Page 8 of The Duke Steals a Bride (Stolen by the Duke #5)

Chapter Eight

“L eave me be,” gasped Christine to the duke, who had followed from the drawing room. She couldn’t bear to be around anyone now. “Please, leave me alone!”

He stopped abruptly, hovering in the hallway, a completely unusual look of uncertainty upon his face.

“Beatrice set you up for that, did she not?” he said, grabbing her arm.

Christine bit her lip, desperately trying not to burst into tears. The humiliation still stung. But it wasn’t just that everyone, including the duke, had witnessed her abysmal playing in that room. It was the fact that she had admitted she couldn’t play well to Beatrice and the girl had used it against her, in order to deliberately humiliate her.

And I thought that I had made a breakthrough with the duke’s youngest daughter. How wrong I was.

But suddenly, overriding the hurt, she felt a small pang of anger. Both the duke’s daughters were testing her. She couldn’t let them—or anyone else—see how much they were getting to her.

She raised her chin, staring at the duke.

“She did,” she replied, taking a deep breath. “I fully admit that I am not a great pianist, and do not seek to perform.” She stared at him. “They are both trying to rile me. But I do understand that they are only children, Your Grace. And they have never dealt with a stepmother before.”

“That does not mean they have a right to humiliate you,” he said, his face tightening. “I will punish Beatrice?—”

“Please, do not do that,” interjected Christine. “It will only put more distance between us. It will make her resent me.”

There was a tense silence. She was suddenly supremely conscious of his hand resting on her arm. The touch seemed to sear her skin beneath the thin fabric of her gown.

He frowned. “She must be held accountable,” he said. “She must realize that she cannot get away with doing such a thing.” He hesitated, staring at her hard. “She should at least be made to apologize to you.”

Christine shrugged. “As you wish.” She paused, her anger and hurt diminishing. “They are only children. They are unsettled. It must be very hard for them. They see me as an interloper. It will take time for them to trust me. It is to be expected.”

His eyes flickered.

“I suppose I thought that they would respond well to having a new mother, that the sheer novelty of it would make them welcoming toward you.” His frown deepened. “But now I see they do not know how to act at all.”

“The late duchess passed away in childbed, did she not? So they have no point of reference.” Christine held her breath. “It is very sad that they never knew her.”

A shadow passed over his face. Her heart leapt, hoping he would give her at least a morsel of himself, of his past.

But it was hopeless; he suddenly stiffened, taking his hand off her arm, his face darkening, in the grip of some strong emotion that she could not identify.

“I do not speak of the past,” he said, in a clipped voice. “There is no point to it. It is over and done with.”

At that moment, Beatrice approached them. Her blue eyes were wide and filled with remorse. She looked at her father fearfully.

“Well?” He stared at his daughter. “What do you have to say, young lady?”

Beatrice turned to Christine.

“I am sorry I suggested you should play,” said the girl, looking mortified. “It was wrong of me when you told me you were not good at it.”

Christine softened. “Thank you for the apology, Beatrice. It means the world to me.” She smiled gently. “We shall put it behind us, shall we?”

“This is unacceptable behavior, Beatrice,” growled the duke. “You shall be punished for it.”

“Oh, please, can we not think of another way?” implored Christine, her heart lurching at the sight of the girl’s crestfallen face. “Could Beatrice not think of a way to make it up to me instead?”

The duke’s face tightened. For a moment, she thought he was going to contradict her, to insist the girl be punished in a punitive way.

“Well, what say you, Beatrice? Can you think of a way to make up for your bad behavior?”

Beatrice looked pensive. A small furrow appeared between her brow. Then her face suddenly cleared, like the sun appearing through clouds. She smiled.

“Could we put on a theatre show for her?” Her voice was filled with excitement. “With our dolls?”

Isabella had appeared now, hovering just inside the doorway. Her eyes flicked to Christine, then narrowed slightly as if weighing something. Her fingers toyed with the ribbon at her waist.

Beatrice gave her a pointed look. “It would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

Isabella hesitated, then squared her shoulders. “Oh, yes, Papa, can we?” she chimed in with a high-pitched squeak. “For both of you? Tonight, after dinner?”

Christine suppressed a laugh. They were both so earnest—or trying to be. A glow filled her heart at this sweet, if slightly awkward, attempt at reconciliation.

“I would be honored to attend,” she said, in a solemn voice, before smiling brightly. “I cannot wait!”

She held her breath, turning to the duke.

“I have work tonight,” he replied. “After all, this is for you, Duchess. Not for me.”

Christine gazed at him, imploring him silently to accept this olive branch his daughters were offering.

“Then perhaps you should see what you’re working for—or whom ,” she said, emphasizing the final word in the hopes that he’d get the message.

The duke’s eyes darkened, his expression unreadable. For a moment, it seemed as though he might dismiss her words outright. Then, his jaw tightened, a muscle ticking as he studied her.

A beat of silence.

Then, with a sharp exhale, he muttered, “Very well.” His voice was low, reluctant—but something in his gaze wavered, a flicker of something softer beneath the steel.

The twins clapped excitedly, jumping up and down on the spot. Then they clasped hands, talking over each other loudly about ideas for the doll theatre show, as they walked away together back to the drawing room.

The duke turned to Christine, a small, guarded smile on his face. Her heart somersaulted in her chest, in the oddest way.

“I am dining out this evening,” he said slowly. “A business matter. But I shall make sure I am home for this show.”

Abruptly, he turned, marching down the hallway, without another word.

After returning to her chambers, Christine sagged against the wall. A range of conflicting emotions were swirling in her chest.

