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

Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty-Two

“… a nd then he declared he would never set foot in the stables again unless the horse personally apologized,” Lavinia finished with a laugh, shaking her head fondly.

Charlotte stood near the refreshment table, her glass of champagne cradled delicately in her hand as she listened to Lavinia recount an amusing story about Christian’s latest misadventures in estate management.

The warmth of her friend’s smile was a welcome reprieve from the subtle tension that thrummed around her.

Charlotte chuckled softly though the sound lacked its usual vitality. Her gaze flickered over the ballroom, catching snippets of conversation and glances cast her way. They were always watching, always whispering. No matter where she moved, the weight of their curiosity seemed to follow. Was her life truly that interesting? Had they not found another poor victim to gossip about yet?

“Charlotte?” Lavinia’s voice softened, pulling her focus back. “Are you all right? You seem distracted.”

“Yes,” Charlotte said quickly, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It’s nothing.”

Lavinia wasn’t fooled. Her friend tilted her head, her knowing gaze piercing through Charlotte’s thin facade. “It’s not nothing. You have noticed the stares, haven’t you? The whispers?”

Charlotte hesitated, her fingers tightening around the stem of her glass. “They’re hard to miss.”

Lavinia touched her arm lightly, a gesture of reassurance that Charlotte appreciated. To think it was only weeks earlier when she had ridden cross country to stop Lavinia’s wedding, and now, her friend was giving her advice in the face of the ton ’s gossip.

“Ignore them,” Lavinia said. “People will always talk—it’s their favorite pastime. But their attention will move on soon enough. You’ll see.”

Though Lavinia’s words were meant to soothe, they couldn’t erase the sting of the truth. Charlotte felt like an interloper in her own life, an object of fascination and judgment. The weight of it all settled heavily on her shoulders, and for a fleeting moment, she considered slipping away from the ball entirely.

But before she could dwell on the thought, a voice interrupted them.

“Duchess, what a surprise to see you here after everything.”

Charlotte turned, her smile fading as she met the sharp gaze of Miss Frances Evans. The woman stood poised, her lips curving into a saccharine smile that barely masked the malice beneath.

“Miss Evans,” Charlotte said evenly, her tone laced with cool civility.

“I couldn’t let the evening pass without offering my congratulations,” Miss Evans said, her voice honeyed but insincere. “A duke, no less. My, what a fortuitous match. I am sure it must be everything you dreamed of.”

Charlotte’s grip on her glass tightened imperceptibly, but her expression remained composed. “How kind of you, Miss Evans. I am certain you’re genuinely happy for me.”

Miss Evans’s smile widened though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Oh, absolutely. It’s not every day one hears of a scandal transforming into a fairy tale. Though I imagine the circumstances must have been challenging.”

“Not as challenging as enduring misplaced envy,” Charlotte replied smoothly, her gaze unwavering. “But I suppose we all rise to our own occasions.”

Beside her, Lavinia coughed delicately, clearly suppressing a laugh. Her hand brushed Charlotte’s arm in a subtle show of support, a silent cheer for her quick wit.

Miss Evans’s composure faltered for a fraction of a second before she regained her poise. “Perhaps you’re right. After all, Lord Kinfield and you were never truly a match.”

Charlotte’s eyes narrowed, her temper flaring. The pointed jab was clear, and the implication stung more than she cared to admit. “I wonder, Miss Evans,” she said, her voice steady but cutting, “if you have spent as much energy on intruding in other people’s affairs as you have on spreading them to the press.”

Miss Evans blinked, a hint of surprise flashing across her features. But just as Charlotte braced to press further, the other woman tilted her head with a coy smile. “Excuse me, Duchess. I believe my escort is calling for me. Do enjoy the rest of your evening.”

With that, she swept away, her skirts trailing elegantly behind her.

Charlotte stared after her, a storm of frustration brewing in her chest.

“Let her go,” Lavinia murmured, her voice calm but firm. She looped her arm through Charlotte’s and gently steered her toward a quieter corner. “She’s not worth it.”

“She knows something,” Charlotte muttered, her jaw tight. “She had to have been the one who leaked the story.”

“Perhaps,” Lavinia said softly. “But tonight isn’t the time to confront her. Save your energy, Charlotte. She thrives on provoking others—don’t give her the satisfaction.”

Charlotte exhaled slowly, her gaze lingering on the spot where Miss Evans had vanished into the crowd. Lavinia’s calming presence was a welcome anchor, but the bitterness in Charlotte’s chest remained, gnawing at her resolve.

“She doesn’t deserve to get away with it,” Charlotte said quietly, her voice tinged with determination.

“She won’t,” Lavinia assured her. “But tonight, hold your head high and let her see that she hasn’t won. Besides, it got you out of marrying Kinfield, didn’t it? And now you’re married to a duke!”

In name only, Charlotte thought but she nodded, squaring her shoulders. Lavinia was right. Whatever satisfaction Miss Evans hoped to gain from her distress, she wouldn’t grant it.

