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

Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

“ T here you are, Charlotte,” her mother said sharply, her eyes flicking over her daughter with disapproval. “Lady Clifton, do excuse me, but I must borrow her for a moment. There are some ladies I’d like her to meet.”

When Charlotte and Lady Clifton returned to the main ballroom, the music had softened to a waltz, and the air buzzed with murmurs and laughter.

Charlotte had hoped to stay close to her grandmother, but Lady Shelton intercepted them before she could slip away.

Lady Clifton raised an elegant brow but said nothing, giving Charlotte’s hand a reassuring squeeze before stepping away.

Charlotte, on the other hand, could already feel the tension rising in her chest.

Lady Shelton wasted no time, guiding Charlotte toward a group of women standing near the refreshment table.

Their dresses were exquisite, their hair arranged in perfect ringlets, and their laughter tinkled like tiny bells.

Charlotte recognized some of them—Miss Frances Evans among them, the daughter of Viscount Ripley. She was known for her impeccable taste, her sharp tongue, and her relentless ambition.

“Ladies,” Lady Shelton said with a bright smile, pulling Charlotte forward. “May I present my daughter, Lady Charlotte. I believe most of you are already acquainted.”

The women turned, their gazes cool and assessing as they took in Charlotte’s presence. One or two nodded politely, but the rest exchanged glances, their smiles more wary than welcoming.

“It’s a pleasure to see you all again,” Charlotte said, curtsying lightly.

She could feel their judgment in the way their eyes lingered on her gown, her hair, the faint flush of color in her cheeks.

The conversation resumed, and Charlotte stood on the periphery, listening as the women discussed the latest fashions, the best modistes, and which hair oils produced the best sheen.

It was vapid and predictable, and Charlotte felt as though she were suffocating.

Finally, she decided to interject. “Have any of you read The Virtues of Modern Philosophy ?” she asked, hoping to steer the conversation toward something more engaging.

The group fell silent. A few of the ladies exchanged puzzled looks while one stifled a giggle.

“Is that the name of a novel?” one of them asked hesitantly.

Charlotte’s stomach sank. “No, it’s not a novel. It’s a recent essay collection. I found it quite thought-provoking.”

“How fascinating,” Miss Evans drawled, stepping forward. Her lips curved into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Though I can’t say I have ever heard of it. Books like that are so dreadfully dry, aren’t they?”

Charlotte resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “That depends on one’s taste, I suppose.”

Miss Evans tilted her head, her sharp gaze locking onto Charlotte.

“Oh, forgive me, Lady Charlotte—I haven’t yet congratulated you on your engagement. What a splendid match! Lord Kinfield is quite the catch.”

There was something saccharine in her tone, and Charlotte knew immediately that it wasn’t a compliment.

Miss Evans had eyes for Kinfield—of that, she was certain.

“Thank you,” Charlotte said tersely. “It was all rather sudden.”

Miss Evans’ smile widened. “Indeed, it must have been. He and I have known each other for years. He’s quite the conversationalist, wouldn’t you agree?”

Charlotte bristled, her hands tightening around her fan. “That depends on the conversation.”

One of the other ladies cleared her throat, clearly uncomfortable with the tension.

“Speaking of gentlemen,” she said quickly, “have you noticed how many eligible bachelors are present tonight? It seems the season is off to a very promising start.”

“Indeed,” Miss Evans said, her voice carrying just enough weight to draw everyone’s attention. “Even the Duke of Thornvale is in attendance tonight.”

She smirked, her tone dipping into mockery.

“I must say, he is quite the enigmatic figure. A brooding duke with a tarnished reputation? It’s practically a gothic novel come to life.”

The other ladies tittered behind their fans, their whispers thick with mockery.

“Does he ever smile?” one of them asked. “I heard he was cursed. Something about all the brides in his family’s history meeting tragic ends.”

“And wasn’t his father…” another began, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “… killed in a duel?”

Miss Evans gasped theatrically. “And his uncle too, if I recall. Honestly, one wonders if Thornvale has any luck at all. Perhaps his broodiness is hereditary.”

Charlotte’s stomach churned as the women laughed, their words venomous and shallow. She felt a strange surge of defensiveness rise within her though she barely understood why.

She glanced across the room and, to her dismay, found the Duke watching her again.

His expression was as unreadable as ever, but there was something about the intensity of his gaze that made her heart quicken.

He looks as though he’s hunting.

She quickly turned her attention back to the group, her pulse thrumming in her ears.

“What did you all think of The Duchess’ Deceit ?” she asked, her voice cutting through their laughter. “It’s the talk of the season. Surely you have seen it.”

