Page 5 of A Duke to Steal Her
He leaned back against the carriage seat, studying her with unconcealed amusement. Her golden hair remained perfectly arranged despite their earlier struggle, not a strand escaping the elaborate coiffure that framed delicate features.
Her eyes were blue as a winter sky, meeting his gaze directly in a manner too bold for English propriety.
Fascinating.
Her gloved hands clutched her reticule like a shield. Though her chin remained high, Ambrose noted the rapid pulse fluttering at her throat, betraying the panic she fought to conceal.
“Your courage does you credit, Lady Emily,” he replied, enjoying the way she flinched at his use of her name. “However, I can assure you that you’re perfectly safe and will not be harmed.”
“My absence will be noticed immediately,” she countered, voice only slightly tremulous. “My family, Lord Peirce—they won’t stop searching for me. I am to be wed soon.”
“That is the point, my dear,” Ambrose replied with a wide smirk, savoring her visible shock at his admission. “I merely wish for you to miss your wedding. Nothing more.”
He rapped his knuckles twice against the roof of the carriage. With a lurch, the vehicle began moving. Gravel crunched beneath the wheels as they pulled away.
Her eyes widened, calculations visibly racing behind them. In a sudden burst of decisive movement, she lunged toward the carriage door. Her fingers grasped for the handle.
Ambrose’s reflexes served him well. His hand closed around her wrist. The delicate bones beneath his fingers reminded him to moderate his strength as he pulled her back onto the seat beside him.
“Are you truly about to throw yourself from a moving carriage?” he asked as genuine curiosity mixed with amusement. “I admire your spirit, but the resulting injuries would hardly improve your situation.”
Her response was immediate and piercing. “Help!” she screamed, her voice far louder than her slight frame suggested possible. “Help me!”
Ambrose moved swiftly, clasping his hand over her mouth. The softness of her lips against his palm sent an unexpected jolt through him, one he promptly ignored.
“Consider your position, my lady,” he murmured, bringing his face close to hers. “Do you truly wish to be discovered alone in a carriage with an unknown gentleman? What would remain of your reputation then?”
Her blue eyes flashed with defiance above his restraining hand. Then, without warning, Ambrose felt sharp teeth sink into the flesh of his palm.
“Bloody hell!” he exclaimed, yanking his hand away.
The bite wasn’t deep enough to draw blood, but it stung impressively. He flexed his fingers, watching the indentations her teeth left slowly fade.
Instead of anger, he felt a surge of admiration for her resourcefulness. Most ladies of her station would have swooned by now or at least dissolved into tears.
Lady Emily Walford, it seemed, was made of sterner stuff.
“Well, well, well,” he drawled, lips curving into an appreciative smile. “The little lioness has teeth. I shall have to remember that.”
The nickname pleased him immediately. She had the same dangerous grace as the great cats he’d observed in a traveling menagerie years ago. Beautiful, seemingly docile until provoked, and then lethal in their response.
She drew a breath, clearly preparing for another scream. Ambrose leaned forward, closing the distance between them until not more than an inch separated their faces. He didn’t touch her this time, but the intensity of his gaze had the desired effect of silencing her momentarily.
“You are perfectly safe, Lady Emily,” he said, his voice low and controlled. “I give you my word as a gentleman that no harm will come to you. There is no need for such dramatics.”
Her chin lifted in defiance. “I’ll scream again the moment we pass anyone,” she snapped. “I’ll continue seeking help until someone realizes you’ve taken me against my will.”
Ambrose caught her wrist as she tried to pull away. Her pulse raced beneath his fingers, matching his own suddenly quickened heartbeat.
The carriage hit a rut in the road, throwing her slightly forward. Her free hand landed on his chest, and for a moment, they were close enough that he could detect her scent—rose water, yes, but beneath it something unexpected: the crisp smell of paper and ink, like a scholar’s study rather than a lady’s boudoir.
“If anyone stops us,” he countered, recovering from the strange moment, “I’ll simply inform them I’m escorting my poor, hysterical wife to London’s finest physicians.” Unconsciously, his thumb traced a small circle on her inner wrist, a gesture he immediately halted. “Who do you think they’ll believe? The distraught female or the concernedcalmhusband?”
She yanked her hand away as if burned. “Why are you doing this?” she demanded. “Why do you want me to miss my wedding?”
Something in her tone, curiosity beneath the outrage, caught his attention. She wasn’t so much devastated at missing her nuptials but genuinely confused.
“You may not understand now,” he replied, studying her reaction carefully. “But eventually, you’ll thank me.”
