Page 6 of His Stolen Duchess (Stolen by the Duke #7)

Chapter Four

“ W hen shall we sire an heir?” Georgina asked.

Lysander was looking at the townhouses, passing them by as they rode back to his residence. He knew he had been harsh in his words, but it was all for the best. He lived his life a certain way, and that had worked out well for him, and he wasn’t about to change that now.

After a period of them traveling in silence, Georgina had cleared her throat, and Lysander closed his eyes, hoping no more talk about the weather was coming.

“You wish to talk about such things right now?” he asked.

“We’re alone in a carriage. No one will hear us.”

Lysander scoffed as he felt the twinge in his trousers. He was sure now she was saying all of this to rile him up, and he was annoyed at how easily it worked.

He could not deny that he’d thought about her body beneath her dress back at the lake after he’d pulled her from the water, and that he thought the same when he saw her in her finery at the church, but he would not give her the upper hand.

He studied her carefully. “I didn’t expect you to speak of duty so soon.”

“No?” she asked. There was some disappointment in her voice. “Why not?”

“Because the first time I met you, you were a runaway bride too careless to notice a lake in your path.”

She snapped back, “I was trying to get away. It was an accident.”

“Get away from what?” he asked.

She bristled. “You’re avoiding my question about wanting an heir.”

“And you’re avoiding mine about why you fled your wedding.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You answer first.”

He groaned, rubbing his temples before speaking. “We’ll do what’s expected. In time.”

“When, specifically?” she pressed.

“In time,” he repeated.

Her frustration mounted. “Most lords bed their wives on the wedding night, no matter the circumstances. Or do you think yourself different?”

His expression darkened. He leaned in, his voice a velvet rasp. “I only bed those who beg for it. And so will you, wife.”

A shiver ran through her—heat flaring in places she hadn’t expected. Still, she lifted her chin defiantly. “You’ll never hear me beg.”

His eyes dropped to her lips, a slow, knowing smile curling at one corner. “Oh, you will, wife. And you’ll thank me for it.”

They held each other’s gaze, their breaths mingling, the tension thick between them—raw, electric, and impossible to ignore.

The sharp crack of the driver’s whip shattered the moment. “Windermere Hall, Your Grace.”

Lysander stepped back, his expression unreadable once more, and the spell between them broke as the carriage slowed.

Georgina tried in vain to control her breathing, the proximity of the Duke and his masculine scent overwhelming her senses.

She turned and looked out of the window to see the staff waiting to greet them. A footman approached the coach to open the door for her.

“Welcome, Your Graces,” the footman said as he opened the door.

It took a moment for Georgina to register that he was speaking to both of them, and not just to the Duke.

“Thank you,” she managed and stepped out of the coach.

Windermere Manor was set among the rolling hills of the English countryside.

It had a dignified grace, the pale stonework and tall sash windows catching the early afternoon light, except for one spot on the west corner of the front facade where ivy had claimed the brickwork.

The faint gurgle of a nearby stream caught her ears but not her eyes.

This will take some getting used to .

“Come.” The Duke’s voice was commanding beside her. “I’ll introduce you to the household.”

The Duke walked over to the line of staff, all silent, still, and straight-backed. Georgina quickly followed him.

The staff was much larger than the one in any of the Ridgewell residences, and Georgina tried her best to memorize all the names of the people to whom she’d been introduced.

“Now,” the Duke announced. “I have important business to attend to, so I shall leave you in the company of Mrs. Kettleworth, our housekeeper.”

Georgina looked over at the stout, smiling, welcoming woman. When she turned back to the Duke, he was already striding off toward the manor.

Her jaw clenched. How could he act so composed after what had happened between them in the carriage?

He must be made of ice .

“Come, Your Grace,” Mrs. Kettleworth said. “I shall give you the tour.”

Georgina quickly followed the housekeeper before she was left behind again. Mrs. Kettleworth was short with small strides, but she still moved quickly, and her forearms looked strong enough to toss around sacks of grain. A bunch of keys jingled on her waist.

“We’ll begin in the main hall, Your Grace. His Grace wishes for you to see everything, so you may grow accustomed to the house without delay.”

