Page 21 of The Duke Steals a Bride (Stolen by the Duke #5)

Chapter Twenty-One

“Y ou are looking rather pale, Christine,” drawled the Earl of Dunhill, gazing at his daughter in a critical way. “But then, I suppose you have always had a wan complexion.”

Christine bristled, staring at her father, a surge of familiar irritation and hurt welling up inside her breast. The Earl of Dunhill had suddenly arrived at Ironstone for morning tea—a brief call to see his youngest daughter on the way to hunt at a neighboring estate, apparently.

How typical of him.

It is the first time he has called on me since my marriage—and I am not even the reason he has journeyed from London. I am an afterthought.

She sipped her tea, her eyes sliding to her husband, who was seated across from her, nursing his own cup of tea, looking a bit harried. Lord Dunhill’s unexpected call had disrupted his own plans for the morning, but he insisted he be here to speak with his new father-in-law, nonetheless.

Her heart began to pound as she looked at the duke. A flush crept up her neck, blooming across her cheeks as memories surged—memories of what he’d done to her in the woodland glade at the garden party.

Three days had passed, but she hadn’t been able to think of anything else. Each night, alone in her bed, she relived it—again and again. The memory both thrilled and mortified her.

What did he do to me?

And what, in heaven’s name, was that wild, ecstatic eruption inside my body?

She shivered just thinking about it. She hadn’t known such feelings were even possible. In those moments, she had become someone—or something—entirely different. Unfamiliar. Unleashed.

Her gaze drifted to his hands, large and strong, resting idly on his knees. The sight made her feel hot and unsettled. She wished she had her fan.

Then he looked at her.

His eyes slid to hers, locking with an intensity that made the air itself feel charged. It crackled between them, invisible but alive. Another shiver coursed through her, sharp and sweet, zigzagging all the way down her spine.

Hastily, she turned her attention back to her father. The earl was sipping his tea, looking like his usual smug, complacent self, as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

“I’d say my wife’s looking radiant,” the duke said coolly, his voice edged with steel as he shot a glare at the earl.

Then he turned back to Christine, his gaze steady, heated.

“In fact,” he said, voice low, “she’s blooming.”

Christine almost choked on her tea, hastily putting down the cup that she had just picked up, which clattered in the saucer.

Was he defending her? Did he actually understand how much her father’s snide, underhand comments affected her—even though she tried so hard to brush them aside?

“Have you had any word yet about Violet, Father?” she asked, trying to mask her confusion. “Any clues about her whereabouts at all?”

“I am afraid not,” replied her father, suppressing a small yawn, settling back further in the large, upholstered armchair. “She appears to have vanished off the face of the earth entirely.”

Christine frowned. “But you are still trying to find her, are you not? Please tell me that you have not given up.”

Her father stiffened. “I assure you, I have done what I can to find her, Christine,” he said, lifting his teacup with deliberate calm. He took a slow sip, then regarded her over the rim with cool detachment.

“It’s always been your way to speak without thinking,” he added, almost absently. “Not everyone finds such… candor becoming in a young lady.”

He set his cup down with a quiet clink. “Your sister never had that problem.”

“My wife has every right to question you about her sister, my lord,” the duke growled, his voice hard as iron. His eyes were dark with fury. “Lady Violet is missing. Anything could’ve happened to her.” He took a step forward, towering. “Christine is holding you to account—as she damn well should. Don’t you dare speak of her character. Not in my presence.”

The earl looked stunned. He blinked rapidly. Christine gazed down at her lap, feeling another warm glow sweep over her. The duke really was intent on defending her…and it felt good. It felt very good indeed.

No one has ever defended me like this. Not even Violet.

She realized, quite suddenly, that she didn’t have to tolerate her father’s poor behavior any longer.

Her heart surged. She felt suddenly elated. She was free from the earl’s constant critiques.

Her eyes shifted to the duke. There was something undeniably satisfying in the way he stood for her—solid, unyielding. His protection felt good. Too good.

A shiver ran down her spine as she watched him take control of the room, putting her father firmly—and unmistakably—in his place.

“I-I think you misunderstood me, Your Grace,” stuttered the earl, a flush staining his cheeks. “It was kindly meant. I have always thought it prudent to try to correct my youngest daughter’s flaws…”

“I do not see it that way at all,” interjected the duke, staring at the other man, his eyes as hard as flint. “You have been in my house for a mere half an hour and spent most of that time disapproving of my wife, criticizing every minute thing about her.”

“Your Grace…”

“I have not finished, my lord,” the duke said, his voice low but steely. “She is my wife now—you hold no authority over her. And lest you forget, you are a guest in my house.” He leaned in slightly, his gaze unflinching. “Show her the respect she is due… or you’ll be shown the door. Now—and every time after.”

