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

Chapter 6

Chapter Six

“ Y ou are remarkably dedicated to your friend,” he said, his tone measured but not entirely free of reproach. “To risk your own reputation in such a way. I will admit, it is admirable if somewhat reckless.”

The dining hall at Thornvale was as cavernous and imposing as ever, the flickering candlelight failing to warm the cold, stony atmosphere.

Charlotte sat at one end of the long dining table.

Across from her, the Duke sat stiff-backed and silent, his expression as inscrutable as always.

The tension was palpable. They had barely spoken since the tour that morning, and the weight of everything that had happened hung heavy in the air.

Charlotte stabbed at her roast with more force than necessary. Her fork scraped noisily across the plate. She ripped the bird from it with her teeth and chewed furiously.

She wanted to leave, to return home. She wanted to no longer be his captive.

And yet I don’t at the same time.

Charlotte’s fork clattered against her plate as she set it down.

She met his gaze.

“Better to act recklessly than to sit back and watch as people make terrible mistakes,” she retorted, unable to mask the strained harshness in her voice.

The Duke raised an eyebrow, his lips pressing into a thin line. “You presume, as always, to know better than those around you. Perhaps your friend’s decision is not the mistake you think it is.”

“Or perhaps it is exactly what I think it is,” she snapped. “A mistake she will live to regret and one I refused to let her make without at least trying to stop it.”

She snatched up her wine glass and drank back its contents. A rich and smoky merlot. At least the man had a decent wine cellar, even if she did find him infuriating.

As soon as she placed the glass down on the table, the butler stepped forward from the shadows and refilled it.

The Duke leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable, and he fiddled with the spoon that lay next to his plate, the silver sending sparks of light across the dull ceiling.

“You are stubborn to a fault, Lady Charlotte,” he muttered though loud enough for her to hear.

“And you are insufferably passive,” she retorted, her irritation bubbling to the surface. “You speak as though standing idly by is some great virtue, as though doing nothing absolves you of responsibility.”

The Duke’s gaze hardened, a flicker of something—anger, perhaps—breaking through his composed exterior.

“It is not passivity,” he said sharply. “It is understanding the weight of one’s actions. Sometimes, people must make difficult choices for the greater good.”

A loud crack of thunder rolled through the room as their voices rose, the storm outside matching the charged energy between them.

Charlotte leaned forward, her hands curling into fists on the table. “You speak like a man who doesn’t care about anyone. As though people are just pawns to be moved around on a chessboard.”

For the first time, the Duke’s calm cracked. He sat forward, his eyes locking onto hers with a sudden intensity that made her breath catch.

“And you speak like someone who has never had to make a choice that leaves you hollow,” he said, his voice low and cold. “You sit there, judging me, as though you have the faintest idea of what it means to carry the weight of an entire legacy on your shoulders.”

The words struck like a blow, but Charlotte refused to back down.

“I know more about burdens than you think, Your Grace,” she said, her voice trembling slightly but no less defiant. “Do not lecture me on what it means to bear them.”

The Duke’s jaw tightened, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the edge of the table. His eyes then darkened, a flicker of something dangerous curling at the edges of his smirk as he leaned in.

“Burdens?” he drawled, his voice low and edged with mockery. “What burdens? The color of your ribbons or the seating chart at supper that keeps you awake at night?”

Charlotte could take it no longer. With a sharp movement, she pushed her chair back and stood.

“You are impossible,” she said, her voice taut with frustration. “I don’t know why I even try.”

Without waiting for a reply, she turned on her heel and strode out of the dining hall, her footsteps echoing in the empty space.

Charlotte stormed down the dimly lit corridor, her footsteps echoing sharply against the stone floor.

The audacity of him!

She didn’t care if he was a duke or the king himself—his arrogance was unbearable. Her cheeks burned with frustration, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

“Lady Charlotte,” his voice called from behind her, low and commanding.

