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

Chapter 29

Chapter Twenty-Nine

T he following morning, Ophelia felt reborn, as if their passionate night had recreated her, refreshing her perspective on Stormcliff and its master.

As if she felt hope again for her future.

Her utensils clattered against her plate as she finished eating.

“Maxwell,” she said softly, “I have not stopped thinking of last night.”

He looked at her from across the dining table. She knew her husband had advised Lucy to sleep in to rest from the night before, so they had indeed had the morning to themselves.

“Indeed, neither have I.”

Ophelia laughed. “As much as I do mean that , I also mean what you said about my father. About fighting together on the battlefield. About his… dying wish.”

“Ah.” Maxwell cleared his throat. “That.”

“Sorry to have brought the somber mood back.”

“Do not apologize. I only mean that it has been some time since I have spoken about Lord Kirkland. It is a rather difficult topic for me.”

“I only wish to hear more stories about him,” Ophelia said. “I knew him as my father, as Lord Kirkland, as my mother’s husband. A man full of love. What was he like out there, a man in the King’s Army?”

“To be perfectly honest, he was the same.” Maxwell sipped his tea, swallowing slowly.

Ophelia had come to enjoy that about her husband. Whenever he tasted or drank something, he looked as though it was the very first time he experienced it, and savored it. As if there were days that, despite his upbringing, he did not get to savor food properly.

“He used to go to the men on the front lines and simply talk to them. He was generous with his time and his words. Your father listened to other men’s stories, too—stories of lovers, wives, sisters, mothers, brothers. He told us about his daughter back home, whom he wished to be married happily like he was.”

Ophelia couldn’t help the warm feeling in her chest at the thought of her father bringing some peace to even the most violent of places.

“He gave us hope when all was lost.” Maxwell’s throat was tight. “Even when he was sent to the medic’s tent, we were told that he talked. But he did not just talk for the sake of it. He talked to soothe, as if he was born to be a writer instead of a nobleman.”

“My mother often told him that, he’d once told me,” Ophelia said.

“I can see why. He spun tales beautifully.” Maxwell paused, thinking. “I remember one such story he told me of an ice-frosted rose,” he said. “He said that he plucked it and found a way to preserve the ice crystals and that his daughter kept it preserved for a long time until spring proved too warm.”

“I did,” Ophelia confirmed. “It remained in the sunroom, and I watched it every day. Although it melted, it had been one of the most beautiful things. The memory of it brightened up even my darker days.”

“Your darker days,” he mused. “What were they like?”

Ophelia was taken aback by his question, and she sighed. “They were… Well, heavy is the best way to put it, really. I felt as though I had rocks for limbs.”

“Do you think it was the fact that your stepmother did not allow you to grieve?”

Ophelia nodded. “I do. I think the weight of bereavement went inside me. Sank into me so deeply that I struggled to feel normal. My father did after my mother’s death, as did I.”

Maxwell nodded, wiping his mouth as he finished his breakfast. “Ophelia,” he said, a small, knowing smile on his face. “Did you ever have a day where you simply stayed in bed?”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Do not be absurd. There is always much to do.”

“You were the daughter of a marquess. I imagine you had ample time.”

“Yes, but that did not mean I was allowed to remain in bed.”

“I believe we should have one such day. We shall eat in bed, drink tea, see nobody but one another and the servants.”

“And you shall read to me, and I shall sigh over your way with words, and we will pretend we are lovers?”

Ophelia’s words slipped out without her meaning them harshly. She clapped a hand over her mouth, but Maxwell lifted a hand.

“It is all right,” he assured her. “I deserved the comment. I have been unkind, I know. But why should we pretend? Are we not lovers?”

The question rattled her.

Maxwell continued. “What were we last night, if not lovers?”

“Lovers often feel more than contempt towards one another.”

“Who says I do not feel more?”

Once again, he disarmed her with words alone.

Ophelia blushed, not knowing how to respond.

“Perhaps some time,” she began carefully, “you can tell me what that more consists of.”

“Perhaps I can.”

Maxwell’s gaze had her utterly rooted to the spot. For a man who had caused her so much distress and loneliness at the start of their marriage, a man who had ruined her in public, she could not fathom any of that now when she looked at him.

