Page 3 of A Bride for the Devilish Duke (Marriage by Midnight #2)

CHAPTER THREE

E mma watched the Duke depart, as though he had taken the ground from beneath her feet with him.

I wanted to be ignored, and now I will share the first dance with the Duke himself, she thought ruefully. Why single me out? Heavens, was it because of that silly rumor?

It did not make sense to her. If the Duke had heard the rumors and wished to quash them, then surely distance would be the wiser course. Polite disregard. Chilly civility . Not... not a waltz.

To dance with her—publicly, no less—was to stoke the fire until it roared.

One part of her, the irrational part, longed to storm after him and demand an explanation. Another part quailed at the very notion. And a third, more shamefully persistent part, simply wished to be near him again. Foolish girl . She would be, regardless.

“Oh, what a tangled web… I will not be rendered a mindless fool by a handsome physique!” she snapped at herself.

The reason for her roaming Redmane Manor came back to her then.

Charles…

She looked out over the torchlit lawn. There was no sign of him.

Then, a sound reached her, almost like a muffled cry of surprise. Emma stepped out the door, across the paving, and onto the lawn. The sound of low voices came, and she changed direction and headed towards them. A hedge bordered the lawn with arches cut into it. She caught a hint of shadowed movement beside one of those arches.

Then Charles appeared. His hair was ruffled, and he was glancing over his shoulder.

“Charles, whatever are you doing out here?” Emma chided.

Her brother jumped, whirling around.

“Emma? Good heavens, do not startle me like that—you have taken years off my life!”

Just then, two shadowed figures stepped through one of the arches. Charles spun again, backing away from them slowly.

“ Charlie , we still have matters to discuss,” said the first.

“ Important matters,” echoed the second.

Their voices sounded similar, and as they stepped into the torchlight, Emma realized that they looked similar too— eerily similar, in fact.

“Isaac, Jacob…” Charles grimaced, “I believe our discussion has concluded. I have made my position perfectly clear.”

Isaac and Jacob had short, curling hair, the same color as the Duke. They had aspects of his hard, angular face too, but softened around the edges. Emma wondered if these men were related to him. They were rounder facially, but there was indeed a resemblance.

“You have,” said one of the men, his words laced with careful civility, “and yet, we find ourselves in rather vehement disagreement.”

“Quite so,” the other chimed in. “And we feel this matter deserves further exploration. In private .”

Charles stiffened but remained silent.

“We daresay it is in your best interests, old boy,” coaxed the first.

That one acknowledged Emma first and bowed courteously.

“By your resemblance and charming diminutive, I would wager you are Lady Emmeline Montrose?” he inquired with feigned curiosity.

“She is and does not need to make your acquaintance, Jacob,” Charles cut in, stepping before his sister.

“I can speak for myself, Charles,” Emma told him firmly.

“I am Jacob Fitzgerald, and this is my brother Isaac,” Jacob flashed a toothy grin.

Isaac bowed deeply.

“Relatives of the Duke?” Emma asked.

“Cousins,” Isaac replied smoothly. “Our father was brother to the late Duke.”

“ Charlie boy ,” Jacob said again, his tone light as air, “we really ought to speak further.”

Charles raised his chin, looking down at the twins. “I do not think there is anything further to discuss,” he declared with finality.

The twins exchanged looks and sneered at each other. The hairs at the nape of Emma’s neck prickled unpleasantly at those sneers. They took their leave without further discussion, and Emma rounded on her brother.

“Charles. What was that all about? Have you offended these two gentlemen in some way?”

“No, it is nothing, sister. I can assure you. Please do not worry. As you saw, the matter is taken care of,” Charles assuaged.

“What matter ? They seemed very keen to speak to you. Almost threatening...”

Was he indebted to them? She thought she had solved his financial woes.

Dear Lord, please do not let him embroil himself more. I do not have the means to dig him out of another hole!

Emma did not want to voice her thoughts or ask the question aloud. Charles was the eldest of the Montrose siblings yet behaved as the youngest—impulsive and juvenile.

“I can assure you that Jacob and Isaac are not in the least threatening. They are not their cousin,” Charles laughed nervously, “and you will not hear from them again after tonight. I promise it,” he added, hoping to sound reassuring.

By Emma’s estimation and brief encounter with their cousin, that would make them the merriest dandies in all of the land—much less threatening.

It was quickly becoming apparent to Emma that no resolution would be reached here, hovering about on the lawn. She glanced back towards the glittering gold of Redmane Manor's windows.

“I suppose we ought to head in before the dancing begins,” Charles said with an easy shrug. “I have promised to ask Felicia Middleton’s hand for the first dance. Lovely girl, that one. And her father has coffers deep enough to fund a war.”

He grinned, and it was the grin of a boyish rogue. Indeed not the heir to an Earldom.

“And what of you, Emma?” he added, offering his arm.

