Page 17 of A Duke to Steal Her

Ambrose strode from the conservatory, the glass door clicking shut behind him with finality.

His composure, so carefully maintained in Emily’s presence, threatened to crack. He needed distance—from her questions, from the memory of Lavinia that never quite faded, and from the unexpected urge to confess everything.

Her wedding day had passed. By now, Peirce would have read her letter and realized she’d fled.

Good. Let him stew.

Ambrose wanted him to feel a fraction of what Lavinia had felt when he’d abandoned and humiliated her.

But that explanation felt hollow, a convenient justification rather than the whole truth. He knew Peirce would break her. That wild spark of defiance, the one that had led her to attempt escape—it would have been extinguished, piece by piece, day by day.

Ambrose knew Peirce’s type all too well. Good at maintaining appearances while slowly crushing a woman’s spirit.

No, Lady Emily deserved better than that, even if she hadn’t yet realized it.

Ambrose arrived in the small dining room first, inspecting the arrangements with a critical eye.

The table had been set for two, with fine crystal and silver gleaming in the candlelight. He’d selected a smaller, round table rather than the long rectangular one. More intimate. Better for conversation—and for observing Lady Emily’s reactions.

Good.

He turned at the soft footfall in the doorway.

Emily stood framed by the ornate molding, wearing a blue gown that brought out the color of her eyes. He felt a strange sense of exhilaration that she’d obeyed his instructions to wear that particular dress. With her hair simply arranged, the golden strands caught the light, making her look like a Renaissance painting come to life.

“Good evening,Signorina,” he said, stepping forward. “I trust you found something of interest in the book.”

Her expression remained cool as she entered. “It was… diverting.”

He held out her chair, and she hesitated only a moment before allowing him to assist her.

Progress, of a sort.

As she took in the intimate setting and the conspicuously empty room, her brow furrowed. “Where are the staff?”

Ambrose slid into his seat directly across from her, the intimate setting of the small round table placing them much closer than proper dining etiquette would typically allow.

“I dismiss the staff when I dine with female guests,” he replied as he lifted his wine glass, his eyes never leaving hers over the rim.

The flush that rose to her cheeks was immediate and deeply satisfying.

Still, she fought to maintain composure, lifting her chin.

A footman entered with the first course. Excellent timing. He didn’t want to push too far too quickly.

Once they were served, Ambrose deliberately changed tactics.

“How do you prefer to spend your evenings,Signorina?” he asked, cutting into his roast pheasant.

Her jaw clenched visibly. “I’d prefer spending them at home rather than dining with a stranger.”

“Well,” he countered smoothly, “I’m not going to be a stranger if you get to know me.”

Something in his tone must have sparked her irritation, for she set down her fork with deliberate care. “Fine, here’s a question: Why am I still here?”

Ambrose leaned back, taking a measured sip of wine.

This was the crux of it, wasn’t it?