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

Chapter 33

Chapter Thirty-Three

“ Y our Grace, please, let me come with you.”

Ophelia forced a smile and shook her head. “No, Bridget. No, I cannot allow you to. You are in no such state to travel again so soon, and the journey to Rowden House is long.”

“You cannot return to London.”

“I cannot stay here.” She shook her head. “Not after last night.”

Ophelia had confided in Bridget that morning before making her final decision. She would leave—she needed space.

“Besides,” she continued, “I will have Hannah.” She watched as Hannah climbed into the carriage and settled in, awaiting her. “The Duke clearly does not want me around him, so space is what I shall give him. I shall give it to myself.”

“But to enter Lady Kirkland’s residence once more…”

“The only alternative is to stay here, and I cannot.”

Bridget’s face crumpled. “I just got you back, Your Grace.”

“And you shall have me back again. At least I know you are safe. That is all that matters to me.” Ophelia took her friend’s hands in hers, squeezing them tightly. “I will come back for you, I promise. I just… I need to be away for some time.”

But she could not stay longer than that, lest her heart break further. She had seen the shift in her husband the night before, and to know those walls had gone right back up, that he kept whatever had changed him from her, only broke her further.

“Goodbye, Bridget.”

“Goodbye, Your Grace,” Bridget sniffed, releasing her.

Ophelia climbed into the carriage and forced herself not to look out the window at the castle. Lucy stood on the turret; Ophelia had seen her out of the corner of her eye. But she couldn’t handle knowing if Maxwell was watching from the front-facing window of his study—couldn’t handle knowing if he did not either.

So she ordered the driver to start the journey to London, and she told herself she would be happier there.

“My darling !” Arabella’s voice rang through the breakfast hall the morning after Ophelia had left Stormcliff.

The night before had been rough, sleepless, and the last thing Ophelia was in the mood for was the sound of her stepmother’s voice. But her heart was broken, and this place, her father’s townhouse, was where she felt peace only because she was closer to his memory.

At least here, she was not alone.

“How did you sleep? I trust your stay in your old room was pleasant.”

“It was,” she said. “Thank you, Lady Kirkland. And thank you for allowing me to stay here for a while.”

“Of course.” Her stepmother slid into a seat at the table, where Ophelia had not touched her breakfast. “I know we have exchanged words since you wed the Duke, but I like to think that we can be here for one another when needed.”

She reached out, offering comfort that Ophelia had craved ever since she had met the woman.

I need friends.

Ophelia took her stepmother’s hand. It felt wrong, but she accepted it nonetheless.

“Now,” Lady Kirkland said, “I am making some social calls today. Would you like to join me? I am sure you will be the talk of London with your return.”

Ophelia did not want to face any lady of the ton, especially not their gossiping ways. “No, thank you. I think I shall stay here with James. He has told me he wishes to paint today, so I will stay with him.”

“Very well.” Lady Kirkland rose.

Ophelia had half expected her stepmother to turn her away, but Lady Kirkland had welcomed her back in Rowden House with open arms.

“Ah, I heard word that Bridget found her way to you. I am glad everything worked out well.”

Then why did you kick her out of this house in the first place ? Ophelia wished to ask.

Instead, she only nodded, staring off into the distance, thinking of Bridget back in Stormcliff—and Stormcliff, where her husband was.

“There is one more thing, Ophelia.” Arabella’s voice was light and gentle as she gave her a soft, hesitant smile. “I hate to ask, but there is something you can help me with. See, Maxwell said he would not accept your dowry, but he did. And… Well, after that, there was not a great deal left of your father’s fortune. He did love me, Ophelia. I know that is hard to accept, but he did, and I do not think he would wish for me—or you, by extension, while you are here—to not be provided for.

“I hoped that you might allow us use of His Grace’s accounts. He has more than enough money, I am sure, especially with your dowry added to it. I wish to provide better for James and to keep the house in good condition in memory of your father. Will you help me, as I have helped you?”

Of course he took my dowry after saying he would not. Just like he told me his feelings had changed, but they clearly had not.

Ophelia’s heart hurt, weighing heavily in her chest.

Arabella was right. Her father’s fortune should not have dried up so soon, but he would not have wanted to see his family struggling.

“Of course,” she said. “You may spend the money and add the credit to His Grace’s accounts. I suppose I shall explain when I see him next.”

If I see him.

Fresh tears stung her eyes.

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

The reminder of her title rocked through her, but Arabella was already gone by the time Ophelia whispered, “Please do not remind me.”

