Page 36 of A Duke to Steal Her
Couples moved gracefully across the dance floor while others clustered in conversation groups around the room’s perimeter. Everything was exactly as it should be—elegant, civilized, perfectly orchestrated.
Then she sawhim.
Time seemed to fracture. The sounds of the ballroom faded to a distant hum. Across the sea of silk and satin, past the whirling dancers and chattering guests, stood a figure that made her breath catch in her throat.
The Duke of Nightfell.
He stood near the far wall, partially concealed by a massive arrangement of white roses, but there was no mistaking that commanding presence. He was easily the tallest man in the room, his broad shoulders filling out his black evening coat with devastating effect. The severe cut of his formal attire only emphasized the lean power of his frame, while his blonde hair caught the chandelier light like polished obsidian.
Emily’s champagne glass trembled in her hand. She set it down quickly on a nearby table, her fingers shaking as she withdrew them.
What are you doing here?
He’d told her himself that he avoided such gatherings, preferring the solitude of his estate to society’s elaborate charades.
But there he was. Even from this distance, she could see the magnetic pull he exerted on those around him. A group of gentlemen had positioned themselves nearby, clearly hoping for an introduction, while several ladies cast surreptitious glances his way from behind their fans.
He hadn’t seen her yet. His attention was fixed on something across the room, his profile sharp and aristocratic in the golden light.
Emily’s hands clenched into fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms through her silk gloves. The sharp pain helped anchor her as waves of memory crashed over her—the warmth ofhis hand covering hers, the way his eyes had darkened when he’d looked at her lips.
Stop, she commanded herself.Stop this instant.
“Emily?” Ava’s voice seemed to come from very far away. “Are you quite all right? Your cheeks are flushed.”
“I’m—” Emily’s voice cracked. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I’m perfectly fine. Just a bit warm.”
As if sensing her regard, the Duke of Nightfell suddenly turned in her direction. Their eyes met across the crowded room, and the impact was electric, visceral, immediate.
Even with dozens of people between them, she could feel the full force of his attention. His green eyes widened slightly in recognition, then darkened with something she couldn’t quite name.
They simply stared at each other. For a heartbeat. Or for eternity, for it felt the same to her. The ballroom faded away until there was nothing but him, nothing but the invisible current arcing between them across the candlelit space.
Then someone moved between them, and the spell shattered.
Emily blinked hard, her surroundings rushing back with dizzying clarity. The music, the voices, the rustle of silk and clink of crystal—it all crashed over her like a wave. She pressed herpalm against her racing heart, willing it to slow before someone noticed her distress.
But it was too late. The Duke was moving now, cutting through the crowd with purposeful strides. His path seemed casual, indirect, but Emily recognized the predatory grace of his approach.
He was coming toward her, and she had perhaps thirty seconds to compose herself before?—
“Lady Emily,” a warm voice interrupted her panic. “How radiant you look this evening.”
She turned gratefully toward the familiar face of Mr. Thornfield, the heir of Viscount Elton, using his presence as a shield while she fought to regain her equilibrium.
But even as she smiled and made polite conversation, every nerve in her body remained acutely aware of the Duke of Nightfell’s steady approach.
“Forgive me,” Emily murmured to Mr. Thornfield, “I believe you were speaking of the weather in Brighton?”
“Indeed, Lady Emily. Quite bracing this time of year,” Mr. Thornfield replied, though his words seemed to come from a great distance.
Across the ballroom, the Duke had reached Vincent’s circle.
“Blackmoor,” his voice carried just enough to reach her ears. “I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced, though I’ve heard much about your shipping ventures. Ambrose Kane, Duke of Nightfell.”
“Nightfell,” Vincent replied with measured courtesy. “Vincent Kirkham. The pleasure is mine. I believe we’ve crossed paths at White’s, though briefly.”
“Indeed. I was hoping to discuss those new Mediterranean routes you’ve pioneered. My own shipping interests could benefit from your expertise.”
