Page 89 of A Duke to Steal Her
Vincent appeared several minutes later, his face set in hard lines. “Nightfell.”
“Blackmoor.” Ambrose inclined his head. “I’ve come to ask for your help.”
“My help?” Vincent’s voice was cold enough to frost the windows. “Rather presumptuous, considering you’re the reason Emily is hiding in my wife’s drawing room, refusing to come downstairs.”
Ambrose absorbed Vincent’s harsh words without flinching. “I know. And I take full responsibility for that. But she’s been dragged into this scandal because of my actions, and I want to help repair the damage.”
“You want to help?” Vincent stepped closer, his usual diplomatic composure cracking. “You’ve destroyed my sister-in-law’s reputation, driven her from her own home, and now you want to play the hero?”
“I want to do whatever is necessary to protect her,” Ambrose said quietly. “Even if that means working with a man who has every right to despise me.”
Vincent studied him for a long moment. “She doesn’t want to see you.”
“I know. I’m not asking to simply see her. I’m asking to help salvage what I’ve damaged.”
“And then what? You ride off into the sunset, conscience cleared?”
“Then I give her the space she needs to decide if our marriage can be saved.” Ambrose met Vincent’s gaze steadily. “But I won’t let her bear the consequences of my mistakes alone.”
After what felt like an eternity, Vincent stepped aside. “You can use my study. But if you upset Emily or my wife, I’ll have you thrown out.”
“Understood.”
For the next week, Ambrose became a fixture in the Blackmoor household. He arrived each morning at nine o’clock sharp and spent his days crafting carefully worded responses to the scandal sheets, writing letters to influential members of society, and coordinating with Vincent to present a united front.
He never asked to see Emily, never mentioned Peirce, never spoke of anything but damage control and protecting the family’s reputation.
When Juliana offered him tea, he accepted graciously. When the children ran through the corridors, he stepped aside with a small smile. When he glimpsed Emily’s skirts disappearing around a corner, he simply continued with his work.
On the seventh day, as he was preparing to leave, Vincent stopped him in the hallway.
“She knows you’re here,” Vincent said quietly. “Every day. Juliana tells me she sits by her window, watching for your carriage.”
Ambrose’s heart clenched, but he merely nodded. “How is she?”
“Miserable. Pretending not to be, but miserable.” Vincent’s expression softened slightly. “I think you’re both fools. But you’re a fool who’s working very hard to protect her, and that counts for something.”
“Thank you,” Ambrose said simply.
“Don’t thank me yet. You still have to convince her to forgive you. And Emily, when she’s hurt…” Vincent shook his head. “She builds walls that would put Hadrian to shame.”
Ambrose walked home through the London streets with Vincent’s words echoing in his mind. He was no closer to winning Emily back than he’d been a week ago. But for the first time since she’d left, he felt like he was moving in the right direction.
He was learning to put her first, even when it meant accepting that she might never come home.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Emily sat by the drawing room window, her fingers pressed against the cool glass as she watched Ambrose’s familiar black carriage parked at the front of the townhouse.
For seven days, she’d maintained this vigil—watching him arrive each morning with punctual precision, watching him leave each evening as the sun began to set.
He never looked up at her window, never asked for her, never did anything but work tirelessly to repair the damage his confrontation with Peirce had caused.
It was both a comfort and a torment.
“The fact that you can’t keep away from that window says a lot about how you still feel about him,” Juliana said gently, entering the room with tea service.
Emily didn’t turn from the window. “He’s been here all day.”
