Stolen by the Ruthless Duke (Stolen by the Duke #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

SEVERAL MONTHS LATER

“ I object to this wedding!”

Standing at the altar, Ophelia spun around at the outburst, her eyes widening as they landed on the man who had barged into her wedding ceremony. The elaborate wedding gown Lord Anworth had chosen for her dragged at her ankles as she turned around.

Her lips parted slightly at the sight of the intruder.

There was something familiar about him, something that drew her in, questioning. Green eyes sought her out, and black hair curled around his shoulders as if he had been riding hard. There was something more than disheveled about him. Something… wild .

Ophelia couldn’t take her eyes off him.

Something stirred within her despite the tightness of her corset. A sensation she had not felt before. Something she couldn’t quite explain. Except… she wanted to see more of that wildness. She wanted to see where it would go.

His broad, muscular chest—a stark contrast to Lord Anworth’s thin and frail torso—rose and fell heavily.

Opposite her, Lord Anworth, her groom, glared at the stranger. Ophelia’s heart soared.

“What is the meaning of this, Your Grace?” Lord Anworth demanded.

Ophelia looked at the man in a new light, aware of the eyes on her—on the duke who had interrupted her wedding. He was flushed, but he composed himself quickly. The look in his eyes made Ophelia speechless, rooted to the spot.

Clutching her bouquet of flowers as though she was a pretty bride excited about her future, Ophelia dared to hope.

Because she was not a bride excited about her future.

I dread it.

With every second that passed, she had wished for somebody to save her.

No . It’s worth it. For Bridget’s sake, I must see this through. It is all for her safety.

She would keep her end of the bargain.

And then in burst the Duke.

A duke whose familiarity tugged at her mind.

“Simply put, Lord Anworth, this wedding cannot go on,” he announced, striding down the aisle as though he belonged there.

Ophelia gasped.

The audience chattered, watching the three of them. Anxiety climbed up her throat. She looked around, wanting someone to explain.

But her eyes kept returning to the Duke. He was attired in a fine dark jacket and a matching waistcoat that stretched over his broad chest. The black shirt beneath matched the imposing finery.

He walked towards her. Ophelia took a step backward as if she could physically back away from the ruination of her future.

“This wedding, indeed, can go on!”

Ophelia looked towards her stepmother, Lady Kirkland, her late father’s wife.

Lady Kirkland rose from her seat, her dark hair impeccably styled, and her cheekbones sharp, making her look as stern as Ophelia knew she was. “Do you have a good reason as to why you are interrupting this joyful occasion?”

“I do, Lady Kirkland.” The Duke kept approaching Ophelia, barely sparing a moment for anybody else. “For I have ruined Lady Ophelia.”

Those gathered for the wedding gasped. The church fell silent a moment after, the announcement hanging heavy in the air.

Lord Anworth turned his rage on Ophelia. He grasped her wrist, tightening his grip, hidden behind her flowers. “Lady Ophelia?”

Lady Kirkland’s eyes flicked to her as well, cruel fury blazing within them. But Ophelia shook her head. Her blonde hair, curled into perfection for her dreadful day, brushed her cheeks.

“I do not know this man,” she whispered. “I have not—I have not been ruined.”

Lady Kirkland fixed her gaze back to the Duke. “And you are?”

“I am the Duke of Stormcliff.” The Duke wore a smirk as though it belonged on his face permanently. “And Lady Ophelia’s lover.”

Whispers rippled through the church, and the reverend cleared his throat, backing up a step.

Ophelia’s heart sank to her feet as she gaped at him.

Lord Anworth’s fingers dug in harder, and her heart pounded. No matter what she wished, she’d known no one would come to save her. But this was something else entirely. She did not know what was happening.

Her head spun at the false accusation, made before the whole ton.

She shook her head.

“I do not believe you, Your Grace,” her stepmother said, her voice steely and proud, hiding her uncertainty. “My stepdaughter is… not the sort of girl to take a lover. I would know of any affairs she had with a gentleman. A duke, at that. I want you to leave now.”

