Page 34 of The Duke Steals a Bride (Stolen by the Duke #5)

Chapter Thirty-Four

“B ut why must you stay in London? I do not understand.”

Isabella’s voice was plaintive as she stared at Christine across the breakfast table the next day. The duke winced. Beatrice looked sad. The silence stretched on.

Christine sighed heavily, gazing out the window, at the ladies and gentlemen in their morning attire, carrying parasols and walking sticks, already heading toward Hyde Park for their morning promenade. It was always busy in Grosvenor Square—it was one of the most exclusive, fashionable parts of London, after all.

We could have stayed here together as a family for a few days. We could have taken the girls to Hyde Park, Vauxhall Gardens, and even the ballet.

But it is all lying in ashes now.

She took a deep breath, plastering a smile onto her face, turning back to the girls, who hadn’t touched their boiled eggs and toast since her announcement that she would be staying in London…and they were heading back to the country with their father. She felt like her face was going to crack.

“It is only for a few days, Bella,” she said, her heart flipping. “I want to spend time with my sister, as I haven’t seen her in a long time. That is all.”

She bit her lip, not knowing whether she was lying or not—not knowing how long she would be staying in London. Her heart contorted with pain. Perhaps it might be permanent. Perhaps her marriage of convenience might encompass separate living arrangements…forever.

I could live in this house to keep up appearances. And the duke and the girls would stay at Ironstone. Many couples do it.

“I don’t want you to stay here,” said Beatrice, her bottom lip sticking out mutinously. “I want you to come back to Ironstone with us!”

“Beatrice,” warned her father, frowning. “You do not get anything by demanding in such a way. It is very unbecoming.” He took a deep breath, gazing at the girls, ignoring Christine entirely. “We are heading back to Ironstone in an hour, so you must both finish your breakfast. Now.”

Christine picked up her teacup, sipping it carefully to keep the tears at bay. They resumed their meal in silence.

She watched the girls picking at their food, her heart contracting with pain again. She hadn’t expected them to be so forceful about not wanting her to stay behind. It was both gratifying and alarming—for she didn’t want to hurt them, even a little bit.

If only their father would make such a stand on my behalf. But he is mute.

Suddenly, she couldn’t bear it any longer. She stood up, throwing her napkin on the table, her chair scraping on the floor. They all looked at her.

“I need to go to my father’s place now,” she said, her voice thick with tears. “I hope you have a pleasant journey back to Ironstone.”

“As you wish,” said the duke, his face impassive. His dark eyes flickered toward her. “Give my regards to the earl and Lady Violet, of course.”

She stared at him, unable to believe that this polite stranger was the same man who had held her with such passion, raging over her body, evoking such sinful sensations within her. The same man who had held her hand and whispered tender words into her ear as they had walked through fields of poppies, or beneath the moonlight, together.

It is as if it never happened. It is as if it were all a dream.

She turned, walking like a marionette on strings toward the door, only just managing to stop herself bursting into tears. She placed her hand on the door handle…and then, she gasped in shock, as she felt arms wrapping tightly around her.

It was the twins. Both of them. They were clinging to her legs, gazing up at her, imploringly.

“You will come back to Ironstone?” pleaded Isabella.

“Promise that you will!” begged Beatrice.

Christine’s heart melted, wrapping her arms around the girls, hushing them.

“I will see you soon,” she said, ducking the promise to return to Ironstone, gazing at them tenderly. “Promise that you will be good for Miss Mayhew…and for your father.”

“We promise,” they said, in unison.

She sighed, leaning over and kissing them both on their dark hair, glancing at the duke, her heart racing erratically.

Tell me you don’t want me to go. I will stay if you only say the word.

His eyes flickered toward her, then he looked away. Deliberately.

Christine felt like a knife had just pierced her heart. Without another word, she left the room, flying up the staircase, her eyes blurred with tears.

She had given him multiple chances to declare himself to her, to beg her not to stay in London, to tell her something of his feelings for her. But he had declined, which meant, of course, he didn’t have any feelings for her at all.

She had been a fool to believe it was ever possible. Lady Canterfield had told her plainly that his heart was buried with his late wife. And clearly, it couldn’t be resurrected.

The duke’s heart was as dead as Rose.

She reached her room, leaning against the door, her heart thudding painfully. She couldn’t breathe. Her father had no idea she was planning an extended stay at his house, and he would bellyache about it, of course. He might even force her to return to her husband.

She didn’t want to stay with her father. But she did want to talk with Violet and in the process, lick her wounds, think about what she would do going forward. How her shattered life was going to look in the future.

She had made her choice. But then again… so had the duke.

* * *

“Where is the duke?” demanded her father, looking behind Christine as she walked into the house, as if her husband might suddenly pop up from behind a bush. “Why are you alone?”

“The duke has returned to Ironstone with the girls,” Christine replied, trying to keep her face impassive. She turned and looked at him. “I have decided I am going to stay here for a few days to catch up with Violet.”

At that moment, as if to underscore her point, the footman brought her trunk into the foyer of the house. The earl’s eyes widened in alarm and astonishment.

“This is most irregular, Christine,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Your place is with your husband.” He took a deep breath. “People might start to talk—they may say there is something wrong in your marriage.”

“Let them talk,” declared Christine hotly, abandoning her resolution to keep her temper. “I am tired of caring what the ton think about me! I am damned if I do…and damned if I don’t. So, I might as well do exactly as I please.”

Her father flushed hard. “That is an unseemly way for a duchess to talk…”

“Oh, stop it, Father,” she interjected, her patience worn to a nub. “Your reputation will not suffer if I choose to stay with my own father and sister for a few days! Will you ever get some backbone and stop focusing on what other people think?”

His color deepened to an unhealthy puce. He looked like he was going to keel over from an apoplexy. “Well, it is alright for you ,” he huffed, “being a duchess now, but I must live in London and conduct myself in proper society, you know…”

Christine had heard enough. Without another word, she walked stiffly away, leaving him in the foyer, heading toward the staircase.

Her heart was thudding hard. She must talk to Violet without delay.

She rushed up the staircase, heading straight to her sister’s room, knocking softly on the door.

“Violet?” She waited a moment. “It is Christine.”

There was no response from within. Christine frowned, knocking and calling again, but there was still no response. And yet, her father had told her that Violet was in her room.

Her heart thudding, she shook the handle. She stiffened in shock. The door was locked—and she knew the only way to lock it was from the outside.

Her father had locked her sister in her room.

Christine looked around. The housekeeper, Mrs. Bailey, was walking down the hallway, a large bunch of keys jiggling near her pocket. Christine knew that those keys opened the locks to every room in this house…including the one she wished to enter.

“Why is my sister’s door locked?” she asked, drawing herself up to her full height. “What is going on?”

The housekeeper turned, curtseying deeply, before rising. Her face flickered.

“It was on the command of the earl,” said the housekeeper, looking shamefaced. “He wished to make sure Lady Violet could not escape, Your Grace.”

“Open it at once,” commanded Christine, flushing hard. “I will deal with any ramifications from my father.”

The housekeeper hesitated, then nodded, walking to the door. Carefully, she selected a key from the bunch, placing it in the lock. There was a soft click, before the door opened.

Christine nodded at the housekeeper, before slipping inside the room, blinking to adjust her eyes to the sudden darkness within. The curtains in her sister’s room hadn’t been opened yet.

Her eyes turned to the dressing table, gasping in shock.

Violet was standing there. And there was another figure, as well, wrapped in her arms and lost in a kiss.

Christine gasped again, her eyes widening, as she realized who the other person was.

It was her sister’s maid, Grace—who had vanished at the same time as Violet.