Page 33 of A Duke to Steal Her
Ambrose’s attention sharpened. “From whom?”
“The sender didn’t identify himself or whose errand he was on, Your Grace.”
Lady Emily?
Ambrose took the unsealed note. No, Emily would never send a letter without a seal. This could only be from one person.
His lordship’s been busy in Paris. Fancy parties, expensive wines, charming the French ladies something fierce. Word is he’s planning to return to London within a fortnight. Thought you’d want to know. —J.F.
Ambrose crushed the paper in his fist. Peirce had been enjoying himself in Paris as if nothing had happened.
Ambrose’s plan to embarrass him by ensuring Emily didn’t show up for the wedding had clearly backfired. Instead of suffering public humiliation like Lavinia did those years ago, Peirce had simply continued with life as usual.
“Will there be a reply, Your Grace?”
“Not immediately.” Ambrose moved to his desk, his mind already working. “What else?”
Simmons consulted the remaining correspondence. “Several business matters, a note from Lord Fulton, and an invitation to the Weatherby ball next week.”
The Weatherby ball. Ambrose froze. It would be one of the Season’s premier events—exactly the sort of gathering where a young lady might make her return to society after a period of ‘illness.’
“The ball, Your Grace?” Simmons prompted gently. “Shall I send your regrets as usual?”
Ambrose opened his mouth to give his standard refusal. He’d avoided these empty rituals, finding no pleasure in attending them except when they served his purpose.
But as he formed the word ‘no,’ another voice whispered in his mind—softer, more dangerous.
She might be there.
Emily, moving through a crowded ballroom with that particular grace she possessed. Emily, dancing with other men, pretending to enjoy their compliments, allowing them to court her because it was expected.
Even though he knew Emily did not enjoy social gatherings, the fact that she might be there sent bolts of jealousy through his chest. Other men would hold her hand during the quadrille, lead her through the steps, stand too close during conversation. They would try to win her attention, her favor, perhaps even her hand.
“Your Grace?” Simmons waited patiently, though his expression suggested he’d already anticipated the refusal.
Ambrose set the crushed note on his desk. When he spoke, his voice was cold as winter steel.
“Send my acceptance.”
Simmons blinked, clearly startled. “Your acceptance, Your Grace?”
“You heard me correctly.” Ambrose turned toward the window, dismissing both his butler and the uncomfortable truth behind his decision. “I’ll be attending the Weatherby ball.”
“The emerald silk will complement your complexion beautifully, Lady Emily.”
Madame Rousseau stepped back to admire her handiwork as Emily stood before the fitting room mirror, draped in yards of shimmering green fabric.
The gown was exquisite—cut in the latest fashion with delicate beadwork along the bodice—but Emily felt like she was being dressed for her own execution.
“It’s lovely,” she managed, though her voice sounded strained even to her own ears.
“Lovely?” Georgina bounced up from her chair with characteristic enthusiasm. “Emily, you look absolutely divine. Every gentleman at the Weatherby ball will be positively smitten.”
The mention of gentlemen made Emily’s stomach twist uncomfortably.
Audentes fortuna iuvat, she thought desperately, trying to summon courage she didn’t feel.
Fortune favors the bold. If only she felt that instead of dread.
