Stolen by the Cursed Duke (Stolen by the Duke #3)

Chapter 4

Chapter Four

T he storm raged on outside, its relentless winds rattling the windows and sending the occasional gust through the old stone walls of the castle.

Charlotte lay in the massive bed, her body cocooned by the thick covers, but sleep evaded her.

The soft glow of the fire in the hearth cast dancing shadows across the room, yet even its warmth couldn’t settle her restless thoughts.

The events of the evening replayed in her mind. The Duke’s sharp gaze, the tension in his voice, and the electric energy that had charged the space between them. Not to mention of the fact that he had, for all intents and purposes, kidnapped her. Her irritation with him was matched only by her intrigue, and it left her feeling unsettled.

“That’s enough,” she huffed and threw back the covers.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed. The chill of the wooden floor against her bare feet was a stark contrast to the oppressive heat of her thoughts.

She grabbed the candlestick from the bedside table and lit it with some effort using the embers from the fire.

“Surely there’s a library around here somewhere,” she muttered to herself.

The corridors of Thornvale Castle were eerily quiet, the flickering light from her candle casting long, shifting shadows against the stone walls.

Charlotte kept her steps as light as possible, her heart thudding in her chest with every creak of the floorboards. The storm masked most of the sound, but she still glanced behind her now and then.

She tried to recall the rooms she’d seen earlier. The grand entrance hall, the dining room, the endless corridors that seemed to wind like a labyrinth. But one place stood out in her memory: the study. During her arrival, she had caught a glimpse of its tall bookshelves through the door which stood ajar.

When she reached the study, she was relieved to find the door unlocked.

“Yes,” she whispered in relief as she slipped inside, gently closing it behind her.

The room was quiet, save for the muffled sound of the storm outside.

Charlotte lit a few more candles, their warm light revealing the space in greater detail.

The bookshelves stretched high, filled with leather-bound volumes whose spines gleamed in the golden glow. She walked slowly along the shelves, her fingers brushing lightly against the rows of books, her eyes scanning the titles.

To her surprise, the Duke’s collection was quite similar to her own tastes: philosophy, poetry, and works of fiction she hadn’t expected to find in a man so cold and calculated.

She pulled out a volume of Keats, briefly flipping through the pages, the familiar words bringing a small smile to her lips. She set it aside and continued to browse, her gaze wandering around the room.

The study was remarkably different from the rest of the castle. While the rest of Thornvale seemed designed to intimidate with its imposing architecture and dark grandeur while this room was warm and inviting.

The furniture was richly upholstered but well-used, the dark green velvet of the armchairs softened by age. A heavy desk stood near the window, its surface cluttered with papers, a quill, and an inkwell. The walls were adorned with paintings—landscapes full of life and color, portraits that seemed to pulse with emotion.

Charlotte tilted her head, studying one of them closely. It was a depiction of a woman in a sunlit garden, her expression serene but distant, as though lost in thought. The artist had captured her with remarkable tenderness.

She frowned, glancing back at the books and then at the room as a whole. How could a man so cold, so detached, create such a haven of warmth? The contradictions made her all the more curious.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

The voice, low and sharp, sent a jolt through her.

Charlotte spun around, clutching the candlestick tightly as her heart leapt into her throat.

The Duke stood in the doorway, his dark figure framed by the flickering light. His shirt was open at the collar, his hair slightly tousled, as though he had been roused from restless sleep. His eyes, however, were wide awake, their piercing gaze fixed on her, his expression unreadable.

He is always so unreadable.

“I—I couldn’t sleep,” Charlotte stammered, her usual confidence faltering under his scrutiny. “The storm…”

Her words trailed off, her mind caught in the gap of his unbuttoned shirt. Her eyes were drawn there, unable to resist the flash of tempting flesh.

She suddenly wondered what he would taste like if she were to touch him there.

“So I see,” he replied, eyeing her as openly.

She allowed her hand to drop to her side, the candelabra no longer hiding her.

She wore only a thin nightgown and shawl, brought to her by the kind Mrs. Manning, and her hair fell loose down her shoulders.

No man had ever seen her in this state, not even a footman, let alone a tall and commanding man like the Duke.

She gulped.

“What that doesn’t explain, however,” he said, his jaw tight as he spoke, “is why you are here in my study. What do you think you are doing, Lady Charlotte?”

She held up the book. “I thought perhaps I’d find something to?—”

“How dare you roam about my castle without permission,” he roared, his anger propelling him to stride toward her.

Charlotte straightened, lifting her chin. “I was looking for something to read. Surely that isn’t a crime, Your Grace.”

The Duke placed his own candle down then took the candelabra from her.

“A crime, no, but that still doesn’t give you the right to go through my personal belongings,” he said, moving closer. “Were you merely looking for a book, or were you looking for something else?”

His words hung in the air, heavy with insinuation. Charlotte felt her cheeks flush, but she refused to back down.

“I wasn’t looking for anything other than a distraction. Your collection is quite impressive, by the way.”

The Duke raised an eyebrow. He reached forward and slipped the book from her hands. The brush of his fingers against hers sent an unexpected shiver down her spine.

She hoped he hadn’t noticed, but his eyes glinted with something dark. She tightened her grip on the desk behind her, willing her heartbeat to slow.

“Keats. I wouldn’t have guessed,” he said.

“There’s much you don’t know about me, Your Grace,” she replied, meeting his gaze with equal intensity. “Perhaps you ought to try talking to me as an equal and not as some unruly child.”

“And there is much you don’t know about me,” he countered. “You might start by asking permission before invading my private spaces. Your inability to behave really does know no bounds.”

