Page 12 of Stolen By the Rakish Duke

“The Duke has sent word. He won’t be dining with me,” she said quietly.

Mrs. Fairchild inclined her head, her tone neutral as ever. “Very good, Your Grace. Shall I have dinner served?”

“Yes. Thank you, Mrs. Fairchild,” Beatrice murmured.

Being abandoned twice in one day by one’s husband seemed excessive, even in a marriage of convenience like theirs.

So she dined alone, attended by footmen whose silent efficiency bordered on uncanny, though she found herself oddly grateful for their presence.

The vast manor, for all its magnificence, was so quiet when she was alone that it felt… watchful. Every creak of ancient timberwork, every whisper of draft through corridors seemed laden with unspoken histories and secrets.

Would she ever call this place her home?

Had she been rash in accepting the Duke’s proposal?

Would she have been better off weathering the scandal of Philip’s abandonment rather than binding herself to his mercurial cousin?

Yet what choice had she truly possessed? A jilted bride faced limited prospects in the unforgiving arena of the ton. The Duke’s offer, however impulsive or duty-driven, provided an unexpected escape from social ruin.

By the time she reached her chambers, Beatrice was utterly exhausted. The day’s events weighed on her like a physical burden.

Her lady’s maid, a quiet girl named Emilia, helped her into a silk nightgown with polite efficiency. Once ready, Beatrice dismissed her, craving solitude.

She climbed into the four-poster bed, pulling back the covers and slipping between the cool, fine linen. Yet sleep evaded her. Her mind replayed the events of the day, especially her heated exchange with the Duke in the carriage.

Had she been too harsh, letting irritation cloud her judgment?

A sharp knock at the door jolted her out of her thoughts. She sat up, clutching the covers to her chest as if they could shield her from whatever awaited.

“Yes?” she called, expecting Emilia with some forgotten item or perhaps Mrs. Fairchild with a final inquiry about household matters.

The door opened to reveal not a maid or the housekeeper, but the Duke himself.

He was still dressed in the same attire he had worn for their wedding. His imposing figure filled the doorway, his expression inscrutable in the dim light provided by the single lamp that burned on her bedside table.

Beatrice stared at him in momentary shock, acutely aware of her unbound hair and the thin fabric of her nightgown. She pulled the covers higher—a futile attempt at modesty, as they were married. Still, she couldn’t help but feel shy before him.

“Your Grace,” she said finally, finding her voice. “I had not expected to see you this evening.”

“Evidently,” he replied, his gaze sweeping over her with unnerving thoroughness.

Her initial surprise at his appearance rapidly gave way to indignation as she recalled his earlier desertion.

“You did not join me for dinner,” she noted, unable to keep a hint of accusation from her tone.

“I had matters requiring my attention,” he stated, stepping fully into the chamber and closing the door behind him with deliberate care. “I did send word.”

“Yes, most attentive of you,” Beatrice drawled, her earlier resolve to offer a conciliatory word evaporating in the face of his casual dismissal. “Almost as attentive as abandoning your bride in a carriage on her wedding day.”

The Duke moved further into the room, his movements slow, elegant, almost… lazy.

“I came to speak with you,” he said, ignoring her reproach. “To clarify certain matters between us.”

Beatrice arched an eyebrow, her pulse quickening despite her determination to maintain her composure. “At this hour? Could these clarifications not have been offered at dinner, had you chosen to attend?”

“Perhaps. But I find midnight conversations often yield a particular quality of honesty that daylight discussions lack,” he said, slowly shrugging out of his coat and draping it over the nearest chair.

Beatrice swallowed.