Emma accepted it almost absently, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow as they began to make their way back across the green.

“Have you allowed anyone to ask you to dance? I do hope so. I do not like to see you on the periphery at these events.”

“It is where I am most comfortable, Charles,” Emma reminded him gently as her mind wandered, “and no, I have not allowed anyone to ask me to dance...”

It was not a lie. Not precisely.

She had not allowed the Duke to ask her—he had simply declared his intention.

She wished she could spend the evening anonymous in the background. The idea of a man putting his hand to her waist, to where that horrible scar marred her…

To be in the arms of any man was terrifying, but the Duke, in particular, even more so.

He was handsome, undeniably so—his features all striking angles and that untamed sort of strength one might expect from a warrior carved into marble. The thought of him, of that formidable physique cloaked in such precise elegance, sent a ripple of heat coursing down her spine.

And yet, with the thrill came the inevitable echo.

The scar.

The memory.

The shame that clung to her like a second skin.

“Why ever not, Emma?” Charles asked suddenly. “I have seen the gossips. When half the ballroom believes you are being courted by the Duke of Redmane, you may as well take advantage of your new status and bag yourself a husband!”

“Charles, please do stop speaking in such cant. It is so vulgar,” Emma complained, “and if anything, these rumors poison the well. The Duke is a fearsome man, is he not?”

Charles looked at her oddly before nodding.

“He is. By reputation, he certainly is. If one did not care to be bothered by suitors, then I suppose rumors of the kind doing the round s,” he emphasized the cant, “would deter most men. Almost as if one had arranged it that way...”

Emma forced an innocent laugh. “If I wished to stir up gossip of any kind, I should ask you and Rosie how to proceed. Personally, I don't have... the foggiest !”

Charles blinked, then barked a laugh.

“I knew I would break you down, dear sister! It is the way of our generation not to be stifled by our oh-so-formal language.”

Emma chuckled, happy to see her brother laughing so genuinely and hoping she could trust him that his encounter with the Fitzgerald twins was not a presage of troubles to come.

They reentered the house and made their way back to the Great Hall. Returning to the magnificent ballroom, Emma saw that the crowd had cleared and that people were now selecting partners for the first dance.

Charles took his leave and approached a pretty young woman with large dark eyes and a pale, delicate complexion. She blushed as he approached and swept a courtly bow. Emma drifted back, seeking a place comfortably out of sight and out of mind from the gathered guests.

As she did, the sound of a gong struck the room. It reverberated around the space, and silence followed in its wake.

“My lords, ladies and gentlemen!” a servant announced, “I am honored to present your host this evening, His Grace, the Duke of Redmane!”

A rippling gasp swept through the Duke's guests as a pair of ornately decorated doors were opened, and the Duke strode into the room. Emma realized that when he spoke to her, he had not yet made himself known to his guests.

She could not help but stare.

He strode down the middle of the hall, fair hair falling from his temples almost to his shoulders. It gave him the appearance of a barbarian prince. A savage Northman from the ancient annals of England's past. Her pulse fluttered.

Not more than when the Duke's eyes swept past every woman in the room until they landed on… Emma .

From that moment, they did not deviate.

Emma realized that he had been searching the crowd for her. Everyone must have come to the same conclusion: men and women, heads turned to observe the object of the Duke's attention.

Oh, Lord. Make me invisible. Open the earth and swallow me up…

Feeling all those eyes on her, it was almost as though they could see through her clothes to the scar that blemished her. But she could not look away from those deep sapphire pearls.

Emma knew that it was expected of her to look away, to be demure.

But she could not. Would not.

The Duke had made her the center of everyone's attention, and she would wilt under that attention.

When he reached her at last, he extended his hand with slow, deliberate grace.

“Lady Emma, would you do me the honor of the first dance?”

There was the faintest curve to his lips. Amusement flickered there—as though he saw through her poise, understood that she would not feign coyness, and found her defiance charming.

Emma held his gaze, letting the silence stretch until it shimmered between them like a taut ribbon. She could deny him—watch that charming smile flicker, just slightly , and perhaps silence the gossip that had been so carefully cultivated.

But she had sown those rumors herself.

And far more dangerously… she did not want to refuse him.

She inclined her head with practiced poise. “Of course, Your Grace. The honor is all mine.”

She slipped her fingers into his—warm, familiar, utterly assured—and let him guide her onto the dance floor. Around them, the orchestra struck up. Emma felt the weight of every watching eye—but none of it seemed to matter.

Not when his hand settled at the small of her back.

That single point of contact might as well have been a brand, sending heat spiraling through her corseted frame. His other hand clasped hers in a hold that was neither loose nor indecent, but suggested, quite boldly, that she belonged precisely where he had placed her. He drew her closer and she gasped.

A breathless inch of space separated them.

The music soared, and without warning, they moved.

