Page 45 of The Duke Steals a Bride (Stolen by the Duke #5)

Chapter Two

“L ady Holton, Anna is no longer a child,” Aunt Mary remarked dryly.

Sophia knew that her elderly aunt, Mary Fraser, the Dowager Countess of Rossburn, was fluttering her fan restlessly—evidently as tired of the Holtons as Sophia was.

The Holton carriage was a rolling box of lace, silk, and perfume. At least, that was what it felt like for Sophia. She wouldn’t have minded it before, but now, after that single stormy journey, she couldn’t bear to be enclosed in a carriage for too long.

Even now, she couldn’t keep from glancing worriedly up at the sky.

“Sophia,” Lady Holton said crisply, breaking into her thoughts, “be a dear and see to Anna’s gloves, would you? They’re wrinkling already.”

Of course. That was her place now. Even though she was her aunt’s companion, not Anna’s, it wasn’t unthinkable for Lady Holton to ask Sophia such a thing.

Sophia murmured, “Yes, My Lady,” and bent to adjust the silk gloves. Her fingers were steady, though her thoughts were not.

She had been so happy and hopeful then. Her only worry had been whether the ball of the Season would be a disappointment.

She hadn’t concerned herself with real danger. With storms that changed everything. With an uncle who would toss her away to “protect the family’s legacy.”

Sophia forced herself to look away from the sky and watch her companions instead of thinking about her uncle Anthony’s cruelty.

At the moment, Lady Holton was busy inspecting invisible creases in her daughter’s gown. Then, as if on cue, her eyes flicked to Sophia’s bodice with a subtle frown of disapproval.

“I think our dear Sophia needs a little more preparation. It is, after all, her return to Society after such a long time,” Lady Holton said hurriedly, looking so frazzled that Sophia wondered what she would look like when she finally arrived at the actual gathering.

“Sophia may have not been in Society for a long time, but I daresay she knows how to dress herself by now,” Aunt Mary commented drily. “She is four-and-twenty!”

A spinster . That was what she was.

“Appearances are everything, Lady Rossburn. Even for a lady’s companion like your niece. I am merely ensuring she looks presentable,” Lady Holton replied, looking very earnest.

“Presentable and not threatening?” Aunt Mary asked, raising an eyebrow.

Sophia looked at her aunt gratefully. Lady Rossburn was already sixty years old, but she was spirited, and the ton knew that she could do more than just bark—Sophia knew it firsthand, too.

Lady Holton, however, would not stop her fussing. Sophia wasn’t that concerned about other people seeing what was going on in the carriage, but even she was becoming concerned about the fact that they were nearing the grand townhouse.

“Thank you, Lady Holton,” she murmured as politely as possible.

She could be cursed, a lady’s companion—a spinster who had no hopes of marrying—but she still had the manners her parents had taught her.

The streets leading to their host’s home were crowded with carriages, whose polished surfaces gleamed thanks to the festive street lamps. The whole atmosphere was different from that stormy night when she and her friends lost their loved ones.

Even though Sophia had sworn off Society life, she couldn’t help but feel the thrill that hummed through the street. Nostalgia surged through her as she remembered what delicious anticipation felt like.

Their carriage slowed at its final approach. The four women, including Sophia, schooled their expressions into those of polite charm.

Sophia braced herself for the torture ahead, swallowing hard before steeling herself with the mask she had mastered wearing.

When they entered the ballroom, she couldn’t help but gasp. The place was a display of wealth and opulence. She was no stranger to such wealth, as the daughter of the late Marquess of Foxmere, but it had been so long. She had lived among the shadows for years, resigning herself to knitting and reading to odd relatives.

Music swelled. Of course, it came from the orchestra. However, it almost felt like it was coming from elsewhere. From her heart. From her past. She had only hoped to listen to beautiful music all those years ago.

How she wished she had not been so eager to attend that ball. It was her duty to accompany her aunt anyway, yet a part of her missed the celebrations she’d participated in a long time ago.

Standing in an unfamiliar estate now, with tinkling laughter and the strains of violins drifting through the air, Sophia recognized the coldness beneath the glamor. Everything here—the silks, satins, and lace, even the entrancing music—belonged to a strict set of rules.

Those rules had ostracized her from Society.

Being there tonight broke every one of those unspoken rules, and it showed. As soon as she made her presence known, whispers began traveling through the guests like wildfire.

“Yes, that’s her. The cursed girl.”

She wanted to proclaim that she was more than that. She was Sophia Balfour, brought into this world out of love—which was more than most of the members of the ton could say.

“All those deaths…”

“Imagine surviving that.”

Those words were like invisible fingers around her throat.

No. They could never imagine. Only Genevieve and Rosaline could imagine. But her friends were now duchesses, living their own lives.

