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

Chapter 27

Chapter Twenty-Seven

C harlotte had risen earlier than usual, her spirits lighter than they had been in weeks. She had woken in Magnus’ bed, beneath soft cotton sheets, while her husband snored softly beside her.

Even now, after entering the breakfast room and preparing her meal, she lavished in the memory of that moment—and of the revelation that was the night before.

She sipped her tea, savoring the quiet tranquility of the moment. Everything seemed brighter, more distinct. Even the tea tasted better than normal. Is this what it’s like to be in love?

Her reverie was broken by the sound of firm, purposeful footsteps.

She looked up just as Magnus entered, impeccably dressed, his dark hair slightly tousled as though he’d run a hand through it in thought. He paused briefly in the doorway, his eyes scanning the room before settling on her. Something softened in his expression though his stoicism remained intact.

“Good morning,” he said, his voice smooth though a touch warmer than usual.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” Charlotte replied, setting her teacup down with a small smile. “You’re up earlier than I expected. I thought I might have this breakfast room to myself.”

He arched a brow, approaching the table and taking the seat opposite her. “You think me a late riser?”

“I think you a man who enjoys his solitude,” she quipped, pouring him a cup of coffee without asking. “Though I suppose I have disrupted that quite a bit lately.”

His lips twitched, the faintest hint of amusement flickering across his face. “You’re not entirely wrong. But solitude has its limits, Duchess.”

Charlotte’s smile widened though she pretended not to notice the way her heart gave a small, traitorous flutter at his words. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You may,” he replied, his tone dry but tinged with something lighter. He reached for his coffee, his movements deliberate, his gaze flicking toward her as though assessing her mood. “I had planned to visit the village today—attend to some estate matters.”

“Oh?” she asked, her curiosity piqued. “And will this be one of those outings where you scowl at everyone until they hurry away terrified?”

Magnus smirked over the rim of his cup. “I prefer to think of it as efficiency.”

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “It’s a wonder the estate runs as smoothly as it does with such a stern hand at the helm.”

He leaned back, his cup in his hands, his gaze steady. “Perhaps that’s why it does. However,” he added, setting his cup down, “I suspect you might have a different approach.”

Charlotte tilted her head, her eyes narrowing playfully. “What are you suggesting?”

“I am suggesting you accompany me,” he said, his voice casual but firm. “The villagers could benefit from your warmth. You might even enjoy yourself. You said yourself that they seemed to like you the last time you visited.”

Her brows lifted in mild surprise. “Are you asking me to charm the villagers on your behalf?”

Magnus shrugged though there was a glint in his eyes that suggested he found her reaction amusing. “I am asking you to join me—as my wife. Do with that invitation what you will.”

Charlotte regarded him for a moment, noting the challenge in his tone and enjoying it immensely. “Very well,” she said finally, her lips curving into a smile. “But only if you promise not to frighten anyone away.”

“I’ll do my best,” he replied, rising from his chair. “Be ready in an hour.”

The village was bustling with life when they arrived, the cobbled streets lined with market stalls. Children darted between the adults, their laughter mingling with the sounds of clinking coins and rustling fabric. The air smelled of fresh bread, hay, and the faint tang of the nearby river.

Magnus dismounted first, his imposing presence drawing immediate attention as he helped Charlotte from the carriage. The villagers dipped their heads respectfully, some whispering to one another as they caught sight of the Duchess.

Charlotte offered them a warm smile, her natural ease quickly winning them over. She stopped to admire the wares of a flower seller, her genuine interest prompting the elderly vendor to beam with pride as he described his garden. A group of children gathered around her when she complimented their antics, and she crouched to their level, listening intently to their stories as if they were the most important people in the world.

Magnus watched from a short distance, his arms crossed as he observed the scene. He had expected her charm, but seeing it in action was something else entirely. She moved through the crowd with a grace and warmth that made people gravitate toward her, their guarded expressions softening under her gaze. It was a skill he knew he lacked, and he felt an odd pang—admiration, perhaps, or jealousy at how easily she connected with others.

“She’s a natural,” one of the estate stewards remarked quietly, standing beside Magnus. “The villagers have been talking about her since her very first visit, and this will not go unnoticed either, Your Grace.”

Magnus nodded curtly, his gaze never leaving Charlotte as she laughed at something a child said, her eyes bright with genuine joy. “Yes,” he murmured, almost to himself. “She is.”

Later, as they walked through the village green, the crowd thinning around them, Charlotte turned to Magnus, her expression thoughtful. “You didn’t frighten anyone away,” she teased gently. “I am impressed.”

He glanced at her, his lips twitching in a faint smile. “Perhaps your influence is already rubbing off on me.”

She laughed softly, the sound warm and unguarded. “If that’s the case, I’ll consider this outing a success.”

They reached the edge of the green where a small grove of trees provided a quiet respite from the bustling market. Magnus slowed his pace, his hands clasped behind his back as he regarded her thoughtfully.

