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

Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

“ G oodness,” Ophelia groaned as the sound of a curtain being pulled open roused her from her sleep. She winced, pressing a hand to her aching head. “Tell me that last night did not happen.”

Hannah peered at her over her shoulder, a mischievous smile on her face. “Well, as I was not present in the hallway, I cannot fully confirm, but I did overhear some things. Things like you and His Grace getting rather close. His Grace had some wine brought up to his room?—”

Ophelia sighed. “Oh, do not speak to me about wine at this moment.”

Hannah held back a laugh. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Ophelia sat up with some difficulty, toying with the end of her braid. “Did I truly…”

It was almost to herself, her question.

Did I truly embarrass myself?

She could recall being drunk in the Duke’s presence, and?—

“Heavens above,” she whispered, clapping a hand over her mouth as she remembered how he had leaned in.

He would have kissed her, wouldn’t he?

She let herself fall back into her pillows, groaning again. “I have embarrassed myself greatly.”

“I am sure His Grace hardly remembers,” her lady’s maid answered, somewhat optimistic.

But the Duke remembered that day on the beach when Ophelia had caught him naked. Why would he not remember her actions last night?

“It seems that all I do is embarrass myself before him.”

“Does he make you clumsy, Your Grace?” Hannah giggled. “People who are in love tend to make one another foolishly clumsy.”

“I am not in love,” Ophelia said, her voice a touch too sharp and loud. Immediately, she dropped her head into her hands. “I am not.”

Hannah fell silent, hovering.

“I would like some tea before I eat anything. Maybe something can be put in it to… relieve my headache.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Hannah bobbed a curtsey before leaving the room.

Slowly, more pieces of the night before returned to Ophelia. The Duke’s hands on her waist, the way he watched her with those piercing eyes, his low voice.

He underestimated her once again by depriving her of the knowledge that she needed. Pieces of the puzzle were missing, and he had them. He just would not let her have them, too.

He had left in the middle of the night, saddling up the beautiful Friesian, but Ophelia had already been asleep by the time he returned. If he had returned. Surely he would have.

Figuring that some fresh air would help to clear her head, Ophelia climbed out of bed, knowing her tea would not arrive yet. Instead, she made her way through the castle to the lookout point, a place she had grown rather fond of.

The air kissed her face, cooled her skin, and settled her rolling stomach and headache. Inhaling deeply, she looked out at the cliffs and the beach, wondering if that was where the Duke had ridden.

Why can’t I stop thinking about him ?

She chided herself and turned back around to go inside, but before she even made it to the doorway, she saw him.

The Duke of Stormcliff walked into the training room, his eyes surprised for a moment when they landed on her.

“Duchess,” he said, inclining his head.

“Your Grace.”

Did she imagine his gaze dropping below her face?

She realized that she had come out of her room without a robe, and her chemise did not cover her in any way that was proper.

His eyes snapped back up to her face. “How does your head fare?”

“Very well, thank you,” she lied.

She could not look away from him, not when his dark hair looked windswept, as if it had not been combed since his night ride. He wore a more casual outfit but still dark. A gray shirt and black waistcoat, dark breeches that she tried not to look too closely at as his attention turned to what he was looking for in the room. The laces were tight in every right place, and her face flushed.

When she looked up, he was already gazing back at her.

“Yes?” he asked.

She blushed furiously, knowing she was caught. “T-Tea,” she stammered. “I must go for my tea.”

“Ginger,” he told her as she passed him.

“Excuse me?”

“Ginger can help with your ailment.”

She nodded, mumbling a “thank you,” before she rushed back to her room and shut the door, pressing her back against it as she caught her breath.

Her tea had been left by her bed, and she guzzled it, blanching when it made her stomach protest for a moment. Fearing getting ill, Ophelia slumped down on her bed, banishing the thought of the Duke’s tight breeches from her mind. She knew exactly how well-endowed he was, but there was something about seeing the material straining that had her feeling hot.

Sometimes not seeing was more tempting than seeing, and Ophelia felt tantalized.

I do not lust after him. He broke off the deal with Lord Anworth, my one chance to save ? —

“Bridget,” she breathed.

How could she be so selfish? She had been drinking her sorrows away, indulging her thoughts of the Duke’s body, while her friend was in Heaven knew where!

Pushing to her feet once again, Ophelia wrapped a robe around herself, hurried out of her room, and approached a footman she had tasked with finding someone to search for Bridget.

“I enquired about a friend last week,” she said, drawing herself to her full height. “Has there been any word from the servants who went to look for her?”

“There has been none, Your Grace,” the footman answered. “You ordered me to tell you as soon as there was.”

“Of course,” Ophelia said, her heart sinking.

She drew back, turning away from the footman.

She had let her friend down on so many accounts. There had to be something more that she could do. Bridget could not fend for herself, not in her current state.

