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

Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

M axwell could recall how fast she had run that day. He had seen her blush, even from a distance, and it had only excited him. He wondered how much she had seen.

Judging by her blush now, he knew she had lingered to witness plenty that morning.

“That—that was different!” she protested. “You were in public!” She hiccupped, swaying as she tried to jab an accusatory finger at him. “And—and I am in no way to blame for what I saw.”

He stepped closer to her, unable to fight back a smirk. “And what did you see, Duchess?” When she did not answer, he only smiled wider, knowing how mocking he looked. “Perhaps you should have looked away instead of gawking at me.”

“I did not gawk at you,” she insisted. Pressing a hand to her chest, clearly fighting off another wave of hiccups, she stumbled into the bust again. “I did not .” She raised a finger as if to punctuate her point.

Maxwell raised an eyebrow at her. “Of course not. People who do not stare tend to bolt in the opposite direction, as red as a lobster.”

“Think what you may,” she sniffed, trying to look calm and collected, but the fact that she could not remain upright was far too telling.

Maxwell rolled his eyes, not having the time for the petty discussion. It had been a long day, and he wanted to lie down and enjoy his glass of wine before falling asleep.

“Besides,” she continued as he walked past her, intent on ignoring her, “I had every right to go to the village. I will remind you again that it is thanks to you that it is a right of mine.”

He paused, looking at her over his shoulder. “I know. Which is why I told you I am glad you enjoyed yourself.”

“If you would stop arguing with me at every turn—” She stopped. “What did you say?”

Maxwell turned to face her. “I said that I know you have every right. You are the Duchess of Stormcliff now. You are entitled to come and go anywhere you please, to entertain yourself. The manor, the village, the beach.” He gave her a knowing look. “Within reason, of course.”

Ophelia blinked slowly at him. Her mouth moved, but she was clearly struggling to find the right words.

“Yes?” he prompted.

“I…” she trailed off. “It is only that…”

“That you expected me to throw you in a dungeon, never to see the light of day?” Maxwell scoffed. “That is what would have happened had you married Anworth, not me. You are not my prisoner, Ophelia. You are my Duchess.”

Not wife , no. That sounded too intimate, even though he had used it to describe her to others. But to her face, he could not quite bring himself to do so. Calling her ‘the Duchess’ removed the intimacy. They were two people connected by title and nothing more.

Ophelia averted her gaze to the floor, toying with the edge of the table she was still gripping with one hand for support.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, her voice still slurred.

He nodded sharply and went to leave again, but she stumbled in front of him, keeping her distance but pausing his progress to his room.

“Still, I must know. Why have you done all of this for me? What game are you playing?”

“I can assure you, Duchess, there is no game.”

“But something is going on. You knew about me, somehow. You knew about my wedding, but I do not know you.”

A promise flashed through his recollection, a grip on his hand, tight and helpless.

“I wanted to protect you,” he answered shortly.

“Why? You barely know me!”

He sighed, tempted to tell her everything on the spot. But if he did, it would mean admitting that he could not fulfill the entirety of his promise.

“I will tell you. One day, perhaps,” he said.

“So, there is more to it,” she guessed.

“Yes.” Maxwell looked her up and down slowly. “Best not to complicate things with explanations, however.”

“An explanation would complicate things less!” she insisted, balling her hands into fists. “Heavens above, Your Grace, you are impossible!”

“That is one way to put it. But you are wrong. Not everything is as simple as you think.”

Her helpless gaze fixed on him. “I… I do not understand. Do I not deserve to know why the circumstances of my life have changed?”

“Understanding comes with time,” he told her. “For now, my actions should suffice.”

As he walked down the hall, he sighed when he heard her footfalls following him.

“Your actions!” she echoed, scoffing. “Your actions bewilder me. You wish for me to keep my distance, yet you wished to marry me in the first place. You say understanding comes with time, but am I ever going to learn if you do not even break your fasts with me? You run away at every glimpse of me, and yet you are watching my every move. I can come and go as I please—as long as that is nowhere near you. You are confusing, Your Grace, and quite frankly, it is exhausting to be around y— Ah !”

Maxwell heard her trip as her cry rang out in the hallway, interrupting her tirade. He turned around, finding her much closer than he had anticipated. Drunkenly, Ophelia tripped over the edge of the rug, her shoe catching in it, and her eyes widened as she began to fall.

Without thinking, his arms went around her, and she stumbled right into him. He winced, pushing her off him, but he did not let go of her entirely. She straightened up, still caught in his embrace. Her eyes were wide with shock as she made to pull away, but he held on to her.

“Control yourself,” he told her, his voice tight.

Why was he so bothered, he wondered? Maybe it was because every time she came close, he lost more of his rationality. A part of him craved her nearness, and a part of him lost control.

His eyes fell downward, to those lips that she licked. Did they taste like wine?

“Your Grace?” Ophelia whispered when he could not bring himself to look away.

Why was he holding back? She was his wife. He knew he riled her up, as she was starting to do to him.

He leaned in, remembering their almost-kiss in the carriage. Sharply, Ophelia inhaled, her lips parting, as if waiting.

He was almost there, so very close to knowing if her kisses tasted like the summer fruit wine they served in the village, when the Duchess gasped and pushed him away.

Her face suddenly paled. She clapped a hand over her mouth as she ducked her head, hurrying past him.

“Duchess—”

She took a few unsteady steps away from him, her hand still over her mouth, her face pale as the color drained from it. Her breath came in shallow gasps, and then she staggered toward the wall, her knees buckling slightly beneath her.