“You were good with them,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter now. “The villagers. You have a way of making people feel at ease.”

Charlotte looked at him, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. “Thank you,” she said softly. “Though I think you underestimate yourself. They respect you, Magnus. Even if they find you intimidating.”

“Intimidation has its uses,” Magnus replied though his tone lacked the edge it usually carried. He hesitated, his gaze flicking over the green before settling back on her, piercing and unwavering. “You make it look easy.”

“It’s not always,” Charlotte admitted, her voice tinged with honesty as she brushed a strand of hair from her face. “But I have learned that kindness often gets better results than fear.”

Magnus studied her, the intensity of his gaze sending a flicker of heat through her. For a long moment, he said nothing, the air between them thickening. “Perhaps,” he said at last, his voice lower now, roughened at the edges, “I have much to learn.”

Charlotte offered him a small, teasing smile, tilting her chin as she met his eyes. “Then we’ll learn together,” she said, echoing her words from the night before.

But before she could say more, Magnus closed the space between them in a single step. His hand curled around her wrist—not harshly, but with enough command to make her breath catch. Without a word, he guided her toward the shadow of a large oak tree at the edge of the green. Its gnarled branches stretched protectively overhead, shielding them from the view of the bustling villagers.

“Magnus—” Charlotte began, but her voice faltered as he turned to face her. His eyes burned with a fierce intensity, his lips set in a determined line. There was no mistaking his intent.

“Do you remember Christian and Lavinia’s wedding?” he asked, his voice a low rumble, thick with meaning.

Her cheeks flushed at the memory. “How could I forget?” she whispered, her pulse racing as his hand slid to her waist, pulling her closer until her body pressed against the rough bark of the tree.

“I haven’t forgotten either,” Magnus murmured, his voice dangerously soft. “The way you challenged me, even then. The way you made me want—” He cut himself off, shaking his head as if to clear his thoughts.

And then he kissed her.

It wasn’t the tender, tentative kiss of the night before. This was fiery, demanding—a clash of dominance and surrender that left Charlotte breathless. His lips claimed hers with a hunger that ignited something primal within her, and she responded in kind, her hands gripping his jacket as though to anchor herself.

The bark of the tree pressed into her back, grounding her even as her senses spun. Magnus’ hands roamed with deliberate purpose, one sliding up to cradle her face while the other gripped her waist, pulling her flush against him. His body was warm, solid, unyielding, and she felt her own resolve crumble beneath the sheer force of his passion.

“Charlotte,” he growled against her lips, his breath hot and uneven, “I want you.”

She gasped as he deepened the kiss, his teeth grazing her lower lip before his tongue soothed the sting. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as if the distance between them were unbearable. The rough bark bit into her shoulders, but she didn’t care—not when every touch, every kiss, every whispered word sent a jolt of pleasure through her.

“Magnus,” she breathed, her voice trembling with both need and defiance, “you can’t just?—”

“Can’t what?” he interrupted, his voice a rough rasp as he pulled back just enough to meet her gaze. His eyes were dark with desire, his lips curling into a dangerous smirk. “Take what’s mine?”

Her heart pounded at his words, the possessiveness in his tone sending a thrill through her. “I am not something to be taken,” she shot back though her voice betrayed her with its breathlessness.

“Perhaps not,” he agreed, his thumb brushing against her cheek with surprising gentleness. “But you are mine, Charlotte. And we both know it.”

Before she could reply, he claimed her lips again, silencing any argument she might have had. The kiss was slower this time, more deliberate, but no less intense. It was as though he was savoring her, memorizing every gasp, every shiver, every surrender.

When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against hers, their breaths mingling in the quiet space between them. “You make me lose all sense,” he admitted, his voice a low murmur. “I am not used to this.”

Charlotte’s chest heaved as she tried to steady herself, her hands still clutching the fabric of his jacket. “Neither am I,” she whispered, her voice trembling with honesty.

For a moment, they simply stood there, the world around them forgotten. Magnus’s hand slid to her lower back, his touch grounding her even as his gaze burned into hers.

“Come,” he said finally, his voice softer now but no less commanding. “We should return.”

Charlotte nodded, her heart still racing as she allowed him to lead her back toward the village green. She could feel the heat of his hand at the small of her back, a silent promise that the fire between them had only just begun to burn.

Later that evening, Magnus leaned back in the armchair, his gaze fixed on the crackling fire in the hearth as Charlotte’s voice filled the quiet drawing room. She was recounting some amusing tale from her childhood, her eyes sparkling with warmth as she spoke. The corner of his mouth twitched upward—a small, reluctant smile that he quickly smothered.

He wasn’t sure when he had begun to feel at ease in her presence, but the shift was undeniable. Her laughter no longer grated on his nerves; her wit no longer felt like a challenge he needed to meet head-on. Instead, it soothed him, drawing him out of the rigid confines of his own mind.

