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

Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

“ H e is a foul beast!” Ophelia complained to Hannah later that morning. She stared up at her horse impatiently.

Hannah giggled. “For a moment, I thought you meant…” She leaned in. “The master.”

“Oh, he is every bit as foul as the horses he owns, I will not pretend otherwise.” Ophelia sighed, looking up at the black-coated stallion before her. “This is a warhorse,” she said. “It is no wonder he will not allow me to saddle him.”

“I still think you should let a stable hand do that.”

Ophelia shook her head. “My father taught me how to saddle my own horse so I did not have to wait for others to do it for me all the time. It was unladylike, but he taught me many general things such as that. He was the one who taught me how to ride, after all. It is because of him that I can identify this beast as a warhorse. A Friesian horse, specifically.”

The horse allowed her to stroke down his long nose, at least. She patted his head.

“You are a stubborn thing, are you not? I imagine you will carry your master and no other. Loyal, at least, I shall give you that.”

Beckoning Hannah into the stables, Ophelia picked another horse that also teetered away from her, stomping its hooves in displeasure.

She scowled. “Are they all so loyal to that ruthless Duke, who does nothing but hide away in his castle?”

“It appears so,” Hannah murmured. “Shall we take the carriage?”

It was not nearly as fun, but Ophelia agreed. She did not want to waste her day wallowing once again in the castle. Too many days had already been spent in such a way. She wanted the open air and the cliffs.

She called out a stable hand. “Prepare me a carriage, please.”

He nodded and ran off to do her bidding.

Meanwhile, Ophelia walked out of the stables, with Hannah following behind. Gazing out at the cliffs, Ophelia thought there was no other place she ought to feel as free as right there, so why did she feel so penned in?

When the carriage was brought around, Ophelia shouldn’t have been surprised to see that it was different from the one she had left her wedding in. That one was black, with a glossy finish, something powerful to signify the Duke’s arrival at Stormcliff. This one was a softer cream-colored carriage, delicate enough for a lady.

For a duchess.

She climbed in, with Hannah right after her. When she was seated and the driver pulled away, she saw a man stride into the stables, disappearing in a flash of long black hair.

The Duke.

When he emerged, he was on that Friesian horse, and his eyes sought hers as the carriage clattered on toward the town.

Through the carriage window, their eyes met. There was a hard set to his shoulders, and anger was etched on his face, tightening his features. Dressed in his usual black finery, he was every bit as dark as his stallion.

And yet, he offered her a nod of acknowledgment, a greeting, instead of his usual cold, hard stare.

Ophelia nodded back.

Her question lingered in her mind.

You did not come to consummate our marriage on our wedding night. Why?

He had not answered her. There were so many things about her husband that did not make sense.

Pushing those thoughts aside, she looked towards the town, aware that was he riding hard in the opposite direction, towards the beach.

“Stormcliff Village is rather beautiful, is it not?” Ophelia chattered away as she and Hannah strolled down a main pathway that cut through town.

On either side of the path were timber houses, small buildings with signs swinging above doorways, and children running around. Up ahead, a fountain bubbled away.

For miles around was farmland, fields, and nature that either expanded into woodland in the distance or sloped down towards the beach below.

“It is beautiful, yes,” Hannah agreed. “But the laughter of the children makes it so much more beautiful, does it not?”

Ophelia’s chest ached, thinking of Bridget. Would her child laugh like this? Would the world allow Bridget to give her baby something to laugh so joyfully about?

“It does,” she said.

And what of her own future children? That thought was now fading like the smoke that rose from a chimney up ahead. And how could she ever bear children for a man so cruel? She had seen his mottled knuckles. He had fought somebody.

She recalled that old training room.

Who had suffered beneath the blows of the Duke of Stormcliff, and had they been the one to save her from being that person? How long until he turned those fists on her?

She would not subject a child to that cruelty.

“Where would you like to go first? Mrs. Hesketh noticed you have perused the books in the library several times. There is a bookshop in the village.”

Her heart soared. “Then we shall go there.”

Hannah showed her the way, and villagers passed her by, staring at her in her fine dress. Ophelia felt rather out of place among them, even though they knew she was the Duchess of Stormcliff.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” one villager greeted with a kind smile.

Aside from the castle’s staff, Ophelia had not been greeted as such in quite some time.

“Good morning!” she said back. “It is a fine day.”

“I would say our Duchess has brought us a stroke of springtime luck.”

Ophelia smiled softly before she continued on her way.

As she passed through the village, the sight of a young woman holding her baby caught her eye. The child, bundled in a faded shawl, cooed softly in the woman’s arms, gazing up at her with wide, trusting eyes.

The tender way the mother cradled the infant stirred something deep within Ophelia. She couldn’t help but think of Bridget—her best friend, so full of life and hope.

Was Bridget’s child growing safely in her womb right now?

The thought made Ophelia’s heart clench, a pang of guilt surging through her. She had been so consumed with her time at Stormcliff, so distracted, that she hadn’t allowed herself to think of Bridget in some time.