Christine gasped, feeling another thrill of delight, which she wasn’t sure was entirely kind, for her father was still her father, when all was said and done. She ought to feel some degree of loyalty toward him, and perhaps even defend him—perhaps make light of it and say that the earl really hadn’t meant to be so harsh toward her.

She opened her mouth…but then closed it again. She didn’t have to defend him. In fact, if she did, it would probably just empower him all over again, giving him the confidence to defend himself. And she was glad—fervently glad—that her husband had put him in his place, once and for all.

Could it actually be true? Could it really be true that the duke valued her—or was he just defending her because he believed it was his duty?

* * *

Edwin watched the carriage containing his father in law rattling down the long driveway, through the tall gates of Ironstone and away, before turning to Christine, who was standing by his side, gazing at her thoughtfully.

He shuddered slightly. The Earl of Dunhill truly was an odious man—he had never liked him, but now, after that strained morning tea, he saw clearly the way the earl tried to belittle and disparage his daughter, in a thousand subtle and not so subtle ways. He had no choice but to put the gentleman in his place.

“Walk with me.” He touched her arm slightly, indicating the gardens. “For a moment.”

Christine hesitated, then nodded. They turned and walked in silence, following the path toward the gazebo. He drew in a slow breath, the heady scent of roses heavy in the air—the blooms had burst into abundance just this past week, as if the garden itself had awakened.

They stopped where the view opened wide, revealing the countryside stretched out in all directions—rolling green fields, distant hills, and the familiar rooftops of the village. The church spire, the tallest point in the valley, pierced a swirl of soft, pearl-colored clouds.

This place had always been a refuge for him, a quiet corner of the world where he had come as a boy to think and to dream. But today, the view paled beside the woman standing at his side.

He turned toward her slowly, his heart giving an unsteady lurch. His gaze roamed over her—dark golden hair catching sunlight like spun amber, the delicate curve of her dimples when she smiled, the elegant way she folded her hands when giving someone her full attention.

She was as intoxicating as the roses. As radiant as the sun. And somehow, despite every effort to guard himself—he was falling.

How did this happen? He had been so careful. So determined.

But there she was, challenging everything he had built up inside himself. The protective walls he had erected for years—the ones that kept him detached, numb to emotion—were beginning to crumble with every glance.

He had vowed, sworn to never be at the mercy of someone like this. To never fall in love again.

Rose’s death had been the last bitter blow. He’d sworn never to feel that kind of helplessness again. Yet here he was, shaken, vulnerable, and suddenly unable to shield his heart.

The quiet ache in his chest, the way his body seemed to betray him with each look at her, confused him. He was supposed to remain in control, to protect his family, to keep everything rigid, organized, and under lock and key.

But Christine? She made him want things he didn’t understand, feelings that weren’t safe. How could he not want her when she made him feel like this?

He clenched his jaw, fighting the memory of her body trembling beneath his touch, her lips parted in ecstasy as he kissed her against that tree in the woods. But the memory refused to loosen its grip. It haunted him—day and night, waking and dreaming.

I might as well try to stop the sun from rising as forget her now.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, her blue green eyes widening. “Thank you for what you did for me in the drawing room.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” he said, his voice quieter than he intended. He stopped, watching her closely. “Does he always speak to you like that?”

Her lips parted slightly before she nodded. “Always.”

She turned toward the view, letting the breeze play with her curls. Her gaze drifted over the fields, but she wasn’t seeing them.

“I was never quite what he wanted,” she said after a moment, her tone almost light. “Violet was the perfect one—beautiful, clever, endlessly admired. I was…just there.”

Something shifted in his chest. She looked so small then, not in body but in spirit, wrapped in the quiet ache of being overlooked.

“My sister was born to shine,” she went on with a small shrug. “Even as children, people noticed her. I always knew I couldn’t measure up.”

“You’re wrong,” he said, stepping closer without thinking. “You see yourself through their eyes. Not your own.”

She gave a short, breathy laugh. “And you see me through a generous haze.”

“No,” he said firmly. “I see you clearly. And I can hardly breathe when I do.”

She blinked, startled, her brows knitting. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” His hand lifted on instinct, brushing a curl behind her ear. “Your father was wrong. About everything.”

She didn’t speak. Just looked at him, wide-eyed and unsure.

He stepped back, suddenly aware of how exposed he felt. His chest was tight, his thoughts tangled. There was desire, yes—but also something else, something unfamiliar that curled low in his gut and made it hard to breathe.

He cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “I should go. There’s work to be done.”

Her lips parted as if to speak, but she only nodded.

He turned and strode away, not trusting himself to look back. His pulse thundered in his ears.

Whatever that feeling was—he didn’t want it.

And he feared it was already too late.