Page 64 of A Duke to Steal Her

Emily laughed, a breathless, uncertain sound. “You two make it seem so easy.”

Vincent met her gaze. “It’s not. But it is worth it.”

Across the garden, Ambrose stood in conversation, nodding at something Lord Pemberton was saying, but his eyes, unmistakably, were on her.

Ava nudged her gently. “He’s watching you like he wants to drag you into the hedgerow.”

Juliana added primly, “At least talk to him, for heaven’s sake.”

Emily’s smile deepened, her heart thudding. “I think I will.”

Back in her chambers at the townhouse, Emily paced like a caged animal. Her skin felt as though it was on fire, every nerve ending hypersensitive from the evening’s charged atmosphere. She had dismissed Martha hours ago, claiming fatigue, but sleep was the furthest thing from her mind.

The memory of Ambrose’s heated glances across the garden tormented her. The way he’d looked at her when she’d caught him staring, as though he wanted to devour her entire body right there. Every inch of her ached with a restlessness she’d never experienced, a desperate need to be touched that made her feel as though she might crawl out of her own skin.

She threw herself onto the bed, but the silk sheets only made the sensation worse, sliding against her overheated flesh like a caress.

Dear God, what is happening to me?

Emily bolted upright, her breath coming in short pants. She couldn’t bear this torment any longer. Before she could lose her courage, she was on her feet and moving toward the connecting door.

She only hesitated for a moment, but then found her courage and knocked.

“Enter.”

She found Ambrose at his desk, still in his evening clothes but with his cravat loosened, reviewing what appeared to be correspondence. He looked up as she stepped into the room, surprise flickering across his features.

“Duchess. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

She lifted her chin, fighting to keep her voice steady. “I want you to consummate our marriage.”

The quill fell from his fingers, clattering against the desktop. “I beg your pardon?”

“Just once.” The words tumbled out in a rush. “I want to know what it’s like. What other women experience. What my sisters… what married women know.”

Ambrose stared at her for a long moment, something unreadable crossing his face. Then, to her complete shock, he shook his head.

“No.”

Emily felt as though he’d slapped her. “No?”

“That’s what I said.” He rose from his chair, moving to pour himself a drink with movements that seemed deliberately casual.

“You’re refusing me?” Her voice rose with disbelief. “You, with your reputation? Your endless parade of mistresses? You’re saying no to your own wife?”

“I am.”

“Why?” The word came out strangled.

Ambrose took a sip of brandy, his green eyes unreadable. “Because I don’t intend to perform my duties just once, Emily. Not with you.”

The words hung between them like a challenge. Emily felt her composure finally crack.

“Fine,” she spat. “If you won’t do it, I will.”

She crossed the room in three swift steps and kissed him—hard, desperate, all her pent-up frustration and desire pouring into the contact.

For a heartbeat, Ambrose went rigid with surprise. Then his arms came around her, lifting her to haul her against him as he kissed her back with a passion that made her knees weak. His mouth was hot, demanding, claiming hers with an intensity that stole her breath.