Page 28 of Stolen By the Rakish Duke

Was it betrayal?

Such an emotion seemed disproportionate to their arrangement, yet he could not deny the peculiar hollowness her words had created.

“The Gilded Lion,” he repeated, committing the name to memory. “I shall locate this establishment, and with it, Miss Finley. Perhaps she knows about Philip’s whereabouts.”

He turned to face her fully, noting how the firelight caught the rich brown of her hair, transforming the simple coiffure into a crown of burnished copper. The observation was unwelcome, a distraction from matters of greater importance.

“You’re angry,” Beatrice observed, her perceptiveness once again catching him off guard.

“I am… disappointed that our partnership has been compromised by incomplete disclosure,” he corrected, the careful phrasing masking a deeper wound than he cared to examine. “But what’s done is done. We move forward with the information now available.”

Her eyes, luminous in the study’s amber light, searched his with uncomfortable precision. “I could not betray Philip’s trust without cause.”

“And yet now you have done exactly that,” Leo pointed out, taking a measured sip of his cognac. “One wonders what other secrets you’re hiding, Duchess.”

She flinched slightly at that, the first genuine crack in her composure he had witnessed this evening. “I have none that would impact our arrangement.”

“Our arrangement,” Leo echoed, rolling the phrase around his tongue as though sampling a questionable vintage. “A curious term for what has become a rather more… complex entanglement.”

Beatrice straightened her back, setting her barely touched cognac on a nearby table. Leo could not help it; his gaze drifted to the seductive swell of her breasts.

“I shall make inquiries regarding Miss Finley first thing tomorrow,” Leo continued, forcing his thoughts back to the matter at hand. “The Gilded Lionis likely situated in one of the less salubrious quarters of London, which explains why Philip’s involvement remained undetected by Society at large.”

“I wish to accompany you,” Beatrice said unexpectedly.

Leo’s eyebrows rose in genuine surprise. “That would be entirely inappropriate, Duchess. The establishments in which Miss Finley might be found are no place for a woman of your station.”

“A woman of my station has already been compromised by association with this matter,” she countered, her voice taking on that particular tone of quiet determination he was beginning to recognize. “Besides, I am more likely to gain Anna’s confidence than you; she certainly knows about my character through Philip.”

The logic of her argument was undeniable, though Leo found himself reluctant to concede the point. The thought of exposing his wife to the questionable environs of London’s gaming establishments… it triggered an unexpected protective instinct that had little to do with social propriety and much to do with a sense of responsibility he had not anticipated.

Beatrice was supposed to be a stranger bearing his name, after all.

“We shall discuss this further tomorrow,” he said finally, unwilling to engage in a protracted debate when the hour was late and his thoughts were unsettled by the evening’s revelations. “For now, I suggest we retire. The morning will bring clarity to matters that seem overly complex in the small hours.”

Beatrice hesitated, as though she might press the issue, before offering a slight nod of acquiescence. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

The formality of her address, after the momentary ease of their exchange, struck Leo as oddly disappointing. He watched as she moved toward the door, the rustle of her silk gown providing an auditory counterpoint to the visual spectacle of her graceful departure.

“Duchess,” he called, halting her retreat. “Why did you agree to marry Philip if you knew his heart belonged to another?”

The question had escaped without conscious intent, emerging from some deeper curiosity that Leo had not realized he harbored.

Beatrice turned to face him, her expression momentarily unguarded in a manner that revealed the complexity beneath her composed exterior.

“I believe, Your Grace,” she replied after a moment’s consideration, “that you yourself would agree that convenience serves both parties better than passion. Goodnight.”

With that, she departed, leaving him to contemplate the curious parallels between her arrangement with his cousin and the one she now had with him.

Both marriages of convenience, both lacking the conventional foundations of matrimony. Yet one had dissolved before it could be formalized, while the other had somehow transformed into something more than either participant had anticipated.

What kind of woman had he married? And why did the question suddenly seem far more significant than it had mere hours ago?

Leo stared at the empty space where his wife had stood, her enigmatic words lingering in the air like the faint scent of her perfume.

The crackling fire cast restless shadows on the study walls, mirroring the unsettled thoughts that now occupied his mind.

He drained the remainder of his cognac in a single swallow, welcoming the burn as it traced a path down his throat.