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

Chapter 29

Chapter Twenty-Nine

A few days had passed since the ball, and Charlotte found herself caught in an odd limbo.

Things with Magnus had been improving—or so she wanted to believe. Their physical connection had flourished, each touch and kiss sparking something deeper, something raw and unspoken.

She wanted more, and she was certain that he wanted more too. Yet, outside of the bedroom, he remained closed off, guarded as though he still couldn’t fully let her in.

It hurt. She had allowed herself to hope that his walls might finally begin to crumble, but for every step forward, there seemed to be another barrier waiting to push her back. Despite his moments of tenderness, the Duke of Thornvale remained a puzzle she couldn’t quite piece together.

Perhaps that was why she found herself wandering the castle more often, her curiosity pushing her to explore its hidden corners and grand halls. If Magnus wouldn’t share his past with her, perhaps the walls of Thornvale might.

Today, her wandering led her back to the portrait room. She had consciously decided to go there, back to the shrouded painting. It hadn’t even entered her head. Except… perhaps, somewhere deep down, she knew this was where she intended to go all along.

She hesitated in the doorway, her gaze sweeping over the rows of grand paintings, each face telling a story she hadn’t yet been privy to. She was curious about all of them, wanting to know everything about Magnus’ past. But it was the one painting which drew her to this room. The veiled portrait loomed at the far end, its shrouded presence an enigma she could no longer ignore.

Charlotte took a deep breath, her fingers brushing against the fabric of her gown as she stepped inside. Her shoes made soft echoes against the wooden floor, the stillness of the room amplifying her every movement, as if she were a criminal at night.

With each step closer to the veiled painting, her heart quickened, guilt and anticipation threading through her veins. She knew Magnus didn’t want her in here nor anywhere near this particular painting, but she couldn’t help herself.

Perhaps it was his determination to keep her away that drew her back here. She was certain the picture hid the secrets she so desperately wanted to reveal.

She stopped before the covered frame, her hands hovering over the dark cloth. Her chest tightened, torn between respecting Magnus’ wishes and giving in to the curiosity that had been gnawing at her for days. After a moment’s hesitation, she grasped the edges of the fabric and pulled it away.

The heavy velvet cloth fell to the floor with a thud, kicking up a cloud of dust and revealing the hidden portrait at last. Charlotte stepped back, her breath catching as her eyes met the intense green gaze of the man in the painting. He was young, his features sharp and striking with an air of quiet strength that seemed to radiate from the canvas. Below the frame, an engraved plaque bore the name: Edwin Thornvale.

The name sent a jolt through her, her mind racing with questions. Edwin . Magnus had never spoken of him. What had happened to him? Why was his portrait hidden away? The mystery only deepened as she studied the painting, her heart heavy with the weight of the secrets it seemed to hold.

Is he the source of the curse?

The sound of the door swinging open shattered her thoughts, and Charlotte spun around to find Magnus standing in the doorway. His expression was a storm of fury and betrayal, his emerald eyes blazing as they locked onto hers. Her own eyes widened, and she took another step away from the painting, her hands raised in submission.

“What are you doing?” His voice was low and harsh, the anger in his tone sending a shiver down her spine.

Charlotte took a deep breath and straightened. She wouldn’t allow him to intimidate her, regardless of what she had done. She lowered her arms and clasped her hands tightly in front of her, forcing herself to meet his gaze.

“I was curious, nothing more,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt.

“You had no right to uncover that,” Magnus snapped, his footsteps heavy as he crossed the room toward her. His presence was imposing, a towering shadow that seemed to fill the space between them. Charlotte resisted the urge to take another step back.

“I had every right,” she shot back, her own temper flaring in response to his anger. “I am your wife. This is my home now, too, and if I wish to admire the paintings, then I shall.”

Magnus’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing with barely restrained fury. “That’s my family,” he said sharply. “Not yours.”

The words landed with devastating clarity, and Charlotte felt her chest tighten, the sting of his rejection cutting deeper than she expected. She wouldn’t allow him to speak to her like that, though. She was stronger than that.

“What am I to you, then?” she demanded, her voice rising. “If I am not family, what am I?”

Magnus’s gaze faltered, a momentary crack in his stoic mask, before he answered. “You’re a contract,” he said coldly, each word a deliberate blow. “Nothing more.”

A contract.

The silence that followed was suffocating, the weight of that word pressing down on her like a physical force. Contract. Charlotte stared at him, her breath coming in shallow bursts as the truth of his statement settled over her.

I am nothing more than a transaction. How stupid I was to expect anything more.

Her voice trembled as she replied, “I trusted you, Magnus. Despite everything, I trusted you. But now I see it’s you who can’t trust me.” She took a step back, her eyes burning with unshed tears as she added, “And perhaps I am the fool because I am realizing I should never have trusted you.”

Magnus flinched, the barest flicker of guilt flashing across his face before his expression hardened again. “You should leave,” he said, his tone clipped and unyielding as he bent down and picked up the heavy velvet curtain.

Charlotte swallowed the lump in her throat, lifting her chin as she turned away from him. Her steps were deliberate, her shoulders squared as she walked past him and out the door. She refused to let him see the tears that threatened to spill, her pride the only armor she had left.

Charlotte barely remembered the carriage ride to her parents’ London townhouse. The rhythmic clatter of hooves on cobblestones should have been soothing, but it only seemed to amplify the chaos swirling in her mind. She had to leave; she’d had no choice.

Every word Magnus had spoken, every sharp-edged glance, played on an endless loop in her thoughts. She had left Thornvale in haste, her emotions too raw to stay another moment. Yet, as the Shelton home came into view, her chest tightened with an all-too-familiar dread. She had traded one source of turmoil for another.