“That is why we have had our trysts in secret—because of our titles. Is that not correct, Lady Ophelia?”

The Duke’s eyes flashed at Ophelia, a beckoning she could not understand. She opened and closed her mouth, unsure what to say.

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head faster. This stranger was ruining everything. She could not allow anyone to stop this marriage she dreaded. “No, it is not?—”

“It is quite all right. You do not have to pretend anymore, it is done. I do not imagine you forgot your feelings for me so easily.” When he looked at her, she felt as though he knew her already. But that was impossible. “Not after our night beneath the stars in the sunroom of my London townhouse. Surely you have not forgotten Farrick House so quickly.”

Those very details cut through the congregation’s murmurs, bringing an immediate hush over the pews. Ophelia’s stomach grew heavy with anxiety. She could not stop glancing at her stepmother, waiting for her reaction.

Her breath grew short, and she pressed her hand to her forehead.

“I see how you flush at the memory,” the Duke said, sealing her fate that bit further.

And then the confusion in the crowd turned into accusation, eyes turning to look at her in judgment.

A ruined woman at the altar, promised to the man who had not ruined her.

I am not flushing, she wanted to protest, but she could see the derision around her.

The Duke of Stormcliff reached out a hand to her, and she gasped. His fingers curled to beckon her. But she was rooted to the spot, unable to move a muscle.

She did not want to marry Lord Anworth, but she had to—for Bridget’s safety. To ensure that her wretched stepmother kept her end of the bargain.

I cannot let him ruin this .

But before she could argue again, her betrothed stepped forward.

“I will not stand for this,” Lord Anworth hissed, pulling her close to him.

Yes . He is seeing through the lies! He is stubborn enough to marry me anyway.

“I will not be humiliated by a whore!” the old lord cried out.

The word went through her in a wave of shock. Dread pooled in her stomach, and her wrist was released.

No—no, no, no.

“Please—”

But Lord Anworth was already storming away angrily, and when he moved out of Ophelia’s line of sight, all she could see was her stepmother’s fury, held tightly in check before the wedding guests.

Lord Anworth stood before the Duke, vibrating with rage. “You are a bastard, Stormcliff, and you very well know it.”

The Duke had the gall to only stare back at the older man as if he was unaffected, as if he belonged right there, stopping Ophelia’s wedding. He even raised an eyebrow as if to ask, Yes, and?

“And we all know exactly what you are, do we not, Anworth?”

“ Bastard ,” Lord Anworth spat again, shaking his head. “This is not the end!”

“Lord Anworth!” Ophelia cried out.

Her feet finally moved, and she lifted her heavy wedding dress and hurried down the aisle after him, only to stop halfway down.

“Please do not leave!”

But he was already out of the church, and she fought back tears.

How could this Duke do this to her? Who was he to do this to her?

She whirled on him, faced with a handsome yet utterly placidly smug expression. His chest was puffed out slightly, completely confident in what he had just caused. Of course, he was—he did not stand to lose anything.

My chances of saving my friend have just walked out of the church , she realized with horror. My stepmother will not keep Bridget and her secret safe. Everything is ruined.

For this Duke, whatever his motives, whyever he had done this, would not care about her.

“Who are you?” she seethed, striding over to him.

He loomed over her, as tall as he was broad, and her breath caught in her throat. Cool, green eyes merely gazed back down at her.

“I am?—”

He was cut off by Lady Kirkland’s cry of distress as she rushed to Ophelia’s side.

Her voice lowered to a hiss to not be overheard by the guests, who were chattering away.

“You are a foolish girl,” she snarled. “Come over here.”

At her side was Lord Montford, her father’s cousin. His own glare pinned Ophelia to her spot. She could not move, overwhelmed by the realization that her marriage prospects were well and truly over.

Lord Montford reached out and snagged her elbow. Grasping one of Lady Kirkland’s arms as well, he dragged them off to the side of the church.

Ophelia gasped, struggling against his painful grip as his fingers squeezed her elbow. “Lord Mo?—”

“Silence,” he hissed. “You have disgraced us. You have disgraced your mother.”

