Stolen by the Cursed Duke (Stolen by the Duke #3)

Chapter 3

Chapter Three

“ T hornvale,” the Duke said, his voice matter of fact, as if he were commenting on the weather and not introducing her to his estate.

The storm was unrelenting by the time the carriage rolled to a stop in front of Thornvale.

Charlotte didn’t want to admit that the Duke had been right, but the horses would never have made it all the way to London—not without an accident.

She stared out of the fogged window at the imposing structure silhouetted against the dark sky.

Thornvale was a fortress, its high towers and heavy stone walls standing stark and unyielding against the storm. It was as cold and uninviting as its master, and yet, despite herself, Charlotte felt a spark of curiosity.

Charlotte turned to him, her defiance undiminished.

“Charming,” she said dryly, gesturing to the storm. “Does it always look like this, or have you arranged the atmosphere for my benefit?”

He chuckled softly, not taking the bait. “I assure you, Lady Charlotte, despite the rumors about me, I have no control over the weather.”

The door swung open, and a footman appeared, umbrella in hand. The Duke descended first, his boots splashing into the puddled gravel. He turned, offering his hand to help her down, but Charlotte ignored it, stepping out on her own.

She immediately regretted it as the rain hit her full force, soaking her skirts and chilling her to the bone.

“Independent to a fault,” the Duke muttered under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear.

She shot him a glare, but he was already turning toward the grand oak doors. Despite the storm, the staff stood at attention, waiting to receive them. A stout woman in an immaculate black gown and apron stepped forward, her face stern but kind.

“Mrs. Manning,” the Duke said, his tone suddenly warmer, “this is Lady Charlotte. She’ll be staying with us for the evening. See that she’s made comfortable.”

The housekeeper’s sharp eyes took in Charlotte’s bedraggled state. Charlotte stood a little taller, allowing the woman to judge her if she so wished.

“Of course, Your Grace,” the housekeeper said. “I’ll have a bath prepared at once.”

Charlotte followed Mrs. Manning into the grand entry hall, her wet boots squeaking against the polished stone floors. She couldn’t help but glance around, taking in the high, vaulted ceilings, the intricate tapestries, and the roaring fire that offered a stark contrast to the cold storm outside.

It was grand, imposing, and undeniably beautiful though Charlotte would never admit as much to the Duke.

“Mrs. Manning,” the Duke called after them, “fetch one of my mother’s old gowns for Lady Charlotte. Something suitable for supper.”

Charlotte stopped short, turning back to glare at him. “I don’t need your charity, Your Grace. I am fine in the gown I am wearing.”

The Duke raised a brow, his smirk infuriatingly smug. “You’re dripping wet, Lady Charlotte. Unless you intend to dine shivering, I suggest you accept the offer.”

The warm bath did wonders to soothe Charlotte’s chilled bones though it did little to improve her mood.

Mrs. Manning had been efficient and polite, bustling about with an enthusiasm that Charlotte found both endearing and mildly irritating. It wasn’t often, it seemed, that Thornvale entertained guests, and Mrs. Manning appeared delighted to provide every comfort for her.

“The dining hall is just this way, My Lady,” Mrs. Manning said cheerfully as they descended a grand staircase. “It’s not every day we get a visitor here. His Grace keeps a very quiet household, you see, so it’s a pleasure to be of service.”

Charlotte nodded politely. That explained all the odd looks from passing maids and footmen then. Charlotte would be the talk of the household, no doubt.

She couldn’t find the words to answer, though. She was far too preoccupied by the gown Mrs. Manning had chosen for her. It was a size too small, the fabric clinging tightly around her chest and hips in a manner that was, frankly, indecent.

She tugged at the bodice in vain, trying to create more breathing room, but the material refused to yield.

As they approached the heavy oak doors of the dining hall, Charlotte squared her shoulders, determined to face the Duke with dignity. Mrs. Manning opened the door with a flourish, stepping aside to let her enter.

The Duke was already seated at the head of the long dining table, his dark eyes lifting to meet hers as she walked in. He stood out of courtesy, his gaze flickering downward, lingering briefly before returning to her face.

Charlotte noticed his attention and, despite herself, felt a spark of satisfaction. She pushed her shoulders back, subtly emphasizing the curve of her chest.

The Duke’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly but enough for her to notice, and he gestured to a chair near his own. “Lady Charlotte.”

“Your Grace,” she replied, her tone measured as she crossed the room and took her seat.

She felt his eyes on her as she moved.

“I see you have an eye for the dramatic,” she quipped as the butler pushed in her chair. “I’m half expecting a vampire to emerge from the walls.”

“That’s ghosts, Lady Charlotte. Vampires cannot traverse through physical matter. If you’re going to mock, at least get it right.”

Charlotte pursed her lips and nodded, considering herself told.

