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

Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

“ C ousin!” Lucy called out. “Do not leave. Break your fast with us.”

Ophelia and Lucy were having breakfast together when Maxwell walked into the dining room, saw Ophelia there, and promptly walked back out.

From where she spread butter over her toast, Ophelia could sense the tension the Duke held.

“No,” he said. “I am late for a meeting with one of my tenants.”

“You cannot miss breakfast.”

“I assure you, I can.”

Without another word, he left, and his footsteps retreated down the hallway.

Lucy sighed and shook her head. “That temper of his. I jest with him about it, but it can truly be foul. Catching him in a good moment is nearly impossible.”

“And yet you wish to be around him. Why is that?”

Lucy cut up some ham and forked it into her mouth, and Ophelia got the sense that she was stalling.

“You know, I believe that being misunderstood runs in my family,” Lucy finally said.

Whether she meant herself or her father, Ophelia did not know, and she did not ask either.

“At dinner, several nights ago, I said that I owe him everything,” Lucy continued. “And it is true. If it were not for him, I would be far worse off. He has helped me with a great deal of things. Every time my father…”

Lucy paused, gulped, and started rubbing the palm of her right hand.

“When he… Whenever he became too much,” Lucy continued, her left thumb pressing on her right palm, “Maxwell was always there, always ready to protect me. Even if it meant enduring Father’s wrath.” She tensed up, shaking her head. “I always felt guilty, but Maxwell once told me it was his own decision to protect me.”

She looked down at her hand, and Ophelia saw that Lucy was pressing so hard on her palm that the skin had gone white.

Ophelia took her hands in her own. “You cannot blame yourself,” she said softly.

She knew the weight of blame for someone else's tragic fate, her thoughts turning to Bridget.

Except she truly had failed her friend.

“Perhaps not. Still, he always put himself in harm’s way to save me. If not for me, then perhaps he would not have developed a penchant for fighting. If he had been able to remain softer, gentler…” Lucy drew herself up, withdrawing her hands, and shook off her sadness. “It does not matter. It was in the past. Though scars linger, of course. He saved me, over and over. For that, I am forever grateful.”

As Lucy spoke, Ophelia’s view of Maxwell shifted. She’d always thought of him as brash, even violent, and his coldness and physical strength had only reinforced that image. She’d thought of him as a man quick to strike, dangerous.

Yet, here Lucy was, painting a different picture of a man—a boy who had stepped into the ring not for a love of violence, but out of necessity, to shield his cousin from her father’s cruelty. A boy who bore bruises and scars so his cousin wouldn’t have to. He hadn’t fought for sport or pride; he’d fought for her .

This realization settled heavily within Ophelia, a soft, persistent warmth mingling with her confusion. Perhaps Maxwell wasn’t only the fierce, unyielding man she had known, but also one who had risked and endured more than she’d ever imagined, someone who had learned to be hard to shelter the ones he loved.

And it was difficult to ignore that now.

“When did he start boxing in the village?” Ophelia asked. “He participates in tournaments, you said?”

Lucy nodded. “He began fighting there when he was twelve. I was only a baby, but I recall the age because as I grew up, I always thought it was far too young an age for a boy to hold so much desire to fight constantly. When I was old enough, I would bandage his knuckles and wash the blood off his face. Whenever he attended a ball, I would cover his bruises so his father would not lash out at him.

“He began to properly box to the point of winning bets and making a name for himself at a much older age. This must stay between us, but Maxwell’s father… Well, he had very high standards. No matter what my cousin did, he could not meet them. I think that was why he turned to boxing.”

Ophelia could not stand how distressing it all sounded. “What happened in this castle while you grew up?”

The question slipped free. She couldn’t help but ask it.

Lucy pulled back, exhaling. “These walls have seen a great deal of pain and grief. It is about time it was filled with something brighter.” She picked at her breakfast disinterestedly. “My cousin is misunderstood by the ton. I know what they say about him.”

“Do you believe it to be true? What the scandal sheets have said about?—”

“About Maxwell? Goodness, no. They do not know him. Not like I do.” Lucy’s expression darkened as she gazed down at the tablecloth.

“Thank you for telling me,” Ophelia said.

