Page 22 of The Duke Steals a Bride (Stolen by the Duke #5)

Chapter Twenty-Two

“O h, dear.” Christine sighed wearily as she stepped into the nursery. “What is going on, Miss Mayhew?”

The room looked like a fierce wind had torn through it.

Toys scattered everywhere. A chair was upended. Books—expensive encyclopedias from the library—were lying open on the ground in a haphazard way.

Isabella was standing in a window alcove, with the window fully open, leaning out, waving and shouting. Beatrice was tearing around the room like a banshee, a paper kite in her hand, singing tunelessly.

The governess turned quickly at the sound of Christine’s voice, looking frazzled. Her hair was escaping her tight bun and there were two spots of red on her cheeks. She jumped.

“Oh, Your Grace,” she cried, wringing her hands. “I do apologize…the young ladies are in a mercurial mood, and I have not been able to settle them to their lessons at all this morning…”

“I see,” sighed Christine, shaking her head, as she surveyed the chaos around her. “It is quite a mess.”

Her heart sank. The twins had been so much better behaved lately that she had been lulled into thinking their hijinks were over—that they had settled completely. Clearly, she had been precipitous in that judgement.

“The girls are due for their pianoforte lessons now, as you know,” continued Christine, biting her lip. “But I think it might not be a good idea in the circumstances.” She squared her shoulders, taking a deep breath. “You may take a break, Miss Mayhew. I will deal with this. If you could tell Mr. Woods the young ladies will be a little late this morning.”

The governess’s eyes boggled. She looked torn. “Are you quite certain, Your Grace?”

Christine hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. You may leave.”

The governess didn’t need to be told a second time. She was gone in the blink of an eye. Christine didn’t blame her at all.

Quickly, she walked to the window, where Isabella was still waving and shouting. Christine peered out. There were a group of gardeners clipping hedges, gazing up bemusedly at the girl.

“Isabella, you must shut the window and come inside,” she said, in a quiet, but firm voice. “It is not seemly for a young lady to be hanging out the window and shouting at the servants.” She took a deep breath. “And besides that, you are disturbing them. They need to do their work, or else your father will growl at them.”

Isabella stopped, turning to her, looking a bit shamefaced. “They will get in trouble?”

Christine nodded. “Yes, they will. They might even lose their positions at Ironstone. You do not want to be responsible for that, do you?”

“No,” sighed the girl, in a begrudging voice. “I suppose not.”

“I will help you close the window,” said Christine, in a gentle voice. “It is heavy.”

Once the window was firmly closed, and Isabella safely contained, Christine gazed at Beatrice steadily. The little girl, who was still running around the room singing, slowed down, then stopped. They gazed at each other.

“This is not like you, Beatrice,” admonished Christine, in a quiet voice. She turned to Isabella, then back to Beatrice. “What is going on this morning? Why are you not attending your lessons?”

“It was boring!” declared Isabella, stamping her foot. She hesitated. “We wanted to do our history projects, but Miss Mayhew said we had to do sums.”

Christine sighed. “Come and sit down with me. Both of you.”

They hesitated, then followed her to their work desk, which was strewn with papers. The ink well was upended, as well. Christine ignored it, focusing on the children. There was an awkward silence as they gazed at her.

“This must stop,” said Christine firmly. “Miss Mayhew is trying her very best to make your lessons interesting. And you both promised to attend them if you were allowed daily outside play in the afternoons, and you have been.”

She paused, fixing them with a stern look. “Sooty and her kittens were returned to you. I want you to remember how much you missed your pets, for if your father discovers this lapse in your behavior, he will not hesitate to take them away again, you know.”

They both gasped, turning to stare at the cat basket in the corner of the room, before turning back to her. Beatrice’s eyes filled with tears. Isabella turned pale.

“Now, what must you do to make amends?” asked Christine, after a short pause, making sure her words had sunk in fully. “I want you to tell me.”

“We should apologize to Miss Mayhew,” said Beatrice, in a small voice. “And promise to never do this again.”

Christine nodded. “Yes, you must. And what else?”

“I suppose we should clean the mess in here,” said Isabella, with a heavy sigh. “It does look rather dreadful.”

“Agreed,” said Christine. “It is a terrible mess. And you must remember to treat the books with care, as well. I do not want to have to ban you both from taking books from the library.”

Beatrice looked horrified. “Oh, no!”

“Then you know what you must do,” said Christine. “Start tidying up. And as soon as Miss Mayhew comes back, you must apologize. Only then will you be allowed to go to the drawing room for your pianoforte lessons. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” they said, in unison, getting up. Within minutes, they were tidying the room.

Christine stood, then abruptly stopped, her heart beating hard. She could just see the duke standing at the edge of the doorway, watching them with an impenetrable expression on his face.

