Page 79 of A Duke to Steal Her
The weeks that followed were a revelation. Without the constant tension of their unresolved attraction, Emily bloomed like a flower in sunlight. She laughed more freely, spoke her mind without hesitation, and touched him with an affection that made his heart race every time.
They spent lazy mornings in bed, passionate afternoons in various rooms of the townhouse, and intimate evenings sharing stories by the fire. Emily told him about the suffocating expectations at Wicklow Academy, the constant pressure to be perfect, the loneliness of never being allowed to simply be herself.
After revealing so much of herself to her husband, Emily finally asked Ambrose about his past. “Would you… Would you tell me about Lavinia?”
The name still caused a pang, but not the sharp agony it once had. Emily’s love had healed something in him he hadn’t realized was broken.
“She was my sister,” he said simply. “Three years younger than me, and I loved her as fiercely as any brother could.”
Emily’s hand found his, and their fingers intertwined.
“She was beautiful, innocent, trusting. When Peirce began courting her, she was so happy. She thought she’d found her fairy tale.” His voice hardened. “What she found was a monster who used her kindness against her, who broke her spirit piece by piece until she couldn’t bear to live with the shame of what he’d done to her.”
“I’m so sorry,” Emily whispered.
“He destroyed her, and then he dared to show his face in society as though nothing had happened. As though her life meant nothing.” Ambrose’s jaw clenched. “I swore I would see him pay for what he took from her. From all of us.”
“Just promise you’ll be careful. That man is dangerous.”
Ambrose’s gaze softened, the hard edge in his eyes melting into something warmer. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I promise. But enough of dark talk for tonight.”
Before she could reply, he reached out and gently tipped her chin up. His lips brushed hers, light and teasing, a silent challenge wrapped in affection.
“Better to focus on battles we can win,” he murmured against her mouth. “Starting with you.”
Emily’s breath hitched, and the tension between them eased into something charged and hopeful.
Meanwhile, Ambrose’s campaign against Peirce continued with devastating effectiveness.
But before then, Ambrose ensured Lord Swanwood’s complete social destruction. A few carefully placed words with the right people, some strategic withdrawals of support, and by noon, Swanwood found himselfpersona non grataat every respectable establishment in London. His club membership was mysteriously revoked, his invitations dried up, and his creditors suddenly became less accommodating.
Ambrose felt no guilt whatsoever.
Now Flint was reporting that another three investors had withdrawn their support, lured away by Conde de Cervera’s seemingly more profitable ventures.
“The man’s becoming desperate,” Flint reported during one of their clandestine meetings. “He’s been trying to borrow money from increasingly unsavory sources.”
“And his engagement?”
Flint’s smile was sharp. “Ended yesterday. Apparently, Lady Portwich’s family began asking uncomfortable questions about his finances. When they discovered the extent of his debts…”
“Excellent.” Ambrose felt grim satisfaction. Soon, very soon, Peirce would have nothing left but the knowledge that his own greed and cruelty had been his downfall.
A week later, Ambrose found himself in the rookeries of Seven Dials, following a lead that had cost him fifty pounds and might well cost him his life.
The narrow alleys reeked of desperation and decay, and every shadow could hide a cutthroat willing to kill for the coins in his pocket.
But no one would stop Ambrose tonight, for he was looking for Jonas Flint, who had missed their meeting a week ago. That had spurred Ambrose to seek him out, but he found Flint’s rented townhouse empty and stripped of all belongings.
Either Flint had betrayed him, or their operation had been compromised, and neither outcome promised safety.
The tavern he sought sat at the end of a dead-end lane, its windows too grimy to see through. He’d been told that Jonas Flint had been seen here three nights ago, in the companyof men who asked too many questions and paid too well for information.
Ambrose pushed through the tavern door, noting the way conversations died as he entered. His fine clothes marked him as an outsider, prey among predators. He moved to the bar with careful confidence, ordering ale he had no intention of drinking.
“I’m looking for someone,” he said quietly to the barkeep. “Man about my age, brown hair, been going by different names.”
The barkeep’s eyes shifted to something behind Ambrose. “Might be I seen him. Might be worth something to remember where.”
