Page 32 of The Duke Steals a Bride (Stolen by the Duke #5)

Chapter Thirty-Two

“O h, my dear Lord,” whispered Christine, losing her grip on the letter she held in her hand, watching it flutter to the floor.

In a daze, she turned to the duke, who was seated at the head of the table. “I simply cannot believe it!”

Violet is back home. She has returned.

Her eyes swiveled to the letter on the floor. It was from her father, informing her, in a very clipped, matter of fact way, that Violet was now ensconced in their Mayfair townhouse. Quickly, she picked up the letter, her heart giving a sickening lurch.

“What is it?” snapped the duke, wiping his mouth with his napkin, before throwing it on the table. “Why are you reacting like that?”

Christine winced at his tone. He had been speaking to her in this way ever since Isabella’s accident, over a week ago, as if he couldn’t bear to talk to her at all. Or touch her. He had been avoiding her like the plague.

Our nights and mornings of passion are over. It is as if they never happened at all. It has returned to the way it always was between us.

Beatrice and Isabella, who were seated in their usual chairs for breakfast, looked at their father with sad eyes. Both girls were silent. After a moment, they kept eating.

Christine took a deep breath, trying to push her hurt aside. “Violet is home,” she said, her heart skipping a beat. “She is home…and she is safe!”

The duke nodded curtly. It didn’t look like her news surprised him in the least. He had vowed to search for her sister on her behalf, and now, Violet had abruptly returned home.

How much of it was the duke’s doing? Her father hadn’t given any details about how Violet had returned home, nor how he had found her. Nothing at all. The Earl of Dunhill sounded like he was writing about the return of a lost puppy or kitten, rather than his most beloved daughter.

Her heart tightened. But then, that was typical of her father, wasn’t it?

“Did you do it?” she asked suddenly. The question hung in the air. “Did you find Violet and make sure she returned home safely?”

He shrugged in a disinterested way. “I may have had a hand in it,” he replied, drumming his fingers on the table. “What does it matter now?”

He gazed at her steadily. She bit her lip, blinking back tears.

“It matters to me ,” she said, her voice tremulous. “My father gives me little detail, except that she is home…and that he is introducing her back into society formally at a ball this coming Saturday.”

“A ball,” said the duke, smiling wryly. “How very typical of the earl. He always likes to put on a public show, doesn’t he?”

Christine flushed, filled with embarrassment. His assessment of her father’s character wasn’t wrong.

She took a deep breath, staring at him, ignoring the provocative question. “We are invited to it, of course. Can we attend?”

He shrugged again, looking pained. “I suppose so. It is my duty as your husband to formally greet your sister, welcoming her home. And it might stop the vicious spread of rumor about all of it, at long last.” His eyes slid to the girls, who were still nibbling on their toast, spread liberally with strawberry jam. “But the girls must come as well. I will not let them out of my sight again. Not after what happened last week.”

Christine blinked. “Of course, they can come.” She took a deep breath. “Bella’s ankle is almost entirely healed, now.” Her heart leapt, as she leaned across the table towards him. “Perhaps we could take the opportunity to go on an outing to Hyde Park together, as well, while we are in London. We could have another picnic…”

“I think not,” said the duke sharply, getting to his feet. His eyes flashed. “We will not take time for such frivolities. We will journey to London on Saturday afternoon in time to attend the ball and return to Ironstone on Sunday morning. I do not wish to dilly-dally there at all. Are we quite clear?”

“Yes,” stammered Christine, a bit stung by his dismissive tone, and his unwillingness to spend any time together as a family in London. “I understand perfectly.”

It meant that she wouldn’t be able to spend much private time with Violet, either. But his face was set in such an implacable way—a look that she well recognized. She knew there was little point arguing with him.

Their eyes met for a moment. She felt the crackle between them. His eyes widened. She knew he felt it as well—just as strongly as she did.

But the next moment, he was striding out of the dining room, slamming the door behind him. They all jumped in their seats, before resuming their breakfast in strained silence.

Christine’s eyes stung with tears. He had erected that impenetrable wall between them again. It was as if the passion and intimacy between them had never happened at all. And somehow, it was linked to Isabella’s accident.

It was bound to end anyway. He doesn’t love you…and he never will. Do not forget what Lady Canterfield told you. His heart is buried with Rose.

“What is wrong with Papa?” asked Beatrice suddenly, in a small voice. “Why is he grumpy again?”

“Oh, I expect he is just distracted with business,” Christine replied, her heart twisting. “Do not take any notice.”

“It is my fault,” said Isabella flatly. “He has been grumpy ever since I fell from the tree. He is still angry with me.”

“I am sure that is just coincidence,” said Christine, with a quick smile. “He is not angry with you, Bella. He was just worried about you. He wants you to be safe. That is all.”

Silence fell. Christine picked up her teacup, taking a sip, gazing out the window, lost in thought.

“Are you happy that your sister is home?” asked Isabella, in a curious voice.

