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

Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty-Two

“ Y ou must miss these sorts of events,” Lucy said as they were shown to the garden in the Hayfield estate. “I am sure you had plenty of chances to attend them in London.”

“I did.” Ophelia was already looking for some familiar faces; she hoped to introduce Lucy to some friends. “And I miss them, but I had already begun to withdraw from them. And knowing I am not a debutante or a lady looking for the chance to have a dance with an eligible bachelor is rather refreshing. I have the security I have always wanted.”

“That must be good. I fear I shall forever be stuck in that place.”

Maxwell’s words rang in her mind, a plea to help Lucy re-enter Society and find a good husband.

Ophelia nudged her as they walked towards a cake stand. “Would you like to find a husband? I know it is expected, of course, but would you like to?”

After a moment, Lucy nodded. “Though my fears restrain me.”

“Then allow me to help.”

Lucy gave a surprised hum, as if uncertain Ophelia meant what she said. “You are certain you wish to?”

“Of course. I always wished for a sister I could guide through the intricacies of Society, passing down what I learned. We are not sisters as such, but we are friends, and friends help one another.”

“Indeed, they do,” Lucy agreed. “But what can I do for you in return?”

“In return? Oh, no. No, there is no need.” Ophelia paused, laughing to herself. “Although you could perhaps pass on the best slice of cake before anybody else snags it?”

“Deal.”

They ventured deeper into the garden party. Lucy pressed herself against Ophelia’s side, her eyes wide, flitting over the guests around them as though waiting for anybody to jump out at her, to scare her, to call out to her for something or the other.

“We could play a game of bowls,” Ophelia suggested. “There are a group of ladies playing. I see some eligible bachelors there, as well.”

But as soon as she said it, she saw how Lucy’s face paled. There were too many people gathered over there, shaded by a few overhanging trees.

Ophelia hummed. The refreshments table was also quite busy, but there was a lemonade stand that wasn’t too crowded.

Gently, she guided Lucy over there, hoping that they would get to talk to some other ladies. As they walked, Lucy’s shoulders grew more and more rigid.

“I can follow your lead,” Ophelia suggested.

“I would rather follow yours if that is all right.”

“Of course.”

Part of Ophelia wished Maxwell was accompanying them, but the other part was glad he wasn’t. His presence only seemed to encourage people to speak ill of him to her.

Scanning the area, she noticed that Lord Garrett was not in attendance. She hated to feel relieved, but she had not enjoyed their last conversation.

She did notice, though, another friend from her debut year. Her auburn hair was coiled prettily, and she stood alone near the lemonade stand, clutching her reticule.

Ophelia moved closer, a smile on her face. “Lady Sophia?” she called. “How lovely it is to see you!”

“Ophelia?” her friend said, a smile gracing her face. “Excuse me, I meant to say Your Grace.” She curtsied, her face tinged pink. “I did hear you married rather well after… Well, I shall not say it outright, but I am sure you are aware of the stories.”

“I am aware.”

“I am sorry,” Lady Sophia’s face twisted with concern. “For what it is worth, I do not believe the stories. I am most intrigued by the Ruthless Duke. Is he truly everything everybody says he is?”

Ophelia laughed politely. “He is a gentleman. May I introduce you to his cousin, Lady Lucy Harding? Lady Lucy, this is Lady Sophia, an old friend from London.”

“It is nice to meet you,” Lady Sophia said.

Lucy, still pale, smiled nervously as she greeted her. “Likewise.”

“I heard you are betrothed,” Ophelia commented, hoping to show Lucy that she could find a life for herself beyond Stormcliff. “Congratulations.”

“Oh, yes. My debut did not end well due to…” Lady Sophia swallowed. “I am sure you heard of my father’s debts causing some issues for me. But I am now engaged to the Earl of Hudderston. We are to have a winter wedding! Is that not very romantic? You and His Grace must come. You as well, Lady Lucy. The more the merrier! Although the Earl does not quite agree. He would rather have a quiet affair, but I have spent too long in hiding because of my father—I would like to shout about my happy day.”

