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

Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

T he carriage door swung on its hinges from where the Duke had left it open, and the chill of the damp evening seeped into the small space, doing little to cool Charlotte’s heated thoughts.

She remained perfectly still for a long moment, not entirely sure what to do.

Then, with renewed determination, she smoothed her skirts, her heart still racing as she stepped out.

The stone facade of Thornvale loomed before her, its towering walls and flickering lanterns an imposing sight against the grey, misty landscape. While before she had been curious, now the castle felt more like a mausoleum, there to trap her into a life she had not asked for.

But it is still better than Kinfield. And my parents.

A cluster of staff awaited them at the grand entrance, their eyes alight with anticipation.

As soon as she stepped into the threshold, a footman bowed low, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Manning, stepped forward.

Charlotte remembered her for her warmth and kindness, and she was grateful for that already.

“Welcome back, Your Grace,” Mrs. Manning said, her tone both respectful and warm. “We are delighted to have you home.”

Charlotte faltered, the title jarring and surreal. The staff members’ faces radiated warmth, their smiles genuine, and it only served to disorient her further.

“Thank you,” she managed softly, her voice tinged with uncertainty.

As the greetings continued, each word punctuated by bows and curtsies, Charlotte’s mind refused to stay in the present.

The memory of the kiss flared, vivid and all-consuming. She could still feel the press of the Duke’s lips, the intensity of his touch, and the rawness in his voice as he warned her away.

Her gaze darted to him, but he was already striding ahead, his broad shoulders stiff and his posture unyielding.

Her chest tightened. How could a man so cold ignite something so fiery within her? Despite his warning, her lips tingled with the hope that she might feel his against hers again.

“Your Grace,” the housekeeper’s voice drew her attention back, her polite expression betraying no hint of impatience. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to your chambers.”

“Of course,” Charlotte said, smoothing her hands over her skirts as she fell into step beside the woman.

The journey through the grand halls of Thornvale was both familiar and alien. She had been here before but never as the Duchess of Thornvale. The weight of the title clung to her like a heavy cloak, and she struggled to reconcile this new identity with the woman she still felt herself to be.

She assumed she would take the same room she had stayed in before, a familiar comfort, but as duchess, it seemed that was not to be the case.

“Your rooms adjoin His Grace’s,” the housekeeper explained as they ascended the sweeping staircase. “They have been freshly prepared for your arrival. His Grace insisted on ensuring everything was to your liking.”

Charlotte’s heart skipped at the mention of him and the notion that he could be so thoughtful. It seemed impossible to escape his presence, even in his absence.

“That is very considerate of him,” she replied though her voice lacked conviction.

When they reached the chambers, the housekeeper opened the door to reveal a beautifully appointed suite.

The soft glow of the fireplace illuminated rich, warm tones from the plush rugs to the delicate embroidery on the bed linens. A vanity stood near the window, its surface adorned with fine brushes and perfumes.

A young woman in a simple but immaculate uniform stepped forward, curtsying deeply.

“Your Grace, I am Jane, your lady’s maid. It’s an honor to serve you.”

Charlotte blinked, her thoughts catching up to the moment.

“Jane,” she said slowly. “What happened to my Polly? She has been my maid since I was a young girl.”

The housekeeper hesitated, her professional demeanor faltering for just a moment.

“His Grace thought it best to have a clean start, Your Grace. Jane is highly skilled and comes with excellent recommendations.”

Charlotte’s brow furrowed. A clean start? Her mind raced with questions, but she merely nodded, not trusting herself to speak without betraying her confusion.

She turned to Jane and offered a small smile. “Thank you, Jane. I am sure we will get along splendidly.”

The young maid’s cheeks colored with pleasure. “Yes, Your Grace. If there is anything you need, please don’t hesitate to let me know.”

Charlotte nodded again though her thoughts were elsewhere.

The Duke’s influence seemed to touch every aspect of her new life, even the people she would rely on most intimately.

She stepped farther into the room, her gaze lingering on the adjoining door that led to his chambers.

Her fingers brushed the edge of the vanity as she turned back to the housekeeper. “That will be all for now. Thank you.”

As the door closed softly behind them, Charlotte sank onto the edge of the bed, her mind a whirlwind of emotions.

Her eyes drifted once again to the door connecting their rooms.

Despite his stern warnings and her own attempts to steady her thoughts, she couldn’t help but wonder if, beyond that door, he was thinking of her too.

The Duke of Thornvale leaned back in his leather armchair, the rich scent of cigar smoke mingling with the sharp tang of brandy in the air.

