Page 1 of How to Bewitch a Duke (Lady Be Seductive #3)

T he night air was soft and still, cloaking the countryside in a hush that seemed to hold its breath. A faint breeze stirred the leaves of the great oaks that lined the path leading from the Earl of Harwood’s estate, their silvery undersides flickering beneath the light of a waning moon. Shadows danced across the stone terrace and crept along the garden walls, making everything feel both secret and sacred.

Lady Isla Thompson paused in the corridor just beyond the servants’ stairs, her heart hammering with the twin thrills of anticipation and trepidation. Her slippers made no sound against the polished wood, and the pale muslin of her gown whispered around her ankles as she eased the side door open. It groaned softly on its hinges, and she winced, glancing behind her to be sure no one stirred from slumber.

The hall remained quiet.

Drawing her cloak tighter around her shoulders, she slipped out into the warm summer night, her breath catching in her throat as she crossed into the garden. A familiar giddiness bloomed in her chest. Lucian would be waiting for her.

For weeks now they had met in secret beneath the boughs of the old willow near the edge of the estate, just beyond the line of wild hedges that marked the boundary between Harwood land and Thornridge’s. There, away from the eyes of society and the expectations of their stations, she had come to know a different side of the Duke of Thornridge—one no one else had ever seen. A man who smiled for her alone, whose touch made her forget propriety, whose whispered words sent shivers across her skin.

Tonight, her heart felt light with hope. He had seemed quieter than usual at their last meeting, his gaze troubled, but when she had pressed him, he had only shaken his head and kissed her. She knew he loved her. She felt it in his every word, in the reverent way he looked at her—as if she were the only thing in the world that mattered. And tonight, she dared to believe he might say the words she had dreamed of hearing. Her cheeks warmed at the thought, and she quickened her pace, stepping through the narrow gap in the hedgerow and down the winding path that led toward the copes where he waited.

There he stood—Lucian Oliver, the Duke of Thornridge—silhouetted against the trees, tall and proud, his shoulders straight beneath his dark coat, the moonlight casting a silver sheen over his raven-black hair. As she approached, he turned, and the moment his eyes found hers, all hesitation fled her heart. She ran the last few steps, and he caught her easily, pulling her into his arms. The scent of him—clean linen, spice, and something uniquely him—wrapped around her like a familiar comfort. He held her close, as if he had been waiting an eternity.

He held her briefly, almost as if he would never hold her again. He sighed and pushed her out of his arms. She glanced up and him and frowned. Lucian never had done that before. Their time together was always short, and he usually held her for as long as possible. His eyes shuttered for the briefest moment—just a flicker—but enough to make her still with concern.

Tonight, everything would change. She could feel it down to her very soul. She expected he would ask for her hand. Had expected it for a while now. She still did not understand why he had not asked her. He had told her he loved her. Surely that meant he wanted them to be together forever…

“Lucian…” He turned away from her then. Almost as if he could not bear to look at her one moment longer. Her heart began to beat inside her chest. This…this was not right. Something was wrong. “Lucian,” she said his name again. Hoping it would make him look at her again. She did not like how he was acting. Isla swallowed a lump in her throat. “Tell me what is wrong.”

“We cannot meet like this any longer.” His voice was hoarse but firm. He had said what he had needed to. She knew what that tone meant. He would not speak of it further, but she had to push. She had to know what he was thinking. None of it made sense. The way he had held her but ultimately pushed her away, and now he would not even meet her gaze.

She stood beneath that willow tree, the place where she had met him so many times before, where whispered words and stolen kisses had made her believe in forever. But tonight—tonight was different. There had been no kisses or warm words. No longing or deep-seated need for him to hold her. “You do not mean that,” she said in a hushed tone. Isla could not have heard him correctly. This was a nightmare. It was the only explanation.

“I do mean it.” He finally lifted his gaze to meet hers. “This will be the last time I meet you here.” Lucian was staring at her with a look she could not comprehend, his chiseled features drawn, his usual steady gaze shadowed with something unreadable.

“You are not saying what I think you are saying,” Isla whispered, her voice barely carrying over the soft rustle of the wind. “This is not real.” She almost lifted her hand to slap her face, to make herself wake up from the nightmare she was living through.

Lucian clenched his jaw, every muscle in his body taut as though he were bracing for a blow. “We cannot be together. Not now. Not ever.”” His golden eyes turned cold as he stared at her. “I will never marry you.”

The words struck her with a force she had not anticipated. It was as if the ground beneath her had been yanked away, leaving her weightless, untethered—falling into nothingness. Her breath came in a sharp, shallow gasp. “You—” She shook her head, willing herself to comprehend what was happening. “You do not mean that.” Her voice shook as she spoke. Tears threatened to spill but somehow, by a miracle no less, she held them at bay.

His fingers curled into fists at his sides. He looked away, as if he could not bear to meet her eyes. “I do.” He had been doing that from the moment she had arrived. Did the sight of her disgust him now? What had she done to garner this reaction from him?

