Page 6 of How to Bewitch a Duke (Lady Be Seductive #3)

Five

T he winds in Devon were sharp and bracing as Lucian Oliver, Duke of Thornridge, stood in the shadowed lane outside a ramshackle stone cottage. Ivy strangled the windows, the roof sagged with neglect, and smoke from the hearth curled weakly into the late afternoon sky. This was the hiding place of the man once known as Michael Oliver, the his treacherous uncle—a man who had once held him on his knee, taught him to ride, and, as Lucian had discovered in the most devastating of truths, had murdered his father and plotted Lucian’s downfall.

The confrontation would, hopefully, be swift, brutal in its honesty. There would be no bared steel, no dramatic struggle. Only the grim certainty of evidence laid bare and the look of bitter recognition in the old man’s eyes as the magistrate’s men closed in. Lucian remained still—his expression carved from ice, as the cottage was surrounded. It had not take much convincing on his part to gain the magistrate’s assistance. One they knew that the man inside was a criminal, wanted in two countries, they had no qualms about apprehending him.

A large, burly man pounded on the door, his thick Cockney accent unmistakable as he bellowed, “Open up, or we’ll come in after ye—and you won’t like our methods, I promise ye that.”

The door remained closed. His uncle was not going to come out of that hovel willingly. He could not be living the grand life he’d imagined for himself. When he had committed murder, he had hoped to be living the life of a duke, not a pauper. He could still have had a good life. One filled with comfort and the loyalty of his family. Lucian had seen how his father had adored his younger brother.

But that had not been good enough for Michael. Instead, he betrayed that love and ended his own brother’s life. For greed and power, and it had gained him nothing. Because he had failed in his attempts to kill Lucian. Not that Lucian had been skilled or even aware what his uncle had been trying to do in the beginning. It had been sheer luck that had saved his life.

The man at the door banged on it louder. Still, it went unanswered. Then he nodded at his compatriots to come forward. Two of them rammed the door with their bodies, shoving at it until the old door fell to the ground. They stormed inside in search of Michael Oliver. Inside the cottage, the stench of unwashed linens and stale ale mingled with the smoke from the dying hearth. Dust danced in the slant of light piercing the filth-streaked windows, and somewhere deeper within, the clatter of boots on warped floorboards echoed.

Lucian stepped through the doorway with deliberate calm, his greatcoat catching the breeze behind him as he entered. He had no need to search. He knew where his uncle would be. Sure enough, in the back room, beyond a half-hinged door, Michael Oliver sat at a crooked table, a bottle in one hand and the faintest sneer on his gaunt, hollowed face. His once-dark hair had grayed unevenly, and lines of bitterness carved deep valleys into his cheeks. His eyes, a cold, cunning blue—the same shade as Lucian’s father’s had been—stared through him. There was a spark of defiance reflecting back at Lucian almost as if he dared him to do something, anything so Michael could finish what he had started all those years ago. Lucian would not give him the satisfaction.

“Well,” the older man rasped, lifting the bottle in mock salute. “Look who finally decided to make an appearance. It’s about time you had the courage to face me.”

Lucian did not flinch. Nothing his uncle had to say would dissuade him from this encounter. He had to see this through. “Your days of hiding are over.”

Michael chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. “You think you’ve won, boy?”

“I don’t think it,” Lucian said, his voice was as steady and cold as he spoke. “I know it. Your list of crimes stretches across two nations. You faked your death, abandoned debts, stole from noblemen, and murdered your own brother. And when that wasn’t enough, you tried to murder me.”

Michael’s smirked. “It was nothing personal—I’d have done through any of my brother’s heirs, and any brats you sired as well. I deserve that title. It should have been mine.”

“It was never meant to be yours,” Lucian said quietly. He had grown to hate this man that he once loved. But he could no longer feel anything for him congenial. He had destroyed that bond. “As you well know, but you wanted it and stopped at nothing to try to attain it. It is time you paid for that and all that you did take. You made me believe Isla would be safer without me.” His jaw clenched. “You took everything from me. But no more.”

At a gesture from Lucian, the magistrate’s men stepped forward. Michael stood suddenly, the bottle crashing to the floor. “Do you think you’ll be free of me?” he spat. “I may rot in prison, perhaps—but mark my words, boy. You’re not like your father. You’re weak. That girl you pine for—she’ll see it. Just wait.” He sneered. “And if I am eve free, she will not be safe.”

“You will never be free again.” Lucian crossed the room in a breath and struck his uncle across the face—not with rage, but with cold purpose. Michael stumbled back into the grasp of the waiting guards. “And I am not weak,” Lucian said softly. “You have no control over me.”

The magistrate’s men dragged the disgraced noble from the house. As the last of their steps faded, Lucian stood alone in the wreckage, his chest rising and falling with a strange mix of triumph and grief. He had no joy in the victory. But there was peace and with that peace came clarity. He turned and stepped out into the wind once more. The sky above Devon had cleared to a pale, steady blue, and the scent of the sea drifted on the air. There was nothing left to fear now.

