Page 17 of The Duke Who Stole Me (Stolen by the Duke #4)

Chapter Seventeen

T he carriage slowly rolled to a stop in front of the estate, and Juliana barely waited for the footman to lower the step before she descended, her gloved hands hiking up the hem of her skirts just enough to walk as briskly away from the carriage as she intended.

Vincent followed behind her with the same intensity that had marked their journey from the town square. Their proximity had been a quiet torment, the ghost of his touch—so unintentional, yet so deliciously present—clinging to her still.

Neither of them spoke.

A slight gust of the soft evening air rustled around them, filling the tense silence between them, yet neither sought to break it. Instead, they merely walked side by side, up the steps and through the oak front doors, their eyes fixed ahead, not stopping once.

Juliana thought it was her fault that they had ended up in that situation, but she had suggested he wait for her. How could she have known that the shopkeeper would pull out a bolt of fabric in such a cramped space?

She sighed. It was her husband’s closeness that she missed and craved like it was her favorite meal. She would’ve greatly preferred if he pushed her against the wall and pressed himself against her, as the tension between them was becoming unbearable.

Yet, without a word, they parted.

Juliana walked up to her chambers, while Vincent strode down the corridor leading to his study, as if an invisible barrier had been drawn between them the moment they stepped foot inside their home.

The heavy door to Juliana’s chamber closed with a soft click, and it was then that she realized she hadn’t been alone; Eunice had been following closely behind.

As though sensing her presence had been noticed, Eunice stepped forward. “Your Grace,” she said gently, searching Juliana’s face with quiet concern. “Are you well?”

Juliana blinked, then forced a smile, though it did little to ease the tension in her shoulders. “Yes, Eunice. I am only tired. I should like to rest before dinner.”

Eunice nodded, but she did not leave. Instead, she hesitated for a breath before stepping closer, a knowing look in her eyes.

“If you wish to rest, My Lady, perhaps I should help you out of your gown?”

Juliana let out a breath she had not realized she had been holding. She loathed the stress that always came with craving him. “Yes…that would be best.”

Eunice began to unfasten the back of Juliana’s bodice, quickly undoing each button, which Juliana preferred. The weight of the day, her thoughts—the town, the stall, Vincent—all settled heavily on her, making her realize that she must’ve returned in a worse state than the one she left in as her dress was peeled away, leaving her in little more than her chemise.

As the air kissed her skin, she shivered—not from the cold, but at her memories.

She had felt him. Every inch of him pressed against her back in the tight confines of the shop, the sheer strength of him caging her in. His warmth had seeped through the layers of her gown, through her very skin, leaving a mark that even now, hours later, she could not erase.

Juliana exhaled sharply, shaking her head as if to rid herself of the memory, but she knew it was fruitless.

Eunice, oblivious to her inner turmoil, gathered the discarded gown and curtsied. “I shall return to prepare you for dinner, My Lady.”

Juliana nodded and let out a deep breath, grateful for the quiet that followed her maid’s departure.

She lowered herself onto the edge of her bed, her fingers tracing the patterns on the bed covers as she forced her thoughts elsewhere. Anywhere but the feel of Vincent’s body against hers.

An hour passed.

True to her word, Eunice returned, her hands working efficiently as she styled Juliana’s hair into delicate coils, fastening pins into place with care.

Juliana sat still while Eunice worked, her mind drifting to the dining room, where she would soon face her husband. She felt a flutter of something dangerously close to anticipation in her chest, but she ignored it, smoothing her expression into one of indifference.

It was only dinner. Nothing more.

When Eunice finished, Juliana rose, smoothing the front of her deep blue evening gown. It was a fine color, complementing her complexion in a manner she liked. With a final glance in her mirror, she made her way to the dining hall.

She was shocked but pleased to find Vincent already there.

Seated at the head of the long mahogany table, that scowl fixed on his face, he barely acknowledged her arrival. The golden glow of the candlelight flickered over his sharp jaw, and he furrowed his brow, but his attention remained on the meal before him.