As if their dining table was the distance between them, they were slowly closing it, drawing closer and closer to one another.

“Ophelia, you asked me when you moved to Stormcliff if we could go to the village together. There is to be another festival in the coming week. I would like to take you. We might dance together without the… fuss of the ton. We will still be watched, of course, but I think you might find a village festival a great deal more relaxed.”

“I would love to,” she said. “And what of today?”

“Today?”

“Lovers have honeymoons, do they not?” she asked. “We did not exactly have a proper one. It was spent in silence.”

Maxwell nodded. “Indeed. Very well then, ride with me. Not today, as I must settle some affairs, but tomorrow. Today, I thought you might spend some time with Lucy. Perhaps a picnic on the beach.”

“That sounds good,” Ophelia said, stifling her disappointment that she would not spend the day with him. “I would like to take her with us to the opera house as well.”

“I shall ask around and see what orchestras are playing.” He stood up. “I shall see you at dinner. Have a good day, Ophelia.”

“Have a good day, Maxwell.”

“As you know, my cousin rarely smiles, but I must say that I have noticed him smiling a great deal more lately.”

Lucy was voicing Ophelia’s thoughts as they settled on a picnic blanket by the shoreline.

Ophelia had taken her husband’s advice and asked his cousin to picnic with her that afternoon.

“It seems you have grown closer,” Lucy noted, eyeing her over her sandwich.

“Yes,” Ophelia agreed. “There have been some… changes.”

“It looks good on you both. It pleases me to see him coming out of the darkness that has haunted him for so long.”

Ophelia still had questions—questions for Lucy, for Maxwell—but after the events of the previous night, she knew she couldn’t bring more weight upon them. Peace had settled over her, and she found herself at ease within it.

“And what about you?” she asked. “Are you thinking of your prospects?”

“Away from my family’s darkness, you mean?”

“Well, yes. Marriage is a way out of Stormcliff, is it not? It is a chance to make your own way, detached from your past.”

Lucy smiled sadly at her. “See, Ophelia, I tend to think that I can change my name, live in another place, see my future husband every day, but I will always be Lucy Harding at heart. My past lives within me. I will never quite escape being that terrified girl, no matter how I present myself.”

Ophelia nodded, understanding. “What if it is not a case of outrunning, but making peace with it? Or simply living with it rather than being haunted by it?”

“I could never ask a man to endure such darkness with me. And how am I meant to ensure that he would even let me have that darkness? He could… he could be as bad as my father was. He could force me to be brighter, happier. He might not be kind.”

“Maxwell would never support such a match,” Ophelia told her. “Surely you know that.”

“Men can deceive. My father was charming in Society.”

“Maxwell would know. I believe that. He would see through the facade. After all, you both know how to spot what lurks beneath.”

Lucy nodded, thinking. “I believe you are right.” She sighed. “Is the sea not terrifically lovely today? It makes me want to frolic in the waves.”

Ophelia sat up straighter. “Then why not?”

“You cannot be—oh, you are quite serious.”

“I am!” Ophelia was already laughing, making her way to the shoreline.

“The Viscount will be here shortly!” Lucy cried out. “We must not keep him waiting.”

“I am sure Frederick will wait for a long time if he needs to.”

Ophelia did not elaborate why she thought that—that Freddie would wait to see Lucy in particular, no matter how long she took, for he would find it worthwhile—and only took off her shoes and stockings.

Soon, Lucy joined her, and the two giggled as they ran into the shallow water. The hems of their dresses would be soaked, but that was no matter, not when they laughed, not when Ophelia’s chest ached with happiness as they held one another’s hands and she had not felt so close to someone in a long time.

Her thoughts drifted to Bridget as she dried her feet once they returned to the blanket. Surely she would soon receive news. Surely. She would not give up hope. A promise had been made. One way or another, she intended to keep it.

“Dare I suggest that the Duchess of Stormcliff and Lady Lucy have gotten their stockings wet for a splash in the water?” Freddie’s voice carried across the beach, laughter ringing out after.

