Page 30 of The Duke Who Stole Me (Stolen by the Duke #4)

THREE MONTHS LATER

T he gardens at Blackmoor Estate were resplendent in the late summer sunshine, a rich assemblage of color and fragrance stretching toward the horizon.

White tents had been erected on the expansive lawn, their canvas sides rolled up to capture the gentle breeze, while tables laden with delicacies waited beneath their shade.

Crystal glinted in the afternoon light, champagne flutes catching the sun as servants moved with practiced efficiency among the assembled guests.

Juliana observed the scene from the marble terrace, a quiet satisfaction warming her chest. Three months had passed since that morning in the dower house. Three months of rebuilding trust, of learning one another anew, of forging something stronger from what had been broken.

“Are you hiding, my dear?” Vincent’s voice, warm with amusement, pulled her out of her reverie.

He stood in the doorway that led to the terrace, his tall figure silhouetted against the darker interior.

“Merely appreciating the view,” she countered, extending her hand toward him in invitation. “It seems our first attempt at hosting has been rather successful.”

Vincent crossed to her, his fingers entwining with hers as he surveyed the gathering below. “Indeed. Though I suspect your mother is already planning how she might improve upon our efforts.”

A soft laugh escaped Juliana’s lips as she followed his gaze to find her mother deep in animated conversation with Lord Somerton. “She means well.”

“She does,” Vincent agreed, his thumb drawing lazy circles on her palm. “And I find I have developed quite an appreciation for her particular brand of determination.”

The change in their relationship had been gradual but undeniable—a thawing that had begun with cold necessity and evolved into something bordering on genuine affection. Lady Ridgewell, true to her word, had made efforts to temper her controlling nature, while Vincent had discovered unexpected reserves of patience.

Below them, Juliana’s sisters had gathered beneath one of the oak trees, their youthful laughter carrying on the breeze. Gina, the youngest, gesticulated wildly as she recounted some tale, while Ava and Emily listened with expressions of theatrical disbelief.

“I should join them,” Juliana murmured, though she made no move to do so.

Vincent followed her gaze, his expression softening as he observed the sisters’ camaraderie. “In a moment,” he said, his voice dropping to a purr that still, after months of marriage, sent a pleasant shiver down her spine. “I selfishly wish to keep you to myself for a little bit longer.”

She leaned into him, savoring the solidity of his presence. “How quickly you’ve adapted to country life, sir. If someone had told me three months ago that the notorious Duke of Blackmoor would willingly host garden parties at his estate…”

“I blame entirely your corrupting influence, Madam,” he replied, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Though I find I have few complaints about my current circumstances.”

A comfortable silence settled between them, broken only when Francis approached Lady Ridgewell, his expression one of exaggerated innocence. Even from a distance, Juliana could see her mother’s spine stiffen in anticipation.

“I was just remarking to Lady Whitmore,” Francis announced with deliberate casualness, “how Ava is certain to be the talk of the Season. Assuming, of course, that her debut is not overshadowed by excessive maternal…enthusiasm.”

Lady Ridgewell pressed her lips into a thin line and clasped her hands together with enough force to whiten her knuckles.

For a moment, it seemed as though the familiar storm of maternal intervention might burst. But then, remarkably, she exhaled slowly.

“I have every confidence in Ava’s ability to navigate Society,” she stated, her tone practiced in its neutrality. “With minimal interference from me.”

Francis’s eyebrows shot upward in genuine surprise before he recovered, offering an approving nod. “Well said, Lady Ridgewell. Well said, indeed.”

Vincent chuckled softly at the exchange. “Progress,” he murmured against Juliana’s temple.

“Incremental but real,” she agreed, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Come, let’s join them before Lord Somerton monopolizes all of Portia’s attention.”

They descended the steps together, making their way across the lawn toward the center of the gathering.

As they approached, Juliana couldn’t help but notice the way Somerton leaned toward Portia, his usual sardonic expression softened into something almost boyish as he listened to her speak. For her part, Portia’s customary composure had given way to a subtle animation, her hands punctuating her words with graceful emphasis.

“You’ve noticed, then,” Vincent commented, following her gaze.

“It would be difficult not to,” Juliana replied, keeping her voice low. “They’ve been circling each other all afternoon.”

“Longer than that,” Vincent corrected. “Though neither would admit as much if confronted directly.”

“One might say the same of other couples of our acquaintance,” she teased, squeezing his hand lightly.

Before Vincent could respond, they were intercepted by Ava, who had broken away from her sisters to join them. At sixteen, she stood on the cusp of womanhood, her features a softer echo of Juliana’s.

“Julie, you must come to settle a dispute,” she declared, looping her arm through her sister’s. “Lord Somerton insists that Geoffrey’s execution was too merciful, while I think it provided adequate closure for his crimes.”

