Page 44 of A Duke to Steal Her

Emily’s chin lifted. She pushed him away gently, wiping any remaining tears left on her face, and stood up. Her mouth opened—clearly about to speak—but someone in the crowd beat her to it.

“Scandalous.”

“Should’ve known?—”

“She’s trying to excuse it now.”

Ambrose caught the flash in Emily’s eyes, the way her jaw clenched. She took a step forward, not away, not hiding. Her voice rose, clear and deliberate. “I don’t need to excuse anything. Nothing happened.”

“Good God,” someone whispered.

“Her dress?—”

“—compromised—”

Emily made a sharp noise of protest, but Lady Primblebury was already shaking her head.

Ambrose surged to his feet, his body instinctively shielding Emily from their avid stares. “This is not what it appears.”

“Isn’t it?” Lady Portwich’s voice cut like steel, her wealthy widow’s authority commanding instant attention. “A lady alone with a gentleman on a dark terrace? You insult our intelligence, Your Grace. It’s clear what you and Lady Emily were about to do. Or perhaps what havealreadydone.”

Emily scoffed with indignation.

“You will watch your tongue,” Ambrose snarled, taking a step toward the crowd, but Peirce was already speaking, his voice pitched to carry.

Beside him, Emily tried again. “I was injured. The fabric tore. The duke lent me his coat, that’s all.”

But no one listened. Peirce was already speaking, loud and theatrical.

“I found them like this,” he announced with theatrical shock. “When I came to check on Lady Emily’s welfare, I discovered… well, you can see for yourselves.”

“Liar,” Ambrose growled, his hands clenching. “You bastard, you?—”

“Such language…” Lady Primblebury murmured as she lifted her fan and stirred the night air.

The crowd pressed closer, a pack of wolves scenting blood. Fans snapped open to hide whispered exchanges. Eyes devoured every detail.

“Stand back,” Ambrose commanded, his voice deadly. “All of you. Now.”

But it was too late. The damage was done, spreading through the crowd like wildfire. By morning, every drawing room in London would be buzzing with the tale.

Heavy footsteps thundered across the terrace.

“Emily!” the Duchess of Blackmoor’s voice cracked like a whip as she shouldered through the crowd, her husband close behind her.

The Marquess and Marchioness of Browning, Emily’s other sister and her brother-in-law, appeared moments later, their faces white with fury and fear.

“What the devil is going on here?” the Duke of Blackmoor demanded, then stopped as he took in the scene.

His eyes catalogued everything in an instant: Emily’s state, Ambrose’s stance, the predatory crowd.

“Get away from her,” Lord Browning snarled at Ambrose, moving to Emily’s other side.

“I didn’t do anything wrong.” Ambrose started.

“You’ve done enough,” Blackmoor’s voice was brusque. “More than enough.”

The Duchess of Blackmoor had already run beside Emily.