Page 6 of A Duke to Steal Her
“Understand what?” She leaned forward, frustration evident in every line of her body. “Who are you?”
“Someone who knows far more about Lord Peirce than you do.”
Her breath caught. “What do you mean?”
The carriage lurched around a bend, throwing her toward him again.
This time, his hands came up to steady her shoulders. Her eyes widened, and her lips slightly parted in surprise.
For one mad moment, Ambrose almost gave in to an inexplicable urge to close the distance between their lips.
The carriage jerked to a halt, breaking the tension between them.
“It appears we’ve reached our stop for the night,” he said, voice rougher than intended.
He released her immediately, unsettled by his own reaction.
“The White Hart Inn. I suggest you compose yourself, my lady. If you value your reputation at all, you’ll play the part of my wife,” Ambrose instructed as the carriage door opened. “Create a scene now, and by tomorrow, your name will be ruined throughout England. No amount of denial will save you from the scandal of traveling with a man unchaperoned.”
He watched the calculations play across her expressive face, anger warring with pragmatism.
Pragmatism won.
“Very well,” she conceded tightly. “But don’t think you’ll get away with any of this.”
“That, we shall see. Now smile, dear wife. Show how happy I make you.”
The innkeeper greeted them with the practiced smile of a man who had seen every variety of traveler. “Welcome to the White Hart, sir. Will you be requiring accommodations for the night?”
“Indeed,” Ambrose replied smoothly. “My wife and I require your best room. We’ve had a long journey from Berkshire.”
If the innkeeper noted Lady Emily’s stiff posture or the absence of a wedding ring, he gave no indication.
“Of course, sir. Just the one room, then?”
“Just the one,” Ambrose confirmed, placing his hand at the small of Emily’s back to guide her forward.
The tension in her spine could have rivaled a cavalry officer’s sword for rigidity.
Their room was comfortable, with clean linens, a washing stand, a small fireplace, and a single bed dominating the center of the space.
Lady Emily stepped inside first, her face draining of color as she took in the sleeping arrangements.
Ambrose watched with interest as her gaze darted around the chamber, quickly noting the window, which was too small for escape, the fireplace poker, a potential weapon, and the distance to the door. He could see the calculations of her mind working like a military strategy.
“If you think for one moment that you will take liberties…” she began, voice low but fierce.
Ambrose rolled his eyes. “Please spare me the histrionics, Lady Emily. I have no intention of forcing myself upon you.”
“You expect me to believe a man who kidnaps women has honorable intentions?” Her disbelief was palpable.
“I kidnappedawoman,” he corrected, unbuttoning his coat with deliberate casualness. “Singular. And my intentions, while perhaps not conventional, are certainly not what you’re implying.” He tossed her a teasing smile. “Though I’m flattered by your concern for my virtue.”
Ambrose watched her reflection in the small wall mirror as he shrugged out of his coat. While he maintained the careful façadeof aristocratic boredom he’d cultivated over the years, inwardly he felt a flicker of anticipation. Breaking through her composure had become a peculiar sort of challenge.
His fingers moved to his waistcoat buttons, and he savored the exact moment her eyes widened.
“What are you doing?” she gasped, spinning away to face the wall so quickly that a golden tendril escaped her coiffure, curling tantalizingly against the nape of her neck.