How was her friend faring, alone in a world where every shadow seemed to be closing in on her?

Ophelia quickened her steps, the baby’s innocent face haunting her thoughts, reminding her of the friend she had failed.

Soon, she found herself standing in front of a bookshop called Olde Labyrinth and ventured inside, hoping to find some solace.

An older, graying man was stooped behind the counter, peering at her as she entered with a tinkle of the bell. Around her, books towered on shelves, their height impressive.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” the bookseller called out. “I am grateful to see you in my shop today. May I assist you? Are you looking for anything in particular?”

“I was only intending to browse, but…” She paused, thinking of the money in her reticule. “Do you have any editions of Shakespeare’s tales? My father read them to me as a child, but I have yet to find any Shakespeare in Stormcliff Hall’s library.”

“Ah, that is because the Duke is quite the scholar of language and philosophy. He has studied far and wide but not of the plays of such a poet.” The bookseller smiled at her, walking around the counter. He leaned heavily on a cane but moved easily enough before stopping at a particular section. “Here we are. All of Shakespeare’s fascinating tales. Do you have a favorite?”

“Hamlet,” she told him. “Due to my name. My father named me after the heroine. Naive and innocent, he described her.”

“I do not believe the Duchess of Stormcliff is naive,” the man assured her. “For she would have to have a strong head on her shoulders to match that of His Grace. Then again, he is a kind man. A good man. Yet, he holds his silence as another man might hold his gun in a duel.”

More like his fists .

“Perhaps Ophelia was only thought to be naive,” Ophelia said, speaking of the character, her namesake. “Perhaps if she was seen more as the girl she truly was, she would not have found herself in death’s clutches the way she did.”

“Perhaps we all misunderstand one another,” the bookseller answered thoughtfully. “But I do not misunderstand nor underestimate His Grace. He comes to my shop often to stock his library. He is quiet, yes, lost in his thoughts, but he is fair. Only last year, when I had trouble with customs and could not pay my business fees, he froze my payments to him to allow me time to pick my business back up. He listens and gives many chances to those who need them desperately.”

Ophelia frowned.

That does not sound like the man I know. The man I have come to know, even at a distance, is selfish and thinks only of himself.

“How about a copy of Hamlet for your library?” the bookseller asked when she could not think of an appropriate response.

Ophelia nodded, and the old man took a copy from the shelf to put in wrapping for her. She handed over her coins and left the shop after thanking him.

As she left, she was hit with the scent of baked bread.

“There is a renowned bakery here,” Hannah told her. “It sells a sweet, sugared bread. Would you like to try it?”

Ophelia nodded eagerly, and the two made their way to Stormcliff’s Bakery, humbly named. She loved it.

A couple came out, pausing before her, curtseying and bowing deeply.

“Your Grace,” the woman said, a red braid escaping her flat cap. “It is an honor to meet you.”

Ophelia did not miss the way her eyes flicked to her side, noticing the Duke’s absence. Her smile faltered. “And you, as well. Stormcliff is a beautiful village.”

“If you are exploring, do be sure to visit the lake beyond the small bridge. It is just before some woodland. It is lovely, especially during the warmer weather.”

“Indeed, I shall. Thank you.”

Ophelia was about to walk into the bakery when the man cleared his throat. “His Grace is not accompanying you on your tour of the village? It would have been good to meet you both together. You are a lovely match for our generous Duke.”

“Generous?” she asked, pausing.

“Oh, yes. Incredibly.” The man nodded. “Two years ago, my wife and I were blessed with another child, but our house was too small. The Duke offered us more land for only half the price as a gift for our new arrival. He listened to our hardships even though we wished to expand our family. When we moved, we had a bit of trouble with a neighbor, but His Grace came and settled the matters calmly. He was very just.”

Ophelia nodded slowly. How did the villagers have so many nice tales about her husband yet she could not think of one? Of all these people here, she should have been the one with a good story to tell.

“He is most generous, indeed,” she said.

“We hope to see you together later this year at the summer fair.” The woman looked hopefully at her. “It would be lovely to welcome both His Grace and Her Grace back to Stormcliff, especially after His Grace was gone for a year. Things did not fall apart in his absence, however. His steward was very helpful, and it is to our knowledge that His Grace helped manage many affairs from a distance.”

“Where did he travel?” Ophelia enquired, blushing at the fact that she did not know this about her own husband.

“Somewhere in the Continent, I believe,” the man answered. “But he did not shirk his duties.”

It is more reason to have run following his uncle’s murder . He did not want to drop the pretense of being good and genuine. So, he made it appear as a business trip and maintained correspondence, but he was actually fleeing from justice.

“That is honorable,” she said.

“His Grace has much honor,” the woman agreed, nodding. “Please send our regards.”

“I shall.” After they walked away, Ophelia added to herself, “I shall try, but it appears I am in a different league entirely.”

She shook off the strange tales of her husband—strange for the kindness they spoke of, for he could not even bid her a good night—and entered the bakery.

Inside, she was greeted with the scent of the promised sweet bread.