Seated now in the drawing room, she felt trapped, the room’s elaborate furnishings more stifling than grand, even if they were familiar. The oppressive air of her parents’ ambition hung over every exchange, the weight of their expectations pressing on her like a physical burden. Her mother, as ever, was the chief architect of that weight, and her father its enforcer.

“Oh, Charlotte,” her mother gushed, her fan fluttering as dramatically as her voice rose. “You must tell us all about Thornvale. What is it like to live in such splendor? And Magnus —how is the Duke? Brooding, I imagine, but men like him always are. It adds to their mystique, doesn’t it?”

Charlotte forced a polite smile, her fingers knotting the fabric of her gown in her lap. They hadn’t once asked about her, about how she was doing or feeling. “He’s much as you would expect,” she said, her tone even though the words felt hollow. What else could she say?

Her father leaned back in his chair, his pipe held loosely in one hand. “A fine match, my girl,” he said, nodding approvingly. “You have done well, Charlotte, even if it was entirely accidental. Lord Atherton himself commented on the marriage just the other day. Said it was a union to be envied.”

“He probably didn’t hear about the scandal that led to it,” her mother added, her head tilted in thought. “Though all’s well that ends well, I say.”

“I am glad it pleases you, Father,” Charlotte replied though the words tasted bitter. She clasped her teacup to stop herself from shaking though whether it was rage or sadness or something else that caused it, she did not know.

Her mother clapped her hands together, a radiant smile spreading across her face. “Oh, but the estate! You must tell us, dear. Is it true you have staff for every little thing? I imagine you have no need to lift a finger. How heavenly it must be, living as a duchess!”

“Yes, heavenly,” Charlotte murmured, her smile slipping further.

“And think of the connections!” her mother continued, undeterred by Charlotte’s lackluster response. “Why, with you married to a duke, it won’t be long before your sister finds a suitable match. Doors are opening for all of us, Charlotte. Thanks to our good management, we have ensured that.”

Good management? Charlotte could hardly believe her ears. If it were up to her parents, she’d be married to Kinfield now, but they seemed to have forgotten all about that, taking it upon themselves to celebrate such a wonderful marriage. It was so patently ridiculous that she almost laughed.

She glanced across the room to where her sister, Louisa, sat on the couch, watching her intently. Charlotte offered her the best smile she could muster, but her sister merely offered a suspicious glance back. Charlotte looked away. She wasn’t sure what would be worse, her parents’ complete lack of awareness or Louisa asking her if she was all right.

Her father leaned forward, the wood of his chair creaking slightly. “And Reginald—he’ll be delighted to see you when he returns. He’s had promising discussions regarding his future though it’s all hush-hush for now. Between his prospects and your marriage, the Shelton name will stand tall for generations.”

Charlotte’s throat tightened, her pulse thundering in her ears. They spoke of her marriage as though it were a game they had won, a victory to be paraded. Their focus wasn’t on her—not her struggles, her happiness, or even her presence in the room—but on what she represented.

“Excuse me,” she said abruptly, rising from her seat. Her hands trembled still, but she clasped them tightly at her waist, willing herself to remain composed. “I need some air.”

Her mother blinked, her fan stilled mid-motion. “Oh, so soon? We’ve hardly had time to talk?—”

“I’ll only be a moment,” Charlotte said firmly. Without waiting for a response, she turned and left the room.

The garden behind the estate offered a momentary reprieve from the oppressive grandeur of the drawing room. Charlotte inhaled deeply, the cool air soothing her frayed nerves. The neatly trimmed hedges and blooming flowers were again familiar, yet they did little to settle the storm in her chest.

“Charlotte?” Louisa’s gentle voice broke the stillness. Charlotte turned to see her sister standing beneath the shade of a cherry tree, her pale blue gown blending with the greenery. There was no mistaking the worry etched into her delicate features.

“Are you all right?” Louisa asked, stepping closer.

Charlotte hesitated, her mask slipping for just a moment before she forced a smile. “I am fine,” she said though her voice lacked conviction. “Just a little tired.”

Louisa frowned, her brow furrowing. “You have been quiet all evening,” she said softly. “And you barely responded to Mother’s questions.”

Charlotte let out a humorless laugh. “Would you be keen for such a conversation?”

“Well, no,” Louisa admitted. “But even so. Your spark seems to have dimmed somehow. Is everything all right with His Grace?”

Charlotte’s breath caught, the question striking too close to the truth. Louisa always had a way of getting to the crux of the matter. She glanced away, her gaze settling on the violets clustered near the tree’s base. “It’s just an adjustment,” she said carefully. “Marriage takes time. It can be difficult to settle in.”

Louisa’s concern deepened, her hand brushing lightly against Charlotte’s arm. “You don’t have to tell me everything,” she said gently, “but I can see you’re unhappy. If something’s wrong—if you need help—please, tell me.”

Charlotte blinked back the sudden sting of tears. Her sister’s earnestness was a balm to her wounded heart, but she couldn’t bring herself to burden Louisa with the full truth.

“I’ll be fine,” she said softly, her smile faint but reassuring. “Truly. It’s just a lot to adjust to. I suppose you’ll experience that for yourself one day when Mother and Father find you a husband.”

Louisa studied her for a long moment, though she didn’t answer Charlotte’s comment. Finally, she nodded.

“All right,” she said quietly. “But promise me, if it becomes too much, you’ll come to me. Don’t try to carry it all alone. I know everyone thinks of me as the baby of the family, but I am not as young as I once was nor as blind to the truth of the world. Do you promise?”

Charlotte nodded, her chest tightening with gratitude. “I promise.”

The sisters stood in companionable silence, the rustling leaves above them a gentle backdrop to the unspoken bond between them. For the first time since leaving Thornvale, Charlotte felt a little solace. But even that comfort was fleeting with Magnus’ cold words still echoing in her mind.