Page 38 of A Duke to Steal Her
“Lady Emily!” A cheerful voice interrupted as Lord Hartwell returned and this time approached with eager enthusiasm. “How splendid to see you looking so well. Might I have the honor of the next dance?”
The gentleman’s timing was impeccable and devastating. Emily’s heart plummeted even as social obligation demanded her gracious acceptance.
“Of course, Lord Hartwell,” she replied, her smile carved from marble. “I should be delighted.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Well, well,” came William’s amused drawl from beside a marble pillar. “The great Duke of Nightfell, gracing us mere mortals with his presence at a social gathering. I’m positively overcome with shock.”
Ambrose moved through the ballroom with an air of annoyance. His jaw was clenched tight enough to crack teeth. The sight of Emily’s gloved hand resting on the shoulder of Lord Hartwell had ignited something primitive and possessive within him—something that had no place in polite society.
Bloody hell.
He needed distance before he did something monumentally stupid.
Ambrose shot his friend a withering look. “Your wit grows more tedious by the day, Fulton.”
“And yet you seek out my company.” William’s grin was insufferably knowing. “Strange behavior for a man who’s spent the better part of two years avoiding ballrooms like they’re plague ships.”
“Perhaps I’ve developed a sudden appreciation for tedious conversation and watered-down champagne.”
“Or perhaps,” William’s gaze followed Ambrose’s line of sight to the dance floor, “you’ve developed an appreciation for something else entirely.”
Just as Ambrose was about to deliver a scathing retort, they were interrupted by a rustle of silk and the overpowering scent of rose water.
“Your Grace!” Lady Primblebury materialized beside them, her daughter Miss Primblebury in tow. “How absolutely delightful to see you this evening.”
The elder woman’s calculating smile set Ambrose’s teeth on edge. Behind her, the debutante Miss Primblebury blushed and batted her eyelashes with practiced precision.
“Lady Primblebury,” Ambrose inclined his head with cool politeness. “Miss Primblebury.”
“Oh, Your Grace, you remember my Catherine!” Lady Primblebury positively beamed. “She was just saying how muchshe’s been looking forward to your return to society. Weren’t you, dearest?”
Miss Primblebury’s blush deepened. “Mama, please?—”
“Such modesty!” Lady Primblebury trilled. “Catherine has been perfecting her watercolors, Your Grace. Perhaps you might call upon us to view her latest work?”
William stepped smoothly into the breach. “Miss Primblebury, your reputation as an artist precedes you. I should be honored to hear more about your techniques.”
As William engaged the women in conversation, Ambrose found his attention inevitably drawn back to the dance floor.
Emily moved through the steps of the quadrille with calculated grace, her golden hair catching the candlelight, her emerald gown floating around her.
She’s glorious.
Even from this distance, he could see the elegant line of her neck, the way her lips curved in polite conversation with her partner. That same mouth that had challenged him so fiercely at Nightfell…
“Don’t you agree, Your Grace?”
Ambrose dragged his attention back to find Miss Primblebury gazing at him expectantly, her cheeks pink with hope.
“Forgive me,” he said curtly. “My attention wandered.”
Lady Primblebury’s smile faltered slightly. “Catherine was just saying how much she enjoys riding in Hyde Park. Perhaps you might join her some morning?”
“I’m afraid my schedule is quite full these days,” Ambrose replied, his tone arctic enough to freeze champagne.
He watched Hartwell lean closer to whisper something that made Emily laugh.