Vincent’s expression turned somber at the mention of the traitor’s name. “Perhaps not the most suitable topic for a garden party,” he suggested gently.

Ava had the grace to look abashed. “Forgive me. It’s just—well, the ton speaks of little else, even now.”

“The ton,” Juliana said, steering her sister back toward the oak tree, “will find new gossip soon enough. The particulars of justice served need not dominate every conversation.”

The sisters welcomed their approach, making room for them beneath the sprawling branches. Juliana settled beside them, the familiar rhythm of their conversation washing over her with comforting familiarity.

Vincent remained standing, his posture relaxed yet somehow still conveying the quiet authority that seemed as much a part of him as the color of his eyes.

“Lord Somerton was telling us that the official story has satisfied most of the ton,” Emily offered, tactfully shifting the subject. “No one seems to question the extent of Geoffrey’s treason, nor his motivations.”

“A fortunate outcome,” Vincent acknowledged. “For all concerned.”

Then, the conversation drifted to lighter topics—the upcoming Season, the latest fashions in London, the merits of various country estates compared to Blackmoor.

As the afternoon waned, guests began to depart, their carriages trundling down the long drive until only family remained.

Night fell softly over Blackmoor, stars emerging one by one in the deepening blue sky. In their bedchamber, Juliana stood before the vanity, removing the pins from her hair, while Vincent lounged in a nearby chair, his cravat discarded, his collar open.

“A successful day,” he remarked, watching the dark cascade of her hair as it fell past her shoulders.

“Indeed,” she agreed, setting aside the final pin. “Though exhausting in its own way.”

Vincent rose then, crossing to stand behind her, his hands coming to rest on her shoulders. “Perhaps I might help you relax,” he suggested, his fingers applying gentle pressure to the tension gathered there.

Juliana’s eyes met his in the mirror, the reflected candlelight catching the glimmering ocean in his gaze. “I would welcome your assistance,” she murmured, letting her head fall back against him as his thumbs rubbed slow circles on the nape of her neck.

His lips found the sensitive spot beneath her ear, the gentle scrape of his teeth drawing a soft gasp from her.

“I find myself increasingly devoted to your comfort and welfare, my darling,” he whispered, his hands slipping lower to follow the curve of her collarbones.

“How fortunate that I am married to such a considerate man,” she replied playfully, her voice hitching as his fingers traced the swell of her breasts above her bodice.

With practiced ease, Vincent began to loosen the fastenings of her gown, each newly revealed inch of skin receiving the reverent attention of his mouth. Juliana turned in his arms, her fingers working at the buttons of his waistcoat, impatience lending urgency to her movements.

They moved together toward the bed, garments discarded in a trail behind them until they stood before one another unencumbered by anything but desire. Vincent’s gaze traveled down the length of her body with undisguised appreciation, his hands following the path of his eyes as though committing every curve to memory.

“You are…exquisite,” he breathed, the sheer awe in his voice sending an acute lance of need right to her quim.

He drew her against him, the heat of his skin a delicious contrast to the cool night air.

Their joining was unhurried, a gradual building of pleasure that threatened to unspool all reason for decorum of any kind. Juliana arched beneath him, her body responding to the familiar rhythm of his movements, each touch heightening the sensation that coiled within her. When release came, it was with a shared intensity that left them breathless, limbs entangled, hearts beating in tandem.

Afterward, as they lay in the quiet darkness, Juliana traced lazy patterns on Vincent’s chest, her head resting in the crook of his neck. A certain knowledge had been growing within her these past weeks, a secret she had held close while ensuring its certainty.

“Vincent,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to the underside of his jaw. “There is something I must tell you.”

He shifted slightly, his arm tightening around her. “Should I be concerned?” he asked, though his tone suggested that he anticipated no serious trouble.

Juliana pushed herself up on one elbow, looking down at him in the dim light. “Not concerned, no. Though perhaps…prepared for significant change.”

Vincent furrowed his brow momentarily, before understanding dawned in his eyes.

“Juliana,” he breathed, his hand coming to rest on her still-flat stomach. “Are you certain?”

She nodded, a smile spreading across her face at the wonder in his expression. “Quite certain. Dr. Marsden confirmed it yesterday.”

Vincent sat up abruptly, gathering her into his arms with such enthusiasm that she laughed aloud.

“My God,” he whispered into her hair. “A child. Our child.”

At that moment, surrounded by the quiet darkness of Blackmoor and held within the circle of her husband’s arms, Juliana knew a contentment she had once believed impossible.

From calculated alliance to true partnership, their journey had been neither simple nor straightforward, but she would not have traded a single step of the path that had led them here.

The End?