“Frederick!” Ophelia called. The Viscount came closer, his bright, easy smile flashing in the sun. “Do join us. We intended to meet with you properly, but the water was too tempting.”

“I can see that.” He shrugged. “Well, Max is still in the village and might be home late for our dinner arrangement, so I suppose a viscount might find some satisfaction in a sandwich or two.” He sat down with them, his eyes flicking to Lucy. “Hello, Lucy.”

“My Lord.” Lucy ducked her head, smiling. “I am assuming you accompanied Maxwell this morning.”

“I did, but that is a secret, Lucy.” He winked at her before casting a glance at Ophelia, letting her know that something was happening that she did not know of.

“Do inform me.” She laughed.

“Ah, I will not reveal more of Maxwell’s secrets. I like my head, thank you very much, and he nearly bit it off the last time I revealed something.”

“Yes, but that was a fair revelation,” Ophelia protested. “I did deserve to know.”

“I agree, but your husband did not feel the same. Regardless, this is another matter entirely, and it is rather fun.”

“When can I find out?”

“Tomorrow, I believe. Our esteemed Duke has a lovely surprise in the wings, Ophelia. Have patience.”

“I think she will love it,” Lucy whispered to Freddie, and he, in turn, whispered something that had her laughing.

Ophelia did not hear it. But she found herself happy watching the two of them, so much so that she glanced back at Stormcliff Hall, wishing her husband was with them.

“ To die, to sleep; to sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there’s the rub, ” recited Freddie later that day in the parlor.

He had been reading Hamlet aloud after he had asked Ophelia if she was truly named after the character and she had recounted her father’s favorite tale.

“Oh, do come off it, Freddie.” Maxwell laughed, looking at his wife. Mirth lined her mouth as she smiled, her hands clasped together as she applauded his friend’s recitation. “I am sure Ophelia is tired of being quoted to.”

“Nonsense!” Freddie called, thoroughly inebriated. “And you, Maxwell. What are you named after?”

“I am named after nothing, you fool,” Maxwell muttered. “And neither is Lucy, before you ask.”

“Ah, ah. It is Ophelia who carries a legacy.”

“Not a good one,” Ophelia pointed out. “Shakespeare’s Ophelia is very different from me.”

“Indeed,” Maxwell answered. “She does not have your spirit. Or your kindness.”

His wife turned to him, blinking her pretty eyes in wonder. “My kindness?”

“Yes,” he found himself admitting. “You radiate it. Sometimes it irks me how impossible it is not to feel it around you.”

The room fell silent, and Maxwell flushed, drinking deeply from his wine glass. He had found that kept happening lately. He was beginning to admit things he had long since kept locked away in his heart.

“That is why you were often annoyed with me,” Ophelia guessed.

Partially , he silently admitted, with a wry smile.

It had also been because she had truly bothered him with her insistence on spending time together when he had merely been trying to do his duty to Lord Kirkland.

“You were always determined to bring some light to my days,” he told her as if it did not faze him now. “And you did. You do.”

“Well,” Freddie said, clearing his throat. “I feel as though I am intruding on a very tender moment.”

“I agree,” Lucy murmured, looking between Maxwell and Ophelia.

But Maxwell could hardly take his eyes off his wife. Ever since he had taken her to his bed the night before, all he could think about was how she had fallen apart in his arms. How easily she had unraveled as he learned how she liked to be touched—roughly, with an edge to his passion.

“Then you may both retire,” Maxwell said, not unkindly. He was merely stating a fact.

Without another word, Lucy and Frederick did excuse themselves, leaving Maxwell to stand and approach his wife. He braced his hands on the arms of her chair, his gaze dropping to her straining breasts.

He yearned to take them in his palms as he had the night before.

“Tomorrow, you will meet me at the stables,” he said, “at midday. I have a gift for you. And then we shall ride.” He eyed her. “And then perhaps I will ride again .”

The pink hue that spread across her cheeks was most gratifying as Maxwell raised an eyebrow before sauntering out of the parlor. He would have his fun with her soon enough.

He had found that keeping his wife waiting gave him the most satisfaction, for she could not help blazing like an inferno once he tended to her.