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

Chapter 30

Chapter Thirty

“ W ell, well,” Christian drawled, resting his elbow on the arm of his chair, “the Duke of Thornvale does find himself in a state. This must be good.”

Magnus had slammed his glass down onto the table, the rich amber liquid sloshing perilously close to the rim.

The polished mahogany gleamed under the low light of the gentleman’s club, but its elegance did nothing to soothe the roiling storm within him.

His jaw clenched as the burn of the whisky coursed through him though it wasn’t nearly enough to drown out the memory of Charlotte’s wounded expression nor what she had done to him.

Why did she uncover that portrait? Why couldn’t she leave well enough alone?

He didn’t know if he would ever be able to forgive her. It was his past, his burden. She had no right. Yet, beneath his anger simmered a darker, more unsettling truth—guilt. He had lashed out, hurt her with words he hadn’t meant, but the bitterness of his own fears had made them spill out like venom. And now, she was gone.

And I don’t know whether I want her to stay away forever or to return this instant.

The thought twisted in his chest, sharp and unrelenting. He had signaled the footman for another drink, his movements brisk, almost harsh.

The man had returned promptly, pouring the whisky with practiced precision before retreating into the shadows of the club.

Magnus raised the glass to his lips, the liquid warming his throat even as his thoughts chilled him.

The creak of a chair being pulled out broke through his brooding, and he turned to see Christian settling across from him, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. Viscount Arkley was impeccably dressed as always, his appearance a sharp contrast to Magnus’ unusually rumpled state.

Christian gestured for his own drink, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement.

Magnus scowled, his fingers curling tightly around his glass. “Not in the mood, Christian.”

“Clearly,” Christian replied, unperturbed. He took a sip of his drink, leaning back with an air of relaxed confidence. “I thought things were improving for you. Dare I say, you have even looked—what’s the word? Happy? Lighter?”

Magnus shot him a withering glare. “Spare me your insights.”

“Ah,” Christian said with a knowing nod. “So, it is about her, then. What’s happened? Trouble in paradise?”

“It was never paradise.”

Magnus’ grip on his glass tightened, his knuckles whitening. He stared into the fire as if it held the answers he sought. Christian watched him closely, the smirk fading into something more measured.

“She’s good for you, you know,” Christian said after a moment, his tone softer. “I have seen it. You’re different—less insufferable for one.”

Magnus let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” Christian countered, arching a brow. “I used to be like you, Magnus. Angry at the world, mistrustful of everyone. And then I found Lavinia. She changed everything.”

“You think that fixes things?” Magnus shot back, his voice sharp. “That one person can undo years of—” He cut himself off, his breath frosting the glass as he drained his glass in one long gulp. “It’s not that simple.”

“No, it’s not,” Christian agreed, his tone even. “But you don’t make it easier by shutting her out. Or by coming here to sulk.”

Magnus glared at him, the words cutting too close to the truth. “I didn’t come here for advice either.”

“Clearly,” Christian said again, his patience wearing thin. He leaned forward, setting his glass down with a deliberate thud. “You’re angry, Magnus. Fine. I don’t pretend to know what it’s about, nor do I want to know. But don’t take it out on her—or yourself. Whatever it is, deal with it like a man.”

Magnus’ lips curled into a sneer. “And how would you suggest I do that?”

Christian studied him for a long moment, his gaze steady. “Start by asking yourself why you’re so damn afraid of being happy.”

The question hung in the air, a sharp contrast to the murmured conversations and clinking glasses around them. Magnus’ chest tightened, his anger giving way to the emotion he had tried to hold back. He looked away, unwilling to meet Christian’s steady gaze.

“Go home, and talk to her, Magnus.”

“She is not at home,” he muttered into his glass. “She has gone to her parents’ house in London.”

“Then perhaps you have got what you claim to want, but it seems it doesn’t feel so good.”

“Christian,” Magnus said in a low growl, “I am warning you. This is not a matter for discussion.”

“It never is.” Christian sighed, rising to his feet. “When you have got your sense back, you know where to find me.”

When Magnus returned home, having consumed more whisky than was recommended, he dragged a heavy, high-backed chair into the portrait room and sat himself before the veiled portrait.

