Page 2 of Stolen By the Rakish Duke

The man swept his eyes across the assembled guests with an intensity that caused Beatrice to draw in a breath involuntarily.

“Who is that?” she whispered to Isabella, inclining her head subtly toward the stranger, grateful for the momentary distraction from her increasingly troubled thoughts.

Isabella followed her sister’s gaze, her face brightening with recognition. “That must be the Duke of Stagmore, your groom’s cousin.”

Beatrice glanced back at the man as she recalled Philip mentioning his cousin.

“I heard he recently returned from abroad,” Isabella continued. “Lady Geraldine mentioned at the Simmons’ musicale that he had been attending to business matters on the Continent.” Her voice lowered conspiratorially. “Apparently, he’s quite the rake, though one with sufficient fortune and title to render his indiscretions mere eccentricities in the eyes of Society.”

Beatrice nodded, her sister’s words confirming what she herself recalled Philip saying about his cousin. Then, she studied the Duke with renewed interest, noting the proud set of hisshoulders and the cool detachment with which he observed the proceedings.

Unlike the other guests, who exchanged whispers behind gloved hands or fans, he stood in solitary silence, a figure apart from the social choreography unfolding around him.

Suddenly, the chapel door opened with a decisive creak.

A breathless young man rushed directly to the Duke of Stagmore. Their hushed words were inaudible from where Beatrice stood, but she saw the Duke’s expression transform before her very eyes. His features hardened into a mask of cold fury that sent an involuntary shiver down her spine.

“Something is amiss,” her father observed, his voice low and tense.

The Duke of Stagmore dismissed the man with a curt nod before striding purposefully toward their small party, his movements possessing the fluid grace of someone who was born to reign. As he approached, Beatrice found herself captivated by the intensity of his blue eyes, dark like the depths of the ocean.

“Duke,” he addressed her father, offering a formal bow. “I am Leonard Ashwell, the Duke of Stagmore. I regret to inform you that my cousin, the Marquess of Mallingham, has departed London unexpectedly.”

A moment of stunned silence followed this announcement.

“Departed?” her father hissed. “What do you mean, sir?”

Beatrice noticed how several guests were now staring, their eyes full of alarm.

“It appears,” the Duke of Stagmore replied, his gaze flickering briefly to Beatrice, the momentary attention akin to an unexpected touch against her skin, “that my cousin has chosen to absent himself rather than honor his commitment.”

The implication hung in the air, stark and undeniable:she had been jilted.

Lady Geraldine let out a loud gasp from her position in the pews.

How had she heard their conversation? Then again, Isabella had always called her a hare, for she had a keen ear for gossip.

The gasp seemed to fracture the stunned silence into a cascade of whispers that rippled through the chapel like wind through summer wheat.

“What?” Beatrice whispered to the Duke.

Despite her shock, she felt a curious lightness overtake her, as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders even as another settled upon her reputation.

She ought to be devastated, humiliated by such a public rejection, yet all she could feel was a peculiar relief, along with concern for Philip, her dearest friend.

“This is unconscionable!” her father growled, his fury a gathering storm that threatened to break upon the Duke of Stagmore’s impassive countenance. “Your cousin has brought shame upon my daughter. I will find him, and I cannot promise you in what condition he’ll be returned to you, Stagmore.”

Her stepmother placed a restraining hand on his arm, though Beatrice could see the subtle tightening around her eyes that signaled distress.

Isabella took Beatrice’s hand in a protective hold, her fingers cold despite the warmth of the chapel. “If the Marquess shows his face in London again, he will find himself unwelcome in every drawing room of consequence,” she declared, her voice carrying an unmistakable authority, similar to their father’s.

The Duke of Stagmore’s attention shifted fully to Beatrice. “I assure you, Lady Beatrice, my cousin will be held to account for his actions.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Beatrice found herself saying, her voice steadier than she had anticipated, surprising even herself with its clarity. “What is done is done.”

A curious spark flickered in the Duke’s eyes. “Nevertheless, a gentleman honors his obligations, and Philip has failed in his most fundamental duty.”

“My daughter is right. The damage is done,” her father interjected, his voice cold with rage. “I suggest you convey to your cousin that he would be wise to remain absent from Societyindefinitely. That is, if you find him before I do.”