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

Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

M axwell ached all over by the time he returned to the castle. He slid off Valor with a grunt and trudged into the entrance hall.

Sighing, he shrugged off his jacket with a wince. One of the villagers had bitten him on his way down and drawn blood. He hissed as more bruises on his sides made themselves known. It did not matter what injuries he sported—all that mattered was that he had won.

He had chased his anger. He had taken it out on men who were strong enough and willing to take what he threw at them.

Flexing his fingers, he made his way upstairs to his bedroom. But he stopped short at the sight of Ophelia standing in her doorway, her eyes wide.

“Where have you been?” she asked, her voice hushed, sharp.

“It is none of your business,” he muttered. All he wanted was to sleep. “Return to bed, Duchess.”

“As your Duchess, I would like to know where you have been. You must know my whereabouts, must you not?”

“We have already discussed our privacy. I will not ask you again to respect mine.”

“You are walking oddly,” she noted. “What is wrong?”

“Nothing,” he snapped. “Leave me.”

She did not.

“You are a stubborn, unrelenting woman, and a thorn in my side,” he bit out.

Closing his eyes for a second, he reined in his temper. He had just begun to blunt its edge; he did not need it to flare again.

“Yet, you chose to marry me,” she seethed. “You have been stung by your own actions, not mine.”

He only laughed bitterly at her. Pain shot through his body. He swayed on his feet before he leaned against the wall, turning to look at her sideways.

“Perhaps I have. But that does not change the fact that we are married.”

She opened her mouth to reply but then closed it, clearly thinking better of it.

Truly, what was there to say? He had condemned her, she was unhappy, and he could not back out of their marriage either.

Her eyes dropped to the floor.

The moment she noticed his bloodied knuckles, he realized a second too late that he could not hide them. Still, he tried, but she drew nearer.

“Your knuckles,” she murmured. “Let me see them.”

“No.”

“Your Grace, let me see.”

“ No ,” he said more firmly. “Do not involve yourself in my business, Duchess.”

“You disappear for hours and hours, you leave late in the night and do not return until sunrise. And now you shut me out—which is hardly unusual—but you come back with bloodied knuckles. I… I do not know what to think.”

“Yes, you do,” he answered flatly, knowing exactly what she thought of him because of his eavesdropping. “So, say it, Duchess. Say what you are thinking. Say what you think of me.”

She gaped at him. “You are so cold tonight.”

He was exhausted. His eyelids felt heavy, his body ached, and he did not wish to start another argument with her.

Sighing, he turned to go to his room, content with ignoring her comment, but she stopped him. But then her hand pressed flat against his chest, and he stiffened. Tense, he stared down at her.

How could he touch her?

He’d had thoughts of kissing her, but how could he dare touch someone like her, with hands like his?

He swallowed and pushed her hand off his chest. Without another word, he walked into his bedroom and slammed the door shut.

Ophelia woke up with a heaviness in her chest the next morning.

You are a stubborn, unrelenting woman, and a thorn in my side .

Despite his complaints, the Duke had a reason to keep her here—had possessed a reason all along for stopping her marriage to Lord Anworth, even if she did not yet know what that was—and he would honor it.

“What honor binds you to this ? ” she wanted to ask.

Instead, he had pushed her to say what she thought of him, and oh how close she had been to flinging accusations at him.

As soon as she left her room, the door next to hers opened. She had started to realize that the Duke waited for her to leave her chamber, and if he wished to speak to her, he lingered to make sure he would catch her. If he did not wish to speak to her, he always made sure to be gone before she emerged.

“Good morning,” he said gruffly.

“If we must meet only on your terms, then it is hardly a good morning, is it?” she asked, her voice short.

“Duchess—”

“Did you kill somebody last night, Your Grace?”

Her question caught him off guard enough that his silence had her looking at him.

His face was stony, his glare burning into her. “How dare you ask me such a thing?”

“Am I completely wrong to do so? You do not know how you looked when you came up those stairs.”

“Enlighten me,” he growled, stepping towards her, but she refused to be intimidated.

She boldly met his gaze. “You…”

You looked as if you were carrying a burden you could no longer bear. You looked ready to collapse and victorious at the same time. Your face, it twisted in so much anger and pain. And those knuckles…

But all she said was, “Do you know how many bruises you have on your face? I do not know what your body looks like, Your Grace, but I imagine it is worse.”

He tried to smirk at her. “Would you like to inspect me, wife?”

“Do not mock me,” she snapped. “Answer me.”

“I did not kill anyone,” he bit out, as if he could not believe he had to say the words. “Do not ask me such a thing again.”

He walked away from her yet again, but this time, she did not bother trying to stop him. Instead of going to the breakfast hall, Ophelia turned back as she saw Hannah approaching her chamber.

“I would like to venture into the village again today.”

