Page 7 of The Duke Steals a Bride (Stolen by the Duke #5)

Chapter Seven

“A lice, have you seen my hairbrush? The one inlaid with mother-of-pearl?” Christine turned to Alice, her new maid, who was tidying the bed linens.

She had been sitting at her dressing table, running her fingers absently over its surface when she’d realized that something was missing—her hairbrush, a birthday gift from Violet.

Alice’s brows knitted together. “It was here last night, Your Grace. I remember setting it beside the mirror before I extinguished the candles.”

It was always in the same spot, carefully placed beside her silver hand mirror. But now, the space was empty.

Christine’s stomach tightened. “Then where is it now?”

Alice immediately began searching, opening drawers, checking beneath the table, even lifting the edge of the rug. Christine joined her, pulling back the covers on her bed, peering beneath pillows, but the brush was nowhere to be found.

After several long minutes, a sharp knock sounded at the door.

“Come in,” Christine called, straightening.

Miss Mayhew, the governess, entered in a flurry, her face flushed and anxious.

In her hands, she clutched Christine’s missing brush.

“Oh, I am so very sorry, Your Grace,” she said, breathless as she passed it to Alice. “I discovered it at the bottom of the young ladies’ toy trunk just moments ago.” She took a steadying breath. “When questioned, Lady Isabella admitted she took it from your dressing table after breakfast. She insisted it was just a little trick.”

Christine’s heart sank. Isabella, again.

Her lips pressed into a thin line as she took the brush from Alice, her fingers tightening around the smooth handle. It wasn’t just the theft—it was the sheer brazenness of it, the knowledge that even after the tree incident, Isabella was still intent on tormenting her.

“Should I inform His Grace?” Miss Mayhew asked hesitantly, wringing her hands.

Christine hesitated. Part of her wanted to say yes—to let the duke handle his wayward daughter, to make it clear that this behavior would not be tolerated. But the memory of his sharp, commanding tone the last time he had scolded Isabella made her falter.

“No,” she said finally, her voice quieter than she intended. “Isabella is already in enough trouble. I will deal with it.”

Miss Mayhew looked doubtful but nodded. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

* * *

A short while later, Christine found Isabella in the schoolroom, rolling a ball back and forth across the rug, looking for all the world as if she hadn’t a care.

Christine approached, the hairbrush cool in her grasp. “Isabella.”

The girl didn’t look up.

Christine inhaled sharply. “You took something from my room this morning.”

A pause.

Then, slowly, Isabella lifted her gaze, her expression unreadable.

Christine waited for some acknowledgment, some hint of remorse. None came.

“Well?” she pressed.

Still, Isabella remained silent, her small fingers tightening around the edges of her book.

A lump formed in Christine’s throat. She had been prepared for a petulant excuse, even for a defiant quip—but this utter lack of response unsettled her more than anything else.

She exhaled slowly, unclenching her grip on the brush. “You took something of mine without asking and hid it from me. Don’t you believe that you owe me an apology?”

Isabella blinked once. Then, with a deliberate slowness, she turned a page in her book and said nothing at all.

Christine’s pulse thrummed with frustration. She wanted to scold, to force some reaction from the girl—but what good would it do? She had no real authority here, no true power to make Isabella listen.

So, swallowing back her irritation, she turned on her heel and left the room, the silence pressing heavily against her back.

* * *

“You play beautifully, Isabella,” said Christine to the little girl, who had just finished playing a quite intricate Beethoven sonata on the pianoforte in the drawing room. “Well done.”

The girl raised her chin, gazing at Christine, but didn’t acknowledge that she had spoken.

It was as if Christine was a ghost. If anything, Isabella’s behavior toward her had grown worse, not better, since the incident in the tree—as confirmed this morning, when Isabella didn’t even apologize for taking Christine’s hairbrush.

Isabella turned to Mr. Woods, her music tutor. “Do you want me to play it again?”

The music tutor looked embarrassed, glancing at Christine. She smiled and nodded at him, even though she was mortified herself. She wasn’t going to make a fuss about Isabella’s behavior in front of him—he was only here for a limited time, and the girl needed to practice.

