Page 29 of The Duke Who Stole Me (Stolen by the Duke #4)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“ N ow.”

In that singular word, time seemed to compress. Juliana moved with a speed that belied her usual grace, her fingers closing around the silver paper-knife on the desk. The movement was fluid, decisive—a testament to the resolve Vincent had glimpsed in her eyes.

Geoffrey, sensing the shift, pivoted to counter her motion, the barrel of his pistol swinging wildly away from her temple as he struggled to reestablish his aim. A curse tore from his throat, sharp and venomous in the stillness of the room. He aimed his pistol at her, his finger tensing on the trigger.

Time seemed to slow down, each moment stretching into an eternity as Juliana saw death staring her right in the face, felt the certainty of it in her bones.

But Vincent was already moving, a blur of controlled fury as he launched himself across the room. His shoulder connected with Geoffrey’s arm just as the pistol discharged, the report deafeningly loud in the confined space. The bullet splintered the wood of a bookshelf, sending fragments flying everywhere.

In the chaos that followed, Juliana found herself free, stumbling backward as the two men grappled before her. Geoffrey’s grip on the pistol loosened as Vincent struck his wrist with calculated precision, forcing his fingers to release their hold. The weapon clattered to the floor, spinning across the polished wood.

Juliana lunged for it, her heart pounding so violently that she felt it might burst out of her chest. Her fingers closed around the grip, the metal still warm from Geoffrey’s hand. She retreated to the far corner of the room, putting as much distance between herself and the struggling men as possible, aiming the pistol with trembling hands, her breaths coming in sharp, uneven gasps.

“Stay back,” she commanded, her voice steadier than she had anticipated, the barrel of the pistol aimed at them.

Geoffrey fought with the desperation of a cornered animal, his elegance abandoned in favor of brute force. A flurry of blows rained upon Vincent’s shoulders and chest, but there was a methodical precision to her husband’s responses that spoke of years of training. Each strike Geoffrey attempted was met with a calculated counter, Vincent’s movements economical yet devastating.

“You bloody fool,” Geoffrey spat, his face contorted with fury as Vincent parried another wild swing. “Do you have any idea what you’re interfering with? What’s at stake?”

Vincent’s response was not verbal but physical—a swift, merciless fist that connected with Geoffrey’s jaw, snapping his head back with an audible crack. Geoffrey staggered, momentarily stunned, and Vincent seized the advantage, slamming him against the wall with enough force to rattle the nearby bookshelves.

“The only thing at stake,” Vincent replied, his voice low and dangerous, “is how long you continue breathing.”

Geoffrey’s lips curled into a sneer, blood staining his teeth crimson. “Always the hero, aren’t you, Blackmoor? So convinced of your righteousness.” He attempted to push back, but Vincent’s grip was immovable, his forearm pressed against Geoffrey’s throat just enough to restrict his breathing without cutting it off entirely.

“Not righteousness,” Vincent corrected, his expression one of cold fury. “Just necessity.”

The study door burst open then, revealing three of Vincent’s men, their weapons drawn, their faces taut with alertness.

“Your Grace,” the foremost of them, a large man with eyes that had seen too much, addressed Vincent with a mix of deference and urgency. “We heard the shot.”

“Perfect timing, Edward,” Vincent acknowledged, not relaxing his grip on the struggling Geoffrey. “I was beginning to wonder what had become of you all.”

“He ambushed us, Your Grace,” Edward reported grimly. “Took us by surprise. Matthew is still unconscious, but Daniel is seeing to him.”

“And what of the servants?” Vincent inquired, his gaze flicking briefly to Juliana, who remained in the corner, the pistol still clutched in her hands.

“All accounted for, Your Grace. Shaken but unharmed.”

Vincent nodded, his attention returning to Geoffrey, who was twisting uselessly against his iron grip.

“Take this piece of filth to the authorities,” he commanded. “Tell them he is to be held on charges of treason against the Crown. I shall follow shortly to provide my full testimony.”

Geoffrey’s eyes widened at the word ‘treason,’ his face paling beneath the bruises that were already beginning to form. Now, he struggled against his incapacitation, his composure entirely shattered.

