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

Chapter 5

Chapter Five

“ G ood morning, Your Grace,” Lady Charlotte said, her voice light but hesitant.

The storm had not abated.

Magnus sat at the head of the dining table, staring out through the rain-streaked windows.

The howling winds and relentless drumming of water on stone echoed through the castle, mirroring the storm in his thoughts.

He should not have kissed her, but he’d been quite unable to stop himself.

He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to focus on the untouched plate before him.

He was not a man given to impulsiveness, and yet she had drawn it out of him with infuriating ease. He had to maintain control, over both himself and the situation. Lady Charlotte’s presence in Thornvale was already a liability, and the storm ensured she would remain so for the foreseeable future.

As if summoned by his thoughts, the doors to the dining room opened, and Lady Charlotte had stepped inside.

Now, Magnus stiffened. Her auburn hair was loosely tied back, and she wore the same ill-fitting gown from the night before. The fabric clung tightly to her figure, emphasizing her curves in ways that made his blood heat against his will.

He forced himself to look away, schooling his features into a mask of indifference.

There was a faint pinkness to her cheeks that made him suspect she, too, had spent the night thinking of their encounter.

“Lady Charlotte,” he greeted, his tone curt, “good morning.”

An awkward silence followed as she moved to take her seat at the far end of the table. The cavernous dining room seemed even larger with just the two of them, and the absence of conversation made the space feel oppressive.

Magnus focused on his tea, willing the silence to persist, but Lady Charlotte, it seemed, had other plans.

“I am surprised a man of such grandeur such as yourself doesn’t have a breakfast room,” she said, her voice laced with the maddening mockery she used so often.

His gaze flickered to her, and he answered reluctantly. “There is a breakfast room, My Lady. I simply prefer to break my fast here. Perhaps you’d like to see it for yourself.”

“The toast and marmalade is here, Your Grace,” she retorted. “And I wouldn’t dare go exploring your house without your permission.”

“Of course, you wouldn’t,” he muttered, thinking this entire thing was her own fault.

Had she not wandered around with that thin, tight nightgown in the middle of the night, he never would have… Had she not tried to burst into the church…

Her knife scraped against the toast as she spread her marmalade, the jam almost as thick as the bread itself. The crunch as she bit into it filled the silence, and Magnus watched as she licked the stickiness from the corner of her lips.

“Storms like this are quite unusual for this time of year, aren’t they?” she said once she’d swallowed, her voice carefully casual.

Magnus raised an eyebrow, glancing up at her. He wondered if she would always associate him with storms now, as if his family’s curse could somehow control the clouds.

“Unusual, yes. But not unheard of.”

He returned his gaze to the raging storm, trying not to think of the past. Thinking about it was dangerously close to consuming him.

At the other end of the table, Lady Charlotte nodded, fiddling with her napkin. “I suppose it must be inconvenient, though. Being stranded here.”

His grip on his teacup tightened.

Inconvenient wasn’t the word he’d use to describe her presence though it was certainly apt in its own way.

“It does complicate matters,” he said evenly. “I had intended to send a message to your family this morning to inform them of your whereabouts, but the storm has made that impossible. The roads are impassable.”

Lady Charlotte’s gaze was fixed on her plate, her lips curved into a wry smile.

“No matter,” she said, her tone laced with bitterness. “They’ve likely not even noticed I’m gone.”

Magnus frowned, her words tugging at something inside him.

“What? Surely they’ve noticed that their own daughter is missing,” he said.

She glanced up, and for a fleeting moment, he saw something vulnerable in her expression—a crack in the armor of confidence she so carefully maintained. But then it was gone, replaced by a bright, false smile.

“Never mind, Your Grace,” she said lightly. “It is hardly worth discussing over breakfast.”

He wanted to press her, to uncover what lay beneath her words, but the tightness of her jaw and the way she quickly shifted her attention to the teacup before her gave him pause. Whatever it was, she clearly did not wish to speak of it.

“Very well,” he said after a moment, leaning back in his chair.

“This weather…” she began again, clearly wishing to change the subject, “it does seem to have a way of shaking things up.”

Magnus stilled, her words landing with deliberate precision. She didn’t look at him, but he caught the faintest smirk tugging at her lips as she buttered a second piece of toast.

“Indeed,” he said, his tone cool. “It seems you have developed a habit of being in the wrong place during such shaking moments.”

Her eyes sparkled as she finally glanced up at him. “Perhaps I just have a knack for finding the excitement in life. Not all of us are content to sit quietly in solitude.”

Magnus leaned forward, his dark gaze fixed on hers. “Sometimes solitude is necessary, Lady Charlotte. It keeps one from making mistakes.”

More mistakes.

“And sometimes solitude is just another word for loneliness,” she countered, her voice soft but pointed.

The words hit harder than they should have. Magnus’ jaw tightened, and he looked away, forcing himself to focus on the storm outside.

“You seem very sure of yourself,” he said, his voice colder now. “It must be quite the burden, knowing better than everyone else.”

Her laugh was soft, almost teasing. “I don’t claim to know better, Your Grace. I simply don’t see the point in denying what’s already happened. The thunder last night… it has a way of bringing things to light, doesn’t it?”

He stiffened, the memory of their kiss flashing through his mind.