The heavy velvet curtain had been returned to its place, now hanging limply over the frame. He stared at it for a long time, his chin resting in his hand. Now, the rage was gone, leaving behind only an emptiness that gnawed at him like a persistent ache.

Charlotte’s absence was a weight he hadn’t anticipated. The house, once oppressive with her presence challenging his carefully controlled world, now felt cavernous without her.

Each quiet hallway, each empty room, seemed to echo with the memory of her voice, her laughter, her very essence. It was maddening. Hadn’t he hated all the noise and the fuss when she had first arrived? What had changed?

She has bewitched me. That is what has changed.

With a sudden burst of annoyance, Magnus leaped up from his seat, lunged toward the painting, and pulled at the fabric, letting it fall to the fall once more. He didn’t look up at it until he was back in his chair, a glass of whisky resting on the arm.

The portrait of Edwin came into view, the piercing green eyes staring back at him with the same intensity he remembered so vividly. It was as if the man was in the room with him as he had been all those years ago.

He picked up his glass and swirled the liquid absently, his gaze fixed on the painted figure.

“Damn you, Edwin,” he muttered, the words heavy with a mix of bitterness and longing.

His uncle had been a larger-than-life figure, a man Magnus had idolized in his youth. Only seven years older than him, the pair had been more akin to brothers. Edwin had possessed a charisma that could light up any room, a sharp mind that seemed to hold all the answers, and a charm that had made him a favorite of both family and friends. Magnus had wanted to be like him, to follow in his footsteps.

But then the betrayal had come.

He took a long sip of his drink, the burn a fleeting distraction from the weight in his chest. Edwin’s betrayal had taught him a lesson he had carried ever since: trust was a dangerous thing, a luxury he couldn’t afford.

Yet, here he was, feeling the sting of his own hypocrisy. He had trusted Charlotte—or had he? He couldn’t decide anymore. All he knew was that he had hurt her, pushed her away, and now he was left with nothing but the ghosts of his past to haunt him.

His gaze drifted to the nameplate beneath the painting, the engraved letters gleaming faintly in the firelight. Edwin Thornvale. A name that once held admiration now tasted like ashes.

“You ruined everything,” Magnus said, his voice low but edged with venom. “And I am still cleaning up your mess.”

The whisky in his glass was nearly gone, and he stared at the glittering remnants as if he could see his past replayed in them. His glass didn’t have the answer. Neither did the empty bottle on the side table, nor the pile of letters he hadn’t bothered to read since Charlotte had left.

He leaned back in the chair, his head resting against the high back as he closed his eyes. Images of Charlotte moved behind his lids: her fiery spirit, her laughter, the way she challenged him without fear. He had pushed her away, yet she had been the only person in years to make him feel alive. And now, in her absence, he felt hollow.

Charlotte sat in the sunroom of her parents’ townhouse, the warmth of the afternoon light falling across her lap as if trying to coax her into feeling something—anything—other than the hollow ache that had taken root in her chest. Her anger and upset had been stifled by apathy.

The cheerful chatter of birds outside the window was a stark contrast to the emotions swirling within her.

The knock at the door was a welcome reprieve from the endless loop of Magnus’ cutting words in her mind. She straightened in her chair, her heart giving a slight, hopeful leap as the butler entered with a small bow.

“Lady Lavinia to see you, Your Grace.”

Charlotte’s breath caught, relief washing over her like a balm. After days of her mother and father, this was one conversation she welcomed.

“Please, send her in.”

A moment later, Lavinia swept into the room, her presence an immediate source of warmth and familiarity. Her lilac gown swayed gracefully as she moved, her expression a perfect blend of compassion and determination.

Without a word, she crossed the room and enveloped Charlotte in a tight embrace, the gesture so genuine that Charlotte felt her composure crack just a little.

“Oh, Charlotte,” Lavinia said, pulling back to study her friend’s face. “You look… well, better than I feared but only just.”

Charlotte managed a smile, her lips trembling as she forced them to curve upward. “It’s good to see you, Lavinia. Truly.”

“And you.” Lavinia gestured for them to sit, taking the seat closest to Charlotte.

Her gaze moved to the untouched tea service then back to Charlotte, her brows knitting together in concern.

