Page 34 of Stolen By the Rakish Duke
Leo.
Beatrice’s breath caught in her throat as his imposing figure approached them, his expression transforming from focused determination to thunderous disbelief as he recognized her beneath the borrowed hood.
“What in God’s name—” he began, his voice pitched low but vibrating with barely restrained fury.
Chapter Eleven
“How fortuitous,” the Marquess interjected with forced cheerfulness. “We were just discussing the odds of encountering you here, weren’t we, Your Grace?”
Leo’s glacial gaze flicked briefly to his friend before returning to Beatrice with electric intensity.
“What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?” he hissed.
His voice was pitched low enough to avoid attracting further attention, yet it still sent a tremor of apprehension down her spine. His eyes, usually a glacial blue, had darkened to the threatening shade of a winter sea before a storm.
“I believe I’m assisting in the search for Philip and Anna,” Beatrice replied with a confidence she barely felt, conscious of the curious glances from passersby. “As I have every right to do.”
Leo’s jaw tightened, a muscle twitching beneath the taut skin. “Every right? When I expressly forbade?—”
“You may be my husband, Your Grace, but you are not my keeper,” she interrupted, matching his low voice but infusing it with unmistakable determination. “Our arrangement gives you no authority to dictate my movements or decisions.”
The Marquess shifted uncomfortably beside them, his customary nonchalance momentarily abandoned. “Perhaps this discussion might be better continued elsewhere? We seem to be providing rather compelling entertainment for the neighborhood.”
Leo ignored his friend’s suggestion, stepping closer to Beatrice until scarcely a handspan separated them. His proximity sent an unwelcome flutter through her chest, a reaction that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the peculiar awareness that seemed to manifest whenever he occupied her immediate space.
“You have placed yourself in danger,” he said, each word precisely articulated. “And compromised our investigation through sheer stubborn impulsivity.”
“On the contrary,” Beatrice countered, lifting her chin in the gesture of defiance that had become habitual in their exchanges. “I’ve expanded your resources. A woman seeking another woman is far less conspicuous than two gentlemen inquiring after a missing maid.”
His eyes narrowed, the logic of her argument clearly penetrating despite his evident irritation.
For a moment, they stood in charged silence. Their faces were close enough that she could detect the faint scent of mint on his breath as well as the coolness that seemed to radiate from his skin even in the close air of the London street.
“If I might interject,” the Marquess ventured, inserting himself between them with delicate precision, “we are still in full view of at least a dozen interested onlookers, and our purpose here was discretion, was it not? Perhaps we might continue this… marital discourse in a less public venue?”
Leo’s gaze remained fixed on her for a moment longer before he stepped back, his expression settling into lines of displeasure.
“Very well,” he conceded with evident reluctance. “But you will remain by my side at all times and follow my instructions without question. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly,” Beatrice agreed, the sweetness of her tone belied by the determined glint in her eyes.
Leo’s mouth tightened further, but he merely offered his arm with rigid formality.
“The boarding house first,” he decided, addressing both of them. “The landlord may prove more forthcoming with a second interview.”
As they approached the modest establishment, Beatrice became acutely aware of the disparity between this neighborhood and the privileged environments she had known all her life.
The buildings, though respectable, bore the marks of practical economy rather than aesthetic consideration. Laundry hung from upper windows, children played in narrow alleys, and the mingled scents of cooking, coal smoke, and human industry permeated the air.
“The accommodations of Mr. Thompson,” the Marquess murmured, indicating a three-story structure with peeling paint around its windows. “A man of limited hospitality and even more limited information, if last night’s interview is any indication.”
The landlord who answered their knock looked precisely as the Marquess had described: a stout individual whose initial expression of impatient inquiry transformed to wary hostility upon recognizing Leo.
“You again,” he muttered, attempting