Their eyes met and held, before he suddenly turned, walking away. She heard his footsteps receding down the hallway.

She took a deep breath, feeling unsettled. How long had he been watching? Why had he not entered the room?

She bit her lip. He had been avoiding her again since the day of her father’s call, when he had so fiercely defended her.

She still couldn’t forget the way he had looked at her when they had been standing in the garden together, looking out at the rolling green hills as far as the eye could see, after her father left. The way he had tucked a stray curl behind her ear, in an almost tender way. The way he had insisted that she wasn’t second best to her sister—that, in fact, he thought she was absolutely fine, just the way she was.

Had he meant it? Or was it just something he had said in the moment? If he truly meant it, why had he walked away again? Why was he always walking away, whenever they grew close?

Sighing heavily, she turned back to supervise the girls, trying to soothe her sore, aching heart. It seemed she would never understand him.

* * *

Edwin watched her as she stood on the balcony, her head tilted toward the sky, watching the moon, the breeze whipping her hair behind her. His heart started thudding painfully.

He knew he should turn and go inside. He ought to leave her to her silent contemplation of the night sky. Every fiber of his being was screaming he would be in danger if he approached her—that he was falling headlong into ever more danger at a sickening speed.

He hesitated, then quickly started walking toward her. He grimaced. So much for telling himself to leave her alone.

“The moon is looking particularly bright this evening,” he said, as he approached, causing her to jump.

She drew in a steadying breath and turned to face him. The air between them pulsed with unspoken tension, thick as fog before a storm. He felt it gathering, coiling, stretching taut between them. But that was nothing new.

The charge they carried between them could ignite the very walls around them. He had been grappling with the force of it since the moment she walked down that aisle—slow, composed, utterly unknowable—and took her place beside him. From that first moment, she had unsettled him. And now, he feared, she had undone him entirely.

“I saw what happened in the nursery today,” he said slowly, gazing at her intently. “You handled the girls with aplomb.”

She looked stunned, then laughed weakly. “I do not know about that , but at least they ended up doing the right thing.” She hesitated. Her color deepened. “I saw you standing at the doorway, as well. Why did you not enter?”

He shrugged. “Because I did not wish to disturb you when you were doing so well with them. My presence would have only muddied the waters.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You have changed,” she said slowly. “Only a few weeks ago, you would have rushed in like a bull at a gate.”

He grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck ruefully, realizing, with a sudden clarity, that she was right. That was exactly what he would have done. What had changed?

It is her. It is she who has changed you…irrevocably.

“I am trying to stand back and let you find your own feet with the girls,” he said slowly, swallowing a sudden lump in his throat. “I have realized it is the only way they will come to respect you.” He hesitated. “You have done so well with them. Their behavior, save for today, has been exemplary.”

Her jaw dropped. “What happened to your decree that your word is law, and I must obey it?”

He laughed softly. “Oh, my word must still be obeyed,” he whispered, taking a small step toward her. “Except I choose my battles now, little mouse. There are still some things where I demand absolute obedience.”

She swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper. “Such as?”

His fingers skimmed the line of her cheekbone, slow and deliberate, as if memorizing the shape of her. Her skin was impossibly soft, and the delicate tremble of her breath beneath his touch made his blood burn.

He fought the animal urge rising within him—to seize her, to bury his face in the curve of her neck, to taste the heat of her skin.

God help me, I want to carry you off like a savage. I want you beneath me until you forget your own name.

His hand slipped to the nape of her neck, fingers curving possessively. He leaned in, his breath mingling with hers.

“If you knew what I crave when I look at you,” he rasped, his voice low and dangerous. “It’s not decency that keeps me at bay—it’s the last shreds of my control, and it’s hanging by a thread.”

Her lips parted, her eyes dark with hunger. “Then stop holding back.”

The thread inside him snapped.

He was already moving—ready to take her into his arms, ready to make good on every desperate, aching promise—when a footman’s throat cleared behind them, sharp and apologetic.

“My apologies, Your Grace,” said the footman. “But there is a situation with one of the horses in the stables. The Arabian stallion you recently purchased is ill. The steward needs you.”

Suddenly, Christine jumped, shaking herself, walking quickly away back into the house.

Edwin swore beneath his breath, rounding on the man. “Can the steward not handle the situation?”

Disappointment soured like milk in his blood. Instead, he turned back to the footman.

“Do not bother,” he snapped. “I will go.”

The servant nodded, scurrying away. Edwin rubbed his neck, walking out of the house, toward the stables. When he was halfway there, he looked back.

Christine had returned to the balcony, gazing up at the sky again. His loins throbbed just looking at her.

Oh, I will have you. It might be now, or it might be later. But it will happen. You are going to submit and surrender yourself to me, my lady.