“Go ahead, my lady,” he said to the girl. “Remember to lift your fingers higher this time.” He reset the metronome. “Begin.”

Isabella started playing again. Christine wandered away from the instrument, toward where Beatrice was seated near the fireplace, waiting her turn. The girl had her head buried in a book, as always. She didn’t glance up as Christine sat down beside her.

An awkward silence stretched on for what felt like forever.

“Are you enjoying your book, Beatrice?” asked Christine, staring at the cover. “I enjoy adventure stories as well.”

The little girl’s eyes flickered toward her. “It is tolerable,” she replied eventually. “It is not as good as the last book I read. I can see what is going to happen already.”

“Yes, it is annoying when that happens,” agreed Christine, smiling widely. “I like to be surprised by the plot.” She hesitated. “Are you looking forward to your lesson on the pianoforte today?”

“Not really,” replied Beatrice, screwing up her nose. “Bella plays much better than me. I do not like to follow her.”

“I understand,” said Christine, her heart warming toward the little girl. “My sister was always a much better player than me, as well.” She tried to laugh, but it turned into a grimace. “She was better at most things that ladies are supposed to excel at. My skills on the pianoforte are quite abysmal.”

“Are they?” Beatrice put down her book, looking at her solemnly. “You are a poor player?”

“Yes,” laughed Christine, trying to shrug. “And I am not very good at embroidery, or singing, or dancing… or drawing, either.” She bit her lip. “My sister is a wonderful operatic singer. Quite gifted. People are always spellbound when she performs. They say she sings like a nightingale…”

Christine stopped speaking. Violet’s angelic singing had always made her cry with pride and joy. Christine had always been as swept away in the magic of it as everyone else.

Where are you, Violet? Are you safe? Are you well? Are you happy?

She took a deep, ragged breath. She had been the mistress of Ironstone Castle for a whole week now. A week of playing the duchess, and wife to the duke, and playing mother to his children.

And she felt even more of an imposter than ever.

Violet would have been perfect here. Truly, she was meant to be the Duchess of Ironstone, in every single way. The girls would have fallen in love with her immediately. And probably the duke would have eventually, as well.

Her face started burning, thinking about the duke. She hadn’t seen him since yesterday, when he had saved her from certain injury. He had hardly spoken or looked at her since. She knew he thought her a foolish, impressionable woman. A laughingstock. And not worthy to be his wife or the mother of his children.

“Anyway,” said Christine, dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief, before tucking it away. “I should not digress. You should not feel intimidated by your sister, Beatrice. You can only do your best—and it will be good enough for me. And for your father.”

The girl’s expression shifted for a moment. She almost looked like she was going to smile at Christine. But then, she picked up her book, burying her head into it again, ignoring her entirely.

Christine sighed heavily, getting up and walking slowly back to the pianoforte.

Beatrice didn’t want to talk to her any more than her sister did, no matter how hard she tried. They were both suspicious and wary. She knew it was to be expected and that it was still very early days, but that didn’t change the hurt she felt.

Christine glanced over at Beatrice. At least Isabella’s sister wasn’t playing pranks on her, even if she barely spoke to her. And perhaps she had made a small breakthrough with the girl just now. It seemed they had something in common—they were both overshadowed by their more exuberant, confident sisters.

Isabella finished playing, the last notes drifting into the air. Christine took a deep breath, turning to the girl, plastering a wide smile on her face.

* * *

Edwin walked quickly down the hallway, pausing at the closed door to the drawing room, listening to Beethoven. He had forgotten that the girls were having their pianoforte lessons today.

He smiled slightly. It must be Isabella playing—she was a skilled pianist, almost as good as her late mother, Rose—whereas Beatrice didn’t care about the instrument at all. His younger daughter was a bookworm and enjoyed scholarly pursuits more than musical or artistic ones.

But then, he frowned, remembering his elder daughter’s prank yesterday, making Christine climb that very tall tree to retrieve her ball. He wouldn’t be surprised if Isabella hadn’t lodged the ball on the branch on purpose. She could be an utter demon and had far too much mischievous energy for her own good.

