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

Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

“ I have noticed your elegance tonight, Duchess,” the Duke told Ophelia, his hand on her waist.

The compliment caught her off-guard, and the hand she had placed on his shoulder twitched. “I am sorry?”

At first, the waltz had begun with a particularly tricky pattern of notes, then it had come to a softer conclusion, before leading into another part of the melody, a slower part.

Maxwell let his hand drift a bit lower, and she was reminded of how he had held her that day in the music room.

She did not get a chance to speak, as they moved positions so they could continue their steps across the dance floor.

His hand moved higher this time, and although it could have been innocent, she wondered if he was feeling her curves. His eyes dropped to where his hand rested for a brief second before flicking back up to hers.

She could not help but feel every ripple of muscle beneath her hand. How powerful was he? When he fought, how much strength did he use?

She found herself flushing with heat at the thought, even though the very notion of it should have terrified her.

And it did—only, that was the very thing that excited her as well.

“You carry your title well.” His gaze pierced through her. “Considering you are called the wife of the Ruthless Duke.”

She scoffed. “Did you think I would cower and cry in the corner? That I would feel sorry for myself and wail about you to anybody who would listen?”

“No,” he answered. “Not exactly.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, her mouth tightening. “Despite what you think, Maxwell, I am not some spoon-fed debutante. I can hold my own well.”

There was a hint of a smirk on Maxwell’s face. “I can see that.”

The way he gazed at her made her feel as though she had been stripped of every layer, and she flushed.

“Good. I would not want you to think you selected a cowardly bride. Remind me again, why did you choose to ruin my wedding in particular? I am sure you would have had your pick of brides.”

He barked out a laugh. “You say it as though it were simple.”

“Was it not?”

“No. Far from it.”

“Then tell me why.”

“Have we not discussed this?”

“We have,” she agreed. “But more time has passed, and I am none the wiser. You said understanding would come in time, did you not?”

“I did, but I do not know how long that will take.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Her eyes narrowed on him, but he only looked away and spun her out again.

This time, he did not pull her as close.

“It means that there is no time limit to when you learn the truth, Ophelia.” His green eyes met hers, and for an instant, she felt he was looking at her, rather than some tiresome necessity. “You learn it when it comes.”

“Will you ever be honest with me? No riddles, no guesswork. I am your wife.”

He gazed back at her. “Yes, you are mine.”

The way he said it—the possessiveness, the sheer dominance that radiated from his voice—it made her knees go weak. Her throat went dry, and she forgot every ounce of what she had sought an answer to.

Suddenly, her chest was pressed against his body, and he held her like she was not glass but something that would slip from his grip if he loosened it.

“Say my name,” he told her quietly.

She did not. She only searched his face. “You confuse me, Your Grace.”

They were so close. Heavens, she ached for him.

“I know. I apologize for that. But you must know, you confuse me as well.”

“We are on even footing, then.”

It was at that moment that she stumbled and fell further into him. He wrapped his arm tighter around her, and she knew many eyes were on them, but she did not care. Not when she felt the heat of his hand through her dress and the weight of his attention on her after he had avoided her for days.

“Ophelia,” he said.

“Maxwell,” she said—a question, a response, a coy mockery of what he had asked for.

The music stopped, and Ophelia straightened up, pulling back, but Maxwell held her firmly, leading her off the dance floor.

Neither of them spoke until they stopped at the edge of the dance floor as more couples filled the space. Ophelia still felt the prickle of dozens of eyes on her, but she only cared that Maxwell’s gaze flicked to her once again.

She turned to him, her lips parting in an inhale. “Will you ever tell me the truth?”

He swallowed, and she felt him withdraw his hand. Maxwell opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, a hand clasped his shoulder.

“There you are, Your Grace! Come join us by the refreshments table. There is a scholar from Cambridge you should meet!”

Ophelia blinked at the interruption, but the man who had approached them gave her a beaming smile.

“Oh, you do not mind, do you, Your Grace? I must steal His Grace from you.”

“Of course,” she answered, knowing that she had lost her chance to get answers once again.

Maxwell still did not look away from her as he agreed to the meeting and let himself be led away.

Eventually, Ophelia sighed and began her search for Freddie and Lucy, who were stepping off the dance floor, and she could not help but notice the smile on Lucy’s face.

It seemed tonight’s ball was a success in at least one way.

She could not stop thinking about how the Duke had held her on the dance floor, as though he didn’t want to lose sight of her, as if she was something precious to protect. So why did he ignore her in the castle when he had all the time in the world to be with her?

Did he want her or not?

Her throat closed up, and she crossed to the drinks table at the far side of the room from where the Duke stood, his eyes still following her from time to time.

She raised her glass to him, a smile on her lips as if to toast the fact that they were there together. She returned to Lucy’s side and found Freddie chatting with another man who had joined them.

“You looked very good together,” Lucy told her, nodding in the direction of her cousin. “I dare say Maxwell looked happy. It is a first.”

“Truly?” Ophelia asked, frowning.

“It is about time,” Freddie chimed in. “We have watched him sulk for quite enough time. I advised him it was high time he let himself be happy. It is interesting to watch him take my advice into account.”

I do not think he is . At least he is not so aware.

As she made to speak further with Lucy, a familiar voice she had not heard since her childhood cut through the din.

“Your Grace?”

Ophelia turned to find Lord Garrett, a man she had known since they were children, when their fathers spent much of their time together.

“It is you! I did think it was. Heavens, I have not seen you in some time. How is your father?”

“He is well,” he told her. “How is Lady Kirkland faring?”

“She is…” Ophelia winced, and Lord Garrett laughed, nodding. Having grown up together, Ophelia had confided in him about her dislike of her stepmother a while ago. “She is the same as ever.”