“This changes nothing!” he shouted, his voice raw with rage. “You’ve only delayed the inevitable! When they learn what you’ve done?—”

“Enough,” Vincent barked, his tone suggesting that further protests would be met with physical violence. “You’re finished, Norfield. The game is over.” He regarded the earl coldly, unmoved by the display.

The men sprang into action, tying Geoffrey’s arms behind his back before escorting him out of the room.

Geoffrey continued to struggle, his protests growing increasingly incoherent as the reality of his situation sank in. The sound of his voice faded as they led him through the corridor, leaving behind a silence that seemed to pulse with the echoes of violence.

Vincent turned to Juliana and then crossed the room with measured steps. The pistol in her hands had lowered slightly, though her grip remained firm. Gently, he pried her fingers off the pistol, checking that the safety was engaged.

“It’s over,” he murmured, his voice softer now, stripped of the cold authority he had wielded moments ago. “You’re safe.”

Juliana relinquished the pistol without resistance, watching as he tucked it securely in his coat.

“I’m fine,” she insisted, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her.

Indeed, she could feel the fine tremors that had taken hold of her limbs, a delayed reaction to the danger that had passed.

Vincent’s arms encircled her then, drawing her against the solid warmth of his chest. One hand cradled the back of her head, his fingers threading through her hair with a tenderness that threatened to unravel the composure she had barely maintained throughout the ordeal.

“It’s over,” he murmured against her temple, his breath warm against her skin. “He can’t hurt you now. You’re safe.”

Juliana melted into his embrace, drawing strength from his steadiness, from the unwavering certainty of his presence. For a moment, they remained there, the world beyond them fading into insignificance as she absorbed the reality that they had survived, that the danger had passed.

The tranquility of the moment was shattered by the sound of hurried footsteps in the corridor outside. The door, still ajar from the departure of Vincent’s men, swung open to reveal the pale, anxious faces of her mother and sisters.

“Juliana?” Lady Ridgewell called, concern evident in her voice. “What on earth has happened? We heard a gunshot?—”

“Everything is under control now, Lady Ridgewell,” Vincent assured her, his arm wrapped around Juliana’s waist. “I apologize for the disturbance. There was an intruder, but he has been apprehended and is being taken to the authorities as we speak.”

Lady Ridgewell pressed a hand to her heart, her gaze darting between her daughter and son-in-law with a mix of relief and lingering anxiety. “An intruder? But who?—”

“It’s a complicated matter,” Vincent interjected gently, sparing Juliana the necessity of explanation. “One that I will be happy to discuss with you at length, but perhaps not at this moment.”

Little Gina stepped forward, her eyes wide with a combination of fear and curiosity. “Are you hurt, Julie?” she asked, concern rife in her tone.

Juliana managed a small smile and reached out to squeeze her sister’s hand reassuringly. “No, Gina. I’m quite all right.”

The lie was delivered with the practiced ease of an elder sister accustomed to protecting those in her care.

Vincent observed the exchange with a newfound appreciation for Juliana’s strength—not merely the courage she had mustered to confront Norfield, but the emotional fortitude that allowed her to set aside her distress to comfort others. It was a quality he had recognized in her from their first meeting, though he had not fully understood its depth until this moment.

“I need to follow the men to give a statement to the authorities,” he explained, addressing the room at large, but his gaze was fixed on Juliana. “I will return in a few hours to collect you if that is acceptable.”

Juliana looked up at him, uncertainty flickering across her features. “You’ll come back?”

The question contained many things—a query not merely about his immediate plans but also the future of their relationship, a query about his willingness to truly return to her after sending her away.

Vincent understood the layers of meaning contained in those three simple words.

He lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles with a reverence that spoke volumes.

“Of course,” he replied, his voice low and intimate despite their audience.

The promise in his tone was unmistakable—this was not merely a commitment to return but a pledge of his intentions moving forward.

“I give you my word.”

With a final nod to Lady Ridgewell and her daughters, Vincent took his leave, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the corridor.

Dawn broke over the dower house in a haze of pale gold, the soft light filtering through Juliana’s window as she sat before her vanity, absently running a brush through her brown hair. Sleep had eluded her for much of the night, her mind replaying the events of the previous evening with relentless clarity—Geoffrey’s cold eyes, the pressure of the pistol against her temple, the sound of the shot echoing in her mother’s study.