Still, she would be able to see them again, at least.

Anna Martin, Lady Holton’s youngest daughter, walked alongside her, squeezing her hand reassuringly. Despite being five years Sophia’s junior, Anna was mature for her age, despite her mother’s coddling.

“Pay them no mind,” she whispered to Sophia with a small, sad smile.

Lady Holton was another thing entirely. She looked paler than usual, her bird-like features looking pinched as she fluttered about and tried to get Anna’s attention. She suddenly could no longer help herself, all but pulling her daughter away from her friend.

“Come, darling. I see Lord Huxwell. He wants a dance with you,” she said with a forced smile seemingly directed at both young women.

Sophia knew better.

Lady Holton didn’t want her daughter to be associated with her and her curse. Sophia understood why. The woman simply wanted to save her daughter’s reputation.

“You do know that it’s superstitious piffle, Lady Holton,” Aunt Mary said, sniffing contemptuously. “It’s bad enough sharing views with people who have never so much as tripped over their own hems, let alone witnessed a tragic accident—unless, of course, it is one involving an unfortunate dinner party.”

“You know I don’t believe in the curse, Lady Rossburn. However, I fear what the ton believes—or chooses to believe,” Lady Holton retorted, visibly stiffening. “Your ideas may be acceptable in the backwaters of Scotland, but here in London?—”

“Oh, here we go,” Aunt Mary interrupted with a dry scoff. “I am sure this is a momentary lapse of manners from you.” She swept her gaze down her nose. “But let me tell you—the only thing more tiresome than superstition is pretending that it doesn’t exist.”

Lady Holton’s face flushed a deep crimson, but she refused to back down. “I am simply concerned for my daughter’s future,” she said sharply, glancing at Anna. “If the ton believes she continually associates with?—”

“With someone who’s been ruined by a string of misfortunes?” Aunt Mary cut her off again, a sharp edge to her voice. “You do realize that we all have misfortunes, don’t you, Lady Holton? Some might even say that your life has been one series of accidents after another. But I suppose you don’t consider that a curse.”

Lady Holton’s face twisted, and for a moment, Sophia was sure she’d see the woman’s composure crack. The eyes of a few guests had begun to swivel toward them, and Sophia could feel the weight of their stares.

Before the situation escalated further, she stepped between them, her hand raised in a diplomatic gesture.

“Aunt Mary, Lady Holton, please,” she said with a calm smile that felt anything but. “I think a drink would do wonders for us all. Auntie, why don’t I fetch you something? A glass of claret, perhaps?”

Aunt Mary’s lips twitched in a restrained smile, but she glanced at Sophia, who could see the faintest glimmer of satisfaction in her eyes.

“Of course, child,” she said smoothly, her voice suddenly soft. “Go on. I will be waiting for you.”

Sophia’s heart pounded, but she forced her feet to move, leading Aunt Mary away from the scene as swiftly as she could without drawing further attention.

As she navigated the crowd, she could feel the weight of Lady Holton’s eyes on her, but she didn’t dare glance back.

* * *

“Is that…?”

“No, it can’t be.”

“The Wolf Duke…”

The whispers fluttered through the room as Theo made his entrance. Though his presence wasn’t exactly unwelcome, it certainly wasn’t ideal. He was here for business, not the idle gossip that seemed to follow him wherever he went. Still, the murmurs were impossible to ignore.

The Duke remained as aloof as ever, offering only polite nods to those who greeted him—no eye contact, no conversation.

His demeanor was cold but calculated, as he acknowledged the host and hostess not out of any genuine warmth, but because it was necessary. His purpose was clear: to announce his presence to Fernwick, who had requested a private meeting in ten minutes to discuss their arrangement.

“Your Grace,” a woman spoke breathlessly to his right as he moved away from the hosts.

“My Lady,” was all he said, giving a slight bow.

“Your Grace, my friend, Lady Frances here, was wondering if you attend balls often. It is only the second time we’ve seen you in such a gathering, after all,” the lady said.

Theo groaned inwardly. He knew it would be the beginning of a long conversation that he did not have the patience for. It was why he only had affairs with discreet widows. These young women, especially this Lady Frances, were out to find a husband. It was time to escape.

“You do not see me often because I am not fond of events like these,” he muttered gruffly.

“Perhaps this time, you may find reasons to like them.” Lady Frances giggled as she opened her fan.

Theo was at the end of his already-fraying patience. He gritted his teeth, his glare directed at the women before him. They smiled back, completely oblivious to his growing irritation, their eyes wide and starry as they basked in the attention. It seemed they were too lost in the moment to notice that the man standing before them had no interest in the conversation.

“Oh, there you are. I apologize, ladies,” Philip interrupted with a grin, stepping in front of Theo like a shield. “I’ll have to steal my friend for a moment. Some business to discuss.”