“Enough about me. You must share something about your family,” Lucy prompted.

“Well, I have a half-brother called James. He is the future Marquess of Kirkland, but his mother and I… Well, we never got along, I’m afraid.”

“Your stepmother?” Lucy guessed.

Ophelia nodded.

“My stepmother is greedy, to say the least.” She sighed. “And some days, I fear that I have not seen the last of her by coming to Stormcliff.”

“If she ever does, I can assure you that Maxwell will protect you.”

Ophelia wanted to admit that her husband had not even protected her from loneliness and solitude, let alone a person, but she stayed quiet and nodded.

“Lucy,” she spoke up, pausing before she continued. “Do you know why the Duke married me?”

Lucy shook her head. “No. I was returning from France when you got married, so I do not know his motives. I did not even know about you until I saw you in the hallway and I asked my lady’s maid who you were.”

“That does sound like the Duke,” Ophelia muttered.

“See? You know him well already.” Lucy giggled.

But Ophelia could not fully muster a smile, feeling as though she did not know her husband at all. He had a mountain of secrets, and she was not entirely convinced that he had not murdered his uncle. Yet, Lucy did not resent him for it, which confused Ophelia further.

She wished to ask but knew it was not the right time. Lucy could bolt at any harsh question, so Ophelia held back, bit her tongue, and continued eating her breakfast.

The castle was cloaked in darkness as Ophelia padded down the hallway, her bare feet barely making a sound on the floor.

She had woken up from a restless sleep, her mind racing with what Lucy had told her earlier that day about Maxwell.

She meant only to retrieve her novel from the library, hoping it might distract her.

As she rounded the corner, the sight of another figure in the dim light startled her.

“Duchess?” Maxwell’s voice was low, filled with surprise.

Her heart lurched, and she instinctively wrapped her arms around herself, aware of her thin nightgown, which did little to shield her from his gaze. The fabric fell softly over her shoulders, hugging her frame in a way that left her feeling strangely exposed under his intense stare.

“I… I couldn’t sleep,” she managed, her voice barely above a whisper, glancing down as if the floor might offer her a respite.

Yet, even with her gaze averted, she felt the warmth radiating from him, sensed the way he studied her, as though he were memorizing every delicate line and curve.

He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming, his scent and the faint heat of his skin filling the space between them.

“That makes two of us,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that seemed to echo in the quiet hall.

Ophelia’s pulse quickened as she risked looking up at him, catching the faintest hint of vulnerability beneath his guarded expression.

The dim glow of the candlelight cast shadows on his face, softening the sharp lines of his jaw but only sharpening the intensity of his gaze. She shivered, though whether from the cool night air or the closeness of him, she couldn’t tell.

She opened her mouth, unsure what to say, but her mind was blank, utterly consumed by his nearness, by the unmistakable heat that sparked between them. Memories of their kiss flooded her thoughts—the feel of his hands on her waist, his lips against hers, the fire that had blazed between them…

Goodness, she wanted him. He was dark, quiet, dangerous like a still ocean, an abyss that hid great perils. But she ached to dive deep, to swim into his waters, to let him wrap his arms around her again.

Now, here they were, both silent, both caught in something neither could name.

“You should go back to bed,” he said, though his voice was hoarse, betraying the tension hovering between them.

“Yes,” she whispered but made no move to step away.

Her gaze drifted from his face to the faint bruise on his knuckle, lingering on the roughness, on the reminder of what Lucy had said about his past. He had fought to protect those he loved; he had bled for them. Somehow, Ophelia saw him differently now—he was more than the dark, guarded man she had thought him to be.

He took a breath, his hand twitching as if to reach for her, but he stopped himself, clenching his fist at his side instead.

“Goodnight, Duchess,” he said, though his words felt somehow heavy, burdened by something he couldn’t quite share.

“Goodnight, Your Grace,” she replied.

But as she turned to leave, her shoulder brushed his arm, and the warmth of his touch lingered, reminding her of how good he had felt against her.

But she didn’t let her mind wander there. Not tonight.

With one last glance over her shoulder, she walked away, leaving him standing alone in the shadows, his gaze following her until she disappeared into the darkness.