Page 54 of A Duke to Steal Her
“You are insufferably arrogant.”
“And you, my duchess, are a terrible liar.” His gaze dropped to her lips, then lower “Your body tells a very different story than your words.”
Emily yanked her nightgown back down to cover herself. “You’re impossible.”
“Completely.” He moved to pour himself another whiskey, his movements casual, unbothered. “But that’s what makes me so charming, don’t you think?”
With a sound of pure frustration, Emily whirled around and stalked back toward the adjoining door.
“Sweet dreams, wife,” Ambrose called after her, laughter threading through his voice.
Emily slammed the door behind her with enough force to rattle the frame.
“Your Grace.” The housekeeper curtseyed as Emily entered the morning room. “How may I assist you today?”
“I’d like to review the household accounts, if you please. And I’ll need to meet with the cook about menu planning.”
The housekeeper’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Of course, Your Grace. Though His Grace typically handles matters of accounts.”
“His Grace is occupied with estate matters,” Emily countered smoothly. “I believe household management falls within my purview.”
“Indeed, Your Grace. I’ll fetch the ledgers immediately.”
For the next three hours, Emily immersed herself in the intricate workings of Nightfell Manor. She reviewed expenses, questioned inefficiencies, and reorganized the cleaning schedules with the methodical precision Wicklow Academy had drilled into her.
“Cook,” she addressed the cook, “I notice we’re ordering an excessive amount of sugar. Might we negotiate better terms with our supplier?”
The cook beamed. “Aye, Your Grace. I’ve been saying the same to Simmons for months.”
Emily made notes in her neat script. As she moved through the corridors, reviewing the linen closets, she encountered Eliza carrying an armload of freshly laundered sheets.
Their eyes met, and Eliza’s face broke into a warm smile of recognition. She curtseyed quickly, but not before Emily caught the genuine pleasure in her expression.
“Your Grace,” Eliza murmured, and as she passed close by, she briefly squeezed Emily’s hand—a small gesture of solidarity that sent warmth through Emily’s chest.
Later, when Simmons appeared with the wine cellar keys, Emily caught him watching her with something approaching approval. The stern butler’s expression softened almost imperceptibly before he schooled his features back into professional neutrality.
“Will there be anything else, Your Grace?”
“Yes, Simmons. I’d like to inspect the wine cellar and review our inventory. His Grace mentioned some excellent vintages, and I believe proper cataloguing would be beneficial.”
“Very good, Your Grace. If I may say so…” He paused, as though weighing his words. “It’s refreshing to have a duchess who takes such interest in the household.”
Emily felt a warm glow of satisfaction. “Thank you, Simmons. I believe a well-run house reflects well on all of us.”
As she spent the afternoon reviewing everything from candle expenses to staff quarters, Emily found herself genuinely engaged for the first time in weeks. This was something she could control, something she could excel at without anyone’s permission or approval.
She would not think about green eyes and whiskey-roughened voices. She would not think about the way Ambrose had looked at her, or the shameful way her body had responded despite her mind’s protests.
She was the Duchess of Nightfell and would prove herself worthy of the title--with or without her husband’s regard.
As she returned to the main hall, arms full of ledgers, she paused near the servants’ staircase when she heard hushed voices drifting from below.
“…never seen anything like it in all my years of service…”
“Aye, well, I’ll admit it’s not every day a man’s mistress becomes his duchess.”
Emily’s spine stiffened, but she maintained her composure. Under her breath, she muttered clearly in Latin,“Otium diaboli officina.”