One of the women fluttered her lashes, her voice syrupy. “Of course, Lord Longford,” she murmured, clearly pleased with herself.

Theo didn’t bother to hide his frustration. He shot them a brief, detached glance, then followed Philip without a word.

As they put distance between themselves and the women, Theo’s scowl deepened. His patience, already thin, was nearing its breaking point.

Once they were out of earshot, Philip turned to Theo, his grin wide and shameless. He was shaking with suppressed laughter, his eyes glinting with mischief.

“Well, well, my friend. We’re even now. I was your damsel in distress, and now you’re mine. How the tables have turned.”

Theo didn’t react at first, his gaze as cold as stone. He was used to Philip’s nonsense, but that didn’t mean he was in the mood for it now.

After a long beat, he grumbled, “I’ve saved you from worse than that.”

Philip only laughed louder, throwing a playful arm around Theo’s shoulders. “Oh, come on. This was the rescue of the year. I just saved you from an army of fluttering eyelashes and whispering nonsense.” He gave a dramatic shudder. “It was almost too much for me to bear, and I’m accustomed to such dangers. I’m practically a hero for managing to get us out of that.”

Theo’s eyes flicked to him, dark and unimpressed. “If you say so.”

“Oh, I do,” Philip insisted, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “I’ll take my victory where I can, and I’m counting this as a solid win. You’re just too proud to admit it.”

Theo’s voice dropped lower, rougher, like the growl of a man who had learned to keep his emotions buried under layers of ice. “You didn’t win. You just avoided a conversation that did not revolve around you.”

Philip smirked, unfazed by the gruff tone. “I’d say that’s a victory in itself, my friend.” He shrugged as if it were no great matter. “But hey, you’re welcome to try to steal it back. I am sure you’ll find a way.”

Theo didn’t respond, his features hard as granite.

There was a part of him, deep down, that appreciated Philip’s persistence—his easy charm and ability to find humor in even the most frustrating situations.

But that part of him stayed buried beneath the layers of control he had built over the years—buried along with his mother, and that pistol she held in her hands on the day of her death.

“I know I will, Longford,” he simply said.

* * *

Sophia tried to escape the weight of the whispers by weaving her way toward the refreshments table.

Each step felt heavier than the last, the noise rising behind her like an encroaching storm. She focused on the pitchers of lemonade, willing herself to lose herself in the mundane task of pouring a drink.

Then, the voice came. Familiar, insidious.

“What a pleasant surprise, my dear niece.”

Her body froze. The source of the voice was unavoidable—her uncle Anthony, the current Marquess of Foxmere. She had no choice but to turn and face him, or risk drawing more attention to herself.

Slowly, reluctantly, she turned, meeting his sharp gaze.

“I thought you would be too comfortable in Scotland,” he remarked, his smile wide but cold, his eyes watching her like a predator. “A pity, being exiled there at such a young age.”

Sophia’s heart skipped a beat, but she lifted her chin. “I wouldn’t call it that,” she replied, her voice steady. “It was more of a necessity than an exile. A practicality.”

The Marquess hummed thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing, but his expression was not angry—rather, it was calculating. It reminded her of a fox circling its prey.

“Does it not upset you,” he asked, his tone almost innocent, “that you had to return as a lady’s companion?”

Sophia bit back a sigh, forcing her composure. “No, I’m quite content with my situation,” she answered, though the heat creeping up her neck betrayed her unease.

She glanced longingly at the refreshments, wishing she’d opted for something stronger than lemonade.

“I admit I am still surprised,” he continued, his voice soft, almost sympathetic. But Sophia knew better. She could see the amusement flickering in his eyes. “Tragedy does tend to follow some people, I suppose.”

Sophia had imagined this encounter countless times in her mind, always ready with a sharp retort. But now, faced with her uncle’s cruelty, the words caught in her throat. The whispers around them seemed to close in on her, suffocating her, the judgmental gazes of the ton making her heart hammer in her chest.

“I need to attend to my aunt,” she mumbled, desperate to escape.

If she could find a bit of privacy to escape all these prying eyes…

She didn’t care if her uncle and the entire ton believed her words were lies—they would never change what they thought of her. She was cursed, and nothing could alter that.

As the words left her lips, she hurried toward the nearest exit. Her vision blurred, but she pushed through it, finding refuge in the library.

She shoved the door open and shut herself inside, letting the silence envelop her like a heavy blanket.

For a moment, there was peace. The noise, the weight of Society’s judgment, faded into nothing. Her ears rang with satisfaction. She huffed a breath, fighting the tears that threatened to spill.

She had promised herself she would remain strong and composed, no matter the cost.