She was toying with him, testing the limits of his restraint, and he found himself dangerously close to losing it.

He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, another loud clap of thunder shook the room, rattling the windows.

Do not play with fire, Thornvale .

So, he kept his mouth shut.

After breakfast, Magnus kept a watchful eye as Lady Charlotte left the dining room, her steps brisk and purposeful.

He knew that look. She wasn’t going back to her room; she was planning to explore. Why, if she had simply asked, he would have given her the full tour, but it seemed that asking was not in Lady Charlotte’s nature.

With a resigned sigh, he followed her. If she was going to roam about Thornvale, she might as well do so under his supervision. The last thing he needed was for her to stumble into some forgotten corner of the castle and injure herself—or worse, uncover something best left hidden.

He caught up with her as she paused near a suit of armor in one of the long halls, her candlelight from the night before now replaced by the pale morning light streaming through high, narrow windows.

He watched her from behind, the too-tight gown showing every curve of her hips. His fingers itched to grab her there, to pull her against him and use her as he had so almost done the night before.

“Lady Charlotte,” he called out, his tone sharp, shooing away his sinful thoughts.

She turned, clearly unrepentant. “Your Grace,” she replied with an exaggerated sweetness, “to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“If you insist on prowling through my home, you might as well do it with a guide,” Magnus said, his voice clipped. He gestured for her to follow him. “I’d rather not have to fish you out of some hidden passage.”

She raised an eyebrow but fell into step beside him. “How very kind of you. I had no idea you cared so much for my well-being.”

“I don’t,” he retorted dryly. “But I do care for my peace of mind. The castle is very old and as such, very dangerous if you don’t know where you’re going.”

They walked in silence for a moment, the sounds of their footsteps echoing in the empty halls. Magnus kept his gaze forward, resisting the urge to look at her. He could feel her glancing at him, though, her curiosity practically radiating off her.

“This place must have an interesting history,” she said, breaking the silence. “You say it’s old?”

“Thornvale has stood for over three centuries,” Magnus replied curtly, the reply a practiced one. “It was built by my ancestors and has been passed down through generations.”

“Your ancestors must have been very proud,” she mused. “You inherited that from them, didn’t you, Your Grace?”

Her question was simple, but it cut deeper than it should have. “Pride is irrelevant. It is my responsibility.”

Charlotte frowned, clearly dissatisfied with his answer. “And what of your family? Did they share your pragmatic outlook?”

Magnus stiffened. “My family is none of your concern, Lady Charlotte.”

She blinked, and her response was almost apologetic. “I never said it was. I was simply making conversation.”

Magnus stopped abruptly as they entered a room filled with paintings.

The walls were lined with portraits and landscapes, many of them centuries old.

His breath quickened, his brain racing with how he could lead her away from this room—but Lady Charlotte wandered ahead, her gaze sweeping over the art.

She paused in front of one painting hidden behind a heavy curtain, the only covered piece in the room.

He’d known she would.

“And this one?” she asked, tilting her head. “Why is it hidden?”

Magnus’s jaw tightened. “That is none of your concern,” he said firmly.

Charlotte turned to face him, her eyes narrowing slightly. “You do like saying that, don’t you?”

His gaze lingered on the curtain for a moment longer than he intended. The sight of it still made his chest tighten.

He forced his feet to move, leading her away before the memories could take hold.

“There are other pieces far worthier of your attention,” he said over his shoulder. “This way.”

She lingered a moment longer before following though Magnus could feel her questions lingering in the air like the faint scent of the storm.

As they continued their tour, Charlotte’s persistence was admirable, if infuriating, and it wasn’t long before she brought up Christian and Lavinia again.

“I still don’t understand,” she said, her voice edging with frustration. “Why would someone like you care so much about ensuring a man like Lord Arkley marries my best friend? What’s in it for you?”

Magnus stopped, turning to face her.

The sunlight streaming through the high windows cast sharp shadows across his face, accentuating the tension in his jaw, the colored glass sending a scattered rainbow across the stone floor.

“You’re making assumptions again, Lady Charlotte,” he said, his tone low. “Assumptions based on a story you don’t fully know.”

“Then tell me,” she challenged, stepping closer. “Explain it to me.”

Magnus looked at her, his gaze intense. She was standing too close, her chin tilted defiantly, her eyes burning with determination. He could smell the faint lavender of her perfume, feel the heat radiating from her.

His pulse quickened against his will, but he warned himself not to do it again. Not to kiss her.

“There are some things better left to be forgotten,” he said, his voice quieter now but no less firm.

Her expression softened, her lips parting as if she might say something else. They were so close that he could feel her breath against his skin, and for a moment, the rest of the world seemed to fade away.

The pull between them was undeniable, magnetic, and he found himself leaning just slightly closer.

But then he caught himself.

Magnus stepped back abruptly, breaking the moment. “I need to get back to work,” he said, his voice brisk and detached.

Charlotte blinked, startled by the sudden shift. “Of course, Your Grace,” she said, her tone cool but faintly tinged with disappointment.

Without another word, Magnus turned and walked away, his strides purposeful.

He didn’t look back, but he could feel her gaze lingering on him, as heavy and tangible as the storm clouds pressing against Thornvale’s ancient walls.

Lady Charlotte, he realized, was dangerous—not because of what she had done but because of what she made him want to do.