Page 23 of Stolen By the Rakish Duke
“My family must be here,” she murmured. “They’ll be searching for us most determinedly.”
Her gaze fell on her father and stepmother. Isabella stood beside them, her eyes sharp and calculating as they scanned the room.
“Ah,” the Duke said, his voice pitched low for her ears only. “I’ve been anticipating further warnings regarding my conduct and character. It would be a pity to disappoint them.”
Despite her nervousness, Beatrice felt her lips curve with genuine amusement. “You might at least pretend to be intimidated by my father’s disapproval.”
“Pretense rarely convinces those determined to hold onto their suspicions,” the Duke countered, covering her hand with his own in a gesture that appeared affectionate to observers while simultaneously preventing her retreat. “Besides, I imagine your sister will be glad to make a new, more creative threat. That should prove entertaining.”
Before Beatrice could respond, Isabella was marching toward them with purpose, her blue silk gown parting the crowd like the prow of a warship cleaving through the Mediterranean. Their father and stepmother followed, and Beatrice noticed her father’s expression. He looked as if he were approaching a diplomatic negotiation with hostile foreign powers rather than a social reunion with his daughter.
“Bea,” Isabella greeted. The warmth in her voice cooled significantly as her gaze shifted to the Duke. “Your Grace.”
“Lady Isabella,” the Duke acknowledged with a formal bow. “You look remarkably militant this evening. That shade of blue brings to mind naval officers preparing for battle.”
Isabella’s eyes narrowed at the provocation, though her social training prevented any outward display of the retort Beatrice knew must be forming behind her composed expression.
Christine stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on Beatrice’s arm. “My dear, you look radiant,” she said, her voice soft and soothing. She inclined slightly toward the Duke and added with polite warmth, “Your Grace, what a pleasure it is to see you this evening.”
The simple courtesy eased some of the tension, reminding Beatrice that her stepmother’s calm presence could soften even the sharpest edges of social scrutiny.
Her father stepped forward to embrace her with careful affection. “You’re well, my dear?” he inquired, his voice pitched low enough to suggest privacy despite the public setting.
“Perfectly well, Father,” Beatrice assured him, infusing her tone with conviction born of necessity rather than complete truthfulness. “Stagmore Manor is magnificent, and the servants have been most accommodating. And the same goes for the Stagmore townhouse, of course.”
“And the Duke?” her father pressed, his gaze flickering to her husband. “Has he conducted himself as he should?”
Beatrice recognized the underlying question—was she suffering under the rule of a man known more for his libertine pursuits than his domestic virtues?
“His Grace has been proper and considerate,” she replied.
That was technically true, if incomplete. Her husband had indeed respected the boundaries of their arrangement, despite that disconcerting interlude in the library. The memory of his kiss still possessed the power to unsettle her, a fact she firmly ignored as she met her father’s searching gaze.
Christine squeezed Beatrice’s arm reassuringly, her eyes warm. “I’m sure all will proceed smoothly tonight, dear,” she murmured, her gentle confidence a balm. Then, turning gracefully to the Duke, she inclined her head. “Your presence is appreciated, Your Grace. I trust the evening finds you well?”
“Quite so, Duchess,” the Duke replied, nodding politely. His gaze flicked briefly to Beatrice, acknowledging her stepmother’s courtesy.
“Isabella seems convinced you’re merely presenting a brave face,” her father persisted, his voice dropping further. “You’d tell me if things are different from what you anticipated?”
“Father,” Beatrice sighed, genuine affection softening her exasperation. “I appreciate your concern, truly. But my marriage is proceeding exactly as arranged.”
That, at least, was entirely true. A union established for mutual benefit, conducted with cordial detachment. The fact that her response to this arrangement had proven more complicated than anticipated was a matter she had no intention of disclosing.
Before her family could probe her further, they spotted more people approaching, and Beatrice decided that she would rather face them than her family at that moment.
Her husband’s hand settled on the small of her back, a possessive gesture that spoke volumes to both the onlookers and her family.
“Smile, Duchess,” he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. “We are madly in love, remember?”
This was going to be a long, long night.
Chapter Eight
“The Duke seems utterly besotted,” observed Lady Kendale, a formidable dowager whose evaluation could establish or destroy a newcomer’s social prospects with equal ease. “How remarkable, considering his long-standing aversion to matrimony.”
“His Grace discovered that the right woman could transform even the most dedicated bachelor,” Beatrice replied, the practiced line emerging with surprising ease.
The performance began in earnest as they navigated the intricate social choreography of the ballroom. The Duke maintained constant, subtle contact—a hand on her waist as they greeted acquaintances, fingers brushing against hers as he offered a glass of champagne, his gaze returning to her face with flattering frequency regardless of their conversational partners.