Page 26 of Stolen By the Rakish Duke

“Ah, Your Grace,” he said. “I did not see you there.”

Georgina gave him a tight smile. “Oh, I don’t doubt that.”

Lord Westbury’s left eye twitched, a tell of his taking offense at her words, and Beatrice found some satisfaction in that.

“I apologize if I am coming off rather untoward. I have a curious nature, that is all.” This time, he looked right at her.

The pointed nature of his inquiry, disguised though it was behind social pleasantries, set off alarm bells in Beatrice’s head.

Why should this gentleman, an acquaintance at best, take such interest in Philip’s whereabouts?

“The heart has its reasons,” she replied lightly, employing the practiced response she and Leo had agreed upon for such inquiries. “I was as surprised as anyone by the turn of events.”

“Indeed?” Westbury’s smile did not reach his eyes. “One might have expected an indication, a hint of Lord Mallingham’s intentions. You were, after all, in his confidence before the wedding.”

Beatrice’s discomfort at his increasingly unsettling line of questioning grew, and she knew it was time to put a stop to it before it ballooned into something she could neither control nor condone.

But then, at that moment, Leo appeared beside her again, as though he had been watching her all this time, his hand settling possessively on her waist.

“Lord Westbury,” he greeted cordially, though his eyes had hardened to a glacial blue. “I see you’ve made the acquaintance of my Duchess.”

“We were discussing the remarkable circumstances of your marriage,” Westbury replied, his gaze darting between them with calculated assessment. “Such a romantic tale. Love at first sight, I understand? Though one wonders what became of your cousin. His disappearance remains something of a mystery.”

“My cousin’s whereabouts are no concern of yours,” Leo replied, his voice steady, though the underlying steel was unmistakable. “And while I appreciate Society’s natural interest in our happiness, my wife and I prefer to focus on our future rather than what might have been.”

Westbury inclined his head in acknowledgment, though his expression suggested this exchange was far from over. “Of course. Though, should you hear from Lord Mallingham, do convey my regards. We had matters of mutual interest to discuss.”

Leo’s thumb grazed her waist softly. “I shall keep that in mind. If you’ll excuse us, I believe the next dance is beginning.”

As he guided her smoothly away from Westbury’s unsettling presence, Beatrice felt a curious mix of gratitude for his intervention and apprehension at the exchange she had just witnessed.

There had been something distinctly unsettling in Lord Westbury’s manner: calculation behind his seemingly casual inquiries that suggested motives far removed from mere social curiosity.

“That man knows something,” she murmured as they joined the forming set for a waltz. “His interest in Philip seemed… pointed.”

Leo’s expression revealed nothing to the onlookers, though his eyes, when they met hers, held a sharpened awareness that matched her own. “Indeed. An interesting development, wouldn’t you say? Perhaps our agreement may serve purposes beyond the merely social, after all.”

He guided her toward the center of the ballroom as the orchestra struck the opening notes of a waltz. Wordlessly, he drew her into position, one hand on her waist, the other clasping hers.

Even through her gloves and the layers of her gown, Beatrice felt the heat of his touch like a brand against her skin. As husband and wife, they could stand closer than unmarried couples without raising eyebrows, yet the intimacy of their position still sent an unexpected flutter through her chest.

The nearness of him, the scent of sandalwood and bergamot, the steady strength of his frame, seemed suddenly more overwhelming than it had any right to be.

“You are too tense, my Duchess,” Leo observed, his voice pitched low for her ears only as they began to move with the music.

Beatrice forced herself to focus on his words rather than the disconcerting awareness of his proximity, as that would only increase the tension in her shoulders.

“Well, maybe because you’re too…” she trailed off, at a loss for what to accuse him of.

His lips curled into a rakish grin, making her cheeks redden. “Too what, my Duchess?”

She frowned. “Too… annoying!” she snapped.

“Tut, tut, tut,” he said, sounding altogether very smug. “We’re madly in love, remember?”

He followed that with a tender caress up her arm and back down to her elbow, and she could not deny the flare of heat in her chest at his touch.

She flashed him a saccharine-sweet smile. “I can be ‘madly in love’ with you and still want to gouge your eyes out.”