“Undoubtedly,” Ophelia agreed, hoping that Lucy realized that she was not alone in her shortcomings. “I actually am helping Lucy re-enter Society. Perhaps you might like to mingle with us.”

“Of course! My betrothed is around somewhere. Ah, he has gone to play croquet over there. He has a penchant for it.” Lady Sophia pointed to a man who looked about a decade older than her, but her smile was bright, and his smile when he noticed her waving was just as bright.

Ophelia’s heart ached at the display. But as she looked, she noticed another figure further back from where the croquet game was being played.

There was a set-up of parasols and chairs in the shade near a lake on the Hayfield grounds.

“Are my eyes deceiving me, or is that my stepmother I see among a group of women up by the lake?” Ophelia’s breath came in short bursts as she looked at Lady Kirkland.

“It is, indeed. I was speaking with her earlier.” Lady Sophia’s voice was cheerful.

Ophelia was reminded of how her stepmother was perceived in Society. The perfect mother figure, the perfect Marchioness. Nobody knew how flawed she was, how cruel she had been to Ophelia.

“Are you not going to greet her? I can remain here with Lady Lucy. Perhaps we can walk around the garden. I find these sorts of parties far too crowded.” Ophelia was not sure if her friend was saying that for Lucy’s sake or if it was genuine, but she was grateful nonetheless. “Unless you wish to greet the Duchess’s stepmother. I imagine you have not yet had the pleasure of meeting her.”

Lady Sophia’s last comment was directed at Lucy, who looked at Ophelia as though she didn’t want to leave her side.

“You may join me if you wish,” Ophelia offered.

She wanted to protect Lucy from her stepmother’s sickly-sweet ways that were always too false, too pristine. Refined in a way her stepmother had perfected through the years. But her new charge was looking at her as though she would lose a lifeline if Ophelia left her side.

So, Ophelia linked her arm with Lucy’s and prepared herself.

She had not had to speak with her stepmother in weeks and had not seen her since the wedding.

Steeling herself for the faux kindness she would endure, Ophelia bid her friend farewell after promising to play a game of bowls with her soon. She made her way across the grass.

“You must be happy to see some familiar faces,” Lucy murmured as they drew nearer.

“Indeed,” Ophelia answered, her voice faint.

I have survived her for a long time , she reminded herself. I can survive one event where I am able to return home.

“Ophelia, darling!” Lady Kirkland’s greeting carried to her far sooner than she was ready for, and her stomach dropped.

She plastered a smile on her face, preparing herself to return the false kindness.

“Lady Kirkland,” she said pleasantly, nearing the table. “Lady Kirkland, this is Lady Lucy, my cousin. Lady Lucy, this is Lady Kirkland, my stepmother.”

As soon as Ophelia introduced them, her stepmother’s assessing gaze swept over Lucy, and she wished to shield her from it all. But instead, Lucy curtsied to the Dowager Marchioness.

“Lady Kirkland, I am surprised to see you here in Sussex.”

Why have you invaded my new life here?

“Oh, dear, you have barely been married to the Duke of Stormcliff for a month and you have already forgotten? Your father owns a home out here in the country. Do not say you forgot how often he took you there!”

Ophelia’s chest tightened, as she did recall that house but did not think Arabella would visit it.

“Of course,” she answered with the barest hint of a smile. “How could I forget?”

“It never does well to forget one’s roots, Ophelia. No matter how high the tree you climb, you can always trace it right back to the bottom.”

Ophelia’s vision blurred around the edges, but she stood firm. All she could imagine was her stepmother’s nails digging into her wrist, her threats, the way she had so carelessly let Bridget fend for herself. Her stepmother was so willing to give her away to Lord Anworth, likely knowing how cruel he was.

“And no matter how golden the leaves of that tree become, they always fall when the season calls for it,” Ophelia answered, matching her stepmother’s veiled threat, feeling emboldened by the fact that she would return to Stormcliff right after the party.

One of Lady Kirkland’s companions cleared her throat, hiding her smile behind a gloved hand.

Lady Kirkland composed herself, her face pinched for a moment. “I have noticed that I have not yet received an invitation to visit Stormcliff.” Her voice had a small whiney note to it that grated on Ophelia’s nerves. “Why is that?”

