Page 27 of A Duke to Steal Her
“I don’t care. I’ve missed you terribly.” Georgina pulled back, her green eyes bright with tears and mischief. “Though your timing was absolutely perfect.”
“Was it?”
“Oh yes.” Georgina grinned wickedly. “You managed to avoid marrying that ghastly Lord Peirce. He has the personality of wet toast and the romantic appeal of a fish. Honestly, Emily, you’ve had the luckiest escape in the history of matrimony.”
“Georgina!” Lady Ridgewell gasped.
“What? It’s true. I remember him at our ball last season. He spent the entire evening discussing his preferred irrigation system with anyone unfortunate enough to be trapped in conversation with him.” Georgina shuddered dramatically. “You’d have died of boredom before the honeymoon ended.”
Despite everything, Emily found herself laughing—the first genuine laugh she’d had since leaving Nightfell. “You’re terrible, Gina.”
“I’m honest. And you love me for it.” Georgina settled beside her on the sofa, still beaming. “Besides, now you’re free to find someone infinitely more interesting. Someone with actual conversation skills and perhaps a functioning sense of humor.”
An image of green eyes and sardonic smiles flashed through Emily’s mind before she firmly pushed it away.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” she said lightly. “I’ve only just returned.”
But Georgina’s words echoed in her thoughts long after the family gathering ended.
Someone more interesting. Someone who could match her wit and challenge her mind.
Someone exactly like the man she was trying so desperately to forget.
Chapter Ten
Ambrose signed the final shipping contract and set down his pen with satisfaction. “That concludes our business, Marlington. The Mediterranean routes should prove profitable this season.”
“Indeed, Your Grace. Always a pleasure.” Lord Marlington settled back in his leather chair, clearly in no hurry to leave.
He accepted another brandy from Ambrose’s butler and cleared his throat.
“Speaking of pleasure… I suppose you’ve heard about Lord Ridgewell’s niece? She disappeared days before her wedding to Lord Peirce. Apparently, she fell ill and had to be sent to the country.”
Lord Marlington settled into the leather chair across from Ambrose’s desk, clearly relishing the opportunity to share gossip along with their shipping contracts. The man’s round facegleamed with the satisfaction of someone privy to society’s most delicious secrets.
Ambrose didn’t look up from the ledger before him. “I wasn’t aware you took such interest in wedding arrangements, Marlington.”
“Oh, come now, Your Grace. Half of London’s talking about it.” Marlington chuckled, accepting the brandy Ambrose’s butler offered. “Poor Peirce, left waiting. Can you imagine the humiliation? I assume that’s why he’s fled to France. He has his own recovery to go through.”
“Indeed.” Ambrose’s pen scratched across the page with perhaps more force than necessary. “Though one might argue that a lady’s sudden illness hardly constitutes grounds for social entertainment.”
“Illness?” Marlington’s eyebrows rose. “Is that what they’re calling it? How convenient. Though I must say, she’s made a remarkable recovery. As it seems, Lady Emily was seen at her sister’s, the Duchess of Blackmoor’s townhouse, looking positively radiant.”
Ambrose’s hand stilled on the paper, the quill tip blotting ink into the margin. A faint tightness coiled low in his chest, something he might have mistaken for tension if it hadn’t felt so hollow. His jaw locked, shoulders stiffening as if bracing against a blow that never came.
She was back with her family, back to her life. She had returned to Society without anyone, other than William, knowing he had ever even spoken a word to her. It should have brought relief. And yet a strange heaviness settled in his gut, like the echo of something he hadn’t meant to miss.
“I’m sure her family is grateful for her swift recovery,” he said evenly.
“Oh, quite.” Marlington leaned forward conspiratorially. “Though between you and me, Your Grace, I suspect there’s more to this story than anyone’s admitting. Young ladies don’t simply fall ill and vanish just days before their wedding, do they?”
“Don’t they?” Ambrose set down his pen and fixed Marlington with a steady look. “Perhaps you could enlighten me about the inner workings of the feminine mind, since you seem so well versed in the subject.”
Marlington missed the warning in his tone entirely. “Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? She was having second thoughts about the marriage. Probably found herself some romantic liaison and decided to have one last adventure.”
Ambrose knew this suggestion might be made by some, but he had not prepared himself to hear it.
“That’s quite enough.” His voice carried the unmistakable authority of ducal displeasure. “I won’t have you spreading malicious gossip about a lady in my presence, Marlington.”
