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

Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

“ G ood evening,” Ophelia said as she entered the dining room.

“Good evening,” Maxwell’s voice echoed through the room, and she felt her stomach flip at the way he watched her enter.

He picked up his wine glass, sipping from it as she sat in the chair pulled out for her.

It was the first time they had dined together, and it was not lost on her that it was clearly to keep up appearances. There was an effortless ease between the Duke and his cousin, making Ophelia feel she wasn’t stepping into a tense atmosphere.

“Lucy, this is the Duchess of Stormcliff.” Maxwell smiled tightly. “My wife.” He regarded Ophelia. “Duchess, this is Lucy Harding, my cousin.”

Ophelia blushed, ducking her head. “It is lovely to meet you, Lady Lucy. I am terribly sorry about my behavior earlier. I should not have scared you so. It was incredibly improper of me.”

“It is all right, Your Grace,” Lucy answered, her smile shy but pretty. “I am sure my return to Stormcliff was a surprise for you. If I know my cousin at all, I imagine he did not mention a thing.”

“He did not,” Ophelia said, her smile too wide, aimed at Maxwell.

“I will not defend myself again,” he said, his voice clipped.

“I must apologize, though, for running away. Perhaps if I had stopped when you asked, you would not have needed to come after me.” Lucy sipped on her wine, her eyebrows drawn together, apologetic.

“It does not matter,” Ophelia told her. “I am only happy to finally meet you. I hear you have been visiting other relatives?”

“Yes. My mother’s sister moved to France many years ago. There was a beautiful bakery that she often took me to. Maxwell mentioned you like bakeries. The one in Stormcliff is very well-known.”

Ophelia saw a chance. “Perhaps we can go there together one afternoon.”

Lucy looked hesitant for a moment, but she nodded eventually. “That will be lovely.”

“We shall arrange it,” Ophelia told her. “Where in France did you stay?”

“Paris,” Lucy said. “It is beautiful there. Have you ever been?”

Ophelia shook her head.

“Perhaps if you ask very nicely,” Lucy drawled, smirking at her cousin, “Maxwell will take you one day.”

“Do not encourage her, Lucy,” he sighed.

“Oh, you can be such a spoilsport at times, Cousin.” Lucy rolled her eyes and regarded Ophelia. “He pretends that he likes nothing, but I assure you, he is very easy to please.”

“Is that so?” Ophelia raised an eyebrow at her husband, smirking. He merely looked at her over his wine glass.

“Indeed.”

“Lucy,” Maxwell warned. “I shall send you on the next ferry to your aunt.”

“Honestly, Maxwell, your moods rival the darkest of storm clouds. I had almost forgotten how they could be.” Lucy’s tone was teasing, and Ophelia knew the woman was jesting, but she was wary of the Duke’s reaction.

But he only shook his head at his cousin.

“And what about you?” he asked. “I might as well have brought back a gathering of mice. You do not make a sound. I worry there is a ghost lurking in these hallways.”

“Says you!” Lucy scoffed, laughing. “We have spent days at a time in one another’s company without exchanging more than a morning greeting or a nightly farewell.”

“Silence is a virtue, is it not?”

Ophelia looked down at her plate as dinner was served, and could only think of how her declaration that patience was not one of her virtues had led to their kiss.

“Your Grace, if I may ask, how are you married to such a man?” Lucy asked.

Ophelia could hear the difference when the woman spoke with Maxwell—she was calmer and more relaxed. With Ophelia, it was as though Lucy wanted to be more relaxed but could not, yet.

“I…” Ophelia paused, unsure how much she was permitted to say. “Well, much like yourself, I do not see much of His Grace.”

Lucy snorted. “You have not changed in the year we spent apart, Cousin.”

“My wife has something of a blinkered outlook on my behavior,” Maxwell muttered. “She thinks me the villain.”

“And are you?” Ophelia could not help but ask. Her eyes searched his face, from the watchful eyes to the lips that he licked as he sipped on his wine.

“That is your decision to make.”

“Lady Lucy, would you say that my husband is a villain or a hero?”

“For me, he is a hero,” Lucy said. She clasped her hands together in her lap, and Ophelia noticed how her smile faltered. Something darker crossed her face. “He broods and stalks through the castle, but the truth is that I owe him everything.” Before any tension could fill the room, she laughed to herself. “And yet he has a name like Storm of the Cliff in the boxing ring.”

Her laughter rang out like a bell, and Maxwell glowered at her.

“I did not choose it.”

“It is still rather hilarious and very unoriginal. You are the Duke of Stormcliff. Do they imagine you to come down from the cliffs, a storm in your own right?”

“Lucy,” he sighed.

“I am merely stating my opinion!” She hesitated for a moment, trying to hold back her laughter. “Do you rain down upon your opponents, too? A rainstorm? Perhaps you thunder your way into the ring.”

“You are a jester, Lucy,” he muttered drily. “All that matters is victory. I do not care what they call me. They stop speaking once I begin fighting.”

“I am sure you are a fearsome beast.”

Ophelia knew he likely was. He had frightened her at times without even raising his fists. She could imagine his anger, sharp and powerful, blows landing in the tavern ring.

“Why do you box?” she asked suddenly.

The Duke cocked his head. “I am sorry?”

“You box, but why? Why does it appeal to you?”

“He failed his French classes in Oxford,” Lucy whispered loudly, “so he had to fight his way through the class to pass the exam, and he stuck with it.”