Perhaps the lord that seduced her came to his senses and took responsibility .

But no, of course that was not going to happen. Maids who were wronged in such ways were not cared for beyond a night or two of lust. It was why it was up to Ophelia to ensure Bridget’s safety and employment. The Duke had taken that away from her, and she needed to not let herself forget such a thing.

She retreated to the breakfast hall, where she slowly ate, appeasing her aching stomach. When footsteps sounded outside, she looked up. Hope rose in her chest as the Duke’s frame filled the doorway.

He paused.

She did not speak nor ask him to join her.

This time, he did not say a word either.

He walked on, and despite her resistance to him moments before, she deflated, allowing the loneliness to overtake her once again.

Maxwell rode into Stormcliff Village, feeling calmer than he had in days. Although he hadn’t slept well after his ride, it had cleared his head following his evening with Ophelia.

Crossing paths with her that morning on the turret had been unexpected, and he was struggling to get the image of her thin chemise out of his head, but he still felt calmer than before.

There was a plot of land further out into Stormcliff, almost at the town’s borders with Garston, where an old, wealthy lord lived. Before that, he passed a cluster of cottages.

Lord Wetherley was well into his sixties, had no children, and had bypassed all chances of marriage, even with those scandalized young women who had no other options.

Maxwell dismounted his horse before the man’s towering estate and was greeted by the housekeeper, who showed him into the study, where Lord Wetherley was smoking a cigar, filling the room with a thick cloud.

Maxwell leaned back, watching the old man.

“I have heard the news about your wife, Your Grace,” Lord Wetherley said.

Although he was still relatively agile for his old age, his hair streaked with gray, and his face lined, he spoke as though he was sitting at a gentlemen’s club in London, gossiping.

“Yes. The Duchess of Stormcliff’s arrival has caused quite a stir, I hear,” Maxwell replied.

“Indeed. I was at the village celebration. I did not get the chance to formally introduce myself, but I was in the bakery where she shopped. She got a delightful-looking sugared bun. I was almost tempted to get one for myself when I saw her buy it, but I went with my usual.”

“Cinnamon,” Maxwell muttered, smiling tightly.

His patience was wearing thin, but he had known Lord Wetherley for many years and had quite the rapport with him.

“You remember.” Lord Wetherley took another drag from his cigar.

“Of course.”

“That is a good quality in a duke. I think the Duchess will be as caring and attentive.”

Maxwell stayed silent.

“She has already become favored among the villagers,” the old lord told him. “Although they were rather hesitant at first, they quickly came around. She looked rather out of place, but she won them over. You have made a fine choice for a duchess, Your Grace.”

I am starting to feel as though I have scarcely made any choice at all with my life .

Instead of saying that, Maxwell merely smiled again. “Thank you, Lord Wetherley.”

“I am glad you have found her. The village has watched you prowl that castle for many years, taking over from your uncle, looking after everybody in Stormcliff. All except yourself. Now you have the chance.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, looking after yourself… Part of that is securing the dukedom’s future, does it not? With the Duchess, you would make a wonderful family. She is very beautiful, you are handsome, and you both possess good natures.”

Maxwell snorted. Although Stormcliff’s tenants saw quite a different side of him—a more charitable and patient side—he would still not call himself good-natured .

“I can see you do not believe me, but it is true. Often, the things we cannot see about ourselves turn out to be the truest. I can see the heir you will have. I can see the daughter you will dote on. I have no children myself, but it gives me insight into the lives of other men who crave families.”

“I do not want a family,” Maxwell snapped. “I am here to discuss your tenancy and who shall take over your estate should anything happen to you. Is the Wetherley line secure?”

“Yes, yes, my niece’s husband will inherit the land, but do not attempt to change the subject, Your Grace.” Lord Wetherley’s faded eyes watched Maxwell in a way that made him feel naked.

The old lord had been kind to him, had been patient with his anger when he was younger and snuck out of the castle for rides at night. Maxwell had often stumbled onto this land and found refuge in the home of Lord Wetherley when his own only knew violence and anger.

“You have been good to me, Lord Wetherley,” he said quietly. “And I respect that. It is with that respect that I tell you to mind your own business regarding any heirs I may or may not have.” He stood up, his earlier calm gone. “I have gotten what I needed from this visit.”

“I apologize, Your Grace. Do what you must,” Lord Wetherley answered casually. “But know that I only say what I do with good intentions. You must have an heir, Your Grace.”

“And you know where I come from, and why that is not a tolerable idea,” Maxwell hissed. “Good day, Lord Wetherley.”

“Good day, Your Grace. I am sorry to have offended you.”

Maxwell stalked out, forcing his shoulders not to sag. He mounted Valor outside and rode him hard back to the castle. But before he got there, he slowed down.

