Page 23 of The Duke Who Stole Me (Stolen by the Duke #4)

Chapter Twenty-Three

F or two days, Juliana had not seen Vincent.

After that night, she had thought that perhaps he was done with her.

That whatever had drawn them together had frayed at last, leaving only silence in its place. But then, on the third night, he came rushing in.

He had not knocked, had not hesitated. He had simply come to her, and she had not denied him.

And when it was over, when they had caught their breath and their bodies had cooled, there had been no words of regret, no lingering resentment.

They had returned to what they had been in the days before that night—no ill feelings, no expectations, just simply enjoying their time together and relishing their intimacy.

Yet, even as Juliana buried the thought deep in the recesses of her mind, she could not ignore the realization that had dawned on her that night.

Vincent was hellbent on not siring an heir.

He had said it indirectly, and she had felt it in the way he had handled her, in the choices he had made.

And she did not know what to make of it.

Juliana sat beneath the shade of the overgrown garden plants, a small table before her laden with tea, biscuits, and slices of cake. It was one of the rare moments of peace she had managed to carve for herself, away from the constant thoughts of Vincent and the storm he had left in his wake.

She had just lifted her teacup to her lips when Lincoln appeared.

“Your Grace.” He bowed slightly.

Juliana set her cup down. “Yes, Lincoln?”

“A visitor has arrived for His Grace.”

Juliana sighed, already fearing the worst. “I do hope it is not another matter from the Crown,” she muttered to herself, then turned to Lincoln. “Is it a lady?”

He shook his head. “No, Your Grace.”

Juliana exhaled slowly, then nodded. “Very well. Let him in. You may bring him here.”

Lincoln hesitated for only a moment before bowing once more and departing.

Juliana reached for her teacup again, but as soon as she took another sip, footsteps sounded down the stone path.

When she lifted her gaze, her entire body tensed.

Lord Somerton.

She had not expected him.

For a moment, she could only stare at him, memories of their last conversation resurfacing—the veiled accusations, the suspicion in his eyes.

But Somerton looked different now.

He carried himself with the same ease, but when he spoke, his tone was noticeably warmer.

“Your Grace,” he greeted, executing a small bow.

Juliana inclined her head, though she did not rise. “Lord Somerton.”

He smiled, unbothered by her cool reception. “I had hoped to speak with Vincent, but it seems I have the pleasure of your company instead.”

Juliana gestured toward the chair opposite her. “Would you care for tea?”

Somerton sat without hesitation. “Only if you promise that the company is as delightful as the refreshments.”

Juliana huffed a quiet laugh despite herself. Then Lord Somerton began speaking.

“I believe I owe you an apology. It was not my intention to offend you that night at the ball.” He looked directly into her eyes. “Nor was it my intention to annoy you.”

Juliana paused, studying him carefully. She had not expected an apology.

“You did not annoy me, My Lord,” she said evenly. And she was being honest, but she was annoyed that his words might’ve pushed Vincent to her that night. “But it did make me wonder if you are part of the Intelligence, too?” she asked, the look in her eyes hopeful.

Somerton tilted his head to the side, his gaze sharp. “Ah. So you did piece it together.”

Juliana’s fingers tightened around her teacup.

She had pieced it together.

Somerton watched her, as if to see how she would react.

But she merely took a delicate sip of her tea and nodded. “It was not difficult to conclude.”

Somerton chuckled. “I do not doubt that.”

Juliana lowered her cup, meeting his gaze directly. “I am still not certain what to think of you, Lord Somerton.”

He raised his eyebrows with a slight tilt of his head, intrigued. “And why is that?”

“Because I cannot decide if you are my friend or my adversary.”

Somerton grinned. “Ah. That is the fun part, isn’t it?”

Before she could respond, she felt a familiar presence in the garden.

Vincent.

Juliana looked up just as he strode toward them, his expression unreadable but his gaze fixed on Lord Somerton.

Lord Somerton, to his credit, merely smirked and rose to his feet. “Finally, you return.”

Vincent nodded once but did not respond. Instead, he moved toward Juliana, and before she could fully process it, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her lips.

Right there in front of Somerton.

Juliana’s breath hitched.

Vincent pulled away just as smoothly as he had leaned in, his gaze flickering toward Lord Somerton as if daring him to react.

Somerton only chuckled. “How utterly shameless of you, Blackmoor.”

Vincent smirked. “You disapprove?”

“On the contrary,” Somerton drawled. “It is rather entertaining.”

Juliana exhaled slowly, regaining her composure. She stood up and smoothed down her gown, before turning to Vincent. “I will leave you to your discussions.”

Vincent’s eyes flickered toward her, but he said nothing.

Before leaving, however, Juliana turned to Somerton and offered him a polite smile. “You must stay for dinner, My Lord.”

Somerton grinned. “An invitation from the duchess herself. How can I refuse?”

At that, Juliana inclined her head and made her way inside, leaving the two men alone in the garden.

Dinner was a civil affair, though Vincent barely spoke.

He ate in silence, his gaze flickering occasionally to Juliana and Somerton as they conversed, wondering how they had become friends in such a short time.

Somerton, as always, was charming. No doubt it was his doing.

“You must forgive me, but I still can’t believe that you are friends with him,” Juliana admitted, a smile on her face as her eyes darted to her husband for a split second before returning to Somerton.