She ignored him, quickening her pace, but the sound of his boots striking the floor grew louder as he easily closed the distance between them.

Before she could react, his hand caught her arm, pulling her to a stop.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she snapped, trying to yank her arm free.

“Preventing you from making an even bigger scene,” he growled, spinning her to face him.

His grip was firm but not painful, his dark eyes boring into hers, and again, her memory flashed to that moment he pressed her against the tree.

“For once in your life, behave like a lady.”

Charlotte stiffened, her fury boiling over. “And you,” she shot back, “should try behaving like a gentleman!”

His eyes flickered with something she couldn’t place—annoyance, amusement, perhaps even desire—and for a moment, she thought he might release her. But instead, his grip tightened briefly before he let her go, taking a deliberate step back.

The absence of his touch left an unexpected hollowness in her chest.

The Duke noticed, his expression shifting to one of sly curiosity. “What’s that look for?” he asked, his voice dangerously soft. “Disappointed, are you?”

Charlotte’s heart stuttered, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment. “Hardly,” she said, lifting her chin.

He tilted his head, studying her with a piercing intensity that made her skin prickle.

“Perhaps you liked it,” he said, his tone dropping, “when I wasn’t behaving like a gentleman.”

The words sent a shiver through her.

The Duke took a step closer, his heat palpable even through the layers of their clothing.

“Is that what you want, Lady Charlotte?” he murmured, his voice a low rumble. “For me to ruin you right here with no one to hear you scream my name?”

Charlotte’s breath caught, her pulse hammering in her ears. She knew she should slap him away, rebuke him, anything but stand there, trembling beneath the weight of his gaze.

But before she could gather her wits, his mouth was on hers.

The kiss was fierce and consuming, far more than the brief meeting of lips they’d shared the night before. His hands gripped her waist, pulling her flush against him, and she gasped into his mouth. Her hands flew up instinctively, landing against his chest, but instead of pushing him away, her fingers curled into the fabric of his tailcoat, holding him closer.

He deepened the kiss, his lips moving hungrily against hers as his hands roamed, one sliding up to cradle the back of her head while the other pressed firmly against the curve of her hip.

Charlotte melted into him, the heat of his touch searing through the thin fabric of her gown. Her knees threatened to buckle, and she clung to him for support, her head spinning with a whirlwind of sensations.

When his hand slid down her back, his fingers grazing the curve just above her bottom, a small gasp escaped her lips.

He broke the kiss then, his breath hot against her cheek as he pulled back just enough to look at her.

“You’re trembling,” he said, his voice husky, his gaze dark with desire.

“And whose fault is that?” she managed, her voice shaking but laced with defiance.

His lips quirked into the barest hint of a smirk.

“Is this what you want?” he said, his hand lingering at her waist.

Charlotte’s heart raced, her chest heaving as she searched his eyes.

“D-do not stop,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

The words seemed to snap something in him. He kissed her again, harder this time, his hands exploring her curves with a boldness that made her pulse pound.

One hand slid up her side, brushing the outer swell of her breast, and she shivered under his touch, her body arching into him as though drawn by some unseen force.

Just as the tension reached its peak, a sudden crack of thunder rolled through the castle, shaking the walls. The sound seemed to jolt them both back to reality.

Magnus froze, his hands still on her, his forehead resting against hers as they both caught their breath.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then, with a low curse, he stepped back, his hands falling away from her as though burned.

“This was a mistake,” he said, his voice strained.

Charlotte’s chest tightened, disappointment warring with indignation.

“You said that last time,” she said, her voice sharper than she intended. “Yet you did it again.”

His expression became once again cold and unreadable.

“Go back to your room, Lady Charlotte,” he said finally, his tone firm but not unkind.

She stared at him for another long moment, but he kept his head lowered, his gaze patently avoiding hers.

What on earth am I doing?

With her breath heavy and her thoughts racing, she turned and dashed away.