It hurt too greatly after the time they had spent together these last couple of weeks, finding happiness in one another.

She hadn’t gotten to tell the Duke properly, but it was the happiest she had been in many, many years.

By the time Arabella left to make her social calls and James came running into the parlor to get Ophelia for their painting class, she had cried enough tears that she simply felt like an empty well of nothingness.

Maxwell’s fist slammed into his opponent, and he had to admit that it had been self-loathing that drove him back to the Cliff’s Edge , back in the ring. For three nights now, he had come back here, taking out his anger.

Ophelia had been right—he had found a home for his turmoil in her, had worked with her to transfer it into something better, something healthier. And now he had lost her—lost his entire world. And he was too stubborn to admit it.

It was better to do this.

He grunted, staggering back, only to see the fist flying at him a moment too late.

Maxwell laughed helplessly. Let it come. He deserved it, anyway.

“Out of the fighting spirit, Storm of the Cliff?” his opponent sneered. “Maybe the Duchess has spun your fists into flowers, and now you are useless.”

“Be quiet,” Maxwell muttered, swaying from the force of a second punch. His head lolled back.

It was only the second punch in this fight—his third fight of the night.

“You are not so strong anymore.” His opponent laughed. “Everyone here is coming to watch you fall, Your Grace.”

Maxwell only shrugged, opening his arms wide. “Then toss me over so I might fall faster.”

The next punch came with staggering strength, so hard that Maxwell’s vision went black. He groaned, slumping back against the ring. Battering his body this way, leaving the tavern so exhausted that he could no longer think of his wife, was better.

It was easier.

Drink, fight, sleep. That was all he knew now.

Let his opponents punch her name from his thoughts.

Let them fight her out of his heart, for that might be his only path to peace.

He had once boxed to ignore his feelings for her. Now he boxed to forget them. Neither way had worked, but it was better than nothing.

“You are a fool.”

The last punch came, aimed at his ribs, and he only knew a world of pain before he was knocked out and pushed out of the ring.

A week passed, with Ophelia spending most of her time with James. She was utterly miserable, and she tried to spend some time in the sunroom, where her mother had once loved to embroider before the sun came up.

James often joined her there, sitting beside her. She read to him. She filled her thoughts with things other than her husband’s name and beautiful face, and tried to forget her heartbreak.

It did not work.

By day, she read. By night, she cried, before waking to that numbness once more.

Ophelia attended two dinner parties, drank more wine than was sensible, and stumbled home, with only Maxwell in her heart and thoughts.

She was miserable—so much so that she did not notice her stepmother returning from her excursions with more and more boxes.

“You scare me, Cousin.”

Lucy’s pale face swam up in his vision.

Maxwell looked at her through his swollen eye. “You should not be in a place like this, Lucy. Go home at once.”

“You are forcing me to be in a place like this if you do not come home.”

“You should not be around such violence,” Maxwell muttered, drinking deeply from his tankard. “Return home. I have business to attend to.”

“How much more of this will you endure before you come to your senses?”

He merely stared back at her.

“You’ve never been this silent with me before,” Lucy whispered. “It scares me. Even when we were enduring our fathers’ cruelty, you did not behave this way.”

“That is what Ophelia told me the night before she left,” Maxwell uttered, thoroughly drunk. It dulled the pain. “That I scare her.”

“When you shut down, yes, I believe you do scare people.”

“Because they think I am a Harding, and they know how Hardings deal with their feelings.” He leveled her with a glower.

“Your fight is not with me.”

He sighed. “It is not.”

“It is with yourself.”

“It is with my father,” he snapped.

“And you will not find him in the ring, or anywhere in this world, so just come home. For heaven’s sake, write to your wife and apologize. You have shown her that you are capable of feelings, Maxwell. Do you think she truly believes you are empty and cold inside? Even I have noticed you changing. I have told you so many times—Ophelia has changed you.”

“Stop it.”

“Why? Because you know I am correct?”

“Just— stop. Stop, Lucy. Go home and leave me be.”

“If I leave you be, then I might have to collect my cousin’s body when they drag you out of the ring, unconscious or dead.”

Her voice was scathing as she stood up. “I can only hope you come to your senses before then.”

“Lucy!” But she was gone, as he had asked.

And Ophelia was gone, just as he had also asked.

Maxwell was alone, and that both made him want to rage and laugh. Somehow, he always knew it would end this way.

He finished his tankard of ale and called for another.

With each one, the pain lessened. He only lost track of what hurt most, his body or his heart.