He put his hand on the door handle, then hesitated again.

He knew that his new wife would be inside that room along with the girls—and he was determined to avoid her as much as possible.

Suddenly, he recalled how she had fallen into his arms yesterday, as if she were a ripe peach falling from the tree. Which she was.

If he hadn’t vowed to keep his distance, he would have already plucked her—and he was certain they’d both thoroughly enjoy the experience.

Stop it. Stop mooning over her like a lust-struck schoolboy.

But, to his chagrin, he was already as hard as a rock, just thinking about her. Now, he was remembering how close he had come to kissing her the other night when she had walked out of the dining room in high dudgeon. If the girls hadn’t interrupted them, he would have done it.

He took a couple of calming breaths, and kept thinking about his Aunt Mildred’s bunions, calculating the estate’s yearly expenditures, and being chased by a prized goose when he was five. All of which, together, swiftly did the trick.

Now looking decent, he opened the door, walking into the drawing room.

Isabella was sitting at the pianoforte just as he expected, staring down at the keys. Beatrice had her nose in a book near the fire, which was also expected.

Mr. Woods, the pianoforte tutor, was rifling through some music sheets, with a distracted look on his face, and didn’t look up immediately.

The only person in the room who turned their head to look at him was his new wife.

Their eyes met and held. He felt the crackle in the air, as strong as if a bolt of lightning had just forked through the window.

She was looking exceptionally pretty today in a dark blue gingham gown, the high bustline accentuating her creamy décolletage. Her dark golden hair was swept back into a simple chignon on the nape of her neck. She had simple, but elegant, pearls in the lobes of her ears and around her neck. He felt like sinking his teeth into the delicate skin there.

Compose yourself, Ironstone .

Suddenly, everyone else noticed his entrance into the room.

The piano tutor bowed hastily, turning beetroot red. “Your Grace!”

His daughters rose, dropping quick curtsies.

“I heard you playing, Isabella,” stated Edwin, trying to focus on his daughter. “You are doing well.”

“Thank you, Papa,” she replied, looking pleased.

He turned to Beatrice. “It must be your turn on the instrument now, my girl.”

Beatrice smiled. “Could we listen to our new mother play first, Papa?” Her eyes were bright and shining. “She is such a good player!”

Christine looked shocked, visibly blanching. “I said no such thing, Beatrice…”

“Go on, then,” drawled Edwin, his voice husky. The thought of watching her play was suddenly irresistible—he wanted to see if her quiet strength translated into her music, if those delicate hands, always so composed, could coax beauty from ivory keys. “It would greatly please me.”

Christine looked appalled. He knew it was just false modesty. All ladies were required to be demure about their accomplishments. There was a tense silence.

“Oh, please do,” cried Isabella, jumping off her seat, gesturing to the instrument. “I cannot wait to hear you play, either!”

Christine looked pained. With a heavy sigh, she walked to the instrument, sitting down on the seat, spreading the skirt of her gown around her. She put her fingers upon the keys.

Edwin sat down to listen. He greatly enjoyed listening to a lady playing the pianoforte. He had listened to Rose play many times on that very same instrument. Too many times to recall.

Suddenly, he became aware that his new wife had started to play. But it wasn’t the melodious smooth music he was expecting. Instead, Christine’s playing was jarring—her fingers were not flying over the keys at all.

He stiffened in surprise. His new wife was decidedly not a talented pianist.

Isabella giggled. The music tutor looked mortified. Beatrice, however, who had implored her to play, turned red, looking shamefaced.

Edwin stared at his younger daughter, realizing suddenly that she had played a trick on Christine, just as Isabella had done. And in some way, this was a crueler trick. Christine was not at risk of physical injury this time—but she was being ridiculed, just the same. And some injuries were felt, not seen.

He glowered at Beatrice, who visibly shrank. She wouldn’t get away with this.

Suddenly, the music stopped. Christine rose and ran out of the room.

A deathly silence followed.

Edwin didn’t hesitate. He got up, running after her.