“Do not make up lies,” Maxwell warned. He looked back at Ophelia. “I enjoy it.”

“There is more to that answer,” she insisted.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

“Informative as ever, Cousin,” Lucy sighed. “This meat is delicious.”

“Thank you,” Maxwell said. “I asked the cook to prepare your favorite for your return.”

“How kind of you.”

There was something slightly sarcastic in the way Lucy responded to him, but Ophelia could see the soft smile he gave his cousin when she was not looking. They had an easy camaraderie, and after the Duke’s silence or hostility towards her, Ophelia was rather glad to hear him jest and see a semblance of a smile on his face.

At least it proved that he could smile.

“I would very much like us to be friends, Lady Lucy,” Ophelia told Lucy after they finished the main course. “Stormcliff Hall is a quiet place. I should think we might keep one another company.”

Lucy smiled at her, nodding. “That would be lovely, Your Grace. Thank you.”

“And while we are discussing being friends, perhaps you might simply call me Ophelia?”

“Only if you call me Lucy.”

Ophelia couldn’t help the smile she gave her new friend.

The next several days passed with Ophelia seeking Lucy out throughout the day.

They sat in the music room one afternoon, Ophelia trying hard not to think about how the Duke had kissed her in there and had ever since avoided her after their first dinner with Lucy.

“Maxwell once went to watch Louis Thornbell perform,” Lucy told her, her fingers plucking at the keys idly. “He is my favorite composer, and I wished to watch him play. But, of course, I had not yet debuted, so I was not able to go. I begged Maxwell to go in my stead so he could tell me everything. I must have only been fifteen or so.”

Ophelia sat on another piano bench, her arms braced on the body of the pianoforte, watching her play.

Lucy’s dark hair was loose and hung in pretty waves down her back, her neck bent elegantly with her focus.

“However, even if I had debuted and wished to go, my… father,” she said, clearing her throat. “He would have stopped me from attending, as he often stopped me from doing many things.”

She gave a tight smile that said what she spoke of affected her, but she tried to put on a brave face, nonetheless.

Her father, the very man the ton believed Maxwell had murdered.

What did Lucy think? She said Maxwell had saved her, but what did that mean?

Ophelia nodded. Lucy’s leg was becoming restless, and the young lady was blinking a little too fast now. It was time to steer the conversation back to safer territory.

“And the Duke enjoyed the concert?” Ophelia asked.

“Oh, very much.” Lucy’s face relaxed. “He was very good to me that night. He dislikes the type of music Thornbell creates, but he went without a complaint. My father was not happy that I stayed up until I heard my cousin return. Once Maxwell returned, there was little he could do to stop it. He spoke with me long into the night.”

Ophelia tried to reconcile the man she was getting to know with the man everybody else spoke of. A considerate, patient duke to his tenants, a man who stayed awake to satisfy his cousin’s curiosity.

“He sounds kind,” she noted. “His Grace, I mean.”

“He is,” Lucy told her. “He can be terribly foul-tempered, but he is a good man regardless.”

“Does Louis Thornbell inspire you?”

“He does.” Lucy nodded. “I think he has such a way with how he weaves a ballad. He takes an array of instruments and puts them together in the most fascinating way. It is almost heartbreaking how he does it.”

She began to play properly again, no longer plunking sounds from the instrument, and performed a delicate ballad.

It was achingly sweet, and although Lucy’s eyes shined with tears as she played, Ophelia could feel nothing but warmth in her heart. Yet, the other woman smiled as if the ballad made her both happy and teary.

When she finished, Lucy closed the lid of the pianoforte. “Do you play?”

“I do, but nowhere near as wonderfully as that. I am more proficient on the flute.”

“I believe we have one here somewhere,” Lucy said. “Let me dig it out—we must compose a duet!”

“I am afraid I cannot compose.” Ophelia laughed. “Can you?”

“No, but we can pretend.” Lucy giggled and stood up from the bench to begin searching through the trunks in the room.

She tossed out sheaves of paper carelessly, moved aside cleaning tools that the staff used, and put aside music books.

While she rummaged, Ophelia glanced up as a shadow crossed the doorway.

The Duke paused, peering in. He frowned when he saw them together, but Lucy did not notice. Ophelia looked at him, and his eyes met hers, but he said nothing. His body tensed up, and he moved on quickly, shaking his head.

After the kiss and their conversation at dinner, he had reverted to his stony silence with her.

Why ?

She wanted to ask but did not get the chance. He found another place to be in every time they were within close proximity.

“Ah, I found it! It is a little bit dusty, but I do not think it needs more than a good clean. Here, let me.”

“No, I can do it,” Ophelia insisted softly. “This is your home.”

Lucy laughed, almost sadly. “This place has never felt like home. I am a guest here now, but truly, I have always felt like one. Except only this time I feel wanted by my family. My father did not exactly make me feel that way.”

Ophelia’s heart sank for whatever Lucy had endured at the hands of her father. What had he done to make her look so sorrowful?

“Then you will be wanted by me. I am most grateful for your company. Now, let me have the flute, and I shall dust it off.”

Lucy relinquished the instrument to her, and Ophelia set to cleaning it while Lucy began to tinker away with a tune she made up, humming quietly.

Soon, Ophelia had the flute prepared and began to play alongside her.

For the first time in a long time, she felt rather content and much less lonely.