The women exchanged more uncertain glances, and Charlotte was yet again proven to not fit in with the crowd.

One of them finally spoke. “Oh, yes. The costumes were lovely,” she said with an airy laugh. “The actress who played the Duchess looked so elegant.”

“And the set design,” another added hastily. “So grand and intricate.”

Charlotte blinked, realizing none of them had paid any attention to the story itself.

“Yes, but what about the themes? The way it explores loyalty and betrayal—didn’t you find it truly fascinating?”

The group fell silent, their discomfort palpable.

Miss Evans seized the moment, her smile sharp. “I didn’t care much for it to be honest. A bit too ambitious for my taste. But then, I have never been one for overly dramatic tales.”

Charlotte opened her mouth to respond, but Miss Evans wasn’t finished.

“Speaking of ambition,” she said with a sly tilt of her head, “Lady Charlotte, how was your trip to France? I imagine your aunt must have had her hands full, teaching you all those proper manners.”

A few of the women stifled giggles, their glances darting between Charlotte and Miss Evans like spectators awaiting a duel.

Charlotte’s cheeks burned, but she forced a calm smile. “My aunt was very gracious,” she said evenly. “She didn’t need to teach me much at all.”

“Really?” Miss Evans replied, feigning surprise. “How fortunate for her. I must admit, I was curious how Lord Kinfield would handle such spirited behavior. But perhaps he enjoys a challenge?”

The thinly veiled insult cut deep, but Charlotte was ready with a retort when her mother’s hand landed firmly on her arm.

“That’s enough, Charlotte,” Lady Shelton said in a low, warning tone. She turned to the group with a polite smile. “My daughter is still adjusting to her new circumstances. You must forgive her.”

Charlotte swallowed the bitter taste in her mouth, the humiliation pressing down on her like a weight. She felt like a fish out of water, floundering in a world where she would never belong.

“I need some air,” she murmured, forcing a smile as she stepped back. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll fetch some lemonade.”

Lady Shelton’s gaze was sharp, but she didn’t stop her, and Charlotte turned on her heel, walking briskly toward the refreshment table.

She needed a moment to breathe, to escape the oppressive weight of expectation and judgment that seemed to follow her everywhere.

Charlotte wove her way through the crowd, her steps brisk as she headed toward the refreshment table.

Her cheeks still burned from Miss Evans’ pointed remarks, and she longed for a moment of solitude. Perhaps a cool glass of lemonade would help wash away her lingering frustration.

“Charlotte, my dear!” came the familiar voice of Lady Clifton, halting her mid-stride.

Charlotte turned to see her grandmother approaching with none other than Lady Galbury at her side.

The two dowagers moved with an effortless grace, their heads held high and their gowns whispering against the polished floor. Despite their advanced years, there was an unmistakable air of mischief about them.

“Grandmother,” Charlotte greeted, her tone warm despite her unease. “Lady Galbury.”

She dipped into a quick curtsy.

“Well, I must say, you look radiant, my dear,” Lady Galbury said, her gaze keen and observant. “That gown suits you beautifully.”

“Thank you, Lady Galbury,” Charlotte replied though her cheeks flushed a deeper pink.

She prayed the conversation wouldn’t veer toward the Duke of Thornvale, especially not in front of her grandmother. She wasn’t sure she could bear the humiliation.

But to her relief, Lady Galbury seemed disinclined to mention him. Instead, she chatted amiably about the ball, the music and the amusing antics of certain guests. Lady Clifton chimed in with her own observations, and Charlotte found herself relaxing in their company, even managing a genuine laugh at one of Lady Clifton’s witticisms about an overly enthusiastic dance partner.

As the conversation reached a lull, Lady Galbury gestured toward the refreshment table. “But look at me, keeping you from your task. I believe you were on your way to fetch a drink?”

Charlotte nodded, grateful for the excuse to escape. “Yes, I was just about to get some lemonade.”

“Well, don’t let us stop you,” Lady Clifton said, her tone warm but firm. “You mustn’t let these old hens keep you from your refreshment.”

“Old hens, indeed,” Lady Galbury echoed with a soft chuckle. “Go on, my dear. We’ll still be here when you return.”

Charlotte dipped her head in thanks and turned to leave, her steps lighter now. As she moved away, a soft burst of laughter reached her ears, and she glanced back over her shoulder.

The two dowagers were huddled together, their heads close as they giggled like schoolgirls. Lady Clifton said something too low for Charlotte to catch, but whatever it was sent Lady Galbury into another fit of laughter.