Georgina glanced up at the high ceiling in the entranceway, a modest crystal chandelier catching the light as it filtered in through the high windows. The freshness of lavender hung in the air, along with the faint aroma of beeswax.

She followed the housekeeper through the house, trying to keep track of everything, hoping that it would all make sense in time.

“This is the east drawing room,” Mrs. Kettleworth said, gesturing into the large room with practiced ceremony. “More light in the day, but you can see the moon more often from the west drawing room. If you wish to do embroidery, I recommend doing it here, and use the other for entertaining.”

The pair then walked down a long, dimly lit hallway, where Georgina was shown multiple other rooms.

“The kitchens are below, of course. The cook has been here for more than twenty years and makes the best raspberry tarts this side of London.”

“The Duke mentioned that I would be allowed to hire some staff. A maid, perhaps,” Georgina commented.

“We have wonderful staff here,” the housekeeper replied.

“I’m sure that you do, it’s only that I wish to bring a maid from my previous household.”

“I shall speak to His Grace, and I will, of course, consult you on any staffing matters, Your Grace.”

“Thank you.” Georgina didn’t want to push anything when she’d just arrived in the house, but the longer she waited, the less help she could offer Dottie.

They passed portraits of stern-looking men in military coats and even sterner-looking women with powdered faces.

“It’s a large house, Your Grace, but you’ll learn the layout of it in no time.

” The housekeeper led Georgina out the rear door and into the grounds.

“We have a garden that grows produce almost year-round and wonderful flower beds that blossom in spring and bring an abundance of color to the estate.”

Mrs. Kettleworth pointed at a brick building tucked behind the manor. “The stables, with a dozen horses and two stable hands, should you wish to ride.” She then gestured toward a thin grove of trees. “And just beyond, a lovely stream for evening walks.”

Georgina’s lips curled into a faint smile despite herself. She could hear the stream now—soft, steady, almost musical. For a brief moment, the sound soothed her.

But then the housekeeper continued, her voice carrying back over her shoulder as she led the way through the trees.

“And that, Your Grace, leads straight into our lake. It’s quite the sight.”

Georgina followed—until her feet stopped cold.

There it was.

The lake.

The sight of it hit her like a fist to the chest. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

An icy chill spread through her limbs, crawling up her spine as if she’d plunged into its depths all over again. Her hands clenched by instinct, nails digging into her palms as her breath became short and shallow.

She didn’t close her eyes, but it didn’t matter. It was all there. Vivid. Immediate.

Running from her wedding, shoving through the hedges, frantic and wild. The ground giving way beneath her feet. The shock of the water, cold and merciless, closing over her head.

Her chest tightened as she remembered the weight of her soaked gown dragging her down. The rocks catching at her skirts. The awful realization that she couldn’t free herself. That she might die there.

She’d seen death coming for her in that lake.

And now, standing at its edge, she felt it again. That same suffocating dread was tightening around her throat.

“Are you well, Your Grace?” the housekeeper asked. “You’ve gone quite pale.”

Georgina quickly shook it off and mustered a smile.

You’re safe now. You’re safe.

“Yes, yes. I’m fine,” she assured.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” the housekeeper asked.

“Yes, very beautiful,” Georgina said, almost breathlessly.

She stared at the still surface of the water, watching how it mirrored the tall trees along the far bank. It was calm, almost too calm.

She couldn’t look away.

Now, just standing here, her chest tightened. Her fingers curled against her skirts before she even realized it.

The water unsettled her. Its quietness, its depth. She didn’t like how it waited, how it seemed to watch her right back.

“Would you like to see your chambers?” Mrs. Kettleworth asked.

Georgina could only nod.

The cold clung to her as she walked away from the water.

The Duke had pulled her from the lake that day and saved her from drowning, but she still wasn’t entirely free. She’d agreed to this marriage because it would quiet the scandal, because her uncle expected it, because her choices had been few.

She had agreed, but at times, the weight of it still pressed on her. The feeling wasn’t so different from being caught beneath the lake’s surface.

Still, breathless, with no obvious way out.