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

Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

“ M rs. Hesketh?” Ophelia called out, catching sight of the housekeeper as she turned around to peer down the hallway.

It was the day after the Viscount Rowe had visited, and she had been wandering through the castle again, wanting to find something new to do.

She had completed more embroidery, had read so much that her eyes hurt, and had walked along the cliffs already that morning.

She had come upon the training room but found it locked. Trying the lock again, she frowned, rattling the handle.

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“Why is this room locked?”

“The Duke requested that it be locked last night, Your Grace.”

“And do you have a key?”

“Yes, but His Grace requested that it remain this way until he says otherwise.”

“But that is ridiculous,” Ophelia said, laughing incredulously. “I have already seen what is inside.”

“His Grace appeared upset when he requested it.” Mrs. Hesketh glanced around before lowering her voice. “Not an hour before he asked for it to be locked, I heard him in here. It did not sound like a pleasant training session. He and the Viscount Rowe were in here.”

“They were fighting?”

“Not seriously,” Mrs. Hesketh told her. “They used to train together from time to time, but it was His Grace who proceeded to box more seriously than Lord Rowe. Now, they enjoy riling one another up as they did when they were children. The Viscount understands His Grace best, so they exchange blows. But I did hear His Grace raising his voice.”

“Goodness,” Ophelia muttered. Perhaps it had something to do with their disappearance from the parlor during Frederick’s visit. “And did they… both emerge?”

For a moment, she imagined a blow going wrong, blood soaking into chestnut-brown curls.

“They did.” Mrs. Hesketh winced as if she knew where Ophelia’s thoughts had gone. “I believe His Grace may have locked it because of the state it was left in. He did not wish for you to see any hint of the former Duke or his father in the first place.”

“Has he ever locked it before?”

The housekeeper nodded. “Only once. When the former Duke passed away, His Grace first put all of the portraits in here, not wanting them displayed in his presence. He ordered for the room to be locked so even he could not enter. Partly, I think he does not trust himself not to destroy part of his family’s legacy. As much as he disliked his uncle and father, he knows he cannot destroy their portraits, as it would be disrespectful.” Her mouth twisted as though she tasted something sour. “Although, disrespect has already been acted upon where the former Duke was concerned. He was not a kind man.”

“I wish I knew more about His Grace’s family,” Ophelia admitted, backing away from the locked door. More secrets . “But I shall concede. If he has his secrets, he may keep them.”

“Your Grace,” Mrs. Hesketh said, making her pause. “If I may speak freely, I do not think they are secrets as you are thinking. He is not being purposefully deceptive. His Grace… he has a hard exterior, yes, but I have seen him grow up into the man he is today. I believe there is another side to him, and that is why he keeps things close to his chest, because he cannot be both sides of himself. At least not yet.”

Ophelia stiffened. “That may be so, but I do not understand why he has to involve me in such a thing.”

“Indeed, Your Grace. That is for him to speak with you about.”

Ophelia nodded. As frustrated as she was with her husband, she understood at least one thing—he was not punishing her by locking this room and keeping her from her lookout spot, but perhaps himself, so he did not have to cross the room to get there or face anything within it.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hesketh.”

Ophelia retreated from the room and began her usual pacing around the castle to clear her head. She found that the lofty hallways and stone walls helped to ease her mind.

Alone, she murmured to herself, “All will be all right. I shall find Bridget, and I will appeal to the Duke to bring her here. At least I will not be so alone.”

Of course, she had Hannah, but Bridget could be there as her friend, not only as a maid. She envisioned Bridget holding her child, a round face and a sweet smile looking back at her.

Ophelia imagined herself holding the baby, tapping their nose in delight, whispering to them through the sleepless nights, assuring them that they would grow up loved.

By the time she passed by the main entrance hall, her heart ached for what she would never have.

But she heard the whisper of shoes on the polished floor and looked up to find a girl.

She had never seen her at the castle before.

Her hair was black as night, half of it braided upwards atop her head. Her dress was well-fitted, a pretty long-sleeved pale blue gown that had shimmering fabric that flared out at the waist, draping over a skirt. Her bodice was trimmed with the same fabric. The other half of her hair fell over her shoulder, draped over the swell of her breast.

This is her . The mistress.

She had the air of a gently bred lady and was not dressed like the staff in the castle, but she did not look entirely… comfortable. Was it her guilt? Was she so tense because she knew she did not belong?

