Page 8 of The Duke Who Stole Me (Stolen by the Duke #4)

Chapter Eight

“ Y ou look lovely, Julie,” Georgina cooed.

“Ow!” Juliana cried out at the little pain that shot up her chest as she tried to bend over and pat her sister’s head.

Damn corsets .

Though her golden yellow dress was the prettiest gown she could have hoped for, it restricted her movements.

Her sisters, including their mother, laughed, lightening up the tense atmosphere.

It had been two weeks since the Hawthornes’ garden party, and in those two weeks, the pressure from her uncle had made living even in the dower house uncomfortable.

Francis now visited them every day to drop the names of potential husbands for Juliana, each one worse than the last. Lady Ridgewell had forbidden her from refusing any, wearing her desperation on her sleeve, as her sisters’ futures looked more uncertain than ever.

Of course, Juliana knew she couldn’t blame her mother because she was also under immense stress. But so was she, and her mother had failed to notice it. It had caused a strain in their relationship since Juliana stood up to her, claiming that marriage was not everything and that her mother’s pestering was the reason why Francis controlled their lives.

It had been a horrible exchange that ended in tears, and for a fleeting moment, Juliana had thought of sending a note to Portia telling her that she would try and persuade the Duke of Blackmoor to marry her. But she had stopped herself at the right moment, seeing that it was all the same.

“You do look beautiful. The dress complements your hair and complexion,” Lady Ridgewell said, a small sad smile on her lips.

“Thank you, Mama. I suppose I should thank Uncle Francis profusely when he arrives, for buying it for me,” Julianna returned.

“We must leave now, lest he throws a tantrum,” Lady Ridgewell urged.

Juliana nodded, taking one more look at her reflection before heading out to the living area.

Soon, Francis arrived, and the mere sound of his carriage wheels made Juliana’s stomach twist into knots.

He did not bother entering the dower house. Instead, he’d sent a footman to fetch both Juliana and her mother—an act Juliana thought was disrespectful and uncalled for. Still, she had plastered a wide smile on her face.

“Don’t worry about him. This will all be over soon. When you’re married, we’ll be taken care of.” Her mother repeated the words she had sung since her engagement to Geoffrey.

Had things gone well with Geoffrey, Juliana would’ve been living in his residence as a countess, and Francis wouldn’t easily speak to her with such disrespect.

She sighed and nodded to her mother. There was no use crying over spilled milk, and truly, if she were to find a match tonight—like her mother kept hinting—it would be over soon.

Juliana climbed into the carriage after her mother and sat across from Francis, who all but smiled sheepishly the entire trip to Lord Montford’s residence.

Lord Montford was one of her late father’s recruits. He had joined the military at a young age and reported directly to the late earl. However, because of the struggles of war and his constant absence, he was unmarried, and everyone could tell that his mother, the dowager countess of Montford, was as eager as they came to see him settled.

It was clear as day that Lady Montford was hosting the ball to pick a bride for her son once and for all. Still, Juliana knew she wouldn’t be picked.

Judging from the smile on her uncle’s face, it seemed that he had finally spoken to Lord Robshaw, a man who was thirty years her senior. His name had been the last one Francis brought up, claiming he would have to ‘convince’ the man to marry Juliana simply because she was on the verge of ruin.

It made Juliana think the night before. How did Lord Robshaw think she was on the verge of ruin if her uncle didn’t blabber about what had happened with Geoffrey?

She’d quickly dismissed the thought, certain that her uncle would never expose her like that while knowing what was at stake.

But she would find out, when she stepped into the grand, beautifully decorated ballroom, that her uncle had, in fact, run his mouth.

Whispers reached her ears before she had the pleasure of greeting the hosts.

“He has abandoned her.”

“He found out she’d been ruined by another man and broke off their engagement.”

“How could she do that, knowing she has three sisters?”

“Who knows? She might be the reason why Lord Norfield fled.”

Juliana could not believe her ears. She wondered how the whispers had shifted from condemning Geoffrey to condemning her, but she wouldn’t say she was surprised.

“Do not cower! Keep your chin up and be on your best behavior. If all goes well, we’ll secure an engagement before we leave tonight,” Francis hissed in her ear.

Juliana understood then that he had risked her reputation because he was sure she would get an offer.

She sighed, lifting her chin. Not because her uncle had told her to do so, but because she knew it was the end for her.

There was no saving her anymore. By tonight, she’d be engaged to a man more than twice her age, and in a week, she’d be married to him.

As though Lady Ridgewell could feel her inner turmoil, she looped her arm through Juliana’s and gave her a gentle, comforting squeeze.

Juliana was scarcely comforted by it. Still, she walked with her mother and uncle to the hosts.

“…it is such a pleasure to have been invited,” Francis was saying to Lord Montford and his mother, but Juliana drowned them out, including the music coming from the orchestra.

