Page 39 of A Duke to Steal Her
His hands clenched into fists at his sides. Every instinct screamed at him to stride across that ballroom, to claim what was his, to remind every man present that she belonged to?—
Good God, man. She belongs to no one,he forced himself to remember.Least of all you.
But watching another man hold her, guide her through the dance, see her smile at someone else’s words… it was exquisite torture.
“Your Grace seems rather distracted this evening,” Lady Primblebury observed with barely concealed irritation.
“The Duke has much on his mind,” William said smoothly, shooting Ambrose a warning look. “Affairs of estate, you understand.”
Miss Primblebury’s face fell. “Of course. How thoughtless of us to impose.”
“Not at all,” Ambrose forced himself to say, though his voice remained cold. “Please, enjoy your evening.”
The dismissal was clear enough that even Lady Primblebury couldn’t misinterpret it. With wounded dignity, she gathered her daughter and swept away.
“Subtle as a brick through a window,” William murmured. “Those poor women.”
Ambrose’s attention had already returned to Emily. The dance was nearing its end, the couples moving through the final figures. He found himself taking an involuntary step toward the dance floor.
Just to ensure she’s well,he told himself.Nothing more.
“Easy, friend,” William’s hand touched his arm lightly. “Whatever you’re thinking, reconsider.”
“I’m thinking nothing,” Ambrose bit out, but his feet remained rooted to the spot.
William was right. To cut in on Emily’s dance, to single her out so publicly when she was still recovering from one scandal… it would be social suicide for her. And despite everything—despite the hunger clawing at his chest, despite the way his entire world seemed to narrow to her presence—he would not be the architect of her ruin.
Not again.
The music swelled toward its conclusion. Ambrose watched Emily curtsy to her partner, watched the young lord bow over her hand with obvious admiration. She was smiling, gracious as always, but even from this distance, he could see the polite distance in her expression.
The dance ended. Couples began to disperse. Someone else bowed to Emily, and she curtseyed, taking his hand. They began to dance.
Ambrose straightened, preparing to make his approach—carefully, properly, with all the social niceties that would protect her reputation.
Then the whispers began.
They started as a barely audible murmur near the ballroom’s entrance but spread like wildfire through the assembled guests. Heads turned, conversations halted mid-sentence, and the entire atmosphere of the evening shifted with the electric anticipation of scandal.
Ambrose froze, every muscle in his body coiling with sudden tension.
“What the devil—” William began, then stopped as his gaze followed the collective attention of the room.
Through the main entrance, flanked by liveried footmen and radiating smug satisfaction, walked Zachary Giles, Earl of Peirce.
And on his arm, resplendent in crimson silk and glittering jewels, was a woman Ambrose didn’t recognize—clearly older, clearly wealthy, and wearing the unmistakable air of a woman who had just acquired something she considered a prize.
Ambrose’s blood turned to ice as he watched Emily’s face drain of all color.
The whispers swirled around Emily like a suffocating fog:
“—the widow Portwich?—”
“—a fortune of ten thousand a year?—”
“—such a quick engagement?—”
“—barely a month since the other business?—”