“I came as soon as I could. Christian told me he saw Magnus. He said…” She hesitated, her voice softening. “He said Magnus was in quite a state.”

At least I am not the only one suffering.

Charlotte exhaled shakily, her hands clasping tightly in her lap. “Was he?” she asked, her tone light but hollow. She stared at her hands, not daring to hope. “I suppose that makes two of us.”

“Charlotte.” Lavinia’s voice was gentle but insistent, her hand reaching out to rest on Charlotte’s arm. “What’s happened? I have never seen Christian so concerned. And he said Magnus was, and these are his exact words, well, if I didn’t know better, I’d say he was heartbroken .”

Charlotte blinked, her breath hitching at the word. Heartbroken . Was that what this was? Did Magnus truly feel as shattered as she did? Or was this simply another layer of the puzzle she couldn’t seem to solve?

“It’s complicated,” Charlotte said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Then start where it hurts the most,” Lavinia said softly. “Whatever it is, Charlotte, I am here. You don’t have to carry it alone.”

Charlotte’s composure crumbled just a little more, her fingers twisting the fabric of her gown around and around. She took a steadying breath, her voice trembling as she began.

“It’s been difficult,” she admitted. “Magnus and I—things were getting better, or at least I thought they were. He has these moments where he lets me in, where I feel like we’re truly connected. But then it’s like he remembers something, and the walls go back up. He shuts me out completely.”

Lavinia nodded, her expression unwavering in its empathy. “And now?”

Charlotte hesitated, her throat tightening as she replayed the scene in the portrait room.

“I found a painting,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “A man named Edwin. I don’t know who he was to Magnus, but when I uncovered it, he was furious. He said I had no right, that it was his family—not mine.”

Lavinia inhaled sharply, her hand tightening on Charlotte’s arm in silent support. “Oh, Charlotte.”

“I asked him what I was to him,” Charlotte continued, her voice trembling. “And he said, we’re just a contract. Nothing more.”

The words hung in the air like thunder, and Charlotte felt the sting of them all over again. She looked away, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill. It felt far more hurtful when said aloud.

“I don’t know why it hurt so much. I should have expected it, but I didn’t. I thought…” Her voice broke, and she pressed her lips together, willing herself to stay composed. Where was the strong, feisty young lady she had always been?

Lavinia’s grip on her arm remained firm. “Because you care for him,” Lavinia said gently. “And despite everything, you hoped he cared for you too.”

Charlotte let out a humorless laugh, the sound brittle and raw. “I trusted him,” she said, shaking her head. “Even when he didn’t trust me, I trusted him. And now, I see how foolish I was.”

“You’re not foolish,” Lavinia said firmly, her voice laced with conviction. “You saw the man Magnus could be, the man he probably is beneath all that armor he wears. That’s not foolish, Charlotte. That’s brave.”

Charlotte shook her head, her voice cracking. “I don’t feel brave. I feel broken.”

“You’re not broken either,” Lavinia said, leaning closer. “You’re hurt. And Magnus—he’s hurting too, even if he can’t admit it. Christian said as much, and I believe him. Whatever he said to you, whatever he’s done, I think it comes from fear, not malice.”

“Fear of what?” Charlotte asked, her voice rising with frustration. “Fear of me? Fear of this marriage?”

“Fear of losing control,” Lavinia said softly. “Of being vulnerable. Of trusting someone completely and not knowing if they’ll hurt him. He’s lived with his walls for so long, Charlotte, I doubt he even knows how to let them down.”

Charlotte’s chest tightened, her heart aching at the truth of Lavinia’s words. “And what am I supposed to do?” she whispered. “Wait for him to decide I am worth it?”

“You’re worth it,” Lavinia said without hesitation. “He knows it, even if he’s too stubborn to admit it. But you can’t wait for him to tell you that. You have to believe it yourself. And when the time comes, when he realizes what a fool he’s been, you’ll be strong enough to decide whether he’s worth it too.”

Charlotte blinked, tears slipping free despite her best efforts. Lavinia reached out, brushing them away with a tenderness that broke through Charlotte’s defenses completely.

“Thank you,” Charlotte said, her voice trembling. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’d manage,” Lavinia said with a smile though her eyes glistened with unshed tears of her own. “But it’s much more fun with me, isn’t it?”