“Lord Norfield was a notorious man—everyone can attest to it,” Juliana heard Lady Montford say when her mother nudged her for being absentminded. “You’re such a lovely lady, and anyone would be lucky to have you. However, there are some things that could diminish a woman, no matter how beautiful she is. I’d heard rumors about the end of your engagement from my son here, but tell me, what was the reason for it?”

Juliana struggled to keep a straight face.

Everyone in London knew of Lady Montford’s reputation as a gossipmonger. She pretended to care to fish out information from people, just so she could break the latest news, the latest scandal.

“Whatever the reason was, what’s done is done,” Lord Montford interjected.

For the first time that evening, Juliana raised her head to look at him.

He looked every bit a forty-year-old unmarried man who was undeniably babied by his mother, even in his advanced age, and he was looking—perhaps gaping—at Juliana.

She blinked, looking around uncomfortably, only to find him still staring at her as though he’d never seen her before.

He moved closer to her, a sheepish smile on his face.

“Your father was a man of valor and strength,” he said in a voice loud enough for only her ears. “He was wise and made every decision with a clear mind. I can’t tell you the number of times he saved my life on the battlefield.”

Juliana blinked, confused. She knew it was his attempt at small talk, but she’d never felt so out of place before. How could she tell the man that she didn’t share the same sentiments?

She hardly knew the man Lord Montford was speaking about—her father was a military man first, an earl second, and a father last.

“How kind of you to say. Thank you, My Lord,” she responded, for lack of better words.

“If you would allow me, My Lady, I would like to have your first dance,” he said after a beat, with that same strange smile.

With her mother, her uncle, and Lady Montford standing as witnesses, Juliana could not refuse him, so she nodded with a smile and handed him her dance card. “I would be happy to, My Lord.”

After Lord Montford scribbled his name on her dance card, Francis said, “We won’t hold you up anymore. I imagine you have many guests to attend to. Lord Montford, Lady Montford, it was a pleasure, once again.”

Once Juliana and Lady Ridgewell curtsied, they moved further into the ballroom with Francis.

“He is auctioning her off as though she is a piece of meat,” she heard Lady Montford say to her son as they walked away.

“Pay her no mind,” Lady Ridgewell soothed.

Juliana nodded, but she wasn’t sure she could be obedient anymore.

She had reached the end of her tether.

“We must go to Lord Robshaw over there.” Francis pointed at a grey-haired man standing with a group of old lords.

A frown creased her face instantly.

Her mother and uncle struck up a conversation as usual, and then her uncle practically dragged her mother away, leaving her with the gray-haired man.

“How old are you again, My Lady?” Lord Robshaw asked.

Juliana recoiled. It was rude to ask a woman her age, but of course, Lord Robshaw was too ancient to remember such key detail. She sighed.

“Do not bother,” he suddenly said, laughing. “I wouldn’t want to know how much older than my wife I am.”

Juliana paled instantly. She hadn’t spoken to the man for more than a minute and he’d already called her his wife.

She looked around the ballroom and caught her uncle’s eye. He was watching them, laughing as he drank, which made her begin to wonder what he stood to gain from marrying her off in such a manner. It made no sense to her.

“…I believe it happened when I was your age. My first wife, God rest her soul, was the one who had introduced it to me…”

Juliana could not believe he was the man she was about to tie her fate to. She had barely shifted her attention away from him and he’d already begun talking about something she had no idea of. She sighed inwardly.

“Good evening, Lord Robshaw.” Portia magically appeared beside her.

Instantly, a smile tugged at Juliana’s lips.

“How is it that I only had one glass of champagne and I can already see two of you?” Lord Robshaw asked.

Neither Juliana nor Portia could tell if it was a joke or if he was being serious.

“You must have had too much to drink, My Lord. You should probably retire for the night. I’m going to steal Lady Juliana for a minute,” Portia said in a sing-song voice.

Before the man could respond, she dragged Juliana away.

“You just saved my life, Portia,” Juliana mumbled.

Portia nodded, engulfing her in a hug. “I know. That was unbearable to watch, so I imagined how you must’ve been feeling in such an uncomfortable situation.”

“Thank you,” Juliana murmured as they pulled apart.

“You don’t need to thank me. I will always save you from old and unbecoming men,” Portia said, and the two laughed.

“You can only save me tonight, but I shall be married to Lord Robshaw by next week,” Juliana sighed.

Portia stilled. “What do you mean?”

“My uncle took the risk of ruining my reputation so I could find a husband tonight. He had his sights set on Lord Robshaw and had reached a consensus with him. I don’t know what he stands to gain, but I know it is set in stone,” Juliana explained.

“What can I do to help?”

Juliana shook her head, a small smile forming on her lips. “It is far too late for anything to be done, so I shall leave it at that. I have accepted my fate.”