The servants brought in the first course in silence, leaving them alone in silence, save for the faint clinking of silverware and the crackle of the fire in the hearth.

The atmosphere was thick with unspoken words, the tension stretching like a taut bowstring, and Charlotte sensed his eyes on her often.

When she was certain he wasn’t looking, she returned the favor, her gaze tracing the shape of his body, the size of his hands, the movement of his mouth as he chewed.

Eventually, she broke the silence.

“Thank you, Your Grace, for allowing me to stay at Thornvale,” she said, remembering her manners even as she suppressed a huff. “I suppose I should be grateful you didn’t leave me out in the rain.”

The Duke set down his knife and fork with precision, his dark gaze locking onto hers. “Do you truly believe I am capable of such a thing, Lady Charlotte?”

He looked at her with such intensity, as if he could truly see into her soul, that Charlotte hesitated.

“I don’t know you well enough to say,” she replied honestly, meeting his glare without flinching. “It could certainly be a possibility.”

He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a low rumble. “Precisely. You don’t know me.”

The words hung between them, heavy with meaning. Charlotte’s breath caught, and for a long moment, they simply stared at each other, the air thick with unspoken desire.

It was again Charlotte who broke the silence. “Why were you so determined to see the wedding go on, Your Grace? What stake did you have in it?”

The Duke leaned back, considering her question. “Miss Lavinia Jameson is a respectable lady,” he said after a moment. “It’s only right for her to marry well.”

Charlotte raised an eyebrow, a mocking smile playing on her lips. “Of course. A woman’s worth is only defined by her marriage.”

The Duke’s expression darkened, but before he could respond, Charlotte continued, her voice deceptively casual, “I seem to recall hearing about an incident once… a certain Lord Arkley, carried half-conscious and drunk from a party. By you, no less. Very gentlemanly of him, wouldn’t you say?”

The Duke’s face remained unreadable though a muscle in his jaw twitched.

“What I do with my friends is none of your concern,” he said, his tone cold and clipped.

Charlotte’s smile widened though her eyes burned with anger. “And yet, my best friend’s future is very much my concern. I won’t stand by and watch her marry a man who will humiliate her.”

“Except it is too late, Lady Charlotte. They are married—and happily so, I’d wager.”

“But—”

The Duke’s gaze sharpened, and the tension between them crackled like the storm outside. “And to add to that, Lady Lavinia is the third daughter of a baron,” he said icily. “She has much to gain from her marriage to Lord Arkley. Stability. Status. A future.”

Charlotte leaned forward, her voice rising. “And what about love? Happiness? Should those not count for something?”

“Not everyone has the luxury of such ideals,” the Duke replied, his tone growing harder but his gaze roving further. “Perhaps you’d do well to consider that before meddling in matters you don’t understand.”

“I’d say you are meddling as much as I am, only in the other direction. It seems, from what little you have said, that you actively encouraged this marriage to go ahead.”

“Perhaps that is because I can see the benefit to both parties involved. And, quite frankly, at least I have played my part with respect and propriety. You accuse me of goodness knows what when you were the one riding into a church, screaming blue murder in a split skirt fit for a maid. And that’s not to mention the animalistic fashion in which you behaved.”

“ I was animalistic?” Charlotte’s cheeks burned, a sharp retort on her tongue.

But alongside her indignation came an unwelcome flicker of memory: the rough bark of the tree against her back, the unyielding press of his body.

She pushed the thought away, furious with herself for recalling it at all. “Were you not the one groping and grabbing?”

“I was preventing you from doing something you would have surely regretted,” he said.

The fire in his eyes matched that in Charlotte’s heart. Her defiance only seemed to spur him on, and she jutted out her chin, not quite willing to admit that she was enjoying herself.

“You accuse me of not knowing you , Your Grace, and yet you presume to know me. I would not have regretted it for a single moment. The only thing I regret is meeting you. You clearly wish to have control over everything, but you cannot have control over me.”

To her surprise, the Duke’s chair scraped back, and he abruptly stood up, glaring down at her, his eyes bright and alive.

As he stood, towering over her, Charlotte felt the tightness of the gown once more. She fought the urge to pull at the bodice, refusing to let him see any sign of weakness, but the heat of his gaze made her skin prickle.

“You’re mistaken if you think you understand me,” he said, his voice low and controlled.

Charlotte rose to her feet as well, refusing to be intimidated and not wanting to lose whatever this conversation was. “And you’re mistaken if you think I will stop fighting for my friend’s happiness.”

They stood facing each other across the table, Charlotte’s breath coming faster.

The Duke straightened his coat and turned away. “You should rest, Lady Charlotte,” he said coolly. “Tomorrow, if the storm has cleared, we’ll see you safely back to London.”

He left the room without another word, leaving Charlotte alone with her racing thoughts and the sound of the rain hammering against the windows.