Page 19 of Stolen By the Rakish Duke
“I see,” Adrian said. “You find yourself in the unprecedented position of being perfectly irrelevant to a woman’s contentment. A novel experience, I’m sure, for the irresistible Duke of Stagmore, whose arrival in a ballroom once sent ripples of anticipation through the widows and lightskirts across London.”
Leo scowled. “You oversimplify the matter.”
“Do I? You explicitly told her about mutual independence. Your Duchess has taken you at your word, conducting herselfprecisely as agreed. Yet, instead of satisfaction with this perfect adherence, you are… discontented.” Adrian raised an eyebrow. “One might almost suspect you of having… expectations.”
Leo flinched. He felt an inexplicable sense of… loss. As though in gaining a wife who demanded nothing of him, he had somehow been deprived of something essential.
“I must return to the manor,” he announced abruptly, rising from his seat. “There are matters requiring my attention.”
Adrian’s eyebrows rose in eloquent skepticism. “So the search for Philip continues?”
“It is a priority, as you know. Good night, Tillfield,” Leo replied, tossing several coins onto the table.
As he strode toward the door, Adrian called after him, his voice pitched high enough to carry, “Very well. Do let me know if you need any help in locating him. And please, do give my regards to the Duchess, won’t you? I’m quite eager to get to know a woman capable of accomplishing what the combined efforts of London’s most determined mamas failed to achieve for over a decade.”
The night air struck Leo’s face with bracing clarity as he mounted his horse.
The comfortable predictability of his old routine—the tavern, the willing company, the temporary gratification—suddenly seemed hollow, like a melody played so often it had lost all meaning.
His thoughts, frustratingly, remained fixed on his wife. Not as a means to an end that he had initially considered her, but as something… else.
Something that made him want to cross his own boundaries.
The manor came into view, its windows glowing amber against the darkened landscape. Leo dismounted in the stable yard, handing the reins to a startled groom who clearly had not expected his master’s return before the small hours.
“Is the Duchess still awake?” he asked while removing his gloves.
“I believe Her Grace retired to the library after dinner, Your Grace,” the groom replied. “Mrs. Fairchild mentioned she was reviewing household accounts.”
Leo nodded, his feet already carrying him toward the manor with unexpected urgency. He entered through the side door near his study, avoiding the main hall, where servants might still be doing their evening chores.
As he approached the library, soft lamplight spilled from beneath the door, confirming what the groom had told him.
Beatrice was still in there, working away, no doubt content with being left alone.
And he didn’t like that. Not one bit.
Chapter Seven
“Aromantic at heart, Duchess? How conventional.”
Beatrice started at the sound of the Duke’s voice, the leather-bound volume nearly slipping from her grasp as she turned toward the doorway.
Her husband stood framed against the darkened corridor, his tall figure casting a long shadow over the Turkish carpet. The lamplight caught the angles of his face, softening the usual severity of his features in a way that made him appear almost… approachable.
“Your Grace,” she acknowledged, hastily closing the book and setting it aside. “I did not expect your return until much later.”
“Clearly,” he replied, his gaze sweeping over her with deliberate slowness.
Beatrice was wearing a simple evening gown of deep sapphire silk, and her hair was loosely tied with a ribbon rather than arranged in an elaborate coiffure.
“I heard you were reviewing household accounts,” the Duke remarked, moving further into the room with the fluid grace that characterized his movements. “Yet I find you immersed in…” He reached for the discarded volume, examining its spine with evident amusement. “The Mysterious Earl’s Secret Passion. How edifying. I do not recall that being part of the Stagmore collection.”
A flush of embarrassment rose to Beatrice’s cheeks, though she lifted her chin with characteristic defiance. “The book is mine, Your Grace. I brought it from Ironstone. And the accounts were completed an hour ago. I see no harm in seeking a diversion once my duties are fulfilled.”
“None whatsoever,” he agreed, his tone suggesting exactly the opposite as he leafed through the pages with exaggerated interest. “Though one wonders what insights into the complexities of human nature might be gleaned from such… elevated literary pursuits.”
Beatrice rose from her chair, straightening to her full height, which still left her at a distinct disadvantage, as the Duke towered over her.