The London club was dimly lit, its mahogany-paneled walls and heavy draperies offering a cocoon of privacy. Across from him, Christian sat with an easy grin, nursing a glass of port.

“You have been unusually silent tonight, Thornvale,” Christian said, his tone light but probing. “Dare I say, you have something on your mind? Married life tired you out already, perhaps?”

Magnus raised a brow, swirling the amber liquid in his glass as Christian chuckled at his own joke.

“Must I always entertain you, or can a man enjoy his drink in peace?”

Christian laughed, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “I know that look. It’s the same one I had before my wedding when you convinced me not to flee to Italy. What’s troubling you this time?”

Magnus’s jaw tightened, his gaze fixed on the fireplace as the flames danced. He didn’t respond immediately, and Christian’s grin widened.

“Ah,” Christian said, dragging out the syllable. “I am right. It is about your new duchess, isn’t it? Is she proving harder than you anticipated to get under control?”

Magnus’s eyes snapped to him, narrowing. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to,” Christian replied, smirking. “First of all, no newlywed groom leaves his house on the first week of his marriage. Secondly, you are brooding more than usual, which is saying something. And if it’s not your estate or some dire matter of the realm, then it must be her.”

Magnus sighed, downing his drink in one swift motion. “She infuriates me.”

Christian barked out a laugh. “Infuriates you? Don’t all women?”

“Yes, but her in particular.” He stared into the flames of the fire in the hearth as if he could lose himself in them.

“What does she do to infuriate you so?”

“She doesn’t listen,” Magnus said, his tone clipped as he turned to look at Christian. “She questions everything, argues at every turn, and refuses to behave in any way befitting her station.”

“Sounds dreadful,” Christian said though the humor in his voice was unmistakable. “A woman with a mind of her own. How scandalous.”

Magnus shot him a warning glare, but Christian only grinned wider.

“She… unsettles me.”

Christian arched a brow. “Unsettles you? Do elaborate, old friend.”

Magnus hesitated, his hand tightening around the glass. “I have spent my life ensuring control. Discipline. She threatens that. With one look, one word, she makes me forget myself. It’s intolerable.”

Christian leaned back, studying him with an expression that was equal parts amusement and curiosity. “Forget yourself, you say? Sounds like she’s got under your skin.”

“I didn’t say that,” Magnus snapped.

“You didn’t have to,” Christian replied smoothly, echoing his earlier remark. He took a sip of his port, his gaze shrewd. “You want her desperately.”

Magnus scoffed. “Don’t be absurd. She’s my responsibility, nothing more. I married her to salvage both our reputations, not because I wanted—” He broke off, shaking his head. “This conversation is pointless.”

Christian wasn’t deterred. “You married her to salvage reputations, yes. But I have known you long enough to see through that facade. You’re avoiding her, aren’t you?”

Magnus stiffened, his silence confirming the accusation.

Christian chuckled. “Of course, you are. Because every time you see her, you’re reminded that you’re not as impervious as you like to believe.”

Magnus’s jaw tightened, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the glass.

“Distance is for the best,” he said firmly. “For her and for me.”

Christian tilted his head, his expression softening. “You know, old sport, not all women are like your mother. And you don’t have a brother for her to have an affair with anyhow!”

Magnus shot his friend a warning look. He didn’t like any mention of his late mother nor his uncle Edwin. He wouldn’t allow it.

“All right, that one is on me. I crossed the line there, apologies,” Christian began. “Nevertheless, you cannot shut your wife out forever, Magnus. Sooner or later, you’ll have to face whatever it is you’re running from.”

Magnus stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the wooden floor. “I am not running from anything.”

Christian’s smile was knowing as he raised his glass in a mock toast. “If you say so, Your Grace. But mark my words—this isn’t over.”

Magnus turned on his heel, leaving the room with a swirl of his dark coat.

Christian watched him go, shaking his head with a low chuckle.

Finally, Magnus heard his friend add, “Not over by a long shot.”

The moon hung low in the sky as Magnus stepped into the grand entrance hall of his castle. His boots echoed sharply against the marble floor, the sound bouncing off the high ceilings.

A footman appeared, bowing low.

“Your Grace, shall I have supper prepared?” the young man asked.

Magnus waved him off without a word, his coat heavy with the scent of London smoke and rain.

He strode past the footman and up the staircase, his jaw clenched and his mind in turmoil.

The lingering remnants of his conversation with Christian refused to leave him, gnawing at the edges of his composure.

He bypassed the dining room, his bedchamber—only glancing at hers as he went—and even the study where a pile of correspondence awaited him. Instead, he went straight to the exercise chamber—a large, sparsely furnished room tucked away in one of the castle’s wings.