“And yourself? How are you? I do hope you have not suffered any long-term effects from the apple I accidentally hit you with that summer when we were ten years old,” he sniggered; it was a question he always asked her when they met after a long time. “I always fear that it will take time to set in.”

“What is this?” Freddie asked.

“Lucy, Lord Rowe, this is Lord Garrett. We were childhood friends. We often spent time at Lord Garrett’s father’s estate, and they had the most beautiful apple orchard. I always tried to steal one.”

“There was one year where a shiny apple, the shiniest to my ten-year-old mind, was hanging right there for the picking, and Ophelia here snatched it up before I could,” Lord Garrett chimed in. “I, of course, thought I could not have such a thing. I only meant to scare her by throwing an apple in her direction, but my aim was slightly off, and it hit her.”

“Right in the head,” Ophelia added. “And he had a very good aim, depending on how one looked at the situation.”

They both laughed together, recalling their silliness for a moment.

“I should try that with Maxwell, although I fear I will find myself at the bottom of the apple barrel, left for the birds to feast on.” Freddie frowned, and Lucy laughed aloud.

Ophelia couldn’t help seeking out her husband, and sure enough, he was still watching her.

Lord Garrett followed her gaze. “Your Grace, will you honor me with a dance? For old times’ sake?”

“I would very much like that,” she told him. “But I must stay with Lucy. She has only recently rejoined Society, and I do not wish to leave her.”

“I will be here,” Freddie promised. “I shall ensure that her side is never cold with emptiness and that she has company. Is that not right, Lady Lucy?”

“Indeed, it is.” Lucy giggled, relaxing even further.

Ophelia felt quite delighted at seeing the two of them. “Well, in that case,” she said, turning back to Lord Garrett, “I shall be honored to dance with you. Again.”

“I can dance much better than I did when we were children.” He laughed. “I hope this time I make a better impression.”

“Let us see,” she said as he led her to the dance floor.

All the time, she was aware of her husband’s eyes on her. The thrill of it went through her as she moved closer to Lord Garrett, taking her position to begin the next waltz.

As the music began its descent into something pretty and light, Ophelia placed her hands according to their dance. Lord Garrett’s hands hovered above her waist.

Across the ballroom, Maxwell’s eyes dropped to those hands almost touching her. A muscle in his jaw twitched, highlighted by the stark lights that cast shadows over his face.

Dare I suspect you are jealous ?

Ophelia tore her gaze away from him as she fought back a pleased smile.

The dance began, and she was pulled from Maxwell’s line of sight.

Lord Garrett was handsome enough, and she wondered if, in another life, their fathers’ wishes would have been fulfilled. Their fathers had wanted them to court, but it had never happened.

Was she glad? Did she see it as a missed opportunity?

She was spun past her husband once again, and for a second, she was breathless as their gazes met.

And then he was gone, and all she saw was Lord Garrett, and the sight grounded her harshly.

She stumbled to a stop, slowing into the next steps of the waltz.

Her childhood friend offered her a smile. “So, you are now a duchess,” he acknowledged. “It is not that I thought you would not have it in you to become one, but… I am simply surprised.”

“Because you thought I would be the lady to your lord?” Ophelia teased, but Lord Garrett’s expression did not change.

“No. I am surprised that you have been ruined by a man like the Ruthless Duke.”

The reminder of what Maxwell had done to her reputation startled her. Inside the castle walls, all she had needed to endure was his hot-and-cold attention. But out here, in public, she was reminded of how he had publicly disgraced her.

“Forgive me,” she muttered when she accidentally stumbled into him.

“I hope I am not being too forward,” Lord Garrett said. “I can only hope we might speak as old friends.”

Speak carefully .

To his face, she simply gave him a pleasant smile. “Of course.”

“I know you were trapped by His Grace. You were set to marry Lord Anworth, were you not? Lady Kirkland certainly was happy with such a match, but—well, what choice did you have but to marry His Grace after he ruined you so publicly? Was that his intent, I wonder?”

“Lord Garrett,” she began, but he kept on speaking.

“He would have known, surely, that publicly humiliating you would only trap you into a marriage with him. What other choice would you have? He is cunning, I will give him that. But look at him.”

It was clear Lady Garrett’s eyes landed on the Duke, over her shoulder, but she did not give her friend the satisfaction of looking.

“He knows what he has won. But if it is anything like how he secures his wins at the Cliff’s Edge, then…” Lord Garrett trailed off meaningfully, looking right at her as if assessing her.

And she realized he was voicing her earlier suspicions.

But she was not a beaten damsel, nor a broken wife of a ruthless man. She was slowly learning that.

“Tell me, Ophelia,” Lord Garrett drawled. “Does he let you get out of that castle during certain times when he deigns to acknowledge your presence? The villagers say you are scarcely seen together. That speaks volumes, does it not?”

“Garrett, we are friends,” Ophelia said, her voice a touch too polite. “And as your friend, I ask you to stop gossiping about my husband.”

“ Gossiping ,” he scoffed. “I am merely looking out for you. Somebody ought to.”

“I am more than capable of defending myself.”

“Are you?” Lord Garrett narrowed his eyes at her. “I am surprised His Grace does not have you chained to his side, kept prisoner even when you leave his home, under watch at all moments?—”

“Garrett.” Ophelia’s voice was louder. “Do not speak ill of my husband. I am not chained, nor am I a prisoner, nor am I a bruised wife on his arm who smiles when he tells me to. I do not need your speculations, nor your looking out for me. I am perfectly capable of handling myself if the need arises. But it has not, so I would ask you to kindly mind your own business?—”

She stopped at the feel of a hand on her lower back.

When she turned, she found herself face-to-face with the Duke of Stormcliff.