Page 23 of The Duke Steals a Bride (Stolen by the Duke #5)

Chapter Twenty-Three

“W ho is that letter from?” the duke asked, in a curious voice, wiping his mouth with a napkin, as Christine turned the letter over in her hand, looking at the impressive red seal. “Do you recognize the seal?”

She shrugged, squinting her eyes to examine it, but she couldn’t make it out. A footman had just delivered the letter to her on a silver tray, along with the duke’s mail. Immediately, she had felt a stab of anticipation.

Could it be from Violet, at long last?

With trembling hands, she broke the seal, opening it. Her eyes ran over the handwriting. Her heart plummeted.

The letter wasn’t from Violet—oddly, it was from Lady Canterfield, the duke’s former sister-in-law. The lady who had consoled her after Christine had been attacked by those horrible ladies at the garden party. At least, she had tried to console her—but oddly, had only ended up making her feel even worse.

“It is from Lady Canterfield,” she said, raising her eyebrows, as she read the brief letter. She turned to the duke at the head of the table. “She is inviting us to luncheon at Canterfield Hall.” She hesitated, her eyes straying to the twins sitting across the table, eating their breakfast, scooping the runny, orange yolks out of their boiled eggs. “All of us.”

“Nora wrote to you to extend the invitation?” The duke frowned. “Why did she do that, instead of writing to me?”

Christine shrugged again. “I truly do not know. I have barely spoken to her.” She hesitated, biting her lip, staring at the letter again. “She wants us to come to luncheon the day after tomorrow. She says the girls can meet her new dogs.”

“That day is impossible for me,” snapped the duke, sipping his tea, with narrowed eyes. “I am attending an auction to purchase a new horse that day. You will have to write back to her and decline it.”

Christine hesitated, looking at the girls. They had been on their best behavior since their recent hijinks in the nursery. In fact, they had been bending over backwards to be sweet to everyone. She supposed the threat of losing their beloved pets again had scared them into it. They deserved a day out.

And she was curious about Lady Canterfield. It would be interesting to see the lady in her own home. And perhaps ask a few more questions about Rose—the duke’s late wife, and the girl’s mother.

She took a deep breath, turning back to the duke.

“Could I take the girls to the luncheon?” She held her breath. “Lady Canterfield is their aunt, after all, and it would be good for them to spend time with her.”

“Hmmm,” the duke said, tapping his fingers on the table. He didn’t look thrilled at the idea. He turned to the girls. “Do you want to spend some time with your Aunt Nora?”

“Aunt Nora?” Isabella tilted her head to the side, staring at her father. “I do not like her very much.”

“Neither do I,” Beatrice piped up, tapping her spoon against her egg cup. She frowned.

“Why?” Christine gazed at them. “Why do you not like her? She is always kind to you, is she not?”

Isabella shrugged. “Yes, I suppose she is,” she replied. She paused. “She laughs too much. It sounds like a pretend laugh.”

“And she always asks us too many questions,” Beatrice sighed, rolling her eyes. “It is annoying.”

“You are not being very generous toward your aunt,” admonished Christine, with a slight smile. “She is only trying to get to know you both. You must give her a chance.” She turned to the duke. “Lady Canterfield is the girls’ only close relative, after all. Their relationship should be encouraged, should it not?”

“I suppose so,” relented the duke, with a derisive grunt. His eyes flickered toward Christine. “You may take the girls. But do not stay for the entire day. Make sure you are back at Ironstone before the dinner gong.”

Christine nodded, her heart beating hard, putting the letter aside, focusing on the toast on her plate.

Even though her last encounter with Lady Canterfield had been odd, she was looking forward to getting to know the lady better, especially in her own milieu. Besides the fact it was true the girls’ relationship with their only aunt should be cultivated. They were so isolated at Ironstone most of the time.

“Does Lady Canterfield have any children of her own?” she asked suddenly, turning back to the duke. “Do the girls have cousins?”

The duke gave a bark of contemptuous laughter. “No,” he replied, putting down his teacup, giving her his whole attention. She felt her face flush. “Her husband, the Marquess of Canterfield, is very old. He must be at least five-and-seventy. I do not think he is capable of siring children. He would probably keel over if he even tried.”

Christine’s flush deepened. She suppressed a smile. “I see,” she said. “Well, that is very sad for Lady Canterfield. She must be bereft.”

“Bereft? Nora?” The duke snorted. “Even though her parents forced her to marry him, I believe she has developed quite a taste for his wealth and position. He leaves her alone, and she can live her life as she pleases. I do not think being childless worries her overmuch.”

“She may have been devastated when she was forced to marry an elderly gentleman,” Christine admonished. “You do not know what was in her heart.”

The duke shrugged. “I hardly know, nor do I particularly care,” he stated flatly, getting up from the table, throwing his napkin down. “I was never close to her. Nor do I care to be close to her now.” He stared hard at Christine. “Be careful. She sniffs for information. Do not give it to her.”

“Of course, I will be discreet,” said Christine, feeling a bit affronted. “You do not have to remind me.”

He didn’t reply. He was already striding from the room, slamming the door behind him.

Christine kept watching the door, her heart thumping hard. He seemed to be mad with her because she had been scrupulously avoiding being alone with him ever since she had walked away from him on the balcony two nights ago. It was strange, but she couldn’t account for his irritation otherwise.

