Page 56 of A Duke to Steal Her
“Your Grace,” the gardener noticed him first, scrambling to his feet with obvious embarrassment. “Forgive us, we didn’t see you there.”
Emily looked up, and for just a moment, before she could school her expression into its usual careful composure, Ambrose caught a glimpse of something in her blue eyes.
Pure, unfiltered pleasure at seeing him. It was as though his presence had genuinely brightened her afternoon. The look was gone in an instant, replaced by polite formality, but it had been there. Real and unmistakable.
And it made his pulse quicken.
“Your Grace,” she said, rising gracefully despite her disheveled state, “we were just discussing the proper depth for transplanting the Damascena roses.”
“I can see that,” Ambrose replied, his voice rougher than he’d intended. “Though I confess, I didn’t expect to find my duchess quite so hands-on in her approach to estate management.”
He let his gaze travel deliberately over her dirt-smudged form. “I do hope you’ll look rather more like a duchess for dinner. See that you look presentable. And wear the blue silk—I chose it specifically to complement your hair.”
Emily’s smile remained perfectly sweet, though he caught the slight tightening around her eyes. “Of course, Your Grace. I wouldn’t dream of disappointing you.”
Her tone was honey-smooth, the picture of wifely obedience for the servant’s benefit.
But as Ambrose turned to walk back toward the house, he glanced over his shoulder and caught the full force of her glare burning into his back.
There’s my spirited lioness.
That evening, Emily descended to dinner wearing the blue silk as commanded. The gown was exquisitely cut. She looked every inch the duchess, poised and elegant as she took her seat across from him.
“You look ravishing,” Ambrose said, raising his wine glass in a mock toast. “Though I do miss the charming streak of dirt you wore so well this afternoon.”
“How kind of you to say so,” Emily replied politely, cutting her roasted fowl with precise movements.
The meal proceeded with stilted conversation until Ambrose, growing bored with her careful responses, leaned back in his chair with deliberate casualness.
“Tell me, wife, are you already growing bored of my company?”
Emily’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Your Grace.”
“No? How disappointing. I’d hoped some independence would bring back those sharp teeth of yours, little lioness.”
A slight flush colored Emily’s cheeks. “A lioness knows better than to bare her teeth when the lion is watching.”
Ambrose smirked. The urge to rattle her composure grew stronger.
“There she is.La mia leonessa,” he said with a wink—my lioness.
When the chocolate tart with berry compote arrived, Ambrose made his move. He stood abruptly, dragging his chair around the table until he sat directly beside her.
“What are you doing?” Emily asked, turning to face him with raised eyebrows.
“What does it look like?” He picked up her spoon, cutting a generous piece of tart. “I’m spoiling my wife. Surely there’s nothing improper in that?”
“Stop this at once.”
“Why?” He brought the spoon closer to her lips, his voice dropping to that low, dangerous tone. “Are you afraid you won’t be able to control yourself in my presence?”
Emily scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
But Ambrose noticed the way her breathing had quickened, the slight flush creeping up her throat.
“If you truly don’t care,” he said with a casual shrug, “then let me.”
Emily groaned softly but opened her mouth, accepting the bite he offered. As she did, a drop of chocolate sauce escaped, trailing down her lower lip.
