Page 30 of The Duke Steals a Bride (Stolen by the Duke #5)

Chapter Thirty

“G ood shot, Isabella. Very well done!”

Christine smiled at the duke’s praise for his daughter. Isabella had just shot an arrow through the air toward the archery board set up on the lawn in the gardens, where it had landed very close to the bull’s eye. The closest she had come to the center of the board yet.

Christine clapped wildly. Isabella looked a little embarrassed, but very pleased, ducking her head as she retrieved her arrow. It was Beatrice’s turn now. The girl huffed a little, blowing a stray curl out of her face, as she placed the arrow carefully in the bow, raising it toward the target.

“Now, do not forget what I told you,” said her father, walking toward her and adjusting her position. “You must send the arrow into the air slightly, so that it has height as well as length. It must curve before it falls.”

“I remember, Papa,” Beatrice said, in an impatient tone.

“Good,” said the duke, standing aside.

Beatrice’s arrow sailed through the air, landing short of the target. She kicked a stone on the ground, looking irritated. It was clear that Isabella was better at the game of archery than her sister, and Beatrice was becoming increasingly frustrated. Her bottom lip started to wobble.

“Come with me,” said Christine, walking to the girl, taking her shoulders and guiding her away, as the duke took his shot. She turned to Beatrice. “Remember, you are competing with yourself, and no one else. And your best is good enough. It always will be.”

The little girl’s face softened. “But Bella is good at everything,” she pouted, her eyes filling with tears. “She is better at games, better at the pianoforte…better than me at everything we try!”

“Do not compare yourself to her,” Christine said, in a low voice, her heart turning over in her chest. “Your father and I value you exactly as you are, Beatrice. You have so many talents that your sister does not.”

“Do I?” The little girl screwed up her nose. “Like what?”

“Your reading is far superior,” said Christine, her heart bleeding for the little girl. “Why, you can read so quickly for a lady your age! And you are excellent at sketching. Do you recall that wonderful drawing of Sooty you gave me? You drew her fur so well, I felt like I could reach onto the paper and pet her!”

Beatrice laughed, gazing at Christine shyly. “I am glad you came to live with us,” she announced abruptly. “I am glad that you are our stepmother. I can see you make Papa happy.”

Christine felt a lump form in her throat. Her eyes filled with tears. It was the first affirmation she had gotten from either of the girls that they were starting to care for her, even though she knew they were growing closer by the day and starting to trust her now. She didn’t know how to respond at all.

“What is going on?” The duke was suddenly at their side, frowning slightly. “Is everything well?”

“More than well,” Christine replied, her heart skipping a beat. She turned to Beatrice. “Will you promise me to try again? To just do your best and have fun? For that is the most important thing.”

“I will,” promised the little girl, smiling widely, before skipping away to join her sister.

“What was that all about?” Edwin asked, pulling her to him, gazing down at her intently.

“I believe that Beatrice is starting to trust me,” she said, in an incredulous voice. “And I think Isabella is starting to, as well.”

“Of course, they are,” he said, in a low voice, his eyes flickering over her face. “How could they not, when you are the epitome of kindness, grace and patience with them?”

Christine tried to laugh, but her heart lurched wildly again. She felt perilously close to tears. She sighed, rubbing one eye, to stop herself from bawling.

“I think I have an eyelash in it,” she murmured.

“Do not rub it, then,” he whispered, taking a step closer to her. “It will only make it worse. Open your eye and let me see.”

She held her breath as he gently examined her eye, pulling it slightly. She felt his warm breath on her face and smelt his familiar scent of leather and sandalwood. Already, her body was responding to him, craving his touch again. Her flesh was leaping. She felt him still, tensing, as if he sensed the sudden shift in energy between them, as well.

“I cannot see anything,” he whispered. “Perhaps it was a speck of dust.”

They kept gazing at each other. He put his hands on her waist, in a possessive way. She felt the hardness of his manhood through his britches. Her nipples hardened in response.

“There you all are! I thought I would never find you!”

They sprang apart like scalded cats.

It was Lady Canterfield, walking briskly toward them across the lawn, one hand holding a parasol above her head, and the other holding her skirt slightly aloft. Two footmen flanked her, carrying boxes wrapped in colorful paper.

“What is she doing here?” Edwin asked, under his breath, looking annoyed. “Did you invite her?”

Christine shook her head. “I had no idea she was calling at all.”

The duke sighed heavily. “Well, there is nothing to be done about it now.” He took a deep breath, turning to the visitor. His smile was closer to a grimace. “Nora. What a pleasant surprise.”

“I know I should have informed you I was calling,” trilled the lady, finally reaching them. “It was cheeky of me…but I could never resist a surprise!” She caught her breath, giving them a dazzling smile. “I have gifts for the girls.”

“So I see,” said the duke, with another heavy sigh. He turned around. “Isabella and Beatrice, come and greet your aunt. Lady Canterfield has brought gifts.”

Christine stood back, watching as the girls opened their gifts. They both squealed in delight. Isabella received a golden-haired porcelain doll in a stiff purple silk dress, and Beatrice received a large gilt-edged book of fairytales.

“You see I remembered what you both like,” said their aunt, winking at them. “Am I not clever?”

“What do you say, girls?” The duke’s voice was edged with impatience—and boredom.

Christine stared at him, shaking her head slightly. He sighed again.

“Thank you, Aunt Nora,” they both chorused.

Christine called for the tea service, and they all sat down near the gardens. But the duke grew impatient, taking the girls to play archery again, before the tea had even arrived, leaving Christine to entertain their guest alone.

They made stilted conversation about the weather until the tea service finally arrived. When Lady Canterfield had her tea in hand, she smiled, turning to Christine, staring at her inquisitively.