“Ophelia!” Maxwell exclaimed, reaching out to steady her as she stumbled again.

She took one look at him, her eyes wide with panic, before she turned and darted toward her room.

She barely managed to open the door before she slammed it shut behind her, leaving him standing in the hallway, stunned.

He could hear her coughing and gagging inside. His first instinct was to leave her be, to respect the distance she seemed to want. But the sound of her distress gnawed at him.

She was his wife, and for all the tension between them, he wasn’t going to stand by while she suffered.

He pushed the door open gently, finding her on her knees beside the bed, her hand still pressed to her mouth. She looked up at him, her face pale and drenched in sweat.

“Duchess,” he said, his voice softening, “let me help you.”

She shook her head, still trembling, but he knelt beside her, brushing her hair back from her face. “You need to lie down. I’ll take care of this.”

He lifted her carefully into his arms, though she protested weakly. He ignored her objections and carried her to the bed. As he laid her down gently, he noticed the flush of discomfort on her face.

Without a word, he grabbed the bell cord beside her bed and pulled it, summoning her maids.

“Water,” he instructed them sharply when they arrived. “And make sure the room is cooled.”

He knelt beside Ophelia, brushing the strands of hair from her damp forehead. “Don’t try to speak. Just breathe,” he said, his voice low and soothing, though there was a trace of worry he couldn’t quite hide.

As the maids began attending to her, Maxwell kept a careful eye on her, making sure she stayed propped up and didn’t try to move too quickly. When they offered her a glass of water, he helped her sip it slowly, his hand steady on her back as he gently rubbed circles on it.

“Take it easy,” he murmured. “You’ve had too much, I think.”

Ophelia looked up at him, still pale but beginning to breathe a bit more steadily. “I—” She began, her voice hoarse.

“Don’t speak,” he cut her off gently. “You need rest. I’ll make sure you’re well taken care of.”

The maids fussed around them, preparing a cooling cloth for her forehead, and Maxwell took a step back, watching them tend to her. Though he remained composed on the outside, he felt uneasy.

He couldn’t explain why it mattered so much to him to see her well—why he felt so unsettled by the sight of her discomfort. But at that moment, as she lay there, vulnerable and flushed from the wine, he realized just how much he couldn’t stay away from her.

“Get some rest,” he said quietly, his voice more tender than he’d intended. “I’ll leave you to it.”

As he turned to leave, he felt her hand grip his sleeve. He looked back at her, startled.

“Stay with me?” Her voice was barely above a whisper, but the plea in it was clear.

Maxwell hesitated for a moment, torn between giving her space and staying by her side. In the end, he pulled a chair close to her bed and sat down, his eyes never leaving her.

“Only for a while,” he said softly, as if to reassure himself more than her.

There, in the quiet of her room, he stayed, watching over her as the night settled around them.

And when he returned to his chambers much later that night, he nursed his glass of wine, craving to know how the wine tasted on his wife’s lips.

Sleep did not find him easily. Halfway through the night, he left his chambers and walked through the darkened halls of Stormcliff Hall. Not a soul was around to disturb him, and he ventured outside under the cover of night.

The stable yard was overlooked by his and the Duchess’s rooms, and he could not help but glance up at her window. She was there, watching him, as if she knew he had left. As if she could not sleep either.

Upon being seen, she drew back from the window and disappeared from view.

Maxwell turned his attention to his horse, a prized Friesian he’d inherited from an old friend during the war. He stroked down the stallion’s nose.

“Valor,” he coaxed, brandishing an apple to make his steed more amenable. “I know I pushed you today, but we must go out once again.”

He did not have to, but he needed to clear his head somehow.

He sighed, saddling up the Friesian. “It seems your new mistress has a way of darkening my thoughts. I heard you refused to let her ride you today.” He laughed, patting the horse’s flank. “Good boy. You are loyal to your rider, are you not?”

Valor snuffed at him, shaking his head as if to bask in the praise.

Leading the horse out, Maxwell couldn’t help glancing up at the window once again, but it was empty. He ground his teeth, mounted swiftly, and urged Valor onward.

A bridle path led right to the cliff. Usually, he followed it down to the beach, but tonight, he needed the height of the cliffs, the way the wind snapped and howled, the danger of riding close to the edge, letting himself look down at the water as if it reflected the turmoil in his mind.

And it did. As he thundered over the cliffs, over grassland and rocks, he let the sound of the crashing waves below echo his roaring thoughts.

His mind whirled with thoughts of his wife, every thud of Valor’s hooves bringing a new wave of recollections.

Her pale skin, creamy and soft-looking. Her curves aching to be touched. The way she argued with him and insisted that know what was going on—and she had every right to, but Maxwell was staying true to his word. Her knowing more about their circumstances would only complicate her life further.

It is better that she hates me for my silence.

The frustration built and built up inside him, and he wished he was Valor and could pound out the darkness brewing in his mind.

Each thought could be vented through the movement. A ride wasn’t enough. It whipped up the anger in him—it was almost enough, but he needed something physical. His thoughts needed a target to strike.

It was why he boxed, so that his fists found the face of a worthy opponent rather than somebody who did not deserve it.

Guilt shot through him, and he spurred Valor on faster, gaining speed as he crossed the lengths of the cliff, late into the night.

He did not stop until the rage in his head quietened.

Only then did he slow down and return to Stormcliff Hall and attempt to sleep once again.