Juliana approached and gracefully lowered herself into her seat. The silence that stretched between them, making each passing second more difficult to endure than the last, only seemed to thicken the strange tension that had begun to weave itself around them.

She should speak. She should say something—anything—to close this distance between them.

But Vincent beat her to it.

“We are to leave for London soon,” he announced, his voice even, detached, not bothering to look up from his plate.

Juliana’s hand, which had just reached for her glass, stilled. She stared at him, her breath catching slightly, waiting—hoping—for some indication that he was merely jesting.

But he was not.

Her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass.

“But we have only just arrived in Blackmoor,” she pointed out, her voice carefully neutral.

Vincent merely shrugged. “It is an invitation to a ball we cannot decline.”

She furrowed her brow.

A ball in London so soon?

Juliana swallowed her protest. She had known, of course, that they would not remain in Blackmoor forever. But she had expected to have more time. More space to adjust and digest everything that had led to their marriage before heading back to London

Most of all, she would’ve preferred to have more time to make sense of him, more time to know where their union stood before they went back.

Their gazes met then, just briefly, and something unreadable flickered in Vincent’s eyes. A challenge, perhaps. Or something deeper.

Whatever it was, it was gone in an instant.

Juliana exhaled, pressing her lips together as she lowered her gaze to her plate. Fine, they would go to London.

With a quiet nod, she lifted her fork and took her first bite, matching Vincent’s silence with one of her own.

Juliana had known this moment would come. And yet, now that it was upon her, she found herself dreading it more than she cared to admit.

The return to London.

Leaving for Blackmoor immediately after their wedding had provided her a sense of security, for she was taken far away from the ton and their gossip about her and her marriage. She hadn’t thought about it until Vincent declared they were going to return, but she knew that the whispers and rumors—despite everyone’s initial happiness—would be as brutal as ever.

She had not allowed her unease to show, yet Eunice had seen it and commented on it the day before, asking if Juliana had told her husband she didn’t wish to return.

Juliana didn’t think Vincent would concern himself with her worries, especially because he seemed hellbent on attending the ball, and also because her reluctance to attend the ball was not entirely solid.

She simply was not ready to leave yet.

She forced herself to push the thought aside and looked to her right, where Eunice was busy packing her belongings into a trunk, chatting away with ease.

Juliana had not been listening. It was something about the maid’s wish to visit London and see for herself the type of life the nobles lived.

The past few days had passed in a haze of preparations for the journey back to London, and Juliana had spent every waking hour readying herself for the journey, filling her time with necessary and unnecessary tasks to avoid dwelling too long on the weight in her chest.

And now, the journey was to begin in mere minutes. She would have to endure not just the weight of the journey, but also the awkwardness that now defined her relationship with her husband. At some point, Juliana had grown unsure of where the issue stemmed from.

“The carriage is ready, and His Grace awaits you,” Lewis announced, pulling her out of her thoughts.

She hadn’t even noticed when he knocked, or when he came in.

“Thank you, Lewis,” Juliana said, and soon she was in the carriage and on her way to London.

She had spent most of the journey sleeping, or at least trying to. She had a faint memory of Vincent supporting her head while she slept, but that couldn’t be possible, because he wasn’t speaking to or touching her.

Before sunset, they arrived at Blackmoor House.

Gazing upon the looming structure, a small smile spread across Juliana’s face. This was where it all started for her. That night. The night she had stormed into the duke’s residence uninvited, demanding answers from a man she barely knew.

But now, as she stood in front of the townhouse, she was no longer an intruder the butler tried to keep out, but the lady of the house.

The thought was almost laughable and seemed far-fetched, but it was her reality.

The door to the carriage swung open, and Vincent stepped out first, turning back to offer her his hand. Juliana hesitated for only a moment before placing her gloved fingers in his, allowing him to steady her as she descended.

Sparks flew, and even through the fabric that covered her hands, she’d felt them. It was proof that while she might’ve stopped thinking about Vincent in that manner, her body had not.

The butler—Lincoln—stood waiting at the entrance, his expression just the same as the one Lewis had on his face when they had set off.