The lady clasped her hands together behind her back as she walked down the hallway that intersected the one Ophelia walked through. She looked the same age as Ophelia, maybe one or two years older, but the way she carried herself made her appear younger. Still, there was an air of disorientation—or disillusion, rather—to her as she looked around the castle.

A maid followed her.

Definitely a lady . Did the Duke marry me to cover up his illicit affair with you ?

Ophelia’s eyes narrowed as she began to approach the woman. She would get her answers, and even if they came from her husband’s mistress, so be it. She was not a jealous wife but someone who had been forced into a marriage clearly everybody understood but her.

Ophelia’s shoe squeaked on the floor, and the woman up ahead looked at her, her eyes going wide at Ophelia’s advance.

She darted down the hallway, followed by her maid, and Ophelia hurried after them.

Of course, she is running away from me!

“Come back here,” she called out. “I only wish to speak with you.”

Ophelia navigated the winding halls, noting how the young woman knew her way around.

She runs with guilt through hallways clearly familiar to her. Just how many times has my husband had her here? Why did he not marry her instead if she is a lady of the ton ?

“Stop!” she called out, but the woman did not.

She fled, light and quick on her feet despite her earlier nervousness, and Ophelia could not catch up in time.

By the time someone stepped into her path, she was near the music room, and her access to the hallway beyond was blocked, allowing the mistress to flee from her.

Ophelia was about to berate the servant who had stopped her until she found herself face-to-face with her husband.

The Duke towered over her, his face stony. “What on earth do you think you are doing?” he demanded.

“Me?” she gasped. “What are you doing, Your Grace? Should I expect you to bring all of your mistresses home, where your wife can easily come across them? Do you enjoy having all of your women in the same place?”

“Duchess—”

“All you seem intent on doing is humiliating me! From the start, it is all you have done. And must it be so public?” Her breath was short from her outburst as she stared him down.

He loomed over her, but her anger made her feel like she could match up to him.

At that moment, she forgot about his bloodied knuckles, the way he had sagged with exhaustion the night she had found him after a fight, and how he had a hot temper she had not even seen the worst of.

“Duchess, lower your voice,” he warned her.

“Or what?” she asked, her voice just as threatening. “You might hit me, Your Grace? You might unleash that anger of yours on me? That is what you are hiding, is it not? This violent side of yours. I see you, Your Grace. I know what you hide behind locked doors and secret conversations and nights in the tavern’s boxing ring.”

His eyes ran over her face, flickering. He looked away from her for a moment before glancing back.

“You accuse me of having a mistress?” he asked, ignoring her other claims.

“ That is your main worry?” she scoffed.

“It seems to be yours, so let us address it. Do tell me how you think the woman you have just chased through the halls is my mistress. Because I have one answer for you, wife .” The word dripped with venom. “She is my cousin.”

Ophelia reeled back. “Your cousin? Then—then why did she run away as soon as she saw me, like a guilty woman fleeing a scandalous scene?”

“Lucy does not do well with strangers. Her father, the late Duke, was my uncle. Lucy has remained here in the castle ever since his death.”

“Where has she been until now?” Ophelia asked, unsure if she truly believed the story.

Yet, Lucy shared the same dark features, and she knew her way around the castle. Maxwell did not greet her nor usher her away. But why the secrecy?

“I sent her to live with one of her maternal aunts while I was away on business.”

“Business,” she echoed.

The very ‘business’ that she had read about in a scandal sheet was a cover-up for murdering his uncle. But if he did indeed do that, how did his cousin face him? How could she face her father’s murderer?

Ophelia knew the man was cruel, but how could Lucy accept that her own cousin had killed her father?

“Yes,” Maxwell answered tightly. “Business.”

“It does not make sense,” she murmured.

“It will,” he uttered. “But the full story is not mine alone to tell.”

Ophelia was aware of how close he stood to her. She tried to back up a step but only found herself pressed against the door to the music room.

“I understand,” she said. “At least that part. I just do not know why you did not tell me that your cousin would be coming.”

“Because I had hoped I could formally introduce her to you at dinner tonight.” Annoyance flashed across his face. “It appears I can still do that, but you have likely half scared my cousin out the door.”

“You should have told me sooner,” Ophelia sighed.

“Do you still think her my mistress?” His eyes bored into hers as if he was pulling her very strength to stand up to him apart. “Do you truly think I would dishonor you in such a way?”

