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

Chapter 4

Chapter Four

“ W e have arrived.”

The Duke spoke to her for the first time in several hours.

Eight hours had passed in a tense silence, and Ophelia had not minded one bit. Without another word, he pushed out of the carriage as soon as it pulled to a stop.

They had rolled into a courtyard, passing through an archway set into an old stone wall. Inside, Ophelia was met with the sight of an old but grand medieval castle. It had rounded towers, several stories, and a clear division of wings. The small, thickly glazed windows offered no glimpse inside. Around the sides, no doubt stretching to the back, were thick woodland-like gardens, as if the castle had sprung out of nature itself.

It was a sweeping estate, larger than her father’s countryside property. Beyond the castle, a hill overlooked the entirety of the Sussex coast, and it was the view that prompted Ophelia to exit the carriage.

She gasped upon seeing it—the beautiful sand in the distance, the sloping cliffs further down, and the rolling, calm waves of the sea that lapped at the shore. However, the click of the Duke’s boots on the courtyard stones had her moving hastily.

Spotting a turret that overlooked the coast nearest the edge of the estate, Ophelia smiled to herself. She would like to find that particular lookout point.

The Duke’s staff were lined up on either side of the wide staircase, their heads bowed, smiles on their faces.

“Good evening, Your Grace.” She recognized the man from the wedding ceremony. She smiled politely, not quite used to her new title. “I am Mr. Victor Bastwick, His Grace’s valet.”

“Thank you for your warm welcome, Bastwick,” Ophelia answered. “Good evening.”

She moved along, and when she neared one particular girl with dark braided hair pushed back from her face, she paused.

She looks like Bridget.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” the girl said, curtseying to her. “I am Jessica. I work in the kitchen as the cook’s assistant. If you need anything adjusted for your meals, please let me know.”

Jessica’s voice shook as Ophelia’s focus sharpened. The reminder of her friend only made her more curious to know where Bridget was. Was she safe? Was she hungry? Did she have a place to sleep?

Bridget had no family to write to, but Ophelia would not stop looking.

“Thank you,” she said to Jessica and continued until she came to a man and woman, the first of whom she also recognized from the wedding ceremony.

He wore coattails and a white shirt, stiff and proper, his hands clasped behind his back. The woman beside him wore a high-collared dress, her hair pulled back into a braid that looped around her head. Her face was lined but had a kind smile.

“Your Grace.” She bowed her head. “I am Mrs. Hesketh, the housekeeper of Stormcliff Hall,” she introduced herself. “It is a pleasure to welcome you to the estate.”

“And I am Mr. William Cedric, the butler.” The man bowed.

“It is lovely to meet you both,” Ophelia answered.

Before she could say anything else, the Duke stepped forward. “Have the preparations been made for her arrival?”

Somehow, Ophelia got a feeling that he was not referring to her.

Mrs. Hesketh nodded.

The Duke headed into the castle, satisfied with the information. Ophelia watched him disappear into the shadows and veer left of the entrance hall, disappearing from view.

“What did His Grace mean by preparations for ‘her’?” she asked Mrs. Hesketh.

“Oh… Oh, pardon me, Your Grace. You must be tired from your journey. Come, let me show you to your chambers,” the housekeeper responded quickly, wringing her hands.

Ophelia tried to put the question out of her mind. Why would her husband not have known if her rooms were prepared? Was it even about the rooms? Perhaps it was dinner.

But he said he did not want to dine with me .

Maybe he really had prepared for them to live separately.

Yet, as Ophelia was led through the grand castle, the insides sweeping and decorated in deep brown and white, black and navy—stark colors that evoked the Duke’s unyielding behavior— she realized that his request would be impossible.

For Mrs. Hesketh took her to her bedchambers and opened a door at the far right side of the room, just past the large four-poster bed.

Ophelia did not need to be told whose room was connected to hers via the door.

“His Grace’s room,” Mrs. Hesketh said needlessly. “Dinner shall be served within the hour, and you have your own dining room one room down, should you wish to dine privately. His Grace mentioned that you might.”

Ophelia nodded. She found that she did not wish to spend another moment in her husband’s company, not with how brusque he had been. The farther she was from him, the better.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Then I shall see you soon. Should you need anything, send for me. Hannah will be your lady’s maid while you are here. I did ask the housekeeper at your former residence about your previous lady’s maid, but she said the maid had been dismissed, so we hired one for you.”

Ophelia nodded again, still looking around her room. A fireplace was nestled to the left, opposite the connecting door, and a plush rug lay beneath the bed. The bed itself was draped with golden sheets, and red curtains hung around the frame for privacy.

The sight of the bed made her nervous.

She knew of a new bride’s wedding night. Would the Duke come to her chambers to consummate their marriage?

Hannah entered, curtseying as the rest of the staff had done. Ophelia gave her a small smile, wishing it was Bridget entering her room.