Juliana blinked, taken aback by his presence as the realization that he was truly a twin sank in. Granted, she had met him first, but she was used to Lewis because she had stayed longer at Blackmoor.

“Lincoln,” Vincent greeted, his voice pulling her out of her thoughts.

“You thought of Lewis, did you not?” he murmured, his voice low enough for only her to hear.

Before she could respond, Lincoln executed a deep bow. “Welcome home, Your Grace.”

Juliana plastered a smile on her face and nodded. “Thank you, Lincoln,” she said, before following Vincent inside to rest.

Dinner was brief. She ate alone in her chambers, exhaustion settling over her as she forced herself to take a few bites.

She was asleep before she could even change into her nightdress, meaning she had been far more exhausted than she had initially thought.

Morning came with a reminder of what day it was, as the household seemed to be buzzing with preparations for the ball, excitedly whispering that it was Vincent’s first ball with his wife, so they had to ensure that everything down to the carriage was perfect.

Juliana thought the theatrics were uncalled for, but she could understand their excitement, as before the issue with Geoffrey, she had heard that her husband never attended balls…at least as a guest.

She stood before the mirror in her new chambers, watching as Eunice carefully tucked the final pin into her dark curls.

Her gown was made of deep emerald silk that glittered beneath the candlelight. It was modest yet elegant, fit for a duchess.

Her ivory gloves concealed the clamminess of her palms, though they did little to calm the flutter in her stomach when she stepped out of the house and saw her husband standing by the carriage.

She sucked in a breath at the sight of him. He was already dressed, his dark attire immaculate, his form commanding.

A scowl rested on his face, and she sighed, thinking of how long the night would be as her husband didn’t seem to pay her any attention. Perhaps after the ball, they should have a conversation about his negligence.

But at that moment, he did something she hadn’t expected.

He extended his hand toward her, a slight smile on his lips. “You look beautiful,” he rasped.

She blinked, taken aback by the sudden compliment.

“Thank you,” she replied as she stared down at his large, inviting hand.

She hesitated, her pulse quickening, before finally placing her fingers in his.

The warmth of his touch seeped through the fabric of her glove like she knew it would, the delicious feel of it making her crave more.

A smile, impossible to suppress, found its way to her lips, but Vincent said nothing more, merely guiding her to the carriage.

The ball was everything she had feared.

The eight-man orchestra played beautifully, the sound filling her with hope that the night might not be as she feared, but as they entered the ballroom, she felt it.

The shift.

The way the whispers began almost instantly, spreading like wildfire among the crowd.

She sucked in a breath, unintentionally tightening her grip on Vincent, who was as still as a rock.

He then led her to their hosts, the Earl and Countess of Hemsworth.

“Your Grace,” Lady Hemsworth greeted warmly, fluttering her fan as she turned to Juliana. “And you, my dear, how lovely it is to finally meet the Duchess of Blackmoor.”

Juliana smiled, though she was acutely aware of the guests’ eyes on her. “Thank you, Lady Hemsworth.”

The pleasantries did not last long before the whispers grew loud, almost drowning out the music.

Lord Pembroke was the first to speak.

“A rather dramatic tale, is it not?” he mused aloud, his voice carrying enough for those around to hear. “A wedding that was never meant to be, a bride stolen away by a rather determined duke…and poor Norfield, left to nurse his wounds in France.”

A chuckle rippled through the crowd nearby.

Juliana’s fingers curled into her gown, the sting of humiliation creeping in. How had the ton’s opinion about them changed in such a short time, when most of the guests had been present at the Montford ball and celebrated with them?

Truly, the ton was ruthless.

Juliana opened her mouth to tell Vincent she was done for the night and would like to return home, but he fixed Lord Pembroke with a steady look and said, “A rather dramatic tale, indeed.” He lifted his glass. “Though I must correct you on one matter, Pembroke.” His voice was icy, filled with so much disdain that made her shiver.

The laughter and murmurs died down.

“My wife was not stolen because she was never poor Norfield’s. This is the last time I hear about this matter. I won’t tolerate anyone spreading and publishing such tales after tonight.”

Juliana’s breath hitched.