The marquess looked at Vincent and laughed when he twisted his lips.

“He’s not.”

“I am.”

The two men spoke at the same time, causing Juliana to laugh, the sound music to Vincent’s ears.

“He doesn’t consider me a friend, but I swear I would be the first person he’d come running to should anything happen to him,” Somerton declared confidently.

Vincent could not dispute that fact because Somerton was a skilled spy, though not as skilled as him.

“You must know, Your Grace,” Somerton continued, swirling the wine in his glass, “that your husband was most intolerable during our training.”

Juliana arched an eyebrow, her lips twitching. “Was?”

Vincent shot her a look, but she ignored him.

Somerton grinned. “Indeed. I have spent years suffering under his scowls and cynicism. It is nothing short of a miracle that you have managed to tame him.”

Juliana hummed thoughtfully, reaching for her wine. “‘Tame’ may be a strong word.”

Somerton chuckled. “Then what would you call it?”

Juliana tilted her head. “A work in progress.”

Vincent exhaled sharply, reaching for his brandy as he muttered, “You both have entirely too much to say.”

Somerton merely laughed, pleased with himself, while Juliana hid her smile behind her glass.

The rest of dinner continued much the same, with light conversation filling the pause between courses. But Vincent remained quiet, a little annoyed that Juliana enjoyed Somerton’s company more than she should.

Later, when dinner had ended and the household had begun to retire, both men retreated to Vincent’s study.

The fire crackled low in the hearth, warming the room. A bottle of brandy sat between them, their glasses filled as they leaned back in their chairs, the air thick.

It was Somerton who broke the silence.

“We've been invited to Lord Trenton’s masquerade ball.”

Vincent lifted his glass, taking a slow sip before speaking. “And?”

“Trenton had worked with the government before,” Somerton revealed, his tone turning more serious. “If there is information to be sold, Norfield may seek him out.”

Vincent considered this, setting his glass down with a soft clink.

“Then we should inform the Crown,” he said simply. “Have the constables stationed there to trap him.”

Somerton shook his head. “No, you know we cannot do that.”

Vincent narrowed his eyes at him. “No?”

“The Crown’s orders were explicit,” Somerton reminded him. “We take Norfield down quietly.”

Vincent leaned back in his chair, studying his friend. “If the constables are present?—”

“Then any accomplices Norfield may have will flee,” Somerton interrupted. “We’ll lose our only chance to uncover anyone else who might be aiding him.”

Vincent exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his jaw.

Somerton had a point.

Vincent stared into his brandy, then nodded. “Fine.”

Somerton smirked. “I do enjoy it when you concede, Blackmoor. It’s a rare and precious thing.”

Vincent merely scowled, tossing back the rest of his drink.

Somerton chuckled, rising from his chair. “I’ll make the necessary arrangements. Until then…try not to be insufferable.”

Vincent gave him a dry look as he saw him out. But as he closed the study door, he stilled.

He was not alone.

Slowly, he turned his head, his gaze landing on the shadowed figure standing just beyond the hallway.

Juliana.

She stepped forward, looking a little guilty at being caught.

Vincent exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “How much did you hear?”

“Enough.”

Of course.

Juliana crossed her arms over her chest. “You are going after Geoffrey.”

Vincent stiffened. “You know that I am.”

In the past two days, he’d pondered why Juliana might seem like an issue, and he found the answer. It was merely because he kept telling her everything, every plan, and not being firm enough when he refused her. He needed to keep her out of his affairs for her safety, and he would start now.

Her eyes flashed with annoyance. “Not my concern? You married me, Vincent. Did you think I would remain ignorant of the danger you put yourself in?”

“This is not your fight.”

Juliana lifted her chin. “It became my fight the moment I became your wife.”

Vincent’s jaw clenched.

He had expected her to argue. Of course , she would argue—she was Juliana, after all.

But that did not mean he would yield.

“You will stay out of this.”

Juliana bristled. “I beg your pardon?”

Vincent took a step closer, his voice low and firm. “This is not a game, Juliana. Norfield is not some disgruntled former suitor—he is a traitor. Do you understand that?”

“I understand perfectly,” she shot back. “What I do not understand is why you refuse to let me help.”

Vincent exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was tired, and he had no patience left for this.

“You are not helping,” he muttered. “You are interfering.”

Juliana’s eyes widened slightly, hurt flashing across her face before she masked it with defiance.

“Well,” she said coldly, “it is good to know what you think of me.”

Vincent cursed under his breath. That was not what he had meant, and she knew it.

But she was already turning on her heel, her back stiff as she made to leave.

Vincent reached for her wrist. “Juliana.”

She froze. For a long moment, she did not move, did not turn. And then, finally, she looked at him.

There was a fire in her gaze, but beneath it, there was something else—something raw, something wounded.

Vincent swallowed hard. He could not give her what she wanted.

Not now.

Not with this.

So, instead, he released her.

Juliana lingered for only a breath before stepping away, retreating down the hall without another word.

Vincent exhaled heavily, dragging a hand down his face, knowing that he had handled it poorly. But if her being hurt would keep her out of harm’s way, then it was better this way. It had to be.

Because if there was one thing Vincent knew for certain, it was that if he allowed Juliana any closer, she would not stop until she was standing beside him in the fire.

And he would not let that happen.

Not now, not ever.