Page 82 of A Duke to Steal Her
“Please,” Emily whispered, “don’t do this.”
But Peirce’s smile only widened. “ThisLady, formerly Emily Walford, was introduced as Signorina Giulietta Bianchi months ago at Nightfell Estate,” he announced, his voice carrying clearly across the nearby conversations. “The Duke of Nightfell’s Italian mistress. But as scandalous as that is, it is not what is interesting, ladies and gentlemen. What’s interesting is that she arrived at Nightfell on what should have been our wedding eve.”
Emily felt the blood drain from her face as nearby conversations faltered, heads turning toward them with unveiled interest.
“That’s not—” she started, but Peirce cut her off.
“So tell me, Your Grace,” he said, raising his voice further, “how long have been warming the Duke of Nightfell’s bed? I’m surprised you managed to keep it a secret, considering how servants do love to gossip.”
The murmur of shocked whispers rippled outward like stones dropped in still water. Emily felt trapped, pinned by dozens of curious stares, her reputation crumbling with every word Peirce spoke.
“Stop,” she pleaded. “Please, just stop.”
“But we’re only just getting started.” Peirce’s eyes glittered with vicious satisfaction. “After all, there’s so much more to discuss. Like the charming scene at the ball, when I discovered you in such acompromisingposition with your future husband.”
Emily’s hands shook as she pressed them together, fighting the urge to flee.
She could see Ambrose now, cutting through the crowd toward them, his face a mask of deadly calm that terrified her more than any show of anger.
“Don’t,” she whispered as he reached them. “You have done enough to us. Stop this.”
But Peirce wasn’t finished.
He turned and faced Ambrose directly. “Ah, Your Grace. And then there’s your habit of assaulting innocent gentlemen who dare to speak to your wife. Tell me, Nightfell, is violence your answer to everything?”
“Only when dealing with men who abuse women,” Ambrose said quietly, but his voice carried a lethal edge that made several nearby guests step back.
Peirce laughed, the sound ugly and bitter. “Abuse? Is that what you call it when a man objects to having his bride stolen by a duke with more title than morals?” His voice rose, and when more people gathered around, his eyes glinted with excitement. “But then, I suppose you learned such behavior from watching your dear sister. What was her name? Lavinia? Yes, I remember what a lightskirt she was.”
Emily saw the moment Ambrose snapped, like a carefully constructed dam finally giving way to the flood behind it.
“Don’t you dare speak her name,” Ambrose said, and then his fist connected with Peirce’s jaw with a sickening crack.
Peirce went down hard, his head striking the marble floor with a sound that made Emily’s stomach turn.
For a moment, the ballroom was utterly silent. Then chaos erupted.
“He’s mad!” Peirce gasped from the floor, one hand pressed to his bleeding mouth. “You all saw it! He attacked me!”
“Ambrose, we have to go,” Emily said urgently, catching his arm.
Guests surged around them, some trying to help Peirce, others pressing closer for a better view of the scandal.
She could see Vincent and Oliver pushing through the crowd toward them, their faces grim.
“Come on,” she pleaded, tugging at Ambrose’s sleeve. “Please, let’s just go home.”
He allowed her to lead him away, but Emily could feel the weight of a hundred stares following them as they fled the ballroom.
Behind them, Peirce’s voice rose above the din, painting himself as the injured party, the innocent victim of a madman’s rage.
The silence in their townhouse felt suffocating as they climbed the stairs. Emily could feel the rage radiating from Ambrose like heat from a forge, his movements sharp and controlled in a way that spoke of barely leashed violence.
The moment they reached their drawing room, he exploded.
“Damn him!” Ambrose’s fist slammed into the mantelpiece hard enough to rattle the ornaments. “Damn him to hell!”
Emily closed the door carefully behind them, her hands still trembling from the evening’s ordeal. “Ambrose?—”