He is the one who is usually bending over backward to avoid me. He does not like it when the boot is on the other foot, does he?

Her color deepened. She wanted him to touch her and kiss her so much that she could no longer control her body’s reaction toward him. And that was dangerous—for the duke was capricious toward her, and she couldn’t afford to become so enthralled with him. She might end up with a badly broken heart.

He is so mercurial. One moment he stares at me as if he wants to devour me, and the next moment, he is snapping at me, as if he detests me.

She took a deep, ragged breath, pushing the troubling thought aside, turning to the girls, who were scraping the last of their eggshells.

“It is almost time for your lessons,” she said, with a warm smile. “If you are very good today, and apply yourselves, we can go for a walk to the village this afternoon and buy some peppermint candies from the confectionary shop. Does that sound good?”

Their eyes lit up. They both nodded, scrambling to their feet, throwing their napkins on the table, before clattering out of the room.

Christine sighed again, getting to her feet, walking to the window. She frowned, watching a man in a dark cloak and wide brimmed black hat on the front steps of the castle. The next minute, the duke was there. They talked for a few minutes before they proceeded inside.

Christine’s heart started thumping hard. She didn’t know why, but somehow, she just knew that the man was here about Violet. The duke had promised her he would search for her sister. Had the man found her? How could she endure the suspense?

* * *

“Enter,” Edwin barked irritably at the rap on his study door, rubbing his neck ruefully.

It had been a long, tiring day, and it wasn’t over yet. He was expecting a merchant he conducted business with at any moment.

The door opened. He stiffened. It was Christine, her hands folded in front of her, looking hesitant as she stepped into the room, but so unbearably beautiful it was painful. There was a tense silence.

She has been avoiding me for days. Why is she here now?

“Well?” he growled. “What is it?”

She took a deep breath, her eyes flickering around the room.

“I wanted to check with you about Violet,” she said eventually. “You promised to search for her. Did that man’s visit after breakfast this morning have anything to do with it?”

He shook his head, gazing at her curiously. “Your instincts are correct. That man is a private investigator from London who I have hired to look for your sister.”

“And?” Christine’s eyes widened. She could barely breathe. “Has he discovered anything?” She took a small step towards him, wringing her hands. “Has he found Violet?”

“Not yet,” he replied, rubbing his chin. He gazed at her steadily. “There was a promising lead. A ticket was found in her name, bound for a port in the west. But we don’t know if she actually boarded the ship.” He paused, eyes flickering with frustration. “The trail goes cold after that.”

Christine turned pale, her breath catching in her throat. Her hand gripped the back of the chair, her knuckles white with the pressure. Edwin immediately rose from his chair and crossed the room to her side, his hand firm on her shoulder.

“Are you quite well?” he asked, his voice low and urgent. “Do you need to sit down?”

She shook her head, her chest rising and falling as she struggled to steady herself. The sudden loss of his touch when she stepped away was a sharp pang in his chest. Her wide, tear-brimmed eyes met his.

“A ticket in her name?” she repeated, her voice barely a whisper. “But…that means she was going to board a ship. She could be anywhere?—”

Edwin exhaled sharply, his voice firm to cut through the panic. “Do not assume the worst. There are countless possibilities. The ship could have been delayed or never left. She may not have gone through with it at all.”

Christine took a step back, pacing the floor in agitation, her hands wringing. Edwin remained where he stood, his eyes on her, fighting the instinct to cross the space and offer comfort. The helplessness in her posture made it hard to resist.

Her words, barely audible, floated through the room. “If she sailed, she could be anywhere. The East…or the Americas. How will we ever find her?”

“You are jumping to conclusions,” he said, walking toward her, his voice more insistent now. He placed his hands on her shoulders again, holding her gaze. “I promised you that I would find her, and I will. It just might take some time. That is all.”

He was drowning in her eyes now, as he always was when she looked at him like that. A thousand unsaid words hung in the air, thick and electric between them. The way her chest rose and fell with each breath was driving him mad. He could feel the pull, the gravity, drawing him closer, but he fought it—barely.

Hesitantly, almost as if he were afraid to break the spell, he raised his hand, fingers trembling slightly as they brushed along her cheekbone.

His touch was slow, deliberate, savoring the warmth of her skin, the softness that he hadn’t dared to explore enough. Her breath hitched, and for a moment, he thought she might lean into him, that she might let him cross that final threshold.

But then— knock .

The sound sliced through the air, jarring them both. They sprang apart as if the touch had been a fire.

He cursed beneath his breath, frustration rising in his chest. His eyes tracked her as she moved toward the door, her steps hurried. She almost collided with the butler, who was standing there, oblivious to the storm they’d just weathered.

She was already gone, and he was left standing there, staring after her.

A slow, deep breath tore from him, but it didn’t help. His heart hammered, a steady beat in his ears, as the tension coiled tighter inside him. The air felt too thick, like he was being suffocated by the weight of everything left unsaid between them.

This can’t go on , he thought.

It was killing him.

He clenched his fists, trying to calm the storm raging inside him. The longer this tension stretched, the harder it would be to pull back. And he wasn’t sure he could do that.

Every instinct screamed at him to go after her, to demand answers, to take control. But something held him back. The delicate, fragile thread of self-control he had left was the only thing keeping him from shattering.

When was the release going to come? How long could he wait before it tore them both apart?