The Duke glided with the grace of a man born to command ballrooms and battlefields alike—fluid, effortless, maddeningly composed. Emma, in contrast, felt every inch the mere mortal beside him. Her feet, ordinarily so nimble, now seemed reluctant participants. But by some miracle—or sheer force of will—she did not falter.

The room spun by in a glittering blur, all chandeliers and jewels and fluttering fans, but none of it touched her. The sweeping strains of the waltz lifted them into a world all their own, suspended in a silken bubble where only they existed.

“You dance well,” the Duke intoned, his breath brushing her ear like the ghost of a kiss.

Emma ducked her head coyly. “As do you, Your Grace.”

A beat passed. Then, his voice dropped lower. “—Given that I was made to understand you rarely danced.”

Emma’s gaze shot up to meet his.

Whom have you been talking to form that opinion? I have tried my hardest not to be noticed by anyone.

“Is that so…?” Emma replied coolly. “I am not sure where you have taken your information, but I am pleased to say, you have been misinformed.”

“Mm.” The sound was noncommittal. “It has also been observed that you seem to avoid courtship rather… actively . Which is curious.”

Emma lifted her chin. “Curious how, Your Grace?”

“ Curious —” he snarled abruptly, gaze sharpening like a blade catching light, “because women in your position tend to be surrounded by prospects. But curiously , you are not.”

The ill-conceived compliment landed like a match in dry straw. She opened her mouth to reply, but he pressed on.

“And curious-er still,” he drew her closer, visage contorting from a barbarian prince to barbarian tyrant, “is how the very idea of you being courted—by me, no less—has made such quick work of the local gossip circuit.”

Each word landed with the precision of an arrow. It suddenly became quite clear to Emma why he had earned such a formidable reputation. Without the hint of a warning, he spun her, a fluid motion that left her head reeling. Before she could regain her balance, he slammed her into the hard wall of his chest.

A faint tremor passed through her, though she did not let it reach her face. “Do I take you put stock in idle gossip, Your Grace?”

He smiled, but it no longer reached his eyes. “Not often. But I am more inclined to listen when the story spreads with such vehemence—almost as though encouraged.”

The implication was unmistakable. Emma’s stomach twisted, though her expression remained carefully neutral.

“I have spread no rumors if that is what you mean to say, Your Grace,” she defended, each word deliberate. Another technical truth. It was Elsie who had done the spreading. “And I do not concern myself with what others choose to say. If there are whispers, they began without me.”

And yet, she could feel the heat rising at the nape of her neck—because she had wanted the whispers. Just not like this.

He studied her then—not idly, not like a man indulging curiosity, but with the clinical focus of someone trained to find fault in steel.

“Then allow me to regale you, Lady Emmeline, ” he said at last, voice dark with purpose. “You and I have been romantically linked in London’s more… enterprising gossip sheets. It would appear we are secretly in a passionate affair. With such secrecy, that even I had not been made aware.

“If I were, in fact, pursuing a courtship, such talk might be inconvenient. As it stands, I am not. But my name, Lady Emmeline Montrose , is not a toy to be passed around for amusement—or gain. Not without consequences.”

Emma saw the fury ignite in his visage and experienced a delicious thrill of fear. It was delicious because her entire body reverberated at his proximity.

“Consequences, Your Grace?” she said, her voice scarcely above a whisper. “That sounds very much like a threat.”

He tilted his head ever so slightly, not unlike a predator observing its prey.

“I would not be so crass as to threaten a woman,” the Duke returned curtly, “but I do believe in consequences. Whether said consequences align with your original intentions… remains to be seen.”

Emma’s back stiffened. “Pardon?”

Whatever did he mean by such a cryptic remark?

Before she could prod further, the dance concluded, and the Duke bowed, precisely and without flourish. She curtsied awkwardly in response.

Then he offered his arm.

She took it feebly, and he led her across the room to where her father stood, a glass of claret in hand.

“Montrose,” the Duke greeted sternly.

“Your Grace!” Duncan exclaimed, the glass swishing to the brim as he spun to regard the pair.

Around them, the room began to stir once more. Instruments tuned for the second dance, the crowd swelled like a tide. Musicians changed sheets, partners exchanged places. As guests flitted back to the middle of the floor, the Duke, Emma, and Duncan were left in a private space.

And the Duke did not wait for ceremony.

“I have something to share,” he said, voice grave. “Until now, we have kept it close, but the time has come for it to be known.”

Duncan blinked, his gaze shifting uncertainly between the pair. “Yes… of course, Your Grace. Please, do tell.”

The Duke twisted, just slightly, toward Emma. His hand still rested atop hers where it lay on his bicep—possessive without pressure.

“As you must have read in the papers, for the past months, your daughter has held my heart in her keeping. Today, I am pleased to announce, I intend to finally take her as my wife.”