose leaned closer still, close enough to catch the faint scent of lavender in her hair.
“I am not your enemy, my lady,” he said softly. “Not unless you make me one.”
Chapter Six
“Speaking of the devil,” William Russell, the Marquess of Fulton, announced, lifting his glass in mock salute. “I was just explaining to these good gentlemen that the Duke of Nightfell does occasionally deign to drink among the common folk. They wouldn’t believe me.”
His muddled feelings for Lady Emily had driven Ambrose away from the house.
The night air had cleared his head as he’d ridden into the village, the familiar warm glow ofThe Golden Stagbeckoning from the end of the cobbled street.
William was already there, sprawled in his usual corner with his boots propped on a chair, a half-empty tumbler of whiskey before him. His cravat was artfully loosened in a way that would look slovenly on any other man but somehow enhanced his natural elegance.
His eyes lit up when he spotted Ambrose.
Two local landowners were sitting next to him, but they quickly rose and bowed before making their excuses to leave. William waved them off with cheerful disregard.
“Must you always clear a room when I enter it?” Ambrose asked, signaling the barkeep for a drink as he took the vacated seat.
William grinned. “It’s your scowl, old boy. Frightens the livestock.” He leaned forward, studying Ambrose’s face. “And what a magnificent scowl it is tonight. Something’s got under your skin. Or should I say, someone?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ambrose replied, accepting the whiskey from the barkeep with a nod of thanks.
“No?” William’s eyebrows rose. “So, you haven’t heard the most delicious gossip? Lord Peirce’s bride never showed up to the altar.” He lowered his voice, eyes twinkling. “The family’s saying she fell ill on the wedding morning and was taken away to convalesce in the country. Very sudden, very private. Doctor’s orders, they claim.”
Ambrose maintained a neutral expression, sipping his drink.
“The interesting part,” William continued, clearly enjoying himself, “is that the bride in question disappeared from that dreadful finishing school in a carriage that nobody seems to have sent.”
“You should write for those scandal sheets. You’ve quite the penchant for dramatization,” Ambrose said dryly.
William stared right at him. “It is curious that I needed to relay the story to you, old sport. I rather fancied you might already know a thing or two about what happened.”
The steady look Ambrose gave him over the rim of his glass wasn’t quite a confirmation, but it wasn’t a denial either.
William’s eyes widened. “Wait…do you know something about Peirce and this lady? Did youseducePeirce’s bride?”
“Lower your voice,” Ambrose growled, glancing around to ensure no one was paying undue attention.
William hunched forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that nevertheless retained its delighted tone. “You did, didn’t you? The great Duke of Nightfell, breaking hearts left and right. How utterly scandalous.”
“I didn’t seduce her,” Ambrose said flatly.
“No?” William’s eyebrows rose. “But you did have something to do with her disappearance. Come, Ambrose, you’ve been plotting your revenge on Peirce for years. Don’t tell me you’re going to be coy now that you’ve finally acted.”
Ambrose remained silent, turning the tumbler between his fingers. The amber liquid caught the tavern’s candlelight,reminding him of Emily’s hair in the conservatory that afternoon.
“Well,” William sighed dramatically, “I suppose I should be grateful you didn’t simply demand a duel. Though that would have been far less complex than whatever elaborate scheme you’re clearly executing.” He paused, his expression sobering slightly. “But eventually you’ll have to let it go, you know. What happened to Lavinia?—”
“Don’t,” Ambrose’s voice was quiet but held a warning that even William respected.
“As you wish.” William raised his hands in surrender. “Though I maintain that drowning your demons in whiskey and revenge plots is a poor substitute for actually confronting them.”
A moment of tension stretched between them before William broke it with a smile that was somehow both mischievous and sympathetic.
“But enough sermonizing for one evening,” he declared, raising his glass. “To new beginnings, old friend. May they be worth the price you’re paying for them.”