Too young to truly be an old spinster, too old to lose herself in dancing and flirtation, she didn’t belong anywhere. But she felt at home here in the library, surrounded by the scent of aged parchment and the flickering candlelight.

The books—silent witnesses to forgotten history—were her only companions now.

She wished everyone would forget her, leave her to fade into the shadows of the past.

* * *

As Theo walked, he caught sight of two footmen staggering against the wall, each holding a glass of champagne that seemed to defy gravity more than their coordination. Their steps were unsteady, and the unmistakable smell of alcohol hung heavily in the air.

When the two men noticed him staring at them, their eyes widened in panic, and they nearly dropped their glasses. The champagne sloshed dangerously, but neither of them seemed fully aware of their near disaster.

“Oh dear. My Lord?—”

“Spare me the theatrics,” Theo grumbled, already irritated. “I care only to find your master. We have important business.”

The footmen blinked at him, their faces slack with drunken confusion.

One of them swayed, struggling to focus. “Lord Fernwick… yes… the… master…” he mumbled, clearly struggling to remember his own name. “Right… uh, he’s… uh… I think…”

His companion, even more out of it, swirled the contents of his glass, entirely oblivious to Theo’s presence.

“Oh! Yes, right there, Your Grace!” the first footman suddenly exclaimed, pointing with a wild gesture that nearly sent him into the wall. “That way—down the hall, to the left. Or was it to the right?”

“To the left!” the second footman slurred. His glass tipped dangerously, spilling some champagne onto his jacket. “Or wait—was it to the right? Bloody hell, I don’t know.”

Theo sighed, resisting the urge to rub his temples. But, realizing the futility of trying to get a more coherent answer, he simply nodded and started down the corridor, muttering under his breath. It was probably to the left, but with these two, who could say?

As he walked away, he could still hear the footmen giggling to themselves, just before one of their glasses crashed to the floor. If Lord Fernwick’s properties were in the same state as his staff, this deal might not be worth his time.

* * *

Sophia’s fingers traced the spines of books lining the shelves. Her father had owned a library grander than this one, but even here, among titles she did not know, the scent of paper and dust brought back memories of peaceful exploration.

She scanned the titles, smiling at familiar ones and frowning in concentration at those she wished she could take to read at her own leisure.

“One day,” she murmured, half-hopeful, half-mocking. The words felt foolish even as they left her mouth.

Then, one title caught her eye.

Lady Sin and the Rake.

It stood out like a bright red apple in a garden of pale pears. Forbidden. Wicked.

Aunt Mary had expressly forbidden her from touching such filth—though it was curious, wasn’t it, that she kept the book at all?

Curiosity and rebellion sparked within her like twin flames. There was no one around. No one to scold or scorn her.

Just a few pages , she told herself.

Just to settle her thoughts.

Her fingers trembled as she plucked the book off the shelf. It was heavier than she’d expected, or perhaps that was just the weight of temptation. She opened it somewhere in the middle, letting the pages fall where they may.

Her breath caught as her gaze landed on a passage bold enough to make her spine stiffen.

She let her hand trail lower, exploring boldly, seeking pleasure in secret. A soft sigh escaped her lips as her fingers found the place that made her tremble…

Sophia blinked, stunned. Her cheeks burned. She read it again. And again.

There, in the quiet of her chamber, she allowed herself what no one ever taught her she could have—bliss .

Her heart pounded. A pulse of heat unfurled in her chest, spreading outward, blooming under her skin like fire beneath her corset.

Then, she stepped back, her body moving without thought. Her heel bumped into the leg of a nearby chair, the carved wood scraping softly across the floor.

“Oh!” she gasped, the book falling from her hands.

The sudden noise startled her, and she quickly bent to put it back into its place before anyone could hear.

As she angled it carefully, guiding it back to where it belonged, the smooth, curved edge of the armrest brushed against the tender spot between her thighs.

She froze.

A gasp caught in her throat. The sensation was brief, unexpected, and shocking.

Her body reacted instantly. A flicker of heat. A tension that curled low and pulsed outward. Her lips parted, her eyes wide, her fingers gripping the back of the chair.

What… what had that been?

She glanced toward the door again—still closed.

Slowly, almost without conscious thought, she shifted, aligning herself with the chair once more. Her hips angled forward, and she let herself lean against it, the firm edge pressing against her lower belly, a little higher this time.

Her breath trembled. Her eyes fluttered shut.

The friction was subtle but maddening, just enough to stir that ache again, to send a hum of sensation through her limbs. She didn’t understand it, not really, but she wanted to feel more.

She clutched the book in one hand, her other resting on the chair as she leaned into the pressure. Her body ached for something unnamed, something the book only hinted at. Her mind whirled with guilt and confusion and a dangerous thrill she didn’t know how to contain.

The room faded.

And then?—

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?”