“Nonsense!”

“Portia…”

“You can’t deny that it is utter rubbish. How could you agree to marry a man the same age as my father?”

Juliana took a deep breath. “I wouldn’t have agreed to it if my sisters’ futures weren’t on the line.”

As if sensing her deeper feelings about the matter, Portia nodded and smiled, linking their arms.

“If tonight is your last night as a single woman, I shall do you the honor of showing you the beauties that you missed in your quest for a husband,” Portia declared. “Starting with the Duke of Blackmoor.”

At the mention of his name, Juliana unknowingly began searching the ballroom for him.

“He is here?” she asked when she didn’t spot him.

Portia nodded. “I saw him earlier.”

“Well, it is nice of him to attend this ball, but I do not care.”

Even to Juliana, those words sounded untrue, much less to Portia. But the problem was, she didn’t know why she cared. It wasn’t as though he’d ever done anything for her other than frustrate her.

Why did she care if he was in attendance or not?

While she was lost in thought, she didn’t see Lord Montford approaching her until he stood before her with his arm extended.

“My Lady, I believe it’s time for our dance.”

“You know, it would be far better for you to go over there and snatch her from his arms than sitting here and seething.”

Vincent didn’t need to look up to know it was Somerton. No one else had the nerve to approach him and say such things.

He had watched the moment Lord Montford approached Lady Juliana and took her to the dance floor.

It had made his blood boil .

They moved haphazardly, and it seemed to make his anger burn even hotter. She was offered to Montford on a platter, but he didn’t know what to do with her. He’d put his hands on her awkwardly as he led the dance and was whispering only God knew what in her ear.

No matter how Vincent looked at it, the pairing was bad on all accounts.

“Why would I do that?” He lifted the glass full of amber liquid to his lips, tearing his eyes away from her. “And I am not seething. I am merely keeping my eyes on Lord Montford.”

“Of course you are,” Somerton drawled.

“I am.”

“I can see that.” The marquess smiled wider, as though he was enjoying this.

Vincent let out a heavy sigh. He shouldn’t involve himself in anything that didn’t pertain to his mission tonight—which was to keep an eye out for Norfield.

Yet, even as he tore his eyes away from her, his gaze snapped back to her. Lord Montford had just said something to her, she smiled, and the slight upturn of her lips nearly undid him.

He could not continue like this. He set down his glass on a nearby table.

“Excuse me,” he muttered, before making a beeline for the dance floor, though he wasn’t sure what prompted him to do so.

Coincidentally, when he approached the dance floor, the music had come to an end, and each dancer bowed to their partner.

Vincent stepped before Lady Juliana, shocking both her and Montford.

“Lady Juliana, may I have the next dance?” He offered her his arm, not sparing Montford a second glance.

Soft gasps rang around them.

Of course they gasped. They hadn’t seen Vincent dance in years, especially at a ball like this one. He, too, was surprised by his action, but he’d already offered his arm, and he wouldn’t withdraw it until she placed her hand on it.

“Your Grace, I do not think it?—”

“I do not think it would do your reputation any good to refuse a duke on the dance floor.”

She opened her mouth as if she wanted to say more, but then she closed it, smiling instead as she placed her hand on his arm.

A rush of energy surged through him at the simple touch, and he pulled her flush against him as the orchestra began playing the next piece.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” he heard Montford mumble from behind them before retreating.

“What are you doing, Your Grace?” Lady Juliana asked.

Vincent didn’t respond. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he didn’t know the answer. All he knew was that he wanted to be the one holding her in his arms.

“So, Lord Montford was your final choice? I’d say he is rather too meek for you,” he said with a smirk.

His aim was to rile her up, and he could see he was succeeding, as her nostrils flared.

“I do not wish to speak about my personal issues with you.” She turned her face away.

He smiled. “You need a man who can match your passion,” he murmured against her ear, his voice husky. He couldn’t help himself. “Someone with enough courage to handle your fire.”

Her eyes snapped to him. “You know nothing about me,” she spat.

“So you say, but I know you’ll quickly get bored of him.”

He had meant to whisper it in her ear, but his lips grazed her skin, and suddenly he felt as though he were standing in the middle of a rose garden.

She sucked in a breath at the contact but then recovered quickly, pulling a few inches away from him.

“Your Grace, with all due respect, what I do and how I feel is none of your concern,” she declared, her tone sharp.

The music swelled toward its final notes, forcing them to move in tandem for a few more moments. He held her gaze, watching the faint flush on her cheeks, the way her lips parted ever so slightly as if she had more to say but refused to give him the satisfaction.

Then, as the last note faded into the air, she curtsied with impeccable grace. “Thank you for the dance,” she said coolly, before turning away.

He inclined his head in response, but as she walked off, he was left standing there, with her scent seeping not only into his clothes but also into his mind.

Christ. He was doomed.