Page 109 of Stolen By the Rakish Duke

“Oh, of that, there is no doubt,” Beatrice said. “Isabella never does anything by halves, including falling in love.”

As the evening progressed, conversation turned to Lady Margaret Ashwell’s recently published works, which had become the talk of intellectual circles in London.

“I can scarcely believe that a woman wrote such insightful analyses of classical philosophy,” Lysander remarked, though his voice held admiration rather than skepticism. “Her treatise on Aristotelian ethics has the fellows in Oxford quite beside themselves.”

“Margaret was brilliant,” Leo said simply. “The world is only now discovering what our family suppressed for decades.”

“I’ve heard Lady Jersey is hosting a salon specifically to discuss her botanical classifications,” Georgina piped up. “Apparently, they’ve already been adopted by several prominent naturalists.”

Leo caught Beatrice’s eye across the table, sharing a private smile at this vindication of his great-aunt’s genius.

They had spent countless hours together in that dusty room, preserving her legacy, ensuring her voice would finally be heard. The project had become precious to them both, a reclamation of truth, a defiance of convention that mirrored their unlikely union.

Later, as their carriage took them back home, Beatrice leaned against his shoulder with a contented sigh. “They seem happy, don’t they? All of them.”

“They do,” Leo agreed, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Though not as happy as we are.”

She laughed softly. “Confident as always, Your Grace.”

“Merely observant.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “Your sister’s attitude toward me has changed.”

“Isabella is protective,” Beatrice explained, nestling closer. “But even she can’t deny how good you’ve been for me.”

“How good we’ve been for each other,” Leo corrected, thinking of all the ways she had changed his life.

The once cold, empty halls of Stagmore were now filled with warmth and purpose, the garden folly no longer a site of punishment but of pleasure.

The thought of the folly stirred his blood.

“Speaking of which,” he murmured against her hair, “I believe we have plans for this evening.”

Her laugh vibrated against his chest. “Impatient, are we?”

“For you? Always.”

The garden folly had been transformed, like so much else in Leo’s life. Where once it had been a chamber of torment, it now housed a large copper bath, comfortable furnishings, and warm braziers that kept the space inviting even on cool evenings. The stone walls that had once echoed with his childhood cries now witnessed only pleasure and intimacy.

“I still can’t believe you’ve turned this place into a sanctuary,” Beatrice said later, sinking into the steaming water with a sigh of contentment. “Your father would be appalled.”

“All the more reason to enjoy it,” Leo replied, joining her in the bath and pulling her back against his chest. “Though I suspecthe’d be more appalled by what we do in here than by the renovations.”

Beatrice laughed, the sound echoing pleasantly off the stone walls. “The fearsome Duke of Stagmore, tamed at last by a wallflower.”

“Hardly tamed,” he growled playfully, nipping her earlobe. “Merely… redirected.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?” She turned in his arms, water sloshing over the edge of the tub as she straddled his thighs. “Because from where I’m sitting, you seem thoroughly domesticated.”

He caught her wrists gently, his eyes darkening with desire. “Care to test that theory, Duchess? About how tame I’ve become?”

Her lips curled into a smile that was equal parts challenge and invitation. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Rather than answer with words, she leaned forward and kissed him—a bold, demanding kiss that still had the power to steal his breath. Her tongue traced the seam of his lips, seeking entrance that he willingly granted. The taste of honey and bergamot from the tea they had shared earlier was intoxicating.

Leo released her wrists to tangle a hand in her hair, angling her head to deepen the kiss while his other hand skimmed down herback, following the elegant curve of her spine. She sighed into his mouth, arching into his touch like a cat seeking affection.

Their marriage had taught them each other’s bodies as thoroughly as they had come to know each other’s minds. He knew precisely how to touch her to coax that breathy moan that drove him wild, just as she had learned exactly how to rock against him to make his control fray at the edges.

“I love watching you like this,” he murmured, trailing kisses down the elegant column of her throat. “So far from the proper lady you pretend to be among the ton.”