Silence fell over the ballroom, and for a moment, no one so much as breathed.

Lord Pembroke hesitated, clearly caught off guard, before offering a strained smile. “Of course, Your Grace. A simple jest.”

Vincent’s eyes darkened, but he let it go, taking Juliana’s hand in his own as he led her to a less crowded corner of the room.

Juliana, still reeling, could do nothing but glance at her husband, her heart beating an erratic rhythm against her ribs as he led her away.

She had expected Vincent to be indifferent to the whispers, just like he’d been indifferent to her presence in the past week. Instead, he had defended her. Without thinking, she reached for his arm, a silent acknowledgment of what he had just done.

He did not react, but she did not miss the way his fingers brushed against hers for a moment before he spoke.

“Do not let their murmurs get to you,” he advised, and with that, he walked away.

After the third dance of the night, the tension in the ballroom had lessened considerably. Most people had moved on, while some regarded her with judgmental looks.

The orchestra had begun playing another fine song, but Juliana still felt it. The tingling warmth in her belly, the slow unraveling of something she could not name, all because her husband had defended her.

She had not expected him to step in, let alone in such a decisive manner.

She was not stolen because she was never Norfield’s. Truer words had never been spoken. She was Vincent’s all along.

His words and his warmth echoed in her mind, leaving behind an ache she knew only he could soothe.

But whatever thrill lingered from the moment disappeared when she sensed her family approaching before she even turned to them.

Her mother was the first she spotted. She was smiling slightly, the look in her eyes unfathomable as she watched her. Beside her, Francis was less subtle. His frown sat heavily on his features, deepening with every step he took toward her.

Juliana straightened instinctively.

“Uncle. Mother,” she greeted as steadily as she could manage.

Francis did not bother with pleasantries.

“Try to be on your best behavior, Juliana. I hope the lashings from the ton knocked some sense into you,” he said sharply. “It is well deserved, since this was your doing, after all.”

She stiffened, her fingers curling around her half-filled glass.

“If you had not been so determined to keep your relationship with the duke secret, the ton would not be calling you so many names behind your back,” Francis continued, his tone dripping with condescension. “The stolen bride…how unfortunate.”

Juliana bit the inside of her cheek, willing herself to remain composed, knowing it was what her mother would’ve told her. But she didn’t say anything to her uncle because the ton had already dissected her once—she didn’t need it to happen a second time on the same night.

However, she didn’t want to leave without saying anything to her uncle, even if it was to correct his conduct. That was no way to speak to a duchess.

But before she could utter a word, Vincent appeared beside her.

He had stepped up so seamlessly, so quietly, she had not even noticed his approach.

“I was not aware I had married a child in need of constant reminders,” he said smoothly, his voice edged with quiet steel.

Juliana’s breath caught in her throat.

Francis turned to him, startled by his sudden appearance. “Your Grace, I?—”

“My wife,” Vincent continued, his gaze unwavering, “is doing just fine. She has comported herself with grace, so you should mind the way you speak to her.”

Juliana swallowed as he took her hand in his own and brought it to his lips.

“She is,” Vincent added, “the best duchess I could have hoped for.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs. What was it about London that made him act like that? Was it the weather? The water? The city itself? She wished she knew.

But he had defended her, again.

Francis said nothing at first, though his lips pressed into a tight line. “Of course, Your Grace,” he finally muttered. “I meant no offense.”

Vincent did not dignify him with a response. He merely cast one last glance at him before turning to Lady Ridgewell and greeting her with a small smile and a bow. Then, he finally turned to Juliana.

“Enjoy the ball,” he said, his voice softer now, his hand still cradling hers. “I must attend to a business matter.”

Juliana nodded, already suspecting that the ‘business matter’ was somehow related to Norfield.

She watched as Vincent moved across the ballroom, his back stiff, before turning back to her mother and uncle.

Her uncle did not linger much longer, obviously embarrassed by the exchange with Vincent.

“That man fancies you a great deal. He wouldn’t even let you deal with any conflict,” Lady Ridgewell noted.