Would she be able to talk to Hannah, as she had done with Bridget? Her heart ached for her friend once again.

Mrs. Hesketh bowed out of the room.

“Can I get you anything, Your Grace?” Hannah asked. “I will be preparing you for dinner, but shall I draw you a bath first?”

Suddenly, her wedding dress—not as gaudy as her first one, but still stiff and clinging to her frame—felt too suffocating. Ophelia could not stop glancing at the bed, fearing what would happen when the sun set and the shadows could conceal more than she would be able to say.

“That would be nice, yes.” She hesitated. “Although… Is there a lock for the connecting door?”

“Yes, Your Grace, but only the master keeps the key. There is only one copy.”

“He may access the room at any time during the night?” Ophelia asked.

“That is what it is for, I believe,” Hannah said.

Ophelia was not so naive that she did not know that, but the confirmation sent dread through her like a piano key gone out of tune.

“I shall draw you that bath,” Hannah said.

With that, she went through the opposite door, beyond which was a bathing chamber.

Eager to get out of her wedding dress, Ophelia stripped and climbed into the tub before it was even ready.

Sighing, she wet her hair and began to bathe off the turmoil of the last several days.

If I’d known what she was planning, I could have protected her better.

Maxwell Harding, the Duke of Stormcliff, stood at the edge of the cliff, staring out at the turbulent sea below.

Why did she have to get engaged so quickly? And to a monster like Anworth?

The wind whipped through his dark hair, the salty spray stinging his face as he took in the churning waves. The sea was wild tonight, matching the storm that raged inside him, the relentless tide of anger and frustration he could never seem to quell.

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the roar of the ocean drown out the echo of his father’s voice, that constant whisper of disapproval he couldn’t escape even now, eleven years after his old man’s death. It twisted inside him, a knot of fury and resentment he couldn’t untangle. He’d gone to war to escape it, to prove himself as more than his father’s inadequate heir.

And yet here he was, back on these cursed shores, burdened with a heavy promise.

To protect Lady Ophelia, who was now his wife.

And to…

Maxwell could not think about the next part yet. He had managed to save her from Anworth. As for the other part, that… It could wait.

Without a second thought, he took off his coat, tossing it carelessly to the ground. The chill in the air nipped his skin as he pulled off his boots and rolled up his sleeves. He could feel the rage surging inside him, the urge to fight something—anything—that wouldn’t bleed beneath his fists.

He took a deep breath and dove into the water.

The shock of the icy waves seized his lungs, the cold a sharp slap across his skin, but he pushed forward, forcing his body into the current. The tide was strong, dragging him back toward the rocks, but he fought it with every ounce of strength he had.

He needed this—needed to battle the sea. To struggle against a force that wouldn’t buckle under his anger, that wouldn’t break or yield, but would simply push back with equal might.

His muscles burned as he fought the current, pulling himself through the waves. His mind cleared with each stroke, the world narrowing down to the single, primal need to keep moving, to push against the relentless power of the ocean. The salt stung his eyes and blurred his vision, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

Not until he felt the last of the anger drain out of him, carried away by the sea.

Maxwell’s breaths were ragged by the time he reached the shore again, his body aching and exhausted. He dragged himself onto the sand, collapsing there for a moment, staring up at the dark sky. His chest heaved, the taste of salt on his lips, but the fury had ebbed.

The fight had left him, at least for now.

He lay there, panting, the cold seeping into his bones as he listened to the waves crashing around him.

For a brief moment, he felt… nothing. Just the emptiness he craved. The ocean had taken his rage and swallowed it whole. But he knew it wouldn’t be long before it returned, a tide that would rise again with the dawn.

But for now, he closed his eyes, letting the silence wash over him—the only peace he’d ever known.

After a quick, solitary dinner in her dining room, Ophelia itched to face the Duke again. As she ate, she half considered going down to the main dining hall to face him. She imagined him sitting alone, eating, ignoring the fact that he had offered to marry her and was now stuck with a wife he did not want.

What Ophelia still couldn’t understand was why that wife was her. Why he had chosen to save her? Who was she to him for him to interrupt her wedding, and how had he found out? He had indeed looked familiar… Perhaps she had met him before? She could not recall. Surely, she would remember a man as… striking as him.

The questions gnawed at her until her appetite decreased and she worked herself into a frenzy. By the time she tucked herself into bed, looking around the new, unfamiliar chambers, she could not sleep for all the worry that riddled her.

Keeping her eyes on the connecting door, she could not sleep. There was a stranger next door, no matter how familiar he felt.

Her stomach knotted. The hours passed. The door did not open, not even when she heard heavy footsteps in the room adjacent to hers, signaling the Duke’s rather late retreat to bed.

The door remained closed through the night, and yet Ophelia was not settled enough to sleep.