Page 47 of A Duke to Steal Her
Ambrose’s mask slipped for just a moment, and she saw the raw desperation beneath. The knowledge that he had ruined everything, that there was only one path forward that might salvage anything from the wreckage.
“I’m here,” he said quietly, his words falling into the stunned silence like stones into still water, “to ask you to marry me.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Thank God,” Uncle Francis breathed, his face flooding with relief as he collapsed into the nearest chair. “A duke. She’s caught herself a duke. We’re saved.”
The silence that had followed Ambrose’s words was deafening, as if the very air had been sucked from the room. Then, like a dam bursting, everyone had begun speaking at once: first, Uncle Francis, then Emily’s mother?—
Lady Ridgewell’s dramatic sobs transformed instantly into equally dramatic rejoicing. “Oh, my clever girl! My darling, brilliant Emily! A duchess! You’ll be a duchess!”
She pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, though whether from tears of joy or lingering distress was anyone’s guess.
Vincent’s face, however, had turned thunderous. “You have some nerve?—”
“Coming here after what you’ve done,” Oliver finished, as he stepped closer to Ambrose. “Thinking you can simply waltz in and?—”
“Absolutely not,” Juliana cut through their protests with authority, moving to place herself between Ambrose and Emily like a protective mother hen. “Emily is in no state to make such a decision tonight.”
“She needs time to rest,” Ava added, flanking Emily’s other side with the fierce protectiveness that only a loving sister could muster. “Time to consider all her options without pressure from you.”
“Enough.”
Ambrose’s voice cut through the chaos quietly but carrying absolute command. He ignored everyone else in the room, his intense green gaze fixed solely on Emily.
“Lady Emily,” he said formally, as if they were alone in the world rather than surrounded by her outraged family. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
All eyes turned to Emily. She stood there in his coat, her torn gown hidden beneath the black wool, her face pale but oddly serene. The weight of expectation pressed down on her from every direction—her uncle’s relief, her mother’s joy, her sisters’ protective concern, her brothers-in-law’s barely restrained fury.
She drew in a slow, shuddering breath.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “I will marry you.”
The reaction was immediate and explosive.
“Emily!” Juliana gasped, reaching for her arm.
“Are you certain, dearest?” Ava’s voice was thick with worry. “This isn’t something you can undo.”
But Uncle Francis was already pumping Ambrose’s hand with unseemly enthusiasm. “Excellent! Excellent! The banns can be read immediately and settlements drawn up.”
“She needs a moment,” Juliana said firmly, already steering Emily toward the door. “To collect herself. To think clearly.”
“I am thinking clearly,” Emily protested.
Vincent and Oliver moved to flank Ambrose.
“Let me make something perfectly clear,” Vincent said softly, his spy’s voice carrying more menace than any shout. “If you hurt her—if you cause her even a moment’s unnecessary pain—you will answer to me.”
“To both of us,” Oliver added, his voice radiating controlled violence. “And we won’t be as civilized as a simple duel. We’ll make it very, very painful.”
Uncle Francis, apparently feeling left out of the intimidation, puffed up his chest and stepped forward.
“And… and you’ll answer to me as well! As head of this family, I demand you treat my niece with the utmost respect and— and—" He paused, seeming to realize how he sounded next to the two genuinely dangerous men flanking him. “That is… well… what they said. Only more so.”
Ambrose’s lips twitched despite the gravity of the situation. “Duly noted, my lord.”
Vincent was not amused. “This isn’t a jest, Nightfell. If this marriage is some elaborate game to you?—”