Stepmother, Ophelia corrected in her head.

“You will carry this forever, Ophelia,” Lord Montford scolded. “Lady Kirkland, too, and Heavens forbid this ruins the future Marquess’s chances of securing a good match.”

“He is six years old,” Ophelia protested. “This will be old enough news by the time he is ready to marry.”

“Names that are tarnished are not only ruined for a brief time,” Lord Montford warned. “You know this well.”

Ophelia bit her lip, her face tight with anger. They all accused her, but she had done nothing wrong. Her stomach was in knots, and she pressed her hand to her sternum, trying to breathe around the unease. She thought she might be sick.

“You have shamed me, Ophelia,” Lady Kirkland spat.

Both their faces were too close to hers, menacing. Her heart pounded—she wanted to flee, to escape it all.

“But most of all, you have lost the best match you could have ever hoped for. Do you know how much it took to snag a man like Lord Anworth? What are your other options now? How could you be so foolish as to give yourself to another man in this way?”

Her stepmother’s lip curled in disgust.

Ophelia wanted to protest. Lord Anworth would have been a terrible husband—she knew the rumors about how he treated his late three wives. There was a reason he’d had so many. But she could not argue with her stepmother, not right now.

Instead, she sought out the Duke, wanting to demand answers. But he was not in the aisle where he had been earlier. No, to her horror, he strode right up to her, that stoic, resolute look on his face. As if he had accomplished something worthwhile, rather than ruin her future.

Ophelia’s face twisted into a snarl as he approached, disgusted and angry.

“Lady Ophelia.”

His voice was smooth, even. In contrast, she didn’t trust her own not to crack.

His eyes flicked over her shoulder, to her stepmother. “I must speak with you in private.”

“Whatever you have to say, you may say before me,” Lady Kirkland snapped. “Your Grace, you must understand the gravity of the?—”

“Lady Ophelia.” The Duke’s eyes flicked back to Ophelia. “I must speak with you .”

She could hear her stepmother’s splutters, her gasps of outrage. She nodded, and the Duke of Stormcliff dragged her away from Lady Kirkland and Lord Montford, past the guests who watched interestedly. He stopped just before the entrance to the church.

“Lady—”

“Your Grace, I do not know who you are, and I do not know why you have done this to me, but do you understand that you have ruined everything?”

Tears of anger stung her eyes as she stared up at him.

She felt foolish, standing in her gown, with nothing to wear it for anymore. Her hair had been meticulously curled and tended to for the day. She wanted to tear it all off. She wanted to disappear into the floor.

“On the contrary, I believe I saved you from a terribly unhappy marriage.”

“That was not your place,” she seethed. “It was to?—”

She stopped herself. She could not reveal the true reason she had agreed to marry Lord Anworth. She could not betray Bridget like that, or make up a lie quick enough.

Sighing, she answered, “It was—it was my chance to escape this misery.”

The Duke frowned, his gaze drifting back over her shoulder briefly before returning to her. His presence was encompassing, and she fought to keep her anger at bay.

“What is to become of me now?” she whispered. “Who will marry me now that they believe you have—” She could barely force the words out. “Ruined me?” Her throat tightened.

Maybe one older gentleman would, a man desperate enough not to care. Her stepmother could choose somebody else for their bargain. All hope might not be lost, but her anger remained.

“How could you do such a thing to a woman you do not know? This is not a game, Your Grace. This is my life. This is… others’ lives that you have now turned into a scandal for the amusement of the ton.”

“I rescued you from a terrible fate,” he told her, his voice low. “You do not know of Lord Anworth’s history with women.”

His eyes narrowed as if the very idea disgusted him. Still, she had heard plenty of rumors.

“It was a risk I had to take.”

“Lady Ophelia,” he said, his voice commanding, forcing her to stop her train of thought. “You do have one option left.”

She laughed helplessly. “Do you not think you have been cruel enough? Do not say such a thing when you do not know?—”

“I will marry you, Lady Ophelia.”