But more than that, she found herself dwelling on Vincent’s promise to return and the undisguised emotion she had glimpsed in his eyes.

He had not come back as promised. A message had arrived instead, explaining that the matter with the authorities had taken longer than anticipated, but that he would call on her the following morning. Disappointment had warred with understanding, leaving her restless and uncertain.

A soft knock at her door interrupted her thoughts.

“Enter,” she called, setting down her brush and turning to face whoever sought her company at such an early hour.

Lady Ridgewell appeared in the doorway, her usual imperious bearing somewhat diminished, an uncertainty in her step that Juliana had rarely observed. “May I speak with you, my dear?” she inquired, her voice softer than usual.

Juliana nodded, gesturing to the small settee beside the window. “Of course, Mama. Please, sit.”

Lady Ridgewell sat on the edge of the settee, her hands folded tightly in her lap, the picture of uncharacteristic nervousness.

For a moment, silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken words.

“I owe you an apology,” she began, her eyes trained on her clasped hands. “For my behavior these past months. For my failure to support your marriage. For…many things.”

Juliana’s breath caught, surprise rendering her momentarily speechless. In all her life, she could not recall her mother ever offering an apology, let alone one so direct.

“When your father died,” Lady Ridgewell continued, her voice becoming thicker, “I believed I was protecting you—all of you—by insisting on certain paths, as I haven’t been the best mother.”

She looked up then, her eyes meeting Juliana’s with unexpected vulnerability.

“But now I see that I was wrong. That in my determination to secure your futures, I nearly denied you the chance to find your happiness.”

Juliana moved to sit beside her mother, taking one of her hands in her own. “We all grieve in different ways,” she said softly. “And fear can make us hold too tightly to what we believe we can control.”

Lady Ridgewell’s fingers tightened around hers. “You are very generous, my dear. More generous than I deserve, perhaps.” She drew a deep breath, as though mustering her courage. “I want you to know that I am proud of you. Of the woman you have become. Of the strength you have shown.” A small, rueful smile curved her lips. “Strength, I fear, I have often mistaken for defiance.”

“Perhaps a bit of both,” Juliana admitted, returning her mother’s smile with a tentative one.

“I hope,” Lady Ridgewell ventured, “that you can forgive me. And that perhaps…we might start anew.”

Juliana felt a weight lifting from her heart, a burden she had carried for so long that she had almost forgotten it was there.

“I would like that very much,” she replied, her voice thick with emotion. “And I hope…I hope you will extend the same understanding to my sisters when the time comes for them to make their own choices.”

Lady Ridgewell nodded solemnly. “I promise you that I shall do better by them. That I shall listen more and dictate less.” She squeezed Juliana’s hand before releasing it. “Now, I believe there is a certain duke who will be calling on you today. I shall ensure that you have the privacy you both deserve.”

Juliana’s cheeks flushed even as she tried not to let her disappointment show. Her husband had yet to come to her, despite his promise to. Of course, she knew of his reasons, but…the heart could seldom be reasonable in matters such as this because, despite herself, she found that she missed him.

She missed that proud and stubborn man, despite everything he’d done to push her away. Despite the fact that she did not know if she could trust him again.

After her mother’s departure, Juliana found herself drawn once more to the window, her gaze sweeping over the drive with renewed anticipation. She wanted him to come to her, nonetheless. She did not care if it was so she could fight with him…or hit him, or yell at him. She just wanted to see him again, to confirm that he was all right, that he was unharmed. He had fought with that slippery snake Geoffrey, after all. What if he’d taken some substantial blows he’d been hiding from her?

What are you thinking? You are angry with the man, remember?

And just at that moment, as she was lost in her contemplations, Vincent’s carriage came into view, and the sight of it sent her heart into a curious flutter.

She met him in the small drawing room, its windows overlooking the garden, the morning light casting a soft glow over the space. He stood up as she entered, his expression a blend of emotions that she could not entirely decipher. But she could see it—the fact that he had let down his walls. Yet, she approached him cautiously.

“Geoffrey will hang for treason,” he said without preamble, his tone carefully neutral. “His plans to sell the information in your father’s documents have been fully exposed, along with his other crimes.”