Relief. Excitement. Trepidation. Confusion.

The duke and his family were still a mystery to her. But somehow, she felt that she was making slow steps in the right direction with them now.

Still, only time would tell.

What was going to happen at this show this evening? Were the girls truly trying to appease her and their father…or did they have a whole host of new tricks up their sleeves?

* * *

That night, Edwin held his breath as he stepped into the nursery. For some strange reason, his heart was pounding uncomfortably. He put it down to the fact that he had to rush away from his business dinner at a neighbor’s house to get here on time.

His eyes flickered around the room. It had been decorated to be a little girl’s paradise. The walls were lined with pink and white striped silk wallpaper, and an abundance of toys cluttered the space: hoops, skipping ropes, dolls, and spinning tops. A tall mahogany bookshelf was stacked to overflowing with fairytale books. A majestic white rocking horse took pride of place against one wall.

But the pinnacle of the room was the large doll’s theatre. He had given it to the girls for their last birthday, and they were always haranguing him to watch them perform. But somehow, he rarely did. He was always too busy with the duties of the duchy, or away on business for the estate, or…something or other.

A small stab of shame and regret momentarily pierced his heart. His children were growing up quickly. There would not be many more chances for these moments with them.

“Papa!” Isabella rushed over to him, taking his hand, and dragging him to one of the chairs they had set up in front of the large doll’s theatre. “We are almost ready…”

At that moment, Christine walked into the room. Edwin turned, staring at her, his heart thumping harder still.

She was dressed in a flowing peacock-blue silk evening gown, with diamantes woven through her hair, as if she were heading out to the actual theatre—Covent Garden in London, perhaps. His heart turned over again as he realized how much effort she had gone to for this.

She looks utterly luminous.

Momentarily, he wondered how beautifully that gown would slip down her creamy skin—or how it would sound after he tore off her?—

Heavens, he had to stop.

“What a pretty gown!” cried Beatrice, rushing up to her, staring up at her with spellbound eyes. “You look like a fairy princess!”

Christine laughed, her blue-green eyes glowing. “You are too kind, Beatrice.”

“Come along,” said Beatrice, grabbing her hand, and dragging her to the seat next to Edwin. “We are about to begin!”

The girls disappeared behind the theatre. Miss Mayhew, who had been enlisted as theatre assistant, blew out two candles, so the room abruptly darkened. The only candles aglow were strategically positioned near the theatre. Edwin suppressed a grin, admiring the dramatic effect.

The room was suddenly bathed in silence, as they waited for the show to begin.

Edwin turned to Christine, covertly watching her face in the semi darkness. She had a lovely profile. His eyes swept over her full lips, the jut of her chin, the straight line of her nose, the sweep of her high cheekbones.

For the life of me, I cannot see why she was considered a mouse by the ton. She is so very beautiful. An utter revelation.

Suddenly, she turned her face toward him, as if she felt his eyes upon her. He could just see her eyes shining like glimmering pools. His heart turned over again.

Their eyes caught and held. The gaze seemed to last forever.

But the next moment, the show began.

Two wax dolls popped up in the theatre, bobbing like beacons in the semi darkness.

One of the dolls bowed. “Welcome to the show.” It was Isabella’s voice, rather higher pitched than usual, and affecting a lower class accent, very similar to the Cockney sing song tone of their maid, Effie. “You are about to see Puss in Boots.”

The other doll bowed, as well. “We are very happy that you have joined our show!” It was Beatrice, trying to imitate the distinct northern, guttural accent of Ironstone’s cook, who hailed from York. “You are going to see a show like no other, that you are!”

“She is trying to sound like Cook, is she not?” she whispered.

The duke spared her a small glance and nodded in response.

“It is one of their habits. Next thing she will be declaring Ear all, see all, say nowt .”

Her brows rose. “What?”

“It is one of Cook’s favorite sayings,” he explained. “It is a northern expression meaning no matter what you see and hear, say nothing untoward.”

“Oh, that’s delightful! Thank you for the explanation,” murmured Christine, a small smile tugging at her lips.

Their eyes met and held for a moment, before he hastily dragged his eyes away, back to the show.

The show commenced in earnest. Soon, he was utterly enthralled, laughing uproariously. Christine seemed to enjoy the show, too, laughing heartily and clapping with delight.

She has a good sense of humor, as well as being beautiful.

He was supremely conscious of her throughout the entirety of it, though. His blood started thickening imperceptibly.

Toward the end of the performance, he simply couldn’t resist any longer. Slowly, as if compelled by a force beyond his control, he let his hand drift to the space beside her thigh, his fingers brushing the fabric of her gown.

The mere proximity sent a shiver through him.

She stiffened—just for a moment. He held his breath, waiting.

Would she shift away? Would she ignore him entirely? Or—God help him—would she lean ever so slightly closer?

The moment between them stretched, thick and charged. He could feel the warmth of her body just inches away. The air between them felt weighted, pressing down on him, making him dizzy with want.

Slowly, barely perceptibly, he inched his fingers forward, until the side of his pinky nearly—nearly—brushed against the silk of her gown. His loins jolted with awareness. He turned his head toward her, and his breath caught.

Her eyes were half-closed, her lips parted, her breathing quick. Did she feel it too? This aching, unbearable pull?

His veins thickened with desire, his pulse hammering as if his own blood could barely force its way through.

“The end!” cried Isabella suddenly, popping her head around the theatre. “What did you think, Papa?”

Hastily, he lifted his hand away, his heart racing, feeling as if he were awakening from a sensual dream.

What the deuce had just happened?