Page 22 of Stolen By the Rakish Duke

Without waiting for his response, she fled the library, her steps quickening as she navigated the corridors toward the sanctuary of her chambers.

When she closed the door behind her, she leaned against it, her fingers rising unconsciously to touch lips still sensitized from his kiss.

What game was he playing? And why had she responded with such eagerness?

She had to maintain stricter boundaries. He was a rake, skilled in charm and precision, and she would not become another conquest, however legal their bond.

Hopefully, tomorrow’s journey to London would provide the ton’sscrutiny as a convenient buffer, a stage for the performance they had agreed upon.

But even as she went to bed, her thoughts returned to his lips, the heat and thrill of that impossible moment.

Sleep eventually claimed her, bringing dreams she would not admit to in the cold light of morning.

The London townhouse was an imposing edifice of Portland stone situated in one of Mayfair’s most prestigious squares.

The staff of the Stagmore townhouse had received them with practiced deference, betraying no hint that the mistress of the house was as unfamiliar with its chambers and customs as any first-time visitor might be.

Beatrice smoothed the folds of her gown in front of the mirror in her chambers, her heart stubbornly betraying her uneasiness. Candlelight flickered across the room, catching the embroidery on her sleeves, and the hush of expectation between them made it feel smaller than it was.

The Duke appeared in the doorway, coat in hand, a faintly amused smile tugging at his lips.

“May I?” he asked, holding out a small velvet box.

She arched an eyebrow. “And what, may I ask, is that?”

“A token,” he said lightly, though his gaze lingered on her a second too long. “For the evening. Consider it a… demonstration of devotion, so the ton will have no doubts about our union.”

Beatrice blinked, caught between indignation and curiosity. She lifted the lid. Inside lay a sapphire pendant, set simply in gold, catching the candlelight like a captured storm.

Her lips parted.

“It suits you,” the Duke added, stepping closer, the playful gleam in his eyes belying the closeness he allowed himself. “And, in truth, one cannot have a wife who makes one appear entirely smitten without providing a trinket or two to match.”

Her fingers brushed his as he fastened the chain around her throat, and a shiver raced down her spine.

“You—” she began.

“—will wear it, and the world will see only what we wish,” he spoke over her. “And I wish to show everyone that you are mine.”

She swallowed hard, the sapphire pendant resting just above her heart, feeling at once protected, coveted, and dangerously aware of him. Every flicker of candlelight, every brush of his fingers, made her heart beat harder than she dared to admit.

Nevertheless, she knew that pretending to be a happily married couple was of the utmost priority tonight.

Yet a part of her couldn’t help but feel warm at her husband’s gesture.

Beatrice exited the carriage, standing before the grand entrance of Lady Peregrine’s London townhouse. Lady Peregrine’s annual summer ball would be her first appearance in London Society since her hasty marriage.

She had chosen a gown of midnight blue silk that accentuated the pale perfection of her complexion—she had to be perfect tonight. The ton’s collective memory was long, its appetite for scandal insatiable. The daughter of Ironstone, jilted at the altar only to emerge days later as a duchess, presented an irresistible subject for speculation.

The Duke awaited beside her, resplendent in evening attire that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders. His gaze swept over her, lingering on the sapphire pendant, a quiet acknowledgment of their public performance.

“You will outshine every woman in attendance,” he murmured.

“Presentation is imperative,” she replied, taking his arm with practiced grace. “We must convince them that scandal has transformed into romance.”

The Peregrines’ ballroom glowed with candlelight, its gilded surfaces reflecting the assembled wealth and consequence of London’s most exclusive circles.

Beatrice felt the exact moment when their arrival registered among the guests—the subtle shift in attention, the hushed whispers behind fans, the speculative glances that assessed her with merciless precision.