Now, the matter was concluded. His enemy would soon be behind bars, awaiting trial, and Lucian—for the first time in years—was free. Free to claim the life he had once dared to dream of. The life he had abandoned. The woman he had lost. He could finally go to Isla—not as a man weighed down by shadows, but one ready to offer her everything. If she would not have him… he would spend the rest of his days trying to change her mind.

He could offer her what she had demanded—everything. He had thought of little else on the journey back to his estate. He could not waste another day. She might deny him. She might send him away. But he would not go quietly. Not this time.

Lady Isla Thompson was in the sitting room, sorting through letters with trembling fingers when the butler entered. She had started to read her mother’s journal but could not get beyond the first few lines. She had thought she was ready to read it, but she had been wrong. It was still too much for her. It was perhaps cowardly of her, but she could not face her mother even if it was only her journal. She was not nearly as brave as she would like to be and that made her fret. What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she open that journal and read it? How had her two sisters managed to read the entire book?

The door opened and the butler entered. He bowed when she lifted her gaze to meet his. “Your Grace, the Duke of Thornridge to see you.”

Isla froze, the air catching in her lungs. She slowly turned toward the butler. She kept her face placid and said, “Tell him I am not at home.” Why was Lucian there? He had never come to see her at her home. Even when they were courting it had always been in secret. They had not been ready, so she had assumed, for the world to know of their love for each other. It could not be good that he had come now.

It was too late for the butler to refuse him admittance into her inner sanctum—Lucian strode through the doorway, as commanding and infuriatingly handsome as ever. A lock of his dark hair fell over his forehead only making those startling gold eyes of his more evident. “Forgive the intrusion,” he said, bowing. “But I could not wait.”

“You should have,” she snapped, rising to her feet. “I told you I do not wish to see you. There is no reason for you to be here.” His audacity knew no bounds. She would admire him for it if she did not find it irritating.

“No, Isla. I have every reason to be here.” His voice was low, urgent. “I took your words to heart. I am here, now, because it is time.”

She could not be hearing him correctly. What did he hope to gain by this intrusion? “Time for what?” she said, her voice shaking with fury. “How dare you come here expecting me to allow it. As if I owe you somehow. We both know that is not true. You are the one that ended us. Why do you believe I should listen to anything you have to?”

“I had no choice.” His voice was firm as she spoke. It almost made her pause and listen, but she could not do it. If she gave in now, then he would always have control over her.

“There is always a choice,” she said softly, but with conviction. “You made yours. Now you must live with it.”

He crossed the room swiftly. “You don’t understand—my uncle, he tried to kill me. More than once. He killed my father. If I had married you, then you would have been the one he went after next. He could never truly know how much you meant to me—” He swallowed hard. “He might have still killed you if he did.”

“You should have trusted me.” She blazed with anger and disapproval. “We were supposed to be a team. You promised me the world, and you gave me silence.” Isla clenched her hands into fists at her side. “I gave you everything of myself and you tossed me aside as if I were nothing. Some silly chit who foolishly gave you her innocence and love.”

He stopped before her, breathing hard. “I loved you.” Lucian cupped her cheek in his hand. His eyes burned bright with emotion. “I still love you.

“And I loved you then,” she whispered. “And you let me shatter.”

There was silence. A breath, a heartbeat. He lowered his hand and reached for her; she took a step back unable to allow him to pull her into his arms. She would fall apart if she did. “I cannot let you go again,” he said hoarsely. “Not now. Not ever.” This time when he moved closer, she could not stop him. She was in his arms again and she found it difficult to breathe through her emotions. “I need you,” he said fervently.

“Lucian—” she began, but his mouth was already on hers. The kiss was fire and longing, memory and desperation. It consumed her. She melted against him, her hands rising to his chest, her lips answering his without thought. For a moment—one sweet, aching moment—everything else vanished. The past, the pain, all of it. There was only the feel of him, the taste of him, the love she had never truly forgotten. But then it came rushing back. With a gasp, Isla wrenched herself free. Her hand met his cheek in a sharp, resounding slap. “Do not ever presume to touch me again.”

Lucian staggered back, stunned. His cheek had started to redden, but he said nothing.

“I am not yours,” she said, voice trembling. “You lost that right. You do not get to come back and sweep away the pieces you broke. It is not that simple.”

“I am trying to mend them,” he said quietly.

There was heartbreak evident in those gold depths. So much so it almost shattered her anew. Isla did not give into the need to fall into his arms again. That kiss had brought much back, but it has also been a different sort of reminder. She knew how easy it would be to give in to him. She had done so in the past hadn’t she? Isla would not be his fool ever again.

She turned her face away. “Leave and do not return”

He hesitated, pain flashing across his features. “Isla…”

“Go,” she whispered.

And this time, he obeyed. As the door clicked softly behind him, Isla pressed a hand to her chest. Her lips still burned. Her heart still thundered. But she had survived the first break. She would survive this one too. She could not relive the past. It was time to move forward once and for all, and that was when she knew. It was time to read her mother’s journal and see if it offered her something that would help her let go of Lucian once and for all.