Page 73 of A Duke to Steal Her
“I’m perfectly well, thank you.”
“Indeed,” Georgina tilted her head. “Because you look different. There’s something in your eyes that wasn’t there before.”
Emily felt heat creep up her throat. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You look like you’ve discovered some wonderful secret.” Georgina’s smile turned knowing. “Or perhaps someone has been discovering you.”
“Georgina!” Emily’s scandalized tone only made her sister laugh.
“Oh, come now. I may be young, but I’m not blind. The way His Grace looks at you… Ava has told me a couple of things, yes. And the way you look when I mention his name…” Georgina leaned forward conspiratorially. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”
“That’s… that’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?” Georgina’s expression grew serious. “You used to be so controlled, so careful about everything. Now you seem alive.”
Emily stared at her youngest sister, her mind reeling.
“I don’t know,” she whispered finally. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”
“Maybe,” Georgina said gently, “that’s exactly what’s supposed to happen when you fall in love. Maybe you’re not supposed to understand it—just experience it.”
Emily closed her eyes, her sister’s words echoing in her mind.
Was that what this was? This constant ache, this desperate need to be near him, this way her entire world seemed to revolve around stolen moments of passion and tenderness?
“The evening is going rather well,” Emily observed as they moved through the crush at Lord Montrose’s ball.
Ambrose nodded, though part of him felt restless without Peirce there to torment. “Indeed. Almost too well.”
“Must you always expect disaster?”
“Experience has taught me to be cautious.” He squeezed her gloved hand. “I need to step outside for some air. Will you be all right here?”
“Of course. I’ll speak with Juliana.”
Ambrose made his way to the terrace, then slipped away to the prearranged meeting spot in Montrose’s library. Flint was already waiting, still perfectly groomed as the mysterious Conde de Cervera.
“Your Grace. I bring excellent news.”
“Tell me.”
“Lord Weatherby withdrew from Peirce’s shipping venture this afternoon. That leaves Peirce with exactly three remaining partners, all of whom are wavering.” Flint’s smile was sharp. “He’s hemorrhaging money faster than he can secure new investments.”
“How long?”
“A fortnight, perhaps less. His creditors are already circling.”
Satisfaction warmed Ambrose’s chest. “Excellent. Continue as planned.”
He made his way back toward the ballroom, but froze when he heard Emily’s voice, strained, polite, but clearly uncomfortable.
“Lord Swanwood, you must speak to me with the decorum due a married woman. I really must rejoin my husband.”
“Come now, Your Grace, if you’re doing alright after disappearing for weeks and then having your dress torn off you, only to turn around and marry the rake, then one dance won’t scandalize anyone.”
Ambrose rounded the corner to find Emily backed against a pillar, with Lord Swanwood standing far too close with his hand braced against the wall beside her head.
“The Duchess of Nightfell said no,” Ambrose said quietly.