“Very happy,” said Christine, turning back to the girls, taking a deep breath. “I am so very happy that she is safe…and well. I cannot wait to see her!”

She took another sip of tea, focusing on the letter again, frowning. Her mind was whirring with a thousand questions about her sister’s disappearance and abrupt return—questions which no one seemed to want to answer or explain.

Hopefully, she would get a chance to speak with her sister privately during this whirlwind trip to London—and finally find the answers she had been desperately seeking for so long.

* * *

“Oh, it has not changed at all,” said Christine, her heart flipping, as she walked into the foyer of her childhood home in Mayfair, staring at the familiar Persian rug and the oil portrait of her late mother on the wall. “I feel as if I have never even left.”

“Well, you have only been gone for a few months, you know,” said the duke, raising pained eyebrows. “It isn’t like you have returned from a long war or New Holland on the other side of the world.”

Christine nodded distractedly, her eyes filling with tears, fixating on her mother’s portrait. She knew the duke was right—but it was so odd. She simultaneously felt as if she had never left…and that she had indeed been gone for years.

Her heart tightened. Her father was descending the staircase…and beside him, with her hand on his arm, was Violet, dressed in a stunning green silk evening gown, with tassels on the bodice, her bright golden hair swept into an effortless chignon, expensive diamonds sparkling in her ears.

Violet. At long last.

She looked exactly the same as before she had vanished, as if no time had passed at all.

Christine’s heart stilled, as she examined her sister more closely. Did she truly look the same? She could barely breathe. She rushed to them as soon as they reached the bottom, hugging Violet tightly, before stepping back and gazing into her sister’s familiar, beautiful, beloved face.

Violet is safe. She is well. Even if she is looking a bit paler than usual and does not have the same sparkle in her eyes.

“Oh, Christine,” murmured Violet, her blue eyes filling with tears. She reached out, placing a gloved hand on Christine’s face, gazing at her. “How wonderful it is to see you, sister. You are glowing.”

“You are much too kind, sister,” stammered Christine, overwhelmed. “I-I do not know what to say, there is so much we need to catch up on…”

“There is no time for that now,” interrupted their father, in an irritable voice. “The guests will be arriving at any moment.” His eyes flickered to the duke, then back to Christine. “I suggest we convene in the drawing room for a moment to get the details of our story straight.”

Christine frowned, looking at Violet, who sagged a bit, a sad, wistful look in her eyes.

Story? Whatever does Father mean?

“Very well, Dunhill,” snapped the duke, turning to Miss Mayhew and the girls. “Can you take the girls to the kitchen for some refreshment, Miss Mayhew. Someone will fetch you when the ball begins so they can circulate for a small amount of time.”

“Tell Cook to give them some of her gingerbread, Miss Mayhew,” said Christine, smiling at the girls, who looked like fairy princesses in their matching white gowns for the ball. “I am certain they will love it. It was my favorite when I was their age.”

The adults proceeded to the drawing room when the governess took the girls away. It was festooned with several vases of fresh flowers for the coming ball, but they were arranged in a stiff, artificial way, by the housekeeper or a maid. It looked so formal, lacking a lady’s touch.

They all sat on the sofas near the fire. Christine resisted the urge to reach out and take her sister’s hand again. Violet still looked so sad and lost, as if something valuable or important had been taken away from her.

What is it? Where has she been? And why?

“Now,” said the earl, turning to them. “The story shall be that Violet was staying with my sister, Lady Clara Andrews, who currently lives on a rural property near Cardiff in Wales. My sister has been ailing with her rheumatism and Violet wanted to assist her.” He drew a deep breath. “Wales is far enough away that no one will ever know it is not true.”

There was silence. Christine turned to Violet, whose face was impassive. Her sister was staring straight ahead, and she didn’t return Christine’s gaze.

The duke coughed into his hand, frowning, looking a bit distracted, as he always did nowadays. “As you wish, Dunhill.”

“But why?” said Christine, her heart thumping hard. She stared at Violet. “Where were you, sister? Why can we not speak of it?”

“Enough, Christine,” snapped her father, his face turning puce. “It is the past now. No good can come of it.”

“You no longer have the authority to speak to my wife in that way, Dunhill,” said the duke, in a deceptively mild voice. “I thought we had an agreement. And may I remind you that my wife is Your Grace to you now.”

The earl’s color deepened. Christine’s heart leapt, just a little, at how quickly the duke had risen to defend her. But when she looked at him, he looked as irritable as ever, as if this was the last place he wanted to be, and she was the last person he wanted to be with.

At that moment, the butler walked in, interrupting them.

“Guests are starting to arrive, my lord,” he said, looking at the earl.

“Good,” said the earl, jumping to his feet. He stared at Violet. “Shall we greet them, daughter?”

Violet nodded, then sighed, rising to her feet, taking her father’s arm, her face still set in that implacable, sad, resigned mask.

Christine’s heart tightened. What had happened to her sister? What was the truth? And would she ever get a chance to find out?