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

Chapter 24

Chapter Twenty-Four

C harlotte sat at the breakfast table, sunlight spilling through the tall windows.

The crisp morning air filtered in through a slightly open window, carrying the scent of roses from the garden.

The table was set with precision: freshly baked bread nestled under a cloth, delicate china cups waiting for tea, and an assortment of fruit preserves glinting like jewels in the light. Though she was alone again, there was something lighter about her that morning, as if she’d had some sort of release.

Her cheeks colored as she thought back to the previous night. Something had most definitely been released, and already, she was yearning for more.

She leaned forward to reach for an egg, hoping breakfast would distract her.

The sound of footsteps drew her attention, and she looked up just as Magnus entered the room.

He wore a simple white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a waistcoat, his hair disheveled in a way that made her heart jolt unexpectedly. She hadn’t expected him to join her—he never did.

“Good morning,” he said, his deep voice breaking the stillness. He moved to the sideboard, pouring himself a cup of coffee with practiced ease, as if this was something he did every day.

Charlotte blinked, startled. “Good morning,” she managed, her tone polite but laced with surprise.

Magnus sat across from her, his movements unhurried as he spread a napkin over his lap.

The silence that followed was oddly companionable, broken only by the soft clink of china and the scrape of butter against toast. So very different to the silences that normally consumed them.

Charlotte watched him from the corner of her eye, noting the way he ate his breakfast with deliberate precision and how his gaze remained calm, even relaxed.

“You’re unusually quiet this morning,” Magnus remarked, his voice low but teasing. He didn’t look up, instead focusing on adding a precise amount of sugar to his cup. “I hope I didn’t break your spirit last night.”

Charlotte arched a brow, setting her fork down. “As if you ever could,” she retorted quickly. “No, perhaps I am quiet because I am not used to having company for breakfast.”

“Do you prefer the solitude?” he asked.

“No,” she answered simply at first, then she added, “Solitude can be comforting, but it can also become… isolating.”

“Do you feel isolated here, Duchess?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On you, Your Grace. I thought that’d be quite obvious.”

Magnus took a beat before he responded, clearly mulling over her words, “Well then. I suppose I shall have to amend that.”

Charlotte felt the corner of her lips rise.

The conversation shifted, lightening as they spoke of simpler things.

“Coffee, always,” Magnus said when she asked about his preferences. He leaned back slightly in his chair, his coffee cup cradled in one hand. “Tea is tolerable, but it doesn’t wake a man up quite the same way.”

Charlotte tilted her head, her lips twitching with amusement. “I suppose I should have guessed. Coffee does suit your rather serious demeanor.”

“Serious?” Magnus arched a brow, setting his cup down. “I would say it’s a practical choice.”

“And yet,” she countered, her voice teasing, “I have noticed you take it with an exact amount of sugar. Is that practicality, or something else entirely?”

“Precision,” he corrected smoothly, his expression faintly smug. “Precision is everything, Charlotte. One misstep, and the balance is ruined.”

She laughed lightly, reaching for another bite of her eggs. “Ah, yes, once a sugar cube too many drops into your cup, one is to expect deadly consequences. I can’t imagine what other rigid breakfast rules you live by.”

Magnus’s lips curved faintly. “For one, fresh bread over pastries—always.”

“Not pastries?” She feigned shock, her hand dramatically clutching her chest. “I thought everyone had a weakness for pastries.”

“They’re too sweet,” he said with a faint grimace. “Bread is simpler. Honest.”

“And dull,” she replied, raising her brows. “But what about butter? Surely you at least allow for butter?”

“Of course,” he said, as though the question were absurd. Then his expression grew sharper, more deliberate. “But butter should be left as it is. Layering preserves on top of it is an affront to balance.”

Charlotte gaped at him, then burst into laughter. “You cannot be serious.”

“I am entirely serious,” he replied, though the hint of amusement in his eyes gave him away.

She shook her head, her laughter trailing into a warm smile. “You take breakfast as seriously as state matters. Tell me, do you hold opinions this strong about everything?”

Magnus’s gaze softened as he looked at her. “Only the things that matter.”

There was a pause as Charlotte took in the gravity of his words. Before she could respond, he continued:

“And you?” Magnus asked, leaning forward slightly. “What peculiar habits do you bring to the table, Duchess?”

Charlotte pretended to consider the question thoughtfully. “Well, for one, I enjoy butter and preserves in perfect harmony. Perhaps you should try it.”

Magnus snorted, a sound so uncharacteristic it caught her off guard. “I’ll make a note of it.”