The room was cold, the moonlight casting long shadows across the stone walls.

Magnus removed his coat and waistcoat, tossing them onto a chair with little care. He rolled up his shirt sleeves and began a rigorous routine of calisthenics, the controlled movements a balm for his chaotic thoughts.

Push-ups, pull-ups, and a series of punishing squats consumed him. Sweat dripped down his brow as his muscles burned, but the physical strain was a welcome distraction. His breath came in sharp bursts, matching the rhythmic pounding of his heart.

Her face wouldn’t leave him.

The way she had looked at him in the carriage, her defiance burning like fire.

The way she had tasted—sweet and wild, her lips full of challenge and submission in equal measure.

“Damn her,” he muttered under his breath, driving himself harder.

His knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of a horizontal bar and pulled himself up until his chin met the metal.

He dropped to the floor and grabbed the heavy bag of sand he used for strength training, lifting it repeatedly until his arms shook.

But no matter how much he pushed himself, the tension inside him refused to dissipate. Her voice, her scent, the feeling of her against him—it was all still there, lingering like an uninvited guest.

Finally, he dropped the sandbag and stood there, his chest heaving. He raked a hand through his damp hair and leaned against the wall, his head tipping back against the cold stone.

The physical exertion had drained his body, but his mind was no quieter.

She was inescapable.

With a sharp exhale, Magnus pushed off the wall and strode to the window.

Thornvale’s grounds stretched out before him, bathed in silver moonlight. The vast expanse of his estate—his refuge—felt suffocating now. And it was her fault.

Throwing himself into his work had to be the answer. His steward’s reports awaited as did the ledgers.

There was always more to be done, more matters to keep his mind occupied. Yet even as he resolved to drown himself in the minutiae of estate management, a traitorous part of him wondered what she was doing at this very moment.

Shaking his head sharply, Magnus left the exercise chamber, his footsteps echoing in the empty halls. Thornvale was vast and lonely as it had always been.

And now, it seemed, even that loneliness wasn’t enough to keep her at bay.

“Your Grace.”

The hallway was dimly lit, the flicker of sconces casting long shadows against the stone walls as Magnus strode through the castle.

His shirt clung to him, damp with sweat, and his chest rose and fell heavily from his intense workout.

He was headed for his chambers when he stopped abruptly, his eyes narrowing.

There she was.

Lady Charlotte stood just a few feet away, illuminated by the golden light of the torches. She wore a pale nightgown, the delicate fabric brushing the floor and clinging faintly to her form.

Her auburn hair was loose, tumbling over one shoulder in soft waves that shimmered in the low light. Her hazel eyes widened as they met his, and for a moment, the world seemed to stand still.

“Good evening,” she said, her voice soft and hesitant.

Magnus’s jaw tightened. He hadn’t expected to see her—not like this. Not now, when his self-control was already hanging by a thread.

“Duchess,” he said curtly, inclining his head.

Her gaze traveled over him, lingering on his bare forearms and the open collar of his damp shirt.

And her pretty little mouth dropped open.

Charlotte swallowed hard, and when her eyes met his again, they were wide and hungry.

“I—I didn’t mean to disturb you,” she stammered though she made no move to step aside.

“You didn’t,” he replied, his voice clipped.

But Magnus could see it in her eyes—the way they darkened with something more than curiosity.

He could feel her gaze like a touch, igniting a fire that he’d been trying to smother since the moment he married her.

And damn it, she was standing too close, her delicate nightgown doing nothing to conceal the curves beneath.

“Is there something you needed?” he asked, his tone sharper than he intended.

He had to regain control, to stop himself from noticing the flush on her cheeks or the way her lips parted, as if she were on the verge of saying something she couldn’t quite articulate.

Charlotte shook her head, her hair sliding over her shoulder in a cascade.

“No, I was just—” She hesitated, her voice faltering. Her eyes flicked down to his chest then back up to his face, her cheeks reddening further. “I couldn’t sleep.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. Her voice, soft and breathless, was entirely too tempting.

“Then perhaps you should try harder,” he said coldly, stepping past her with measured strides.

But just as he brushed by, their arms nearly touching, she turned slightly, as if catching a faint whiff of his clean, masculine scent mixed with the salt of exertion.

She leaned almost imperceptibly closer, and Magnus noticed.

He froze for a heartbeat, his muscles taut as a bowstring. Slowly, he turned his head to look at her over his shoulder, his green eyes dark and unreadable.

“I would suggest staying out of the hallways at night, Duchess,” he said quietly, his voice a low growl. “It is dangerous to tempt things you cannot control.”