Hannah bought them two buns each, the powdered sugar making a white layer over golden, glazed bread. Together, they ventured to the small bridge the villager had told her of and stopped by the lake. Ophelia sat down in the dry grass, digging into her bread. Hannah remained standing several feet away, but Ophelia waved her forward.

“My previous lady’s maid was my friend,” she said. “I do not see why we cannot be the same.”

“I do not wish to overstep, Your Grace,” Hannah told her.

Ophelia waved her off. “It is not overstepping if you are invited.”

She ate in relative silence, enjoying the peace and serenity. This was not like the castle walls, stifling and oppressive as if the very air hung heavy with the Duke’s coldness. This was openness, and the more she relaxed, the more she found herself picturing the quiet but fair man the villagers spoke of.

She had yet to see any softness in his eyes or hear a kind word from him. But she could imagine a version of him here, relaxed, breathing in the open air. A quiet part of her whispered that maybe he was just as stifled as she was in his own home.

Her heart sank, but before she could dwell on the thought, she heard the faint tune of a lyre coming from behind her, back towards the fountain. Her bun finished with, as well as Hannah’s, Ophelia stood up with an excited noise.

“That is music,” she said, her voice high-pitched. “Music! Let us find it.”

She picked her way back to the village square, where villagers crowded around a maypole and the fountain, celebrating the springtime. On a wooden stage, a band played—a lyre and a vielle, and other instruments whose names she did not know. But as soon as she entered the fray, the music died down.

The dancers slowed to a stop, all turning to her. In contrast to their plain clothing, Ophelia looked out of place in her pretty, fine gown and jewelry, as if she was dressed for afternoon tea rather than a day in the village.

“Your Grace,” one of the musicians mumbled, bowing.

It caused everyone else to do the same, and Ophelia’s face burned with the attention. Her eyes lingered on the way a circle of dancers held hands, as if they thought she would move on and they would start right back up again.

But she wanted to be part of it.

The sight reminded her of a smaller version of the parties her father used to host in Kirkland. As a young girl, she would sit on the staircase after her governess had put her to bed and watch through the rail the party in full swing below.

Her heart ached at the memory of her father spinning her mother around the room in an elaborate dance she had not yet learned. She recalled her mother’s loud laughter and her father’s loving smile as he gazed at his Marchioness.

All of that was gone now, replaced by a stepmother who was as greedy as she was cruel, and Ophelia was trapped in a loveless marriage with a duke.

“Please, continue,” she heard herself say. “You must continue your celebration. I only wish to be a part of it.”

“We would be honored if you’d join our humble gathering, Your Grace,” one musician said, the man who had bowed first. “Only… it is no fancy ball.”

He looked almost shy about it, the tips of his ears flushing pink.

“I do not care for that.” She laughed. “I only care to be a part of this village.”

Around her, the villagers turned to look at one another, as though doubting her claim. But nobody would meet her eye properly, and eventually, they shuffled back to where they had been before she interrupted them.

Overhead, the sun was rising higher in the sky, and she smiled. She could spend an entire day here.

Slowly, the music began again, a slow, rhythmic symphony that truly was no match for the music at balls, but it was all the sweeter for it. The band played with passion and love for the instrument, not merely out of obligation to the nearest high-ranking person employing them.

Ophelia found herself stepping into the circle that stepped and hopped around the fountain. Two villagers broke the circle to let her enter, but they hesitated when she reached for their hands.

“Do not be shy,” she urged. “I wish to dance with you all.”

“We are honored, Your Grace.”

She smiled widely as the circle slowly picked up speed, until she was laughing, her hair falling out of her updo as she tossed her head back in wonder.

When she broke away, Ophelia spun and stepped towards a wooden table that had an ale barrel and tankards on it. A bottle of wine was opened, and she barely had a chance to pour herself a glass when a woman, the same one from the bakery, did it for her.

“For the Duchess of Stormcliff,” she said quietly, and Ophelia took her glass of wine, nodding gratefully.

“Have a pleasant day,” she called out as Hannah tugged her towards the stage, where the musicians played happily.

Some stood with their instruments while others sat on crates or ale barrels, all tapping their feet and nodding along to the melodies.

Ophelia drank, and when her wine glass was empty, she got another, and another, until she forgot her questions about her husband and lost herself in the village celebration.

She felt as though she was a girl who had stumbled into a fairy ring, a place far beyond her world, but enchanting nonetheless, and she was hesitant to leave.

But Hannah soon approached her, her brow creased in concern. “Your Grace, I must take you back to the castle. It’s growing late, and the walk to the carriage will be quite long. Are you able to make it?”

“Of course, I am!” Ophelia protested, but her tongue was heavy, and her words were not as clear as she thought they should be.

Up ahead, the sky was darkening into the late hours. How long had she spent dancing and drinking?

A fairy ring, indeed.

As Hannah led her back to the carriage, Ophelia cheered, her spirits lifted. She thought happily of her father’s celebrations, not of her stoic husband, who did not want her around.

Freedom could be found in Stormcliff Village—just not in the man who ruled it.