“It’s nice to see you again, Mama,” Juliana said, in an attempt to change the topic because she didn’t know what to say. She took her mother’s hand in her own.

“Likewise, Your Grace,” Lady Ridgewell responded with a slight eye roll.

“How have you and my sisters been?” Juliana asked. “I have been worried about you all.”

Lady Ridgewell shook her head. “Perhaps you should spend your precious time worrying about your husband,” she replied, sarcasm dripping from each syllable.

“That is hardly a thing to say to a daughter who has missed her family dearly,” Juliana protested, feigning hurt, but her mother ignored her.

“You and your sisters are just the same. They’ve been eager to see you ever since they heard you came to town.”

Juliana’s eyes widened with excitement. “Well, I would be more than happy to host them at Blackmoor House on a day of their choosing.”

Lady Ridgewell nodded, pulled Juliana in a warm embrace, and then walked away to join her friends—which was a blessing, as only moments later, Portia appeared at Juliana’s side.

“There you are,” she sighed dramatically, linking their arms. “I feared you’d been swallowed by your dear husband’s shadow.”

Juliana shot her a look. “Do not be ridiculous.”

Portia smirked.

They moved toward the refreshments table, collecting glasses of champagne before settling by one of the grand windows. The cool night breeze seeped through the glass, offering some relief from the stifling air in the ballroom.

“So,” Portia began, her eyes glittering with mischief. “Tell me, Your Grace…how is married life treating you?”

Juliana brought the golden liquid to her lips and took a sip. “It is fine.”

Portia raised an eyebrow. “Fine?”

Juliana nodded, keeping her expression neutral.

Her friend was not convinced.

“I do believe you are leaving something out,” Portia mused, tilting her head. “You have a certain glow about you.”

Juliana nearly choked on her drink as her face reddened. “Glow? I do not know what you speak of.”

“You do,” Portia countered, undeterred. “And it tells me that something has happened.”

Juliana felt heat engulf her entire body. “Nothing has happened.”

Portia narrowed her eyes. “Liar.”

“I am not?—”

“Oh, you are,” Portia cut in, grinning. “And I will not rest until I have the details.”

“There are no details,” Juliana insisted, but her voice was less firm than she would have liked.

Portia gasped. “Oh, heavens, you have done something.”

Juliana groaned, looking anywhere but at her friend.

Portia leaned in, lowering her voice. “Tell me…how was it?”

Juliana’s mouth fell open. “I cannot say.”

“You can.”

“I will not.”

Portia huffed. “You are unbearable.”

“And you are shameless.”

Portia smirked. “I have never denied it.”

Juliana sighed, pressing her fingers to her temple. “Portia, for the love of?—”

“There you are,” Vincent’s voice interrupted her.

Juliana was certain now that he was on a mission that did not only involve Geoffrey—if it did at all. His mission, however, heavily involved her, because there was no other plausible explanation for his behavior—how he seemed to pop up whenever she was in a stressful situation or something close.

Her stomach flipped. She had not expected him to return soon, nor had she expected him to look at her like that—his blue eyes dark and locked onto hers.

“I believe I am the furthest thing from invincible,” Portia muttered under her breath.

Juliana smiled, but Vincent didn’t seem bothered enough to respond.

“Dance with me,” he said, offering her his hand.

She hesitated only a moment before placing her hand in his.

As soon as their hands touched, she felt it again—that spark, that pull that always overtook her entire being when he was close.

The orchestra had begun playing a waltz, and Vincent led her effortlessly onto the dance floor.

The moment he put his hand on her waist, heat curled in her spine. They moved in perfect sync, their bodies a breath apart, tension humming between them.

It was unbearable.

Juliana lifted her gaze to his. “You have kept your distance since the town square. Perhaps since that night.”

Vincent’s grip on her tightened slightly. “It is for the best.”

Juliana frowned. “Does it make you happy?”

His jaw tensed. “What?”

“Keeping people at a distance.”

He did not answer immediately.

Juliana held his gaze, waiting, but before he could speak, the waltz came to an end.

Juliana released him.

Without another word, she turned and walked away, leaving him where he stood, his hands curled into fists.