Had the Duchess mentioned she was venturing into the village again? Perhaps she had. He could not recall such a thing, but he slowed down along the path that led to the town center.

Once at the crossroads, he found himself not taking the main road. Instead, he turned around and rode back to the castle. He did not need to go looking for the Duchess.

The castle was too quiet throughout the evening. Maxwell dined alone. For the first time in a long time, he felt the emptiness of the room. The seat across from him, where the Duchess should sit, was empty.

As he had ordered it to be.

Silence weighed heavily around the room.

He slumped back in his chair, tossing his napkin on his empty plate. A footman cleared it away, but as he did, Maxwell had a memory of his father at this very table, sternly regarding him.

“Sit up straighter, Maxwell,” he would order, despite Maxwell’s spine being rigid and upright.

“Yes, Father.”

Maxwell would always pause, questioning whether he should tell his father about his day. He always did, hoping for a better response the next time, but each time he was disappointed.

“My governess says I have excelled in my French language studies, Father. May I show you?”

His father would always dismiss him. “Leave your uncle and me.”

“But my studies ? —”

“You are not a halfwit, and that is all I care about. When you are intelligent enough to recite a business contract to me, then you may return and tell me what you have learned.”

Only twelve years old, Maxwell often left the dining room disheartened and dejected. Now, in his thirties, he still could not shake off the memories.

He left the dining room, going to the study that he always kept closed. Maxwell had not kept it as a second study, keeping to either his own study or the library. It had been his uncle’s, and his father used it, too.

Maxwell opened the closed door now with the key he kept under a potted plant across the hallway. As he stepped into the darkened room, he inhaled the musty smell. The memories rushed back to him.

He had been shy of his twentieth birthday, having come home from a semester of study at Oxford. He had thrown down a business contract he had written, having not forgotten his father’s request. It landed with a thwack on his uncle’s desk, drawing the attention of the two brothers.

“There , ” he snarled at his father. “The business contract you requested. It is perfectly foolproof, has advantageous terms, and opens up a whole new venture that even you have not considered. You are a cruel man and an even crueler father, and there is not a circle of Hell deep enough for either of you.”

He leaned in close, glaring at his uncle, who was the cruelest of all. “I see you, Uncle Anthony. I see what you are. What you both are.”

He pulled back, snatched up the contract before either of them could take it, and left the study. With shaking legs, he had fled to his room, shutting himself in.

Maxwell walked up now to the same desk that he had approached all those years ago. It had been two years since his uncle had died, and more than ten since his father’s death, but their ghosts still haunted the halls.

No matter how many years passed, he still could not get the anger out of him.

He had inherited it from them, he was sure of it. He had inherited the very anger he had hated in them.

Maxwell walked around the study. He wanted to slash the carpets, rip the books from the shelves, toss them into a fire, and wreck every ounce of legacy either his father or uncle had left. But he didn’t.

Instead, with boiling anger, he left the room, slammed the door shut, locked it, and went back out to saddle Valor. It seemed he rode his horse more than ever.

In the darkness of the evening, his body vibrating with fury, his mind heavy with memories he did not want to keep visiting, Maxwell entered the Cliff’s Edge to the sound of chants and cheers.

A man was already in the ring, riling up the crowd, calling for an opponent.

Maxwell took off his shirt, wrapped his knuckles, and, before anybody else could get in the ring, he climbed in. He towered easily over the other man, whose eyes went wide.

“You are not so big now, are you, Sir?” he taunted.

Before the bell even rang, Maxwell threw a punch. It should have been a foul, but nobody dared to question him. The anger ruled him tonight, and he would chase it to the very end. Repeatedly, his fists met his opponent’s face, ribs, sides, and back. He pummeled and pushed, cornering him until the bell rang and they reset the round.

He could feel his face twisting in anger, his teeth bared as he tried desperately to chase that anger’s end. Was this how his uncle felt? Did his father ever get this close to lashing out? Was Maxwell any better than them?

“Yes,” he snarled to himself.

He was better than them—at least his opponent could fight back. And he did.

Maxwell was suddenly hurled back, flung against the ropes of the boxing ring. He grunted, recovering quickly. Launching himself back across the ring, he met the smaller man, their fists colliding.

Although his opponent dodged well, Maxwell was faster. Angrier. He forced the man back once again and won the next round.

Maxwell won three rounds, only to lose the next, and then came back with a vengeance to win the fifth one.

Soon, his opponent lay on the ground, unconscious. The groans coming from him were the only sign he was still alive, but Maxwell had long lost himself to the rage swirling inside him. That calm, dark place he often retreated to during these fights.

“Anyone else?” he roared, staring around the tavern.

Silence fell for a heartbeat until the room erupted in cheers, men wanting to take on the Storm of the Cliff.

They scrambled over each other to be the next opponent. Maxwell smirked. He would bring each and every one of them to their knees.