Page 46 of A Duke to Steal Her
Lady Ridgewell’s sobs grew louder. “My poor, foolish girl. What were you thinking? To throw yourself away on a rake like him!”
“She didn’t throw herself away on anyone,” Ava snapped, her usual sweetness replaced by fierce protectiveness. “Whatever happened, Emily wouldn’t do that.”
“Wouldn’t what?” Uncle Francis demanded. “Wouldn’t conduct herself like a common strumpet? The evidence suggests otherwise!”
Emily was stung by the accusations and sank deeper into Ambrose’s coat, wishing she could disappear entirely.
“That’s enough,” Oliver, Ava’s husband, said sharply, his usual cheerful demeanor now extinguished. “You’ll not speak of my sister-in-law that way.”
“Your sister-in-law has made herself the talk of London,” Uncle Francis retorted. “Again! First, she humiliates Lord Peirce, now she’s caughtin flagrantewith the Duke of Nightfell. What’s next? Shall we expect to read about her exploits in the scandal sheets?”
“She was attacked,” Juliana said quietly, but with steel in her voice. “Lord Peirce cornered her on the terrace. Nightfell intervened.”
Emily was thankful that her sister rose to her defense. She’d barely muttered what happened when she was alone with her sister in the carriage and had worried her words had been unintelligible.
Uncle Francis laughed bitterly. “Is that the story we’re to tell? That the Duke of Nightfell, notorious for his libertine ways, suddenly developed a chivalrous streak? That he just happened to be on that terrace at the perfect moment to play hero?”
Emily flinched. Even to her own ears, the truth sounded impossibly convenient.
“It doesn’t matter what actually happened,” Vincent said grimly. “What matters is what people believe. And they believe?—”
A sharp knock at the front door cut through his words. The butler’s footsteps echoed in the hall, followed by the low murmur of voices.
“No visitors,” Uncle Francis called out. “We’re not at home to?—”
“I’m afraid, my lord,” came the butler’s strained voice, “that His Grace, Duke of Nightfell, insists it’s a matter of utmost urgency.”
Emily felt a spark within her. Hope.
The Duke was there.
Heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway, and then Ambrose appeared in the doorway like a force of nature. His evening clothes were disheveled—no coat, as it was around Emily’s shoulders—his knuckles bloody. His presence filled the room with electric tension.
Vincent and Oliver moved as one, stepping forward with murder in their eyes.
“Get out,” Vincent snarled. “Get out before I?—”
“Before what?” Ambrose’s voice was deadly calm. “Before you challenge me to a duel? By all means, Your Grace. But it won’t change what happened tonight.”
“What happened,” Oliver growled, “is that you compromised an innocent woman.”
“I saved her,” Ambrose cut him off, his green eyes blazing. “From a man who would have done far worse than tear her gown.”
Uncle Francis stepped forward, his face purple with rage. “How dare you come here? How dare you show your face in this house after what you’ve done?”
“I’ve come,” Ambrose said quietly, his gaze finding Emily’s across the room, “because there’s only one way to repair the damage that’s been done.”
Emily felt the weight of every eye in the room, felt the suffocating press of expectation and scandal and shame.
But something in his eyes—some desperate, determined thing—made her rise unsteadily to her feet.
“Stop,” Emily said quietly, her voice barely audible but somehow carrying absolute authority.
Vincent and Oliver froze mid-advance, their faces twisted with frustrated anger.
She walked forward on trembling legs. When she reached him, she looked up into his face, this man who had destroyed her life twice now, who had saved her and damned her in equal measure.
“Why are you here?” she asked, her voice hoarse from crying.