Despite herself, Charlotte found her defenses softening. He was different this morning—not the cold, distant man she had grown used to but someone more approachable. Almost warm.

After the meal, Magnus stood and extended a hand to her. “Walk with me?”

Charlotte blinked in surprise, her gaze darting to his outstretched hand. She hesitated, searching his face for any sign of ulterior motive. There was none that she could find. Only the trace of a smile that made him seem less like the Duke and more like a man.

“I suppose I could,” she said, placing her hand in his.

They stepped out into the gardens, the gravel crunching softly beneath their shoes as they wandered along a path lined with blooming roses and manicured hedges.

The morning air was cool but pleasant, and the sun bathed everything in a soft, golden light.

For a moment, Charlotte allowed herself to simply enjoy the peace of the moment, the tension that had followed her for weeks melting away.

“You have spent a great deal of time here,” Magnus said, gesturing to the gardens. “I have seen you wandering from my study window.”

Charlotte glanced at him, her brows lifting in surprise. “You have been watching me?”

He shrugged. “It’s difficult not to when you seem to favor this particular path.”

“I didn’t realize I was being observed,” she said, a touch of teasing in her tone. “Shall I wave next time, Your Grace?”

Magnus smirked. “Only if you’re feeling particularly formal.”

Their conversation drifted, the topics light and easy—her fondness for poetry, his surprising interest in history, and even a shared appreciation for the beauty of the changing seasons.

At one point, he recounted a story from his childhood, involving a disastrous attempt to climb an ancient oak tree and the wrath of the gardener who found him dangling by one leg.

Charlotte laughed, the sound bright and unrestrained. “I can hardly picture you as a mischievous boy.”

“I wasn’t mischievous,” Magnus corrected though the corners of his mouth twitched. “I was merely curious.”

“Is that what they called it?” she teased, a genuine smile lighting up her face.

By the time they circled back toward the house, Charlotte felt lighter than she had in weeks. The stiffness that had defined their relationship seemed to have eased, replaced by something gentler, something tentative but hopeful.

She glanced at Magnus, catching the faintest trace of a smile on his lips, and felt a flicker of warmth in her chest.

As they made their way back to the house, Charlotte’s spirits were light, buoyed by the ease of their conversation. She found herself glancing at Magnus, noting the relaxed set of his jaw and the upward tilt of his lips.

It was the most at peace she had seen in him since their marriage, and she wondered idly what had changed before asking herself whether it really mattered.

Perhaps this is the start of something better, she thought, her heart swelling with cautious optimism.

They entered through a side door leading to the corridor near the kitchens, their steps muffled by the soft rug underfoot. The warm aroma of baking bread and roasting meat drifted toward them, and quiet voices carried from beyond a partially open door.

“…I still can’t believe it. Imagine being forced to marry a duke like that.”

“Shh! You shouldn’t speak about His Grace and the Duchess that way.”

“But it’s true, isn’t it? Of course, we were privy to her staying here quite unchaperoned, and that was unusual enough. But then the scandal sheet somehow got hold of it. What else were people to think? He had to marry her to save her reputation. Poor man—what choice did he have? It’s no wonder the pair struggled to connect.”

“Enough now,” the housekeeper’s stern voice said. “It’s not for us to question any of it, and you know I won’t have gossip in my house.”

Charlotte froze mid-step, her blood running cold. The voices of the servants were faint but unmistakable, each word slicing through her fragile sense of calm. She turned her head to gauge Magnus’s reaction.

His entire demeanor had changed in an instant. The warmth that had softened his features moments ago vanished, replaced by a stony expression that she was all too familiar with. His lips pressed into a tight line, his eyes hard as the emeralds they resembled.

“Magnus—” she began, reaching out to him.

He stepped away from her, his movements brusque, as if her touch were something to be avoided. “Excuse me,” he said flatly, his tone devoid of the lightness it had carried just moments ago.

“Wait,” she implored, her voice tinged with frustration and hurt. “You don’t have to?—”

“I believe I do,” he interrupted, his gaze fixed ahead. “Good day, Duchess.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and walked away, his tall frame cutting a commanding figure as he disappeared down the corridor.

Charlotte stood rooted to the spot, her heart sinking as the tenuous progress between them unraveled in an instant. The cruel whispers of the servants faded into the background, replaced by the sharp sting of disappointment and confusion.

She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to ward off the chill that had settled over her.

For a brief, fleeting moment, she had dared to hope for something more—for a connection, a truce, perhaps even a partnership.

But now, that fragile hope lay shattered at her feet.