Not tonight.

Charlotte was mid-sentence, her frustration over Miss Evans slowly ebbing under Lavinia’s soothing reassurances, when a familiar deep voice cut through their conversation.

“Duchess.”

Her heart jolted, her breath catching as she turned. Magnus stood a few steps away, his tall frame drawing every eye in the vicinity. His emerald gaze settled on her, as sharp and intense as ever yet carrying an undertone she couldn’t quite decipher.

“Your Grace,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. Whenever he was near, her heart raced as if it were their first meeting all over again.

“Dance with me,” he said, his tone low but commanding, sending a shiver of anticipation down her spine.

Charlotte arched a brow, a flicker of irritation sparking within her though it was mingled with something more—a desire to do as she was told, perhaps. “I believe, Your Grace, that it is customary to ask, is it not?”

Magnus’s lips curved, a shadow of a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He gazed at her, enjoying the challenge she presented him, eyeing her as if she were his prey.

And in many ways, I suppose I am.

“You belong to me, Duchess,” he said darkly. “I do not need to ask. Of course, you are going to dance with me.”

The words sent another shiver through her—not entirely of anger. Her heart thudded in her chest, a strange heat curling in her stomach. “Belong to you?” she repeated, her voice a careful balance of challenge and disbelief.

Magnus’s smirk deepened, his gaze never leaving hers. “Yes.”

Despite herself, Charlotte felt herself drawn to him, pulled in by his words. At once, she wanted to fight against his assumption and to follow him as he had commanded. At once, she wanted it all.

Lavinia cleared her throat softly, offering Charlotte a small, encouraging nod. Magnus didn’t so much as glance her way; his entire focus was on his wife.

Charlotte hesitated for only a moment longer before placing her gloved hand in his. The moment his fingers closed around hers, a current of awareness shot through her, her breath catching despite herself. His hand was warm, firm, yet not unkind, and she wondered what it would feel like to have that same hand elsewhere on her body.

Without another word, he led her to the dance floor, their footsteps slow and deliberate as if they had all the time in the world. The crowd parted around them, whispers trailing in their wake, but Charlotte barely noticed. And why should she? He was her husband, after all, and he was beginning to act like it. Her entire focus was on Magnus—his presence, his touch, the way his thumb brushed against the back of her hand that was almost intentional.

The music began, a sweeping waltz that carried them into motion. Magnus’ hand found the small of her back, guiding her effortlessly into the steps. His touch was light but assured, his movements smooth and precise.

“You have been avoiding me,” Charlotte said, her voice low enough to be heard only by him. She didn’t know where the words came from, yet now that she had said them, she realized how much it had bothered her.

“I have been busy,” Magnus replied evenly, his gaze locked on hers.

“Too busy to exchange even a single word with your wife?”

His lips twitched, but his expression remained composed. “You seem to have managed well enough without my attention.”

Charlotte’s eyes narrowed, her fingers tightening briefly on his shoulder. “How thoughtful of you.”

Magnus’s smirk returned, faint but unmistakable. “You seem to thrive on sparring with me, Charlotte. Perhaps I am doing you a favor by staying out of your way.”

“You’re insufferable,” she muttered under her breath though the words lacked true venom. She wanted anything but for him to stay away.

“And yet, here you are,” he murmured, his voice dropping to an intimate pitch that sent an unbidden shiver down her spine.

Charlotte’s heart raced as they continued to glide across the floor, their movements perfectly in sync despite the tension crackling between them. His hand on her back seemed to burn through the layers of fabric, a constant reminder of his presence, his control.

“You have an infuriating way of making everything about you,” she said, tilting her chin defiantly.

Magnus’s eyes darkened, his smirk fading. “And you have a way of twisting every interaction into a battle. I wonder, Charlotte—do you fight because you enjoy it or because you’re afraid of losing?”

The question struck deeper than she expected, her steps faltering briefly before she recovered. “What would I possibly lose?” she countered, her voice sharper than she intended.

His gaze bore into hers, unrelenting. “You tell me.”

The air between them grew thicker, charged with an energy neither could ignore. Charlotte’s pulse pounded in her ears, her body acutely aware of every point of contact—his hand at her back, his fingers enclosing hers, the way their bodies moved so close yet not close enough.

“You make it very difficult to understand you, Your Grace,” she said, her voice quieter now, almost a whisper.

“Perhaps that’s for the best,” he replied, his gaze flicking briefly to her lips before returning to her eyes. “Some things are better left misunderstood.”

Charlotte’s breath hitched at the way his voice softened, at the way his eyes seemed to see straight through her. For a moment, it felt as if the world had narrowed to just the two of them, the music and the crowd fading into nothingness.

She wondered what secrets he held, what it was that burdened him so heavily. Why he was so frightened of accepting her as his wife, for she was certain he was frightened. She could sense easily enough that he desired her.

Her fingers brushed against his as they turned, the brief touch sending a spark through her veins. She wanted to look away, to regain control of the situation, but she couldn’t. His presence was magnetic, pulling her in even as her mind warned her to resist.