Charlotte leaned back against the edge of the desk, gripping it tighter, though there was no fear in her. There was something intoxicating about being this close to him, about the way his presence filled the room. His scent filled her nostrils, something earthy and rich.

“If I were to ask permission,” she said, “would you have granted it?”

The corner of his mouth quirked upward in the faintest hint of a smile. “No.”

“As I expected.” She stepped back toward the bookshelves, her heart hammering as she fought to maintain her composure. “I’ll put this back and leave you to your solitude. I don’t wish to disturb you.”

“You have already disturbed my solitude,” he said, his tone cool but edged with something darker. “You may as well stay.”

Charlotte straightened, bristling at his dismissive tone. “And yet you insist on blaming me for your lack of solitude, as though I control the storm that brought me here. How very convenient.”

He arched an eyebrow, his gaze narrowing. “Convenient or not, you have made yourself my problem, Lady Charlotte. And if I were to choose between solitude and hosting a stubborn, headstrong guest who cannot seem to follow the simplest of rules, I’d hardly consider it a choice at all.”

Her eyes flashed, and she took a step closer, chin tilted defiantly. “Perhaps you ought to learn how to treat your guests with something resembling courtesy, Your Grace.”

“Courtesy,” he repeated, his voice low and laced with derision. “Do you mean the courtesy of letting a young lady barge into a church uninvited and ruin her friend’s wedding? Or the courtesy of offering shelter to someone who seems intent on ruining my peace at every turn?”

Her hands clenched at her sides. “I am not the one who threw someone over my shoulder like a savage and forced them into a carriage!”

“And yet here you are,” he said, his voice cutting. “Warm, safe, and still managing to argue with the man who made that possible.”

She glared at him, her cheeks flushing with frustration. “If you think that makes you some sort of savior, you’re sorely mistaken.”

Magnus stepped closer, his towering frame casting a shadow over her. “And if you think you can challenge me in my own home and come out the victor, you are even more deluded than I thought.”

They stood close now, the tension between them taut as a drawn bowstring. Charlotte’s breath quickened though whether it was from anger or something else entirely, she couldn’t say.

His emerald eyes burned into hers, daring her to break the standoff.

“And yet,” he said, his voice dropping to a low rumble, “you haven’t left. Perhaps you enjoy this game more than you admit.”

Her lips parted in a retort, but he cut her off, leaning in slightly, his gaze unrelenting.

“Unless, of course,” he added, his tone quieter now but no less intense, “you’re afraid of being alone with me.”

Her breath caught at the challenge in his voice, low and inviting. Was she afraid of being alone with him? Perhaps. But fear wasn’t the only thing coursing through her veins.

Charlotte tilted her head slightly, her lips curling into a sly smile. “Afraid, Your Grace? Of you?” she said, her voice tinged with mockery. “Hardly.”

The Duke’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of something primal flashing in their depths. He stepped closer, closing the distance between them. Charlotte’s breath quickened, but she refused to back away, holding her ground as he loomed over her.

“And yet, here you are,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous. “Creeping about my study in the dead of night, dressed like…”

His eyes flicked down her body, taking in the thin nightgown and shawl, a size too small as the gown had been.

He let the sentence hang, his meaning clear.

“Dressed like what?” Charlotte shot back, her chin lifting in defiance. “Say it, Your Grace. Or is the great Duke of Thornvale too much of a coward to speak plainly?”

His lips twitched, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner. “Careful, Lady Charlotte. You might find that provoking me has consequences.”

Her heart thundered in her chest, but it wasn’t fear driving her now. It was something hotter, sharper—a thrill she didn’t entirely understand.

“And what would those consequences be, Your Grace?” she challenged, her boldness belying the shake she felt inside.

The tension between them snapped taut like a bowstring. The Duke closed the final space between them, his hands coming to rest on either side of the desk behind her, caging her in.

Charlotte’s breath hitched, her pulse pounding in her ears. His scent surrounded her, heady and intoxicating.

“You do not wish to know,” he said, his breath rushing across her face in a hot torrent.

“Try me,” she replied, her voice steady even as her knees threatened to buckle.

For a moment, time seemed to still. Then, without warning, the Duke’s mouth crashed down onto hers.

It was not a gentle kiss but fierce and consuming, his lips claiming hers with an urgency that took her breath away. Charlotte froze for the briefest second before she gave in, her body melting against his as her hands slid up to grasp the front of his shirt.

He tasted like wine and something darker, more dangerous, and she found herself wanting more. His hands moved to her waist, pulling her closer, and she let out a soft gasp against his lips. The heat between them was undeniable, a wildfire blazing out of control.

Just as his hand moved to cup her cheek, a deafening clap of thunder shook the room. The windows rattled violently, and the candles flickered, plunging them momentarily into near darkness.

The spell was broken.

The Duke pulled back abruptly, his chest heaving as he stared down at her. His expression was a war of emotions—desire, frustration, and something she couldn’t quite place. But as quickly as it had come, it was gone, replaced by the cold, unyielding mask he wore so well.

“You should go back to your room,” he said, his voice low and clipped.

Charlotte blinked, still caught in the haze of the kiss. “I?—”

“Now,” he said sharply, his tone brooking no argument.

She opened her mouth to protest, but the words died on her tongue as she saw the steely resolve in his eyes.

Reluctantly, she stepped away from him, her hands trembling as she smoothed her nightgown.

With a final, heated glance back at him, Charlotte turned and left the study, her heart still racing as she made her way back to her room.