Page 71 of A Duke to Steal Her
Peirce’s smile turned sharp. “How refreshing to find someone so…philosophical about disappointment. Well, we mustn’t monopolize your time. Do enjoy the evening.”
As they departed, Ambrose had to force himself not to follow and plant his fist in Peirce’s smug face. Instead, he turned his attention to Emily, noting the pallor beneath her carefully applied rouge.
“Are you all right?”
“Of course.” But her voice was slightly unsteady.
“I’ll fetch you some water,” he said, pressing a gentle kiss to her gloved hand. “Don’t move from this spot.”
As the evening progressed, Ambrose found himself watching Emily with growing fascination. She moved through the social minefield with practiced grace, but he could see the effect his protection had on her. The way her gaze sought his across the room. The flush that crept up her throat when their eyes met. The slight parting of her lips when he spoke her name.
When the opportunity presented itself, he guided her toward a shadowed alcove partially concealed by potted palms.
“Ambrose, what are you?—”
“This has been an extremely dull evening,” he murmured, backing her against the silk-covered wall. “Let me make it more interesting for you, darling.”
“We can’t! Not here,” she breathed, even as her body betrayed her by swaying toward him. “Someone might see?—”
“Then you’ll have to be very quiet, won’t you?” His hands found the hem of her skirts, gathering the silk with practiced efficiency. “Can you do that for me, Emily? Can you stay perfectly silent while you fall apart for me?”
Her gasp was barely audible as his fingers found the folds between her legs. Her hips slid further open as her back arched. He covered her mouth with his free hand, muffling any sounds she might make as he worked her with devastating skill.
“That’s it,” he whispered against her ear, his voice low and rough with desire. “So beautiful when you let go for me.”
When she finally shattered against him, her cry of release caught safely against his palm, Ambrose felt something shift in his chest.
This had been about claiming her completely. And God help him, he was beginning to think she might be claiming him in return.
The leather chairs at White’s creaked softly as Ambrose settled back with his brandy, the familiar hum of masculine conversation filling the club’s main room.
William sat across from him, regaling him with some tale about his latest horse acquisition, when movement near the card room caught Ambrose’s attention.
Peirce stood beside Lord Boughton’s chair, his posture rigid with barely contained fury. Even from across the room, the tension was palpable.
“…told you, Peirce, my mind is made up,” Lord Boughton was saying with the calm authority of a man accustomed to being obeyed. “The Spanish earl’s opportunity is simply too promising to ignore.”
“You gave me your word,” Peirce hissed, his voice low but carrying in the relative quiet of the club. “We had an agreement.”
“Hadbeing the operative phrase.” Boughton took a leisurely sip of his port. “Business is business, old boy. When a better prospect presents itself, a wise man adjusts accordingly.”
Ambrose felt satisfaction warm his chest like fine whiskey. Another one of Peirce’s partnerships crumbling, exactly as planned.
“This Spaniard appears from nowhere,” Peirce continued, his hands clenched at his sides, “with convenient stories about assets and political rehabilitation, and you simply abandon business we’ve done for years.”
“I simply recognized a profitable venture when I saw one,” Boughton interrupted. “Perhaps if your own enterprises showed similar promise…”
He left the sentence hanging with aristocratic disdain. Peirce’s face flushed crimson, but before he could respond, Boughton had already turned back to his newspaper, effectively dismissing him.
Peirce stood there for a moment, rage radiating from every line of his body, before spinning on his heel and stalking toward the exit. His gaze swept the room and landed on Ambrose with unmistakable hatred.
Perfect.
Ambrose rose from his chair with deliberate casualness, intercepting Peirce’s path to the door.
“Peirce, old fellow,” he said with a smile that never reached his eyes. “You look rather distressed. Nothing serious, I hope?”
Peirce’s jaw clenched so hard that Ambrose was surprised he didn’t hear teeth crack. “Nightfell.”
