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

Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty-Three

“ Y our conversation with your stepmother, Lady Kirkland… It did not sound very pleasant to you. Are you not on friendly terms with her?” Lucy turned to her in the carriage as they headed back to Stormcliff.

Ophelia paused. She had never spoken about how Arabella had treated her following her father’s death.

“I… Arabella…”

She thought about how to word it. How did one address such a thing? She could understand why Maxwell and Lucy clammed up.

“My stepmother and I do not have a good relationship.”

My stepmother has taken my only friend away.

“I could see that things were tense between you two,” Lucy responded.

Ophelia nodded. “I loved my mother, but she died eight years ago. My father was overcome with grief and became somewhat… lost. I do not like to say it, but he was berated by his relatives for how he dealt with his grief. Hoping to win their favor once again, he married Arabella quickly. However, you see… she is young, beautiful, and very opportunistic.”

A horrible sinking feeling seized Ophelia’s stomach, the knowledge that she was speaking about something forbidden. Nobody else knew how Arabella was behind closed doors, except perhaps for Lord Montford—but he cared very little.

“Now my stepmother has her title, and her son is waiting to come of age so he may claim his fortune. My stepmother has my father’s trusted cousin, Lord Montford, overseeing everything in his stead. I am out of the way, she has eliminated any threat, and she can now say her stepdaughter is a duchess.”

“You believe she will claim some of your authority?”

“I think so,” Ophelia said. “She will certainly flaunt my title around, even if she does not particularly like the Duke who gave it to me.”

Lucy gave her a pointed look. “Not many people do. But as I said, he is misunderstood.”

“I wish I could remove such a notion from my mind,” Ophelia confessed. “I find myself unable to get to know him enough to understand him.”

“He will let you get to know him in time,” Lucy assured her. “He takes time to trust, and he has many deep wounds. Dark shadows haunt Stormcliff, and he battles them often. If you give him patience and space to open up, then you will find that he will. He is not a man who opens up under pressure.”

Ophelia nodded.

“I am sorry about your stepmother.”

“She is greedy,” Ophelia murmured. “And cruel and cunning, and I only wish I had not been part of her games. But I fear I am right in the center of one, even though I live at Stormcliff.”

“Whatever is happening, Maxwell will protect you.”

Before, Ophelia would have thought that Maxwell barely saw her at all. But now… she thought of his face in the candlelight the night before, and how, for the first time, she had felt truly seen by him.

She thought of his protective hand on her lower back when she had argued with Lord Garrett.

You are mine , he meant to say. She knew it.

“I think you are right,” she conceded.

Lucy smiled smugly. “I know. I know my cousin. I wish he would let others get to know him so he would not be misunderstood.”

“Perhaps I will be lucky enough soon.”

Several days later, an invitation to a dinner party at a nearby estate arrived.

“The Countess of Grateshead,” Maxwell read aloud, handing the invitation to Ophelia. “Yours and Lucy’s presence are requested again. It seems you are popular, Duchess.”

“It seems so.” She smiled.

“She will enjoy this one,” Maxwell said. “Lady Grateshead is known for her spectacular orchestras.”

“Lucy mentioned that you once went to a show of her favorite composer.”

Maxwell thought for a moment, his gaze becoming distant as he sifted through many memories. “Ah. Louis Thornbell. Yes, I remember. I attended his concert and wrote everything down. However, when I returned home, she had sneakily stayed awake and begged me for details. I still found the papers missing from my room the following morning. She kept my entries about the performance and read them over and over. I often saw them tucked beneath her pillow, as though they were a comfort to her in the darker hours of the night.”

“I imagine they were,” Ophelia said. “Will you be attending the dinner party with us?”

Maxwell hesitated before shaking his head and standing up from his desk. The invitation had arrived during his work, and Ophelia could not quite remember why she had sought him out.

“No. I have a fight scheduled for that evening.”

Ophelia felt disappointment sink low in her stomach. “I see.”

“You are disappointed.”

“Only concerned. I recall your bloodied knuckles.”

“Ophelia, you saw my knuckles once out of many nights. Do not fret. They are often bloody. It is the sign of a well-won fight.”

“Do you… enjoy it?”

Maxwell cocked his head, fixing those intense eyes on her. “Do you want me to say that I do not?”

“I wish only for the truth.”

“The truth is that yes, I do, but no, I do not.” He shrugged. “It is complicated. I do not enjoy it because I know why I seek such a vice. But I do enjoy it because it makes me feel better—it allows me to channel a lot of darkness inside me into something… healthier.”

Ophelia blinked, surprised by his admission.

“Do not look at me as though you expected me to walk away from you.”

“Is that so unreasonable?” she challenged. “It is what you have often done.” She hesitated. “We never got to speak about that night after the ball.”

“We did not.” His voice lowered, his eyes roaming over her face, flicking to her neck, drifting lower…

And lower…

His eyes snapped back to her face. “Would you like to?”

“You are asking?” she asked, surprised.

“I am offering.”

Suddenly, her mind went blank, and she stepped back.

“Perhaps you do not wish to speak at all,” he drawled, moving closer to her. “Perhaps you want our actions to discuss that night.”

He moved closer to her, his eyes fixed on her intimately. Her breathing grew heavy as she swallowed.

“Right here, on your desk?” she teased. “Are you so impatient to have me again, Maxwell, that you cannot wait to take me to your chambers?”

She had surprised him, succeeded in her intention. She stepped towards him, emboldened.

“Perhaps you wish to work today, and, tonight, you might wonder if I will walk through the door between our chambers. Perhaps you will ache for me to come to you, stay awake wondering if I will.” She placed a hand on his chest, surprised that he let her. “Perhaps you do not wish to avoid me at all, Maxwell, but you cannot stand to be in the same room as me for fear of how you might want me.”

Maxwell swallowed, taking her wrist in his hand. He pinned it behind her back, his mouth drawing close to her cheek.

When he spoke, it was against her skin.

“Do you not know by now, Duchess? I ache for you every moment. You are right. I must keep my distance from you only so I do not lavish pleasure upon you every chance I get. Perhaps it is you who will lie awake tonight, your body burning for my touch once again. You sang so prettily for me several nights ago. When will you do it for me again?”

The question lingered between them as he roughly kept her arm pinned behind her back, reminding her of who was in control.

“I did not return the favor,” she whispered.

“I do not acknowledge favors in pleasure,” he murmured, moving closer to her, so close he might kiss her. “I only acknowledge what you want in any given moment. You give because you wish to, not because you are obliged to. Do you understand?”

Ophelia did burn—he was right. She did not need to wait until nightfall.

He gripped her tighter, but she was not afraid. Desire coursed through her. “I asked you a question, Duchess.”

“I understand,” she murmured.

“Good.”

He released her, and she stumbled back, only from the force he had held her with. She was rather dizzy.

“I will not attend this dinner party, but Freddie shall go with you,” Maxwell told her, returning to his desk. “Still, I wish to see how Lucy is faring in Society. I will attend the next event. You will not have to miss me for too long.”

He cast her a handsome, teasing smile over his shoulder.

“I look forward to it,” she said.

“And Ophelia? Think of me tonight. Whether I find myself in your rooms or not.”

He nodded toward the door, a clear sign that he was ready to return to his work, and Ophelia left with her face burning.

And yet, a part of her was pleased. She did not think he would go to her rooms, and she would not go to his yet, so she could focus on the upcoming dinner party and Lucy.

Nevertheless, she knew damn well her thoughts would linger.