Charlotte shook her head with a small smile, her spirits lifting slightly.

Whatever had amused them so much, she could only hope it didn’t involve her—or a certain brooding duke.

Magnus stood at the refreshment table, his tall frame casting a shadow over the delicate crystal glasses and polished silver platters. He wasn’t particularly thirsty, but it was the one corner of the ballroom where he could momentarily escape the clamor of inane chatter.

That was, until she appeared.

Lady Charlotte’s unmistakable presence disrupted his solitude as she approached, her determined strides betraying a storm of emotions beneath her carefully composed exterior.

Her auburn hair caught the light, making her look every bit the fiery storm he remembered.

Magnus allowed his gaze to linger on her for a fraction too long before offering her a single nod, his expression impassive as he pushed away yet more inappropriate thoughts.

She froze for a heartbeat, clearly taken aback by his lack of reaction. Then, her lips pressed into a thin line, her irritation unmistakable.

“Your Grace,” she said crisply, dipping her head in the barest semblance of courtesy.

“Lady Charlotte,” he replied, his tone cool.

“Charming as ever, I see,” she said, her voice laced with sarcasm.

Magnus raised an eyebrow. “And you are as predictable as ever. Tell me, do you plan to start another argument, or is this your attempt at polite conversation?”

Charlotte’s cheeks flushed. “Why would I argue with someone who is clearly too set in his ways to listen?”

Magnus smirked, taking a slow sip from his glass. “And yet here you are, speaking to me.”

Before she could retort, the clinking of a familiar voice reached them.

“Ah, Your Grace.” Lady Shelton’s polite but hesitant greeting broke through their tense exchange.

Magnus turned to see Lady Shelton approaching with Lord Kinfield at her side, her grip on the man’s arm a little too tight. She offered Magnus a tentative smile though her wariness was evident.

Even as the Cursed Duke , his title still carried weight, especially among women like her who thrived on appearances and reputations.

His gaze swept over Kinfield with distaste. He’d never much liked the man, and he didn’t really understand why Lady Charlotte should want to marry him. But he supposed it was none of his business.

“Lady Shelton,” Magnus said politely, inclining his head in acknowledgment.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” Lady Shelton replied, her gaze darting nervously to Lady Charlotte, who stood stiffly at Magnus’ side. “I see you have already had the pleasure of meeting my daughter.”

Magnus’ lips twitched in amusement. “Indeed, we’ve crossed paths.”

Lord Kinfield stepped forward, ever the picture of polished vanity.

“Your Grace,” he said smoothly, bowing his head. “A pleasure to see you here tonight.”

Magnus offered a curt nod but said nothing, his piercing gaze landing briefly on Lady Charlotte before settling back on Kinfield. The man exuded an air of self-importance that grated on Magnus’ nerves.

Lady Shelton cleared her throat, her discomfort palpable. “I was just telling Lord Kinfield how delighted we are about his recent engagement to my daughter. Such a fortuitous match, wouldn’t you agree?”

Magnus felt a flicker of something sharp and unwelcome stir within him. His jaw tightened, but he quickly masked his reaction with a sardonic smile.

“Indeed. Congratulations, Lord Kinfield,” he said, his tone clipped and devoid of warmth.

Lord Kinfield puffed up, his chest practically swelling with pride. “Thank you, Your Grace. Lady Charlotte and I are most fortunate, are we not?”

Magnus glanced at Lady Charlotte, who stood silently, her gaze fixed on some point in the distance as though trying to escape the moment. The sight of her so subdued, so unlike herself, only fueled the simmering irritation in his chest.

“Fortunate, indeed,” Magnus said, his words sharp enough to cut though it was plain to see that only one of the parties was anything close to fortunate.

Lady Shelton shifted uncomfortably, her fan fluttering nervously in her hand.

“Well, it’s been lovely speaking with you, Your Grace, but I fear we mustn’t keep you from your refreshment.” She tugged gently on Lord Kinfield’s arm. “Come along, Charlotte.”

Lady Charlotte hesitated for the briefest of moments before following her mother and Kinfield, her shoulders stiff and her expression unreadable.

Magnus watched them go, his gaze lingering on her retreating figure. The suffocating weight of propriety that hung around her was almost tangible, and for reasons he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—articulate, it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

He turned back to the table, his grip tightening on the glass in his hand.

He had no right to care about Lady Charlotte’s affairs, let alone her engagement. And yet, he found himself wishing he could undo whatever strings had tied her to that peacock of a man.

With a low growl, Magnus drained his glass and set it down with a decisive clink, already regretting his decision to attend the ball.