Page 107 of Stolen By the Rakish Duke

“Of course she did,” Leo replied with undisguised pride. “Beatrice could convince the Thames to reverse its course if she set her mind to it.”

The afternoon sun streamed through the tall windows of the Mallinghams’ morning room, casting golden patterns over the polished floor. Beyond Philip, Leo could see Beatrice and Anna deep in conversation, their heads bent together over lists and seating charts, their friendship as natural as if they had known each other all their lives.

“I’m telling you, Anna, Lady Wilton cannot be seated near Lord Hastings. Their families have been feuding over a strip of land in Hampshire for three generations,” Beatrice was saying, her pencil poised to make yet another adjustment. “And the Dowager Duchess must be given precedence, even though she’s insufferable.”

“But she despises the Pembrokes, and they’ve been our most loyal supporters,” Anna protested, looking up from the diagrams with a worried frown.

“Which is precisely why we’ll place her at the opposite end with the Bishop of Durham. She’s terrified of clergymen and will be too focused on appearing pious to notice the Pembrokes at all.”

Anna’s eyes widened in appreciation. “That’s brilliant!”

“That, my dear, is five seasons of observation without the distraction of dancing,” Beatrice replied with a wink. “The ton is a battlefield, and seating arrangements are your artillery.”

Philip moved to stand behind his wife, placing his hands on her shoulders with a tenderness that made Leo’s chest tighten with unexpected emotion.

For all the scandal their union had initially caused, his cousin and Anna had weathered the storm with remarkable grace. The ton’s memory was short when faced with genuine happinessandthe Duke of Stagmore’s blessing.

“You see why I insisted we consult them?” Philip murmured to Anna, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Beatrice has forgotten more about Society’s intricacies than most ladies ever learn.”

Leo pushed off the doorframe and crossed to his wife’s side. “And I have a vested interest in ensuring that your ball is a triumph. The more attention on the newly wedded Marquess and Marchioness of Mallingham, the less scrutiny on my own domestic arrangements.”

“As if anyone could look away from the notorious Duke of Stagmore turned devoted husband,” Philip teased. “The betting books at White’s still haven’t recovered from the shock.”

Beatrice rolled her eyes, though the smile playing on her lips betrayed her amusement. “Theton will find something new to gossip about within a fortnight. They always do.”

“I do hope it’s not another scandal involving our family,” Anna muttered. “I believe we’ve provided enough entertainment this past year to last a decade.”

“Speaking of scandals,” Philip said, his tone growing more serious as he caught Leo’s eye. “Have you heard the latest about Westbury?”

Leo tensed, his hand finding Beatrice’s shoulder instinctively. “No changes in his situation. The evidence was overwhelming. He’ll remain in Newgate until they transfer him to the colonies.”

“For life,” he added quietly, his fingers tightening on Beatrice’s shoulder.

Anna shuddered slightly. “I still have nightmares about what might have happened.”

Beatrice reached out to cover Anna’s hand with her own. “You have nothing to fear anymore. You’re safe now—both of you are.”

“With Leo’s vigilance, we’ll all remain so,” Anna said, gratitude shining in her eyes as she looked up at him. “I can never thank you enough for your protection.”

Leo nodded once, acknowledging her words while fighting the familiar surge of protectiveness that rose within him whenever he thought of how close they had all come to disaster.

“No one threatens the people I love and gets away with it,” he said, his gaze drifting to Beatrice. “Not while I draw breath.”

The tension in the room broke as Philip cleared his throat. “Well, on that cheerful note,” he said, squeezing Anna’s shoulders, “perhaps we should continue this discussion over tea?”

“An excellent suggestion,” Beatrice agreed, gathering her papers. “Anna, I’ve left some notes about the floral arrangements. I suggest white roses and lilies for the main ballroom. They’re classic, elegant, and unlikely to provoke any unfortunate associations.”

“You’ve thought of everything,” Anna marveled, leading them toward the sunny parlor, where a footman was already arranging the tea service.

“Not everything,” Beatrice demurred. “But enough to ensure your entrance into Society as Marchioness will be remembered for all the right reasons.”

Later, as their carriage rolled through London’s busy streets toward Ironstone House, Leo found himself studying his wife’s profile in the golden afternoon light.

Her marriage had changed something in her. The shy, uncertain girl who had stood beside him at the altar had blossomed into a woman of quiet confidence, her intelligence no longer hidden behind politeness and propriety.

“You’re staring,” she noted without turning, though a smile played at the corners of her mouth.

“A husband can’t admire his wife?”