“What about breakfast, Your Grace?”

“I shall indulge in the products of Stormcliff’s Bakery again. I cannot stand one more moment in this castle.”

She watched the Duke pause for a moment before he went down the stairs.

She went back to her chambers and was dressed for the day, thrumming with frustration and the urge to shake every held-back truth and defense the Duke kept locked inside of his mind.

“I have heard she is ever so pretty,” a maid whispered several days later outside the library.

Ophelia paused her reading, her attention drawn to the doorway, where two shadows fell over the door. She did not know if they knew she was in there, but she held in a breath, nonetheless.

Slowly, she turned the page, careful not to rustle it.

“And she knows the Duke cares for her. Of course, he does.”

Ophelia’s chest tightened.

What on earth are they talking about ? Who does the Duke care for ?

“Did you know that her rooms have been ready all this time? I do not know if she is delayed or if the Duke merely planned slightly early.”

“It is rather strange to invite her over during his honeymoon, don’t you think?”

“Indeed!” The two maids giggled. “Maybe he thinks she will give him a respite from the hardships of marriage.”

Ophelia, not wanting to remain quiet any longer, snapped her book shut. The hallway fell silent. Footsteps were whispery on the floor, the two maids quietly retreating. She stood up, pacing the library.

Did the Duke have a mistress ? And was she on the way to Stormcliff Hall?

Surely he would not do such a thing. It was a strange feeling of betrayal that rose within Ophelia. He had stopped her from keeping her end of the deal with her stepmother only to take a mistress?

Once again, Ophelia tormented herself by wondering what the Duke’s motives were.

She paused, gripping her book tighter. “Is that where he disappears at night?”

Looking out the library window, she took in the gardens beyond. It was easy to see the Duke as he rode around the stable yard in the distance, his warhorse trotting with its tail plumed as though proud to carry such a man. His shoulders were tight, as though he held the weight of their exchange several days ago in his whole upper body.

Or maybe it was the weight of all his secrets.

She pressed her lips together. As if the Duke sensed her gaze, he looked up. Across the length of the courtyard and stable yard, their eyes met.

Ophelia was the first to look away. For good measure, she yanked the curtain closed, only to leave herself with too little light to read by.

She left the library and went to the turret, where she often kept finding herself.

“I will find you, Bridget,” she whispered to the open breeze, looking right out at the sea as if she could see right down the coast and into London.

Impractical, of course, but it helped strengthen her resolve. Losing sight of her goal was not something she could afford to do. She would help her friend, no matter what it took.

Heading back inside after calming down her racing thoughts, she set about looking for Mrs. Hesketh to ask her about the mysterious guest. If someone was going to stay in the castle, she ought to know about them. Instead, Ophelia found another footman.

“I have asked the steward to enquire about a young woman named Bridget Jacobs—my former lady’s maid. She was last seen in London proper. I wish to have the search efforts doubled. She is… unwell, and I fear for her well-being.”

“I will speak to the steward immediately, Your Grace,” the footman said, bowing to her. “I’m sure he will send whoever he can.” He then paused, as if weighing whether he should ask. “Your Grace, it may help if you could provide a description of Miss Jacobs. It would make the search easier if we knew what to look for.”

Ophelia paused, the words catching in her throat.

“Yes, of course,” she managed, swallowing hard. “She’s… quite small, barely taller than my shoulder. Slim, and she carries herself in a way that makes her seem like she’s trying to disappear into the walls. Her hair is blonde. A soft, pale gold, like sunlight filtering through the mist. It used to be so neatly braided…”

Her voice wavered, and she quickly blinked away the tears threatening to form. The image of Bridget, always so composed even when her hands trembled from exhaustion, flashed in her mind.

“She has this—this way about her,” Ophelia continued, her voice softer now, almost reverent. “Her eyes are a deep brown, almost like… like the color of the earth after rain. And when she smiles, it’s big, and it’s the most genuine thing you’ll ever see. She rarely wore her emotions on her sleeve around the staff, but you could always tell how she felt by her hands—they’d twist in her apron when she was anxious, and she’d wring her fingers together when she thought no one was looking.”

She pressed her lips together, trying to maintain her composure. “I-I don’t know if she’s smiling much these days. I fear she might not be smiling at all.”

The footman looked at her with sympathy and determination. “I’ll make sure the steward gets every detail, Your Grace,” he said gently. “We will do our best to find her.”

Ophelia gave a tight nod, quickly turning away before he could see the raw emotion on her face. But she couldn’t break down now. She had to hold on to her resolve. For Bridget.

She could not stress how urgent it was that Bridget be found without giving her secret away. Several months pregnant with winter approaching would not be a kind circumstance; her mind could only imagine the very worst of possibilities.

Ophelia had to find her before it was too late.