“…and of course, my mother was horrified,” Charlotte concluded with a soft laugh, her fingers idly tracing the embroidery on the armrest of her chair. “She spent an entire evening lecturing me about propriety while I tried to pretend I wasn’t covered in grass stains.”

Magnus chuckled softly, surprising himself with the sound. “It is no wonder they sent you away to France,” he said, his tone teasing. “You were entirely uncontrollable.”

Charlotte arched a brow, a playful smile tugging at her lips. “And I like to believe that I still am.”

He regarded her for a moment. “Perhaps,” he said quietly, his voice losing its teasing edge. “You have a knack for surprising me. Every time I think I have a handle on you, you quickly prove me wrong.”

Charlotte tilted her head, studying him with a curiosity that made him feel both exposed and understood. “And you, Magnus? Were you always so controlled?”

The question caught him off guard, and for a moment, he considered brushing it off with a dry remark. But something in her gaze—the gentle invitation to share—made him pause.

“I suppose I have always been disciplined,” he admitted, his voice measured. “My father saw to that. He believed order was the foundation of a strong character.”

“And did you agree?” she asked softly.

Magnus hesitated, his eyes shifting to the fire. “I suppose I didn’t have much of a choice. My father’s expectations were absolute. And after his death, those expectations became my own.”

Charlotte leaned forward, her expression tender. “That must have been a heavy burden.”

He didn’t respond immediately, his gaze distant as memories of his father’s stern lectures and unyielding demands surfaced. “It was necessary,” he said at last though the words felt hollow even to him. “Especially if I wanted to avoid the…”

“Curse,” she finished for him.

Before she could ask any further questions, the sound of the butler’s knock interrupted the moment—much to Magnus’ relief. He didn’t want to think about the curse, much less speak about it. “Lady Galbury has arrived, Your Grace,” the man announced, stepping into the room with a slight bow.

Magnus’ jaw tightened at the mention of his aunt, his earlier anger threatening to resurface. He glanced at Charlotte, who met his gaze with a calm understanding.

“I’ll give you two a moment,” she said, rising gracefully from her chair. She placed a hand lightly on his arm, her touch grounding him. “Be kind,” she whispered, her tone both teasing and sincere.

He watched her leave, the room feeling strangely colder in her absence. A moment later, Lady Galbury entered, her expression a careful blend of determination and contrition.

Magnus remained seated, his posture stiff as he regarded her coolly. “Lady Galbury,” he greeted, his tone formal. “What can I do for you?”

“Magnus,” she replied, her voice subdued. She hesitated near the doorway, her usual confidence faltering under his icy gaze. “May I sit?”

He gestured to the chair opposite him, and she took it, smoothing her skirts with nervous hands. For a moment, the room was filled only with the crackling of the fire, the silence heavy with unspoken words.

“I owe you another apology,” Lady Galbury began, her voice soft but steady. “I have had time to reflect on my actions, and I see now how gravely I overstepped. I should have trusted you to make your own decisions.”

Magnus inhaled deeply. “You manipulated me,” he said, his voice low. “You took it upon yourself to decide what was best for my life without consulting me. Do you have any idea how that feels?”

“I do,” she said quietly, her gaze dropping to her lap. “And I regret it deeply. My intentions were never to hurt you, Magnus. I acted out of love, misguided though it was.”

He scoffed, his anger bubbling just beneath the surface. “Love? You call betrayal love?”

Lady Galbury flinched, her hands tightening on her skirts. “Yes,” she said firmly, lifting her gaze to meet his. “Because I couldn’t bear to see you continue down the path you were on. So closed off, so unwilling to let anyone in. I thought—wrongly, I admit—that this might force you to see what you were missing.”

With a jolt, Magnus realized that Lady Galbury’s actions had worked. He had begun to soften, to see what he’d been missing. He was, perhaps, even falling in love.

But that still didn’t give her the right!

He simply stared at her, his emotions a tempest he could barely contain. He wanted to lash out, to make her understand the depth of her betrayal, but beneath the anger was a flicker of something softer—an understanding of the love that had driven her actions.

“Your methods were appalling,” he said finally, his voice rough. “But I can’t deny that your intentions were well-meaning.”

Lady Galbury’s eyes softened, a glimmer of hope breaking through her guilt. “Does that mean you forgive me?”

Magnus let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly as the weight of his anger began to lift. “I forgive you,” he said reluctantly, his tone begrudging. “But do not mistake that forgiveness for approval. This must never happen again.”

“Never,” she promised, her voice fervent. “You have my word.”

Magnus nodded curtly, the tension in his body easing as he leaned back in his chair. “Good.”

Lady Galbury hesitated then offered him a small, tentative smile. “You have grown into a remarkable man, Magnus. Stubborn and infuriating but remarkable all the same.”

He allowed the hint of a smirk to cross his lips. “I wonder where I inherited that from.”

Her laughter was soft, tinged with relief. “Touché.”