Page 43 of A Duke to Steal Her
The sight of her so broken, so vulnerable, nearly drove him to his knees.
Moving slowly, as if approaching a wounded bird, Ambrose shrugged out of his evening coat. The fine black fabric was still warm from his body as he knelt beside her, wrapping it carefully around her shoulders.
“Easy, darling,” he murmured, his voice rough with suppressed violence. “You’re safe now.”
Emily’s eyes snapped up to meet his, and the accusation in their cerulean depths hit him harshly.
“This is allyourfault,” she whispered, her voice raw with pain and fury. “If you hadn’t—if you hadn’t taken me, none of this would have happened. Look at me!” Her voice broke on a sob.
The words sliced through him and were all the more devastating because they were true. This could be traced back to his selfish need for revenge, his inability to let the past rest.
“You’re right,” he said quietly, making no attempt to defend himself. “This is my doing. All of it.”
She stared at him, clearly expecting denial or justification, not this stark admission of guilt.
“But you’re safe now,” he continued, his voice gentle despite the rage still burning in his veins. “I swear to you, Emily, you’re safe. I’ll get someone to help you. One of your sisters, or a maid, to fix your dress?—”
“Don’t. Please, don’t leave,” she whispered, and the broken plea nearly unmanned him.
“I won’t,” he promised immediately. “I’ll stay right here. But you need—you need proper assistance, someone to help you with your gown and?—”
His hands clenched into fists as he forced himself not to look at the torn silk, not to think about Peirce’s hands on her, not to imagine what might have happened if he’d arrived even moments later.
But Emily didn’t need his rage right now.
She pulled his coat tighter around herself, and for a moment they simply knelt there together on the cold stone, where the sounds of the ballroom were muted.
“Emily,” he began, not sure what he meant to say, only knowing that he needed to say something, anything, to bridge the chasm of hurt between them.
She looked up at him then, and despite the tears, despite the fear, he saw something else in her eyes. There was a flicker of the fire that had drawn him to her from the beginning, the strength that had made her fight him even when she had every reason to surrender.
“I am sorry. I truly am,” he whispered to her.
Without conscious thought, he reached up to brush a tear from her cheek. His thumb traced the delicate line of her jaw, and she leaned into the touch as if seeking solace in his warmth.
Time seemed suspended. The world narrowed to just the two of them, to the space between their faces that grew smaller with each shared breath.
Her lips parted slightly, and he could feel the soft whisper of her exhalation against his skin.
“Ambrose,” she murmured.
Heavens, if she asked him for the entire sky and the stars right now, he’d have given it to her.
Her eyes fluttered closed as he leaned closer, his forehead nearly touching hers…
The terrace doors burst open with a crash that shattered the moment.
“—simply must see for yourself, my lady,” Peirce’s voice carried across the terrace, dripping with false concern. “I fear Lady Emily may have taken a turn?—”
Behind him streamed half the ballroom—his new fiancée, the widow Portwich, Lady Primblebury and her daughter, Lord Hartwell, and at least a dozen other guests, their faces alight with the terrible hunger of those who smelled fresh scandal.
Emily emitted a gasp of horror.
There was a collective intake of breath from the assembled crowd as they saw Ambrose’s coat wrapped around her gown.
It served as evidence of guilt.
Ambrose’s hand still cupping her face in an intimate gesture could mean only one thing to these observers.