The music swelled to its final notes, the melody drawing to a close with a flourish. As the last note lingered in the air, Magnus released her hand with deliberate slowness, his gaze still holding hers.

“Thank you for the dance, Duchess,” he said, his tone smooth yet laced with something deeper.

Charlotte curtsied, her pulse racing. “The pleasure was all mine, Your Grace.”

As Magnus turned and walked away, his tall figure disappearing into the crowd, Charlotte stood frozen on the edge of the dance floor. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest, her body still tingling from his touch.

“What just happened?” she whispered to herself though she doubted she would find an answer anytime soon.

“What did you say, Charlotte?”

Charlotte spun around at the sound of her mother’s voice to find Lady Shelton bearing down on her with purpose. Her gown, a shimmering confection of lavender and silver, swished as she marched toward her daughter, Lord Shelton following at a more measured and leisurely pace.

Charlotte inhaled deeply, bracing herself. “Mother. Father,” she greeted, offering a polite smile that she didn’t truly feel. They seemed to have quite forgotten how they had treated her, as if now that she was married, all was forgiven. It was not.

Lady Shelton wasted no time. “Where is the Duke?” she asked, glancing around the room with a mix of impatience and expectation. “I have yet to greet him, and it would be terribly rude not to. He is your husband after all. Surely he hasn’t wandered off alone?”

“He’s…” Charlotte hesitated, uncertain how much of Magnus’ aloofness to reveal. “He’s attending to something business-related.”

Lady Shelton frowned, her lips tightening. “Attending to business? This is a ball, Charlotte, not a business meeting. He should be here with you. It’s unseemly to leave you standing alone.”

“He isn’t far,” Charlotte said firmly though her mother’s critique sparked a flicker of irritation. She felt the urge to explain herself, but resisted.

Lord Shelton cleared his throat, taking the opportunity to insert himself into the conversation. “Perhaps he’s speaking with Lord Wyndham. I had a brief word with him earlier—seems there’s an investment opportunity worth discussing. A promising venture by all accounts. You should mention it to the Duke, Charlotte. I’ll provide the details.”

“An investment opportunity?” Charlotte repeated incredulously.

“Yes, quite the thing,” her father continued, his tone brisk. “Timing is everything in these matters. Mention it casually, perhaps over supper.”

Lady Shelton, meanwhile, adjusted a lace detail on Charlotte’s sleeve with a critical eye. “Your gown is quite becoming, my dear. A lovely choice. But do mind the hem—there’s a slight wrinkle from all this walking about. And keep your head high. You’re a duchess now; appearances are paramount.”

Charlotte swallowed the rising frustration in her chest. She felt like an ornament being appraised, polished, and arranged, rather than a person with thoughts or feelings worth considering. Neither of them had asked how she was faring, whether she was happy or overwhelmed. She might as well have been a piece of furniture for all the personal concern they showed.

“I’ll do my best to remember that,” she said, her tone cool but measured. Then, with a quick glance over her shoulder, she added, “If you’ll excuse me, I see someone I must speak with.”

Not waiting for their response, she slipped away into the crowd, her breath coming easier as she put distance between herself and her parents. She scanned the room, her gaze catching on a familiar face near the refreshment table. Relief washed over her.

“Reggie!” she called, weaving her way toward her brother.

He turned at the sound of her voice, grinning broadly as she approached. “Ah, there’s my favorite sister—or one of them at least. Come to save me from this riveting conversation?”

Charlotte raised a brow, her lips curving into a wry smile. “I might ask the same of you. Aren’t you supposed to be charming all the eligible ladies in attendance?”

“Charming?” Reginald feigned shock, pressing a hand to his chest. “You wound me, Charlotte. I am a man of intellect, not idle flattery.”

“Is that so?” she teased. “I seem to recall a certain someone waxing poetic about Lady Kensington’s brilliant smile not two seasons ago.”

Reginald laughed, shaking his head. “Low blow, sister. Lady Kensington’s smile was, in fact, quite dazzling. Harrington, tell her.”

The man beside him, tall and affable, chuckled. “A pleasure, Duchess. I am Lord Harrington, one of your brother’s unfortunate friends from Cambridge.”

“Unfortunate indeed,” Charlotte quipped, her smile widening. “Being friends with Reginald can’t have been easy.”

Harrington grinned, his eyes twinkling with good humor. “You have no idea. Did you know he once refused to lend me so much as a pencil during examinations? Claimed it was character-building.”

Charlotte burst into laughter, a genuine, melodic sound that drew a few curious glances from nearby guests. “That sounds precisely like him. Self-serving and sanctimonious in equal measure.”

“Traitors, both of you,” Reginald muttered though his grin betrayed his amusement.

As the music swelled once more, Lord Harrington offered his hand with a charming grin.

“Duchess, would you grant me the honor of this dance if your card is not already marked? Perhaps I can convince you that not all of Reginald’s friends are entirely insufferable.”