A harsh, disbelieving laugh broke from her lips. “You love me.” The words trembled as they left her, raw and aching. “I know you do. You have told me as much, and I have felt it in your every touch, your every kiss—” She faltered, pressing a hand to her stomach as nausea churned within her. “You made me believe we had a future, Lucian.” He had made her believe that they had a love that could withstand anything. That they had a future together. What a lie…

His breath was unsteady. His control—usually so infallible, so measured—was slipping a tiny bit, but somehow, he held firm. “There can be no future for us.”

A tremor ran through her limbs. “Why?” Silence. Nothing but uncomfortable silence. She wanted, no needed him to explain this to her. “Why, Lucian?” she demanded, her voice rising, splintering under the weight of her pain. “What have I done to make you treat me this way?” Her throat tightened. “Tell me what is wrong with me now when you told me you loved me a mere day ago. What has changed in such a short time?”

His expression hardened, his mask slipping back into place. “I cannot marry a woman that has ties to witchcraft. Society expects more from a marriage to a duke.”

“Damn society!” she cried, stepping toward him, desperate now, unwilling to believe that the man she loved would allow something so foolish to stand between them. “You do not care for their whispers. You never have. This is not about them.” Isla stepped closer, clenching her fists at her side. The urge to hit him filled her, but she restrained herself. She had to control her temper. “I do not believe you. This has nothing to do with my mother’s family. Tell me the truth, Lucian.

He did not respond.

Isla’s breath hitched. “What truly made you change your mind,” she asked. He still would not meet her gaze. Then a realization dawned on her, like a blade slicing through her chest. “You never intended to marry me, did you?”

The stricken look in his eyes lasted but a moment before he shuttered it away. “I should not have let it go this far.” It was all but an admission. The world blurred. He had not denied it, but the truth was stark—undeniable. He had used her, and now he was tossing her aside like well-used rubbish.

A hollow, keening sound built in her throat, but she would not let it escape. She would not let him see how thoroughly he had destroyed her. She took a step back, then another, wrapping her arms around herself as though she could hold together the shards of her breaking heart. “I was a fool.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I gave you everything, and you…” A sob choked her, and she turned, unable to bear looking at him any longer. “I hate you,” she whispered, the words tasting like poison on her tongue. It wasn’t the truth. She loved him still. It was perhaps more accurate to say she hated herself for what she had allowed to happen. Her heart was broken. She glanced up at him then, and Lucian flinched as though struck, his jaw locking tight.

Isla did not wait to see if he would say more. She turned on her heel and fled, the tears she had held at bay spilling freely as she ran from him—ran from the future she had believed in, from the man who had promised her the world only to shatter it in his hands.

Lucian Oliver, Duke of Thornridge, stood rooted beneath the willow tree, the shadows of the night wrapping around him like a shroud as he watched her run. Her figure—so familiar, so beloved—disappeared into the moonlit path, her pale cloak fluttering behind her like the wings of a wounded bird. She did not look back. Of course she didn’t. Not after what he had done. Not after the cruel, final words he had forced past his lips. Words designed to wound, to sever what had bloomed so beautifully between them.

And they had. God forgive him, they had done their job far too well.

Lucian pressed a hand to his chest, as though he might physically still the ache beneath. The pain was sharp, visceral. It burned through him with every breath, as though his very soul had been torn in two the moment she turned from him.

Isla. His Isla. She had given him her heart, her trust, her body—and he had shattered it all with a single, brutal lie.

“ We cannot be together, ” he had told her. “ Not now. Not ever. I will never marry you .” He closed his eyes as his own words haunted him. A muscle ticked in his jaw as he turned away from the path, his hands clenched at his sides. The words had nearly choked him. Every part of him had screamed to take her into his arms, to fall to his knees and beg her forgiveness, to vow before heaven and earth that he would never let her go. His heart ached and he longed to go after her. To tell her that he had lied. That he still loved her, would always love her… But he could not do that. He had destroyed the only good thing in his life for a reason. He’d had to keep her safe. He would much rather she go on without him and live a long and happy life, then to ever put that very life at risk. She meant too much to him.

He had to let her go. Because the danger was far too real. He could not tell her—not yet. Not while shadows still followed his every step, while the man who had sworn vengeance upon him remained unaccounted for. Isla’s family had already endured more than their share of whispered scandal. To draw her into his personal war would not only tarnish her name—it could endanger her life. And that… he would never allow.

Lucian stared up at the moonlit sky as sorrow filled his soul. He had done the only thing he could. The only thing that might keep her safe. But in doing so, he had broken the one thing he held most dear. “I love you,” he whispered into the darkness, the confession torn from him like a secret never meant to be heard. But the night was silent. And she was gone.

He sank onto the ground beneath that willow tree and allowed his grief to overtake him. She was gone. He might never see her again. He let out a ragged and uneven breath. His mind warred between the instinct to chase after her and the grim knowledge that he could not. Because if he claimed her—married her, she would not be safe. She would be a target.

And that, above all else, he could not allow. Better that she hate him. Better that she believe him cruel, unfeeling—anything but the truth. Because the truth was far more dangerous than she could ever know.