“You and His Grace seem to be getting along better now,” said the lady. “I am so glad for your sake, my dear, that you are finding your feet at Ironstone, and the duke is condescending to be kind to you.”

“Thank you, Lady Canterfield. I appreciate that,” Christine replied politely.

“I would be careful, though,” the lady continued, putting down her cup of tea, reaching for the sugar bowl, and stirring another heaped spoon into her brew. “I can see that you are developing feelings for him, which will never be reciprocated, my dear. It is quite impossible.”

Christine froze. The words stung, but she pushed them aside, unsure whether she truly believed them.

“Why?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady. “Why would he never care for me? Why is it impossible?”

Lady Canterfield sighed, setting her tea aside, her eyes heavy with sorrow as she met Christine’s gaze.

“His heart is buried with my sister,” she said in a soft tone. “The duke was passionately in love with Rose, to the point of madness. He worshipped the ground she walked upon. When he lost her, he vowed he could never love again. I heard him say it in front of my sister’s grave.”

Christine’s head spun, her heart twisting uncomfortably. She felt a rush of nausea.

Could this be true? Could he really never love me?

She turned her face away, pretending to be engrossed in the sight of the duke helping Beatrice with her bow and arrow.

No, it can’t be true…

But the doubts gnawed at her.

What if it was?

She thought about how close they had grown over the past weeks. Since that ball, when he had grown jealous when she danced with Lord Meyer. Since they had both surrendered to the passion simmering between them. The moments they shared, waking together in the mornings, talking as they spent time with the girls. The way he looked at her now…

Could someone who had lost love so desperately ever open his heart again?

Her throat tightened as she turned back to Lady Canterfield, trying to mask the turmoil rising within her. “But… he—he seems different with me. He has been… kind. More than kind. He spends time with me and the girls. We go on rides, on picnics…”

Lady Canterfield’s lips curved into a sad smile.

“Ah, but that’s all it is, my dear,” she said gently, her voice dripping with false sympathy. “Kindness. That is all he can give. You see, his actions toward you—well, they are because of his responsibility. His duty to his late wife’s children. He has only married you because the girls need a mother figure. And you have been so good with them, haven’t you? He’s just being considerate.”

Christine’s heart dropped.

Considerate? Is that all I am worth to him?

“But… surely, he must have some affection for me,” Christine ventured, the words feeling weak even as she spoke them. She needed to believe them. She had to. “Why else would he want to spend so much time with me? Why else would he…”

She could hear the uncertainty in her own voice now, a crack in the foundation of what she had so desperately wanted to be true.

“Dear girl,” Lady Canterfield’s voice was soft, but there was an edge of condescension now, as if she were explaining something to a child. “The duke may enjoy your company, but it’s just the relief of having someone—someone who can tend to his duties and provide what he needs. But that’s as far as it goes.”

Christine’s mind raced, and she struggled to form the words. “But… you said it yourself. He loved Rose. He’s… he’s been through so much loss. Couldn’t he… learn to love again?”

“Oh, my dear, I so wish it were that simple,” Lady Canterfield said with a sigh, her hand fluttering toward her chest as if she herself was mourning some long-lost hope. “But the duke’s heart has been sealed away, locked up tight ever since Rose’s death. I was there. I saw it. He was devastated, Your Grace. Had he not made that vow, then perhaps… but he did.” She trailed off, shaking her head sorrowfully.

Christine’s heart pounded in her chest. The pain was overwhelming, a heavy weight that seemed to settle in her bones.

Could he really never love me? The question seemed to echo endlessly in her mind.

“Why are you telling me this?” Christine’s voice was barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of an accusation. She looked directly at Lady Canterfield, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. “What are you trying to do?”

Lady Canterfield’s eyes widened with surprise, “I am only trying to protect you, Your Grace. In my youth, I was once in love with someone who was out of my reach. I have been in your position, and I dearly wish that someone would have warned me back then. Saved me the heartbreak. I must do this for you, you see? You don’t want to let your heart grow too involved, only to be left broken, believe me, Your Grace.”

Christine’s jaw tightened.

“But… you don’t even know me,” Christine muttered, still staring at Lady Canterfield, her voice trembling.

Lady Canterfield’s expression softened, and she placed a hand on Christine’s arm, “Oh, my dear, I do know you. I know how vulnerable you must feel right now. You’ve come into a new life, with so many hopes and dreams, and it’s natural to want love, to want to believe in something more. But I only want you to be prepared. The duke will never be able to give you what you want. His heart… it’s been claimed long ago, and it will never be yours.”

Christine’s chest tightened, her thoughts a whirlwind of confusion.

She’s playing with my heart. She’s manipulating me.

But the doubt was there, gnawing at her. How much of it was true? Could it all be as Lady Canterfield said?

“If you would excuse me for a moment, Lady Canterfield,” she said quickly. “A thread has come loose from my bodice. I will return presently.”

She walked away, toward the castle, almost tripping over the hem of her gown in her haste. She didn’t look back.

When she was certain she was out of view, she veered off the path, leaning against a garden wall, trying to catch her breath. Her mind was still spinning.

She hugged her arms around her stomach, trying to suppress the cry of pure pain that was welling in her throat. She hadn’t realized how much she cared for him—how deeply in love she was falling with him—until that dreadful lady had told her he could never love her back.

It might not be true. Just because he was so in love with Rose doesn’t mean he cannot change his mind and fall in love again. It was a very long time ago.

Her eyes filled with useless tears. She had always known, deep down, that he must have loved Rose desperately.

Why else had he bent over backward to keep distance between them? Why else had he kept insisting he only wanted a marriage of convenience?

His heart is buried with Rose. Forever.

And where did that leave her own heart?