Page 3 of Stolen By the Rakish Duke
The Duke of Stagmore held Beatrice’s gaze for a moment longer, his scrutiny so direct and uncompromising that she felt a strange warmth rise to her cheeks.
Then, he turned to address her father. “I will marry Lady Beatrice.”
The declaration hung in the air, so unexpected that for a moment, no one seemed capable of speaking. It was as if the orchestra at a ball had suddenly changed from a sedate country dance to a vigorous waltz without warning, leaving the dancers momentarily bewildered.
“I beg your pardon, Duke?” her father sputtered, his composure momentarily forgotten.
“My cousin’s actions have placed Lady Beatrice in an untenable position,” the Duke of Stagmore continued, his tone matter-of-fact, as though discussing the purchase of a horse rather than a matrimonial alliance. “As his closest relative, I am obligated to rectify the situation. I will take Philip’s place and honor the arrangement.”
Beatrice stared at him in disbelief, certain she had misunderstood. The chapel seemed to recede around her, themurmurs of the guests fading to a distant hum as she struggled to comprehend the Duke’s unexpected proposal.
“Your Grace, surely you cannot mean—” she began.
“I assure you, My Lady, I am entirely serious,” he interrupted, his gaze returning to hers with unsettling intensity. “The marriage contract will be amended, and the ceremony may proceed with minimal disruption.”
“Preposterous!” Isabella exclaimed, her fingers tightening around Beatrice’s hand. “Surely you would not have her wed a stranger, as though a gentleman’s title alone could compel affection!”
The Duke raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Would you prefer that your sister bear the stigma of being jilted? The ton’s memory is long, and its mercy is… nonexistent,” he said.
Beatrice swallowed at the finality in those words.
“How dare you presume—” her father began, bristling with indignation.
“Father,” she interjected, surprising herself with her boldness. “Might I speak with His Grace privately for a moment?”
A tense silence followed her request, broken only by the murmurs from the small congregation. She supposed it was a blessing that this ceremony was a small affair.
Her father studied her carefully before giving a reluctant nod. “You may use the antechamber, but Isabella shall accompany you.”
“I require only a moment. Isabella should stay here,” Beatrice assured him.
She moved delicately, placing one foot in front of the other, as she was determined not to falter.
She knew not what she meant to say to the Duke of Stagmore once they were given a moment alone together, but she steeled her nerves and readied herself for the challenge of this conversation.
Chapter Two
“Apologies for my choice of words, but have you taken leave of your senses, Your Grace?” Beatrice asked, her voice low but firm as she faced the Duke. “We are perfect strangers to one another.”
Once within the modest confines of the antechamber, Beatrice had turned to face him fully, summoning every ounce of composure she possessed.
The room, though small, was illuminated by a narrow window of stained glass that bathed the Duke in a pattern of cobalt blue light. He looked almost unreal—like a statue brought to life—but Beatrice did not care.
He studied her with a measured calm, his eyes tracing her features as if weighing them, calculating. Every sharp angle of his jaw and brow seemed sharper in the blue light, but it was his gaze that unsettled her the most—precise, unyielding, and unnervingly alive.
“Can you not?” he said, and she blinked at him. “Consider your position, Lady Beatrice. By this evening, every drawing room in London will buzz with news of your abandonment. Your reputation will bear a significant blemish.”
“And you propose to be my savior?” Beatrice countered, arching an eyebrow at the absurdity of the idea. “At the cost of binding yourself to a woman you do not know, a woman you may come to resent? I appreciate your sense of duty, Your Grace, but I cannot be part of such a cold arrangement.”
She realized the irony of her words, though she reminded herself that there was friendship between her and Philip. This man before her… she knew nothing about him.
The Duke took a step closer, and Beatrice was suddenly aware of his considerable height and the breadth of his shoulders beneath his impeccably tailored coat. There was something in his gaze, a searching quality that made her feel as though he could see through the composure she had maintained throughout this ordeal.
“Tell me, My Lady,” he said, his voice dropping to a lower register that seemed to resonate in the small space between them, “were you deeply in love with my cousin?”
Beatrice tried her best not to bite her lip or fidget with her fingers. The Duke was certainly a man who could detect lies; she could sense that. So, she had to pick her words very carefully.
“Well, if you must know, I care about him. Very deeply,” she said slowly.