“I have been considering renovating.” Ophelia thought quickly, not looking away from the other woman. “I have not yet decided if I wish to go ahead with the renovations, and it would render the castle unfit for guests.”

“What a pity.”

“It is.” Ophelia smiled politely. “How is James?”

Lady Kirkland glanced away. She did not quite shrug, but her disinterest was evident to Ophelia. “He is well. He whines for you some days.”

Ophelia’s heart broke for her half-brother, wondering how he would grow up with such a cold mother to turn to. Children who grew up in the care of a cold heart never understood warmth. How could they know to become anything else but cold?

She hoped it would not happen to James. He was so bright and bubbly, a soft-faced child who deserved the comforting arms of a mother, not frigidity.

“You must pass on my regards,” Ophelia told her stepmother.

“Better yet, invite him to Stormcliff with me.”

“There are many high walls and turrets,” she said in a tight voice. “Heaven forbid he falls and hurts himself. It is safer that he remains in London or the country estate.”

And you ought to remain with him. Far, far away.

She did not want her stepmother anywhere near the walls of her new life.

“Of course.” Lady Kirkland laughed. “There are many stories of death surrounding the castle. We would not want to add to them.” Her gaze slid over to Lucy. “Lady Lucy Harding. You are the daughter of the former Duke, Anthony Harding, are you not? The niece of Lord Samuel Harding, no?”

Lucy’s expression became vacant. She swayed slightly, but Ophelia brushed her hand against Lucy’s arm, trying to support her.

“Yes, Lady Kirkland,” Lucy said. “I am.” Her voice was ever so small.

“Interesting,” Lady Kirkland purred.

“I was about to take Lucy for a game of?—”

“I was friends with Samuel,” Lady Kirkland interrupted, clearly intent on paving another destructive way through everything Ophelia now had in her life. “He was a rather rough man, I believe. Kind enough to me and his friends, of course. Although to call him a friend would be incorrect. We ran in the same circles, loosely, so I did not know him as well as others. Still, he was a tough, fearsome man. Him and his brother.”

Lucy let out a small whimper, muffled by her own will, and her knuckles turned white as she clenched her right hand into a fist. Ophelia pulled her further back, as if she could physically distance her from her stepmother’s cruel reminders.

“I am sure Lady Lucy knows her late uncle and father,” Ophelia said tightly. “Enjoy the remainder of the garden party, Lady Kirkland.”

“It was nice meeting you, Lady Lucy. And Ophelia? Do not forget that invitation. I am eager to meet with His Grace again. Your wedding was so long ago. Does he not wish to see his mother-in-law once again?”

“I am sure,” she said in a falsely polite tone.

She had no intention of sending any such invitation.

Quickly, she guided Lucy away, hearing her breathing growing short.

“Are you all right?” she asked as soon as they found a quiet corner.

Together, they huddled behind a large vase propped up on a podium, pink flowers blooming from it.

“Tell me honestly,” she requested, clasping Lucy’s hands.

Slowly, Lucy’s gaze returned to her. She looked terrified. “I did not think she would bring up my uncle or my father.”

“I am sorry that she did.”

What did they do to you to cause such a response?

Ophelia could not ask yet; it was not the moment. But Lucy’s panic was evident. Even now, her eyes flitted over the garden behind Ophelia as though she expected their ghosts to step out of the shadows.

“Listen to me,” Ophelia said, softening her voice, brushing off the irritation of interacting with her stepmother. “Your father is dead. I do not know what he did, nor what happened to him, but you are free of him. Whenever you are ready to speak about him, I will listen.” She held Lucy’s gaze. “I will always listen, and I am sorry if you have not always had that beyond your cousin.”

Lucy’s eyes went wide and welled with tears, a shaky smile on her lips. “Thank you, Ophelia.” She gave a weak laugh. “Maxwell is a perfectly good listener, but he is also a protector. I simply need a listener.”

“And that shall be me.” Ophelia squeezed her hands in a show of support. “Would you like to leave early?”

After a moment’s pause, Lucy nodded, as though ashamed.

“There will be other parties,” Ophelia assured her. She could only hope that Lucy’s courage grew with each one.