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

Chapter 5

Chapter Five

W hen you are wed, find me at the Cliff’s Edge tavern, where we shall toast your future .

The instruction had come from Maxwell’s friend, Frederick Bainbridge, the Viscount Rowe. He was upset that Maxwell was not throwing a lavish party to celebrate, but Maxwell had at least conceded to quiet drinks in the tavern.

You owe your lifelong friend that much, at least, Frederick had written in his note.

So now, Maxwell only loosened his cravat—a fresh one he’d put on after his dive in the sea—as he entered the tavern and nodded to those who called out a greeting.

Soon, he would have to introduce the new Duchess of Stormcliff to the townspeople, but he did not want to be part of it. The formality of it all irked him. The change in his life over the past two days ate away at him, and had done so for two nights, ever since he had barged into that church.

He knew damn well why. He could never forget the promise he had made. A promise of honor.

Honor .

It almost made him laugh, that word. It was a promise of honor, yet he had to besmirch the lady’s reputation to fulfill that oath. Maxwell felt some remorse for that, but he was a soldier through and through, and soldiers knew that sometimes, the ends justified the means.

The problem was, he did not know how to show that to Lady Ophelia. No, not Lady Ophelia . She was his wife now.

Approaching the bar, he paused, looking around. There, reclined in the corner as though he owned the place, was the only man he truly considered a friend.

The Viscount Rowe.

His chestnut-brown hair fell carelessly over his brow, as though he’d not combed it at all. His hazel eyes, warm and mischievous, sparkled with the same cocky ease they always did, while his smile seemed to fill the entire room, as if he were the center of it all.

Frederick’s appearance was always flawless—tailored coat of deep green velvet, waistcoat so carefully chosen that it practically gleamed in the candlelight.

“Max!” The Viscount stood up, embracing Maxwell briefly. “Look at you. You left an eligible bachelor, and you return a fine husband. Although I must say you look positively miserable, my friend. Here, let me buy you a drink, as promised.”

“Freddie,” Maxwell greeted curtly. “I don’t feel like celebrating. A drink with a friend, however…”

“I refuse to hear of your wedding—and I am upset I did not receive an invitation, by the way—and not buy you a drink to celebrate.”

With that, the Viscount flagged down a barmaid and ordered two ales, which were brought over promptly.

“And if there is nothing to celebrate?” Maxwell prompted.

Frederick scoffed. “You have a wife! Isn’t that reason enough to celebrate?”

Maxwell only glared at his friend.

Frederick toyed innocently with his chestnut-brown curls, seeming angelic, but his own words betrayed him. “I am teasing, Maxwell. Do calm down—those scowls make you look older than your years. I know the real reason you married the Kirkland girl.”

“You would do well to keep your mouth shut about that,” Maxwell snapped, his patience having already frayed.

“Peace, my friend. I am aware of your feelings regarding this matter,” Frederick replied.

Maxwell grabbed his tankard, and Frederick followed. His friend raised his glass, resolute in his mockery of a celebration.

Without bothering to clink his glass against his friend’s, Maxwell downed half his ale in one gulp.

“Ah, she must be a handful already,” the Viscount teased.

Maxwell scowled at him, the silence thickening around them.

“My friend, your glowers do not scare me. Your silence does not dampen my mood. We have been friends since we were young boys unable to recite the alphabet, so your moodiness does not deter me.”

Moodiness. The very label soured Maxwell’s mood further.

“So… she is a handful?” Freddie pressed.

Maxwell ignored him. Ophelia had certainly been something, her ire bright in her eyes, her disgust with his actions clear. She had looked so stunned and yet relieved at the altar the day he had stopped her wedding.

And Lord Anworth…

His stomach sank at the thought of where she would have ended up had she become the fourth Countess of Anworth.

In a grave, likely, with the rest of that vermin’s wives.

He loosened one of the buttons on his shirt, pulling off his cravat. He needed to breathe. The long carriage ride with his new Duchess had stifled him.

He could not pull his thoughts away from when he had slid his hands up her arms, drawn to how cold her skin was, a stark contrast to the warmth of his own. Heavens knew what he had almost let himself do, drawn by the heat of her ire.

“So why are you not with the lucky lady tonight? This should be the wedding night for the blushing bride and her husband, should it not?” Freddie’s question mercifully broke his trance, his thoughts of creamy skin beneath his, of what lay beneath layers of a silk gown…

Maxwell’s jaw clenched. He sipped his drink, not even sparing his friend a scowl. “You know full well I am not interested.”

Freddie’s snort broke the hum of conversation around them. Candlelight flickered over his face, and outside, the sky was approaching its darkest hour, turning the cliffs in the distance invisible.

“I have heard the girl is rather pretty. Word reached Rutland ahead of your arrival. The town is quite abuzz with talk of the Kirkland beauty.”

Maxwell’s head snapped around, and he looked at his friend. “She is my wife now,” he hissed. “You will watch how you speak about her.”

“For a man uninterested, you are awfully defensive of her.”

“You irk me, Freddie.”

“I entertain you.” Freddie laughed. “You would not meet me otherwise. You endure my teasing, knowing nobody else will speak with you.”

“I do not need a friend if that is what you are implying.”

Freddie waved him off. “Of course, you do not,” he scoffed. “Shall I leave, then? Let you stew in silence before you return to your wife?”

Wife.

Maxwell reminded himself that was what Ophelia was now.

“No,” he sighed. “You will stay, and I will endure your endless teasing until my tankard is empty.”

“And then I shall buy you another. And then you will return to your wife, whom I have realized you must have left to dine alone.”

“It is no loss for her,” Maxwell muttered. “I am sure she is glad of the peace.”

“Perhaps she wishes her new husband would dine with her on their wedding day.”

But Maxwell thought of her anger in the carriage and rolled his eyes. “Trust me, Freddie, the Duchess will be glad for the solitude.”

“Perhaps you should ask her what she actually wants.”

“I do not care about that.”

Freddie leveled him with a look. “I know your honor, Maxwell, and it is as rigid as the cliffs of Sussex. But you would not have maintained that honor so righteously if you did not care. It might not be for the Kirkland girl herself, but it is for something.”

Maxwell did not appreciate how his friend’s words burrowed through to somewhere vulnerable within him, so he drank, and he told himself he did not care for the lady waiting for him at Stormcliff Hall.

“Also,” Freddie spoke when Maxwell did not answer, “some of the men have been asking if you will return to the fighting ring, now that you have returned to Stormcliff.”

Maxwell started. Then, he paused, thinking. “Perhaps.”

“You remain an enigma, Maxwell,” Freddie sighed.