“Yes,” she snapped. “Yes, I do, because I hardly know you, and you have done nothing to amend that so far. What else am I supposed to think?”

“I merely prefer my privacy,” he hissed.

“Am I so wrong to have been worried?” she demanded, knowing she was not.

He looked around, and it prompted Ophelia to notice that some of the staff had discreetly turned away.

Without a warning, Maxwell grabbed her elbow and pushed her into the music room, handling her not as roughly as he had pushed Frederick around but enough that she gasped at his touch.

He kicked the door shut behind him, not letting go of her.

“Heavens above, Duchess. No man in his right mind would be unfaithful to you,” he told her, his voice so rough it was almost a growl.

Ophelia pulled back out of his grip, blinking in surprise. But she composed herself quickly. “Why would you say such a thing? You do not want me.”

“Your assumptions are not always correct, Duchess.”

“Only because you do not answer any question I ask!” she countered. “What else am I supposed to do but guess?”

“You can be patient,” he said, moving closer. His hand closed around her wrist, pulling her closer. “You can wait until the answers are ready to be given.”

“And if patience is not a virtue I possess?” she asked, alarmed by how close they had gotten, how near his face was to hers. Her voice was softer, more challenging, as if daring him to do something.

Maxwell’s gaze unraveled her as he searched her face. “Then you will simply have to be taught it.”

“And it will be you teaching me?” Her breath came in quick, shallow gasps; he filled the room, filled her vision, took up any personal space she may have claimed. “The husband who cannot bear to be around me.”

“I am around you now,” he reminded her.

She stopped short, realizing this may have been the longest he had indeed chosen to be in her company. Her lip caught between her teeth in thought, but she felt a thumb tug it free.

“Do not do that,” the Duke growled. “You do not know the things it does to me.”

“Then tell me,” she dared him.

His mouth met hers, and she blinked, surprised.

He pulled back almost immediately, his eyes searching hers. He did not give her a moment to think about the fact that he had just kissed her before he pulled her back against him, a groan on his tongue as he kissed her with more force.

Ophelia did not give herself a moment to resist—she found that she did not want to resist—and melted into the kiss, her fingers scratching down the front of his shirt, sliding into his hair and tugging. She wrapped the strands around her fingers, delighting in how he moved closer to her. His hands went to her waist, holding her in place.

His teeth bit her lower lip, a harsher action than she had thought, and a moan escaped her mouth. Pleasure coursed through her as he coaxed her mouth open, deepening the kiss, his tongue sliding against hers.

How can I be kissing him? He has done so many terrible things. He does not want me. This must be a distraction. It has to be. It has ? —

The Duke’s mouth moved against hers, a growl rumbling in his chest as he kissed her harder. He was a flame, and she was beginning to burn, wanting him—finding herself needing him .

“Maxwell,” she moaned softly as he pulled away, but not to distance himself from her.

She barely registered herself using his Christian name when his lips landed on her jaw, trailing harsh kisses down the length of her neck.

His eyes closed, dark lashes fanning over his cheeks. His kisses became bruising, as if he was trying to leave marks on her skin. He seemed as lost to their flames as she was. Heat swelled between her legs as he moved back up to her mouth, capturing her lips in another searing kiss.

Desperately, she let her hands trail down his chest, feeling the muscles that she had seen so starkly that day on the beach beneath her fingers.

She let out another moan at the thought of that powerful, naked body—the very body pressed against hers now. She wanted him—all of him. She did not care at that moment if he possessed a thousand secrets.

Every honed spark of anger narrowed into that kiss, and she was breathless by the time he pulled back, his eyes heavy, his lips swollen.

“Duchess—”

He was interrupted by the sound of the music room door opening.

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but I was told you were in here.”

The footman did not stop his announcement, not even as Ophelia quickly pulled away from the Duke, turning to the window as if to hide the evidence of their actions.

The Duke cleared his throat, and she noticed out of the corner of her eye how he adjusted his jacket. “What is it?”

“Your presence is required upstairs. It seems one of the maids has made a mistake with Lady Lucy’s rooms.”

“I shall be there momentarily.”

The footman bowed out of the room, and Ophelia turned back to her husband.

Before she could say anything, he gave her a look that made her think he was just as confused as her by the kiss. He had wanted her, if only for those brief moments.

The Duke walked out of the music room, leaving her heated and aching, and wishing that she had touched more of his body lest he never come near her again.