Page 18 of A Duke to Steal Her

“Wrong question, my dear,” he replied, his voice cool. “Try again.”

“All right.” Her gaze remained steady. “When will you release me, Your Grace?”

“Why be in a hurry to leave such fine company?” he replied smoothly.

“Company is hardly fine when it is forced. What do you want from me?” she pressed.

“Your safety is my only concern,” he deflected.

She leaned forward. “This is more than about just my safety. How long must I remain here against my will?” Her voice rose.

“You’re a guest, my lady,” he said mildly.

“Then, as a guest, I demand to be taken home. This very evening!” she snapped.

“When the time is right,” he murmured.

“And when might that be?” she fired back.

“When it’s safe for you to do so,” he smiled.

Emily’s hands clenched in her lap. “You speak in circles! Give me one straight answer—just one!”

Ambrose merely sipped his wine, maddeningly calm. “I’ve given you the only answer that matters. You’ll remain at Nightfell until I deem it right for you to leave.”

Her frustration mounted visibly, a storm gathering behind those blue eyes.

Finally, she threw up her hands. “You’re impossible.”

He shrugged, unable to suppress a smile. “Maybe. But it’s more fun that way, don’t you think?”

She made no reply, and Ambrose eyed her for a moment. Enough verbal sparring. Time to break through that carefully constructed wall.

He rose from his place, deliberately scraping his chair against the floor before dragging it around to her side of the table. The sound echoed in the quiet room, harsh and deliberate.

Her eyes narrowed as she watched him approach. “What do you think you’re doing?”

He settled beside her, close enough that his knee nearly brushed against the silk of her skirts. “Entertaining myself.”

Her chair scraped back, but she didn’t stand. “You are insufferably arrogant.”

His smile widened. There was something undeniably exhilarating about her resistance, so different from the simpering acquiescence he usually encountered.

“Careful, my lady. That tone has a way of sounding very much like fascination.”

“I amnotfascinated by you,” she snapped, color high in her cheeks. “I am furious! I don’t dine with men who lock me in rooms and speak as though I’m something to be unwrapped.”

“Would you prefer a brooding captor in the corner?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“I’d prefer to go home.”

Something about her tone struck a chord within him. He leaned forward, dropping the flirtatious pretense.

“Home?” The words came out hard. “Where you are forced to play the perfect lady? To smile, curtsy, and swallow every thought that isn’t pleasing? Where you’re to wed a man you barely know, because duty demands it? Is that where you wish to go, my lady?”

She froze, genuine shock crossing her features. He’d struck a nerve, clearly.

Good. Let her see that he understood her, perhaps better than she understood herself.