Stolen By The Wrong Duke (Stolen by the Duke #11)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

“Is it too late to run?” her friend Margaret uttered in a half-whisper, half-laugh.

Emmeline’s breath caught before she could stop it.

Her gaze stayed on her reflection as her maid worked through the last strands of her sandy blonde hair, lifting and pinning them with careful hands until the waves were gathered at the back of her head.

The sunlight caught on her skin, warming the faint scatter of freckles across her cheeks, and made her honey-brown eyes look softer than usual.

But all she could see was the stillness in her own expression. It was too calm for a woman on her wedding day.

“Margaret,” Emmeline said so quietly it felt almost unnatural, “you promised not to ask me that again.”

“I promised I would not pester you,” Margaret corrected, stepping closer and smoothing a hand over the skirts of the gown. “This is… concern.”

Emmeline’s chin tilted slightly as the maid stepped back, her appearance now perfect. The gown fit her beautifully, the soft fabric hugging her curves before falling in elegant lines to the floor, delicate lace tracing her neckline and sleeves. It was exactly what a duke’s bride ought to wear.

And yet, as she looked at herself, she felt none of the triumph she had once imagined.

“Lady Emmeline,” the maid said gently, “you look lovely.”

Emmeline turned her head to offer the girl a small, polite smile. “Thank you, Anna.”

Margaret straightened, her hands lingering for a moment at Emmeline’s waist before she exhaled sharply. “Anna, would you be so kind as to give us a moment?”

The maid nodded and dipped into a quick curtsy. “Of course, my lady.”

The door closed behind her with a soft click.

“Now,” Margaret said, her voice dropping, “look at me.”

Emmeline did not want to.

There was something reckless in meeting Margaret’s eyes that threatened to undo the fragile steadiness she had spent weeks building.

Still, she turned, her gaze meeting Margaret’s bright green eyes. Margaret’s expression tightened at once.

“You are beautiful,” Margaret said softly, then sighed. “But you are not happy.”

For a moment, Emmeline simply stood there, her hands resting lightly against the fabric of her skirts.

“We have spoken of this,” she said at last, her voice quieter now, though it did not tremble. “Many times.”

“And I am not yet satisfied,” Margaret stepped closer, her tone sharpening. “You are about to marry a man you barely know and do not love. If there is even a part of you that does not wish for this, then you must not—”

“I must,” Emmeline cut in, more firmly than she intended.

Margaret stilled.

Emmeline felt the crack beneath her composure. She swallowed, forcing her shoulders to remain straight, her chin lifted.

“I cannot humiliate my father,” she continued, slower now, each word chosen with care.

Margaret’s brows drew together. “Your father would rather you be happy than—”

“I will be,” Emmeline said, and something tightened in her chest as she spoke. “If he is secure, if he no longer has to carry the weight he has borne since my mother—”

She stopped, and the image of her mother’s soft smile rose before she could push it away. It pressed against Emmeline’s chest so suddenly that her breath faltered.

Margaret’s expression softened, but she did not yield. “You believe your happiness is so easily exchanged, Emmeline? That it may be bartered for comfort?”

Emmeline let out a quiet breath, pushing the memory away.

“I do not believe it is easy,” she said. “But it is necessary.”

Margaret reached for her then, taking her hands firmly in hers, the warmth of her grip fully pulling her back to herself.

“You once told me,” Margaret said, her voice lowering, “that you would never marry without love. That you wanted what your parents had. Do you remember?”

Emmeline remembered. Love and affection had filled their home so completely that it had once seemed impossible to imagine anything less. But now, she knew how fragile that love was. How it destroyed a person when they lost it.

Her throat tightened. “That was a dream,” she said, forcing the words past the ache. “And dreams are… indulgences we cannot always afford.”

“No.” Margaret shook her head, her grip tightening. “Do not pretend you have grown beyond wanting something simply because it has become difficult to reach.”

Emmeline’s lips curved faintly, though she felt a knot in her chest.

“I have not grown beyond it,” she admitted. “I have merely learned it belongs behind everything else.”

Margaret opened her mouth to argue—

But the door opened before she could.

“Emmeline?” Her father’s trembling voice broke through the tension.

Emmeline turned at once, her gaze finding Lord Weston in the doorway, his tall frame straight, though the years had softened it. His graying hair was brushed back with care, and the lines around his eyes were deeper than she had ever seen them.

