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

Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

“ I must say that you look positively green, Your Grace.”

The teasing comment came from one of the men beside him, a merchant having traveled to the countryside from Cheltenham, where his business was located. Maxwell had done business with him once or twice.

Maxwell’s senses were on high alert throughout the ball. He had not wanted to attend, let alone put his cousin under the ton’s scrutiny. But he had inherited the dukedom whether he liked it or not, and he understood that there were things he needed to adhere to. That meant forcing himself to exchange pleasantries with the men attending the balls, arriving with his Duchess on his arm, and pretending as though everything was as it should be.

It wasn’t. Everything was upside down, turned on its head, and instead of dancing with his wife as he longed to, he watched as she was twirled around the dance floor by another young man.

“He cannot handle seeing his beloved, spoiled wife dancing with another man,” another businessman, Mr. Trevall, jested, but Maxwell was hardly in the mood for jesting.

“Spoiled?” he echoed.

“Yes. That is what everyone says. She was saved from a marriage to Lord Anworth and handed a duchy through you. I have half a mind to disregard the rumors about you ruining her. Perhaps she set everything up, deeming you a conquest. A way to better her life.”

“Then she would be cunning, no?” Maxwell challenged. His wife was not spoiled in the slightest.

“You are saying you would not mind being played by her?”

“That is my wife you speak ill of,” Maxwell warned. “Tread carefully, or you might find your business suddenly sinking. Do not disrespect the Duchess.”

“Have you bedded her yet? Or has she lost her appeal now that you do not have to steal her from Anworth?”

Maxwell’s gaze was glacial. “One more word against my wife, Trevall, and you’ll wish you’d kept your mouth shut. Insult her again, and I’ll make certain every contract, every ally, and every shilling you hold dear vanish overnight.”

Trevall blanched, the threat hitting him like a blow.

Maxwell’s voice dropped even further, becoming lethal. “This is your final warning.”

And with that, he moved away from the inane group of men to a spot where he could see Ophelia better.

Usually, Maxwell would challenge them to a round in the ring at Cliff’s Edge , but tonight he was too focused on watching his wife.

The men were right—he was jealous, and he loathed feeling such unnecessary things. What good was jealousy to him?

It tells you that you are falling for her, you fool .

No. No, he could not be doing such a thing.

Yet, as he watched her spin, her golden curls hanging down her back, those elegant arms and light feet carrying her through the waltz with so much grace, her curves filling her dress beautifully, he found himself captivated.

Captivated and thoroughly envious as she smiled at the young man she was dancing with, as she laughed with him. Maxwell could barely tear his gaze away from her, and his resolve to be so cold to her was softening into something akin to reluctant warmth.

He craved her, that soft figure beneath his hands, her eyes on him as he led her through another dance.

Ophelia was his.

Suddenly, he watched as her expression shifted from pleasant politeness to one of poorly concealed disgust as she glared at the man. He could see her tells—the way her hands balled into fists, as though she clenched her anger in them and held it close to her.

Maxwell did not waste a second. He strode over to her in an instant, hearing the end of the music.

He did not wait to be introduced or spotted. He simply placed a hand on her lower back, claiming her silently in front of the other man.

Ophelia turned at his touch, and as she did, he pulled her back towards him.

Mine.

The word echoed in his mind, possessive and anchoring.

“Your Grace?” she asked, sensing that something was affecting him, but his attention was far too distracted by the man she had danced with, silently marking his territory.

“Your Grace, this is Lord Garrett Torvall. He is a childhood friend. Our fathers were close. Lord Garrett, you are familiar with the Duke of Stormcliff, my husband.”

Maxwell watched suspicion flicker in the man’s eyes. It wasn’t something he was unfamiliar with. Many people often looked at him with that expression, as though they were questioning his motives, his character. He cared little if people thought he was good or bad.

The only opinion he cared for…

He shifted his gaze from Ophelia to the man.

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” Lord Garrett said. “I believe we have not been formally introduced before, but your name travels for many miles through London.”

“I am sure,” Maxwell uttered tightly.

“Excuse me.” Lord Garrett cleared his throat. “I think I see my cousin waving to me. Ophelia, it was wonderful to speak with you. I do hope we can do it again.”

The man paused, looking as though he wished to say more—that, too, was another look Maxwell was used to seeing aimed at those around him.

Do you need an escape?

His anger burned, but he forced it down. Giving in to his anger would only prove them right. He was better than that. He took measures to be better than that.

“Perhaps,” Ophelia answered, her smile too polite to be genuine, and it immediately dropped as soon as the young man left.

Maxwell realized with a start that he had seen her smile in a fearful way, as though she had to, and he had seen her smile sarcastically, but he had never seen her smile in that way.

What had Lord Garrett said to her?

Maxwell did not let go of her, keeping his hand on her back. “Did he upset you?”

Before Ophelia could answer him, a giggle caught her attention. Her head turned. Maxwell followed her gaze.

The laughter came from Lucy .

Maxwell couldn’t believe it. He hadn’t heard her laugh like that in a long, long time.

Freddie stood next to her, a smirk on his face, and her gloved hand covered her mouth as she stifled her giggles.

Her father would turn over in his grave, overhearing such loud displays , Maxwell mused. Good .

He would not be like his uncle. He would not berate her for her loud laughter. Especially when it was his friend who caused it.

His surprise had him moving closer, steering Ophelia toward the two.

“What is so funny?” he asked.

“Frederick—”

“I did insist you call me Freddie,” the Viscount interrupted.

“And I insisted that it was not quite appropriate.” Lucy giggled. “Regardless, Frederick told me the most hilarious joke! He is a wit, is he not?”

Maxwell gave his friend an easy smile. “Oh, he is always the funniest man in the room.”

“I feel as though there is an insult in there.” Freddie laughed.

“Your words, friend.”

And although Maxwell joined in their conversation, his thoughts drifted to his wife.