Juliana nodded, a somber acknowledgment of the fate that awaited the man who had once been promised to her. She did not feel anything at the announcement, however. No, because her heart and her attention were set on the man in front of her. The man she was married to.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For protecting my family. For…everything.”

Vincent’s gaze held hers, something unreadable flickering in its depths.

“No, I…I failed you,” he said, the words emerging as though they had been wrenched from somewhere deep inside him. “I thought by sending you away, I was keeping you safe. But I only succeeded in placing you directly in the path of danger.”

“Vincent—”

He raised a hand, a gentle request for her silence. “Please, let me finish. I need to say this.”

He took a step toward her, then another, closing the distance between them with deliberate care.

“I told myself that I was protecting you, but the truth is that I was protecting myself. From the possibility of loss. From the uncertainty of feeling…too much.”

Juliana’s heart rate quickened at his words, at the raw honesty in his tone. “And now?” she asked softly.

“Now,” he said, taking her hands in his own, “I find that the fear of losing you is nothing compared to the reality of it. That by pushing you away, I was denying both of us the chance for something…something extraordinary.”

He released one of her hands to withdraw a folded letter from his coat pocket. “I have written to the Prince Regent,” he explained, offering it to her. “Informing him of my immediate resignation from the Intelligence.”

Juliana accepted the letter with trembling fingers, her gaze scanning its contents with growing disbelief. “You’re giving up your work? But it’s been your life for so long.”

“A life I am ready to leave behind,” Vincent declared, his voice firm with conviction. “For a better one. A life as your husband, if…if you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”

Juliana looked up from the letter, searching his face for any sign of hesitation or doubt. She found none, only a steadfast certainty that both thrilled and terrified her. And yet…

“You promised once that you would never push me away,” she reminded him, the hurt of his betrayal still raw. “And yet, at the first test of that promise, you did precisely that.”

“Yes,” Vincent acknowledged, his expression contrite. “And I have no excuse for it, save that I was a fool who allowed fear to cloud his judgment. But I swear to you, Juliana, on everything I hold dear that I will never make that mistake again.”

He knelt before her then, a gesture of supplication that took her breath away. Vincent, the proud Duke of Blackmoor, on his knees, his hands holding hers, his gaze unwavering in its intensity.

“I am not asking for your immediate trust,” he said, his voice low and earnest, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I know that I must earn it back, day by day, action by action. But I am asking for the chance to do so. To prove to you that I am worthy of being your husband—not just in name, but in every way that matters.”

Juliana’s heart ached at the sincerity of his plea, at the naked vulnerability it revealed in a man who had spent his life guarding himself against the world.

“And if I refuse?” she asked, needing to hear his answer.

“Then I shall continue to prove myself, for as long as it takes,” he replied without hesitation, his earnestness causing the lump in her throat to tighten even more. “I shall wait, Juliana. I shall wait until the end of my days, if necessary, for you to believe in me again.”

No.

The last of her resistance crumbled at his words, at the unwavering determination behind them.

She tugged gently on his hands, urging him to rise. “I don’t want to wait until the end of our days,” she whispered, her voice catching on the emotion that threatened to overwhelm her. “I want to begin living them. Together.”

Vincent stood, his eyes never leaving hers, a cautious hope shining in them. “Does this mean you forgive me?”

“It means,” Juliana replied, stepping closer until barely a breath separated them, “that I am willing to try. That I want to build something with you, Vincent. Something real. Something lasting.”

His hands cupped her face with exquisite gentleness, his touch reverent as his thumbs brushed the curve of her cheekbones.

“I love you, Juliana,” he murmured, the words a confession, a promise, a vow. “With all that I am, with all that I have.”

The last barrier between them dissolved at his declaration, and Juliana leaned into him, resting her hands against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath her palm.

“And I love you,” she breathed, the truth of it resonating through her entire being. “Through fear and danger, through doubt and uncertainty. Through all of it, I love you.”

His lips found hers in a kiss that spoke of promises kept and new beginnings, of a future forged not in the shadows of the past but in the clear light of understanding.

And as Juliana surrendered to the sweetness of it, she knew with absolute certainty that they had found their way home, at last.