His gaze settled on her, and he went still, his breath catching just slightly. Emmeline saw his eyes soften and something in her chest clenched sharply, as though it had been cut open.

“My dear…” he said, his voice breaking just enough to make her chest tighten painfully. “You look… you look just like your mother.”

Emmeline forced a small smile. “Do I?”

He nodded, his composure slipping in a way that made something twist inside her.

Margaret stepped back quietly and moved toward the door.

“I shall wait outside,” she murmured before she slipped past Lord Weston and left them alone.

The door closed once more.

“I am proud of you,” her father said, his voice low, thick with emotion. “So very proud. You will make a wonderful duchess, my dear. A wonderful wife.”

Emmeline inclined her head, her fingers tightening slightly against her skirts as she held his gaze.

“I hope so,” she said, smiling softly.

He smiled, though it was not steady. “I know so.”

Then, softer, almost to himself, “Your mother would have… she would have been so pleased to see you today.”

The ache pressed against her ribs again, threatening to rise. Emmeline drew in a slow breath, forcing it down.

“I wish she were here,” she said, the truth slipping through before she could stop it.

Her father’s expression faltered. For a moment, she feared she had said too much, that she had burdened him further, but then he reached for her hand. His grip was warm, his fingers closing around hers with a pressure that was almost bruising.

“So do I.”

She couldn’t speak. A single word would shatter the stillness between them.

At last, he cleared his throat and straightened, the mask sliding back into place. “The carriage is ready. The guests will already be gathering.”

Emmeline nodded. “Yes.”

He hesitated. “Are you… ready?”

For a fleeting moment, Emmeline allowed herself to feel the weight of the life she was stepping into. It was a life without love or certainty, shaped by necessity alone.

Her heart struck hard against her ribs before she drew a steady breath, lifted her chin, and answered. “Yes.”

“Good,” her father said softly.

She drew her hand from his, her fingers brushing briefly against his sleeve before she spoke again.

“Papa… would you go on ahead?” she asked gently. “I should like a few moments. Alone.”

“Of course,” he blinked, clearly surprised. “Of course, my dear. Take all the time you need.”

He pressed a brief kiss to her forehead, lingering. The warmth of it stayed on her skin, but her chest tightened painfully.

It felt like a farewell.

He turned and left, the door closing behind him with a soft thud. The silence settled in at once, making her feel entirely alone. She remained where she was, unmoving, her fingers tightening slightly against her skirts.

Margaret slipped back inside, her eyes immediately searching Emmeline’s face.

“Well?” she asked.

Emmeline exhaled slowly. “I am ready.”

Margaret studied her for a long moment.

“Very well,” she sighed, her shoulders dropping in reluctant acceptance. “But if you change your mind—”

“I will not,” Emmeline said gently.

Margaret huffed, though there was no real annoyance in it, only affection.

“Then I suppose I must go and ensure your father does not weep before the ceremony begins.”

A small smile touched Emmeline’s lips. “That would be most helpful.”

Margaret squeezed her hand once, firmly. “I shall see you at the chapel.”

She turned away, leaving the room without looking back as the door closed behind her.

Emmeline closed her eyes for a brief moment, drawing in a slow breath that did little to ease the pressure building beneath her ribs. This was it—her choice, her duty, the life she had already accepted—and there would be no turning back once she stepped beyond that door.

Slowly, she lifted her hand and reached for the veil.

The fine, sheer fabric slipped through her fingers as she drew it up, her movements calm despite the tightness in her chest and lowered it over her face.

“Where is she?” Rowan paced as he spoke, his boots striking hard against the stone floor, his hands locked behind his back to keep them from curling into fists.

The chapel doors stood open behind him, voices drifting out in low murmurs. The restless shifting of guests had waited too long already, and it grated against him in a way he could not ignore.

Juliet had always understood what was expected of her. What was this?

“Your Grace—”

Rowan stopped and turned his head slowly, fixing the footman with a look that made the man falter where he stood.

“Well?” Rowan said.

The man swallowed, his breath uneven. “We have searched the entire house, Your Grace. Every room. The gardens as well. Lady Juliet… she has not been found.”

Where could she hide?

For a moment, Rowan simply looked at him. Then, very quietly, “The roads.”

The footman blinked. “Y-Your Grace?”

“The roads around the estate,” Rowan said, each word measured. “Have they been searched?”

The man shifted, clearly uncertain. “We—we sent men toward the main road, but—”