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

Chapter 3

Chapter Three

“ Y ou can do this,” Ophelia told herself as she approached the church.

Only two days had passed since she had last been there, when she had lost the chance to save her best friend.

All because of a man who publicly humiliated her, forced her to marry him, and never even explained his motives.

She had lost Bridget because of him.

Her hands trembled as she clutched a new bouquet of flowers. These ones were pink lilies. Once again, they had been bought for her—but these were her favorite flowers, and she’d have chosen them herself given the opportunity.

“Bridget,” she murmured, even if her friend was not there to hear the promise she made. “I shall find a way to make this right for you. I will not leave you alone. I am sorry.”

As soon as she stood in the doorway of the church and the scattered guests turned to look at her, she hesitated.

Her stomach fluttered as she looked at the back of the Duke. His shoulders were tight, and from what she could see, he wore a long black tailcoat, a black shirt, and a silk black cravat around his stiff collar.

The long dark hair around his shoulders that had been wild and loose the day he had interrupted her wedding ceremony was now neatly combed back, and she blinked, wondering why she found even the hair that brushed his neck attractive.

The whispers in the church died down as she walked down the aisle. To her left, Lady Kirkland and Lord Montford looked on. Next to them, Ophelia’s half-brother James watched in wide-eyed wonder. He gave her a toothy grin.

Forcing one foot in front of the other, Ophelia walked to her fate.

She’d expected at least a moment of communication when she reached her groom. But when she was at the front of the church, those green eyes did not even look at her.

The Duke’s beard was trimmed and neatly groomed, as opposed to two days ago. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides.

Had he truly fled London after his uncle’s murder? She silently wondered. Her stomach dropped at the thought of a bridegroom capable of that.

She turned her gaze away.

How did he kill him ?

Lord Anworth had a reputation for being cruel to his former wives, and there were whispers of much darker goings on, but the Duke had killed his uncle and fled.

Why would he risk returning for her?

A thousand questions raced through her mind, but she was soon brought back into reality when she heard the vicar’s voice.

“We are gathered to join His Grace, the Duke of Stormcliff, and Lady Ophelia Russell in holy matrimony,” he announced. “Before we begin, is there anybody present who knows why these two people should not be wed?”

Ophelia’s lips curved in an instant of humor as she wondered if a stranger would barge in to save her from this wedding, too. Except that stranger would not humiliate her, and he would run away with her without forcing her hand.

She shook herself out of her daydream at the feel of a hand on hers. The Duke slid a ring onto her finger, binding them in holy matrimony, and she realized she had not listened to the vicar’s speech.

His eyes finally met hers, and she started at the green of them, like emeralds—deep and intense, as if his very gaze could pin her to the ground.

Ophelia swallowed.

Behind the Duke, his staff looked on. A butler, perhaps. Maybe a steward. Both men were finely dressed and had their hands clasped behind their backs.

They will be your servants shortly, too , she reminded herself.

The ceremony passed agonizingly slowly, and Ophelia choked out her vows, as did the Duke, and then everything seemed to suddenly blur together. She was a duchess.

A duchess to a cruel, murderous duke.

Her mind drifted to Bridget—what had become of her friend?

Bridget should have been there—she should have been safe after this wedding, tending to her at Stormcliff Hall.

With a heavy weight in her chest, Ophelia turned to face the church as the Duchess of Stormcliff. The title felt like a shroud on her. She was not meant to carry such a burden, and her husband would not even spare her a glance.

Frustration bubbled up inside her. He had angered her stepmother, ruined the bargain Ophelia had struck, and now he would try to pretend as though she did not exist.

But just as Ophelia thought he would truly walk out and leave her to follow, without a word or an idea of his plans, he brushed past her.

“Say your farewells, and make them quick.”

The order was sharp and concise, nothing like the teasing comments he’d made two days ago in order to chase Lord Anworth out of the church. The contrast was jarring. He strode past her, jerking his head at his staff in dismissal.

Then he turned his back on her and stepped out of the church, leaving her momentarily stunned.

Was she meant to be trapped with such a brusque man forever?

A heaviness settled into her bones.

She could have kept her head high if it weren’t for Bridget’s absence. Her friend should have been there, smiling with tears in her eyes, watching Ophelia marry her love. But she was not there, and Ophelia did not marry her love. She was forced into an arrangement, and not even the one she had chosen.

Tamping down her anger for a moment, she approached her half-brother and scooped him up into her arms, hugging him.

“In case I do not see you until you are much older, I want you to know that you will make a fine marquess one day, James. You have the kind nature of our father, and I only wish I could watch you grow up.”

James blinked at her, nodding slowly in a way that made her know he did not realize the gravity of what he was being told.

“Lord Montford shall look after you well,” she continued, hoping it would be true. “And if I can arrange for it, you shall visit me in my new home. Would you like that?”

Grinning, James nodded. “Can I bring my new horse? He is small, and he will not crowd the stables.”

He dug into his small formal jacket and produced a porcelain horse which he waved at her.

She laughed weakly, nodding. “Of course you can bring him,” she said softly, cupping his face.

She could hear her stepmother’s approaching footsteps, but she was determined to savor these last moments with her little brother.

“I will miss you,” she added.

“I will miss you putting extra jam on my toast in the morning,” James sighed woefully. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, James.”

Ophelia ruffled his hair once more before putting him down and moving away.

She wished she could avoid Lady Kirkland, but there was no such luck. The Duke lingered just outside the doorway, however, a silent reminder of his warning to make her farewells brief.

“Stepmother,” she said sharply.

“I suppose you are happy now,” Lady Kirkland sneered. “I have learned much about the Duke, and I can only hope you know who you have plotted with. In comparison, Lord Anworth would have been a merciful husband. One day, Ophelia, you will regret not listening to me.”

Ophelia’s chest tightened uncomfortably. Lady Kirkland believed the Duke was a monster—perhaps she always had but waited until this moment, thinking Ophelia really had planned to marry him in this way.

“I do hope it is worth it, Ophelia. Your father would be ashamed to call you his own.”

“I do not have to listen to you anymore. I know the truth, and I know my father would have listened to me and understood. And he would have waited for me to find my true love rather than toss me away to the first lord he found.”

“I was only looking out for—” Lady Kirkland’s attention was caught by a shadow coming up behind Ophelia.

Ophelia stiffened, recognizing the Duke’s scent—pinewood and something muskier, like fire smoke. There was something enthralling about it.

Her heart pounded, feeling him at her back. He stood so close.

“We must leave,” he said, his voice so loud that she started. “Lady Kirkland, the Duchess and I have a long journey ahead of us. I trust you understand.”

“I understand very well, Your Grace.”

Lady Kirkland gave her one last glare before Ophelia turned her back on her and Lord Montford, who said not one word.

But as Ophelia walked away, Lady Kirkland hissed, “You will not get away with this, Duchess or not.”

Ophelia ignored her as she walked out of the church, now a wife and Duchess, and climbed into the carriage.

The door closed behind her.

It was all over now.

As soon as they began their journey, Ophelia did not hold back any longer.

“Your Grace, I believe I am owed answers.”

The Duke straightened up, and his lip curled. It only irked her further.

Turning in her seat to face him, she glared at him. “How could you do this to me?” she shouted. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? How do you dare spread such heinous lies about me and ruin my wedding? Your claim to be honorable is tarnished, Your Grace, for I see no honor in what you have done to me.”

His silence stretched on, and stretched on, and she boiled over.

“To spread those lies is one thing, but to actively force my ex-fiancé away… To provoke him! You ruined my future, Your Grace. You have ruined me . But that is all the same to your ilk, is it not? You parade your title around as though you can do whatever you please, destroy lives, rip opportunities from those who need?—”

She barely got the accusation out when her flailing hands were pinned to her sides. The Duke’s hands easily enveloped hers as he gently pressed her back against the cushions.

“Get your hands off ?—”

“You should be grateful,” he told her simply, his eyes locking onto hers in warning. “But of course, you are not. Nobody ever is.”

Ophelia’s vision went red with rage. She yanked her hands out of his grip. “ I should be grateful? How dare you! You know nothing!”

“No, Duchess, you know nothing.”

She thought of the gossip sheets, the accusations, the Duke’s escape from London. “I know enough, I assure you, Your Grace.”

If he knew what she was thinking of, he did not show it. Instead, he met her glare with his own.

“How well do you know that ba—Lord Anworth?” His voice was quiet, cruelly hard.

“Well enough,” she snapped defensively.

He laughed without any humor—laughed at her . “Lord Anworth is a man who should not even be allowed to be close to women.” His words were clipped. He looked past her, his mouth twisting in disgust. “You have read that he had three wives, have you not?”

“I am aware of that.”

“The first wife—Lady Margaret—died after a ‘riding accident.’ Odd, though, considering that plenty of servants saw the bruises she hid beneath her gown. And the second wife—Lady Evangeline? She grew ill too quickly, almost overnight . People say she was sick from the start, but I think she broke long before that. The third wife, Isabella… well, no one really knows what happened to her. She just disappeared. No body, nothing,” he said.

A shiver went down Ophelia’s spine. She had known. Not in such great detail, but she had known. She didn’t care. She had to do it to save her friend.

“Many people do not allow themselves to see the whole picture,” the Duke said. “Too many people think too kindly of him, as though he is a pleasant enough figure in Society. But of course, very few people can see beyond his mask.”

“And you can?”

A flicker of sadness passed through the Duke’s eyes, which startled her.

“Yes. Let’s just say I have had a taste of what seemingly pleasant men can do.”

For the first time since she’d met him, Ophelia wondered about the weight behind his words. She wondered about the experience, the history behind them. What could be beyond this cold, harsh man?

“The gossip sheets ought to write the proper truth,” the Duke continued. “That man has visited more gambling halls and whorehouses than anyone in the ton. I have seen the aftermath of his cruelty to the women he has hired.”

Ophelia swallowed. “Why do you care what sort of man he is? Why did you stop my wedding? I am no one to you. We have not met before.” Her eyes narrowed. “Though the ton certainly think we have.”

The Duke’s jaw clenched, and he turned his face away from her. His profile was stark, backlit against the midday light, the sunrays grazing the sharpness of his jawline as he tensed up.

“I have a good reason to care. And you ought to be grateful that you are not married to a monster like Anworth,” he said.

No, because I am married to you now. Should I believe the rumors about you, too?

“I do not think I can take your word for it,” she shot back. “You lied so seamlessly in the church that day that even I doubted myself for a moment, convinced you were familiar and I had forgotten you.”

He shifted his gaze to her. “If you had known me so intimately, Duchess, I assure you that you would not have forgotten me.”

Although his words were scandalously suggestive, his face remained impassive. Ophelia blushed deeply, but his suggestion—the reminder of his lies—only emphasized to her that she had lost the deal with her stepmother.

“You do not understand,” she said, quieter now. Not quite defeated but exhausted. “I had to marry him.”

“You would have been dead within a year had you done so. And I imagine your stepmother, with her connections, and Lord Montford, also suspected such a thing.”

The blunt statement was a blow to Ophelia, striking her right in the stomach. She had known the risk and dismissed it all for Bridget. But hearing it so plainly made it difficult to swallow.

“And what will happen to me if I am married to you?” she asked.

“If you’re insinuating that I am anything like Lord Anworth, then you will retract your question,” he hissed.

She only stared back at him, letting her silence answer for her. The Duke’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. He unclenched them almost immediately, shaking his head.

“Nothing will happen to you,” he bit out. “And within a year, you will be alive to tell the story of our marriage to your friends in the ton.”

He said it almost sarcastically, as if mocking the ladies of the ton. But Ophelia had lost her closest friend, and she was journeying farther and farther from London, and any hope of finding Bridget.

She turned her gaze to the window. “So you have forced me into a marriage I did not want and expect me to be grateful.”

“What is it you said you had with Lord Anworth? A way out of your misery? Consider this a part of your escape, if nothing else.”

“I still wish to know how our marriage will look.”

“It will be one of convenience only,” he told her sharply. “Do not expect anything more. You shall not be required to bear children either. You may be a duchess, and you may live in the castle with me, but we will live separately. We shall attend social events together, but that is the limit. We will not break our fasts together, nor dine together. I can have a separate wing set up for you, in fact.”

Ophelia could only blink at him. “You wish never to see me?”

His silence was his answer.

She scoffed, incredulous. “You may as well have never bothered saving me, Your Grace. I would rather be Lord Anworth’s wife than a ghost, never to bother you or speak with you.”

Suddenly, he was close to her, and she did not realize that she had leaned in during her tirade. His eyes bored into hers.

“You shall not be a ghost, Duchess. What I want you to understand is that you do not hold the power. You hold the title but not my affection or control of my estate. This is not a match that your father told you of, not a story of love and tenderness. I am a solitary man, and even in marriage I will keep it that way.”

His hands slid onto hers, fingers closing around her wrists. Once again, he pinned her to the cushions, but the movement was slower this time, deliberate. His eyes searched her face.

Ophelia forced herself to lift her chin, to be stronger than she felt, to not show any hint of vulnerability.

“If this is the way to ensure I do not have to spend time with you, then that is what I agree to.”

“Then it is decided,” he said, his voice low. He sounded angry, but Ophelia detected something more. Something smoother—something that heated her insides, despite herself. She looked back at him. “We are to stay away from one another.”

The pads of his fingertips ran over her skin, which tingled in their wake.

His fingers stilled, as if he was suddenly aware of what he was doing. But then they continued, up her wrist, brushing the inside of her arm.

Ophelia shivered. When had his face gotten so close?

She stifled a noise when she noticed just how close.

He had taken away her chance to free Bridget, so why was kissing him all she could think about?

The thought took her by surprise.

If he kissed me now, I would push him away .

But… would she?

The Duke’s eyes flickered between her own eyes and her mouth. His hands traveled upward, wrapping around her upper arms. He leaned in closer, releasing a breath.

The carriage hit an obstacle and slammed back down a moment later, grounding to a shuddering halt. Ophelia sat upright, aware she had slumped in her seat beneath the Duke’s attention, and tore her gaze away from him, trying to hide her flushed face.

The Duke only eyed her wearily before the door opened. The driver stood outside the carriage, clearing his throat.

“Apologies, Your Grace, it seems the carriage veered into a pit on the road. It came out of nowhere.”

“Fix it,” the Duke ordered. “How long will it take?”

“Not long, Your Grace. Less than an hour.”

The Duke looked at Ophelia, and she found herself looking back at him, too. Neither of them looked away for a moment.

He made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat before climbing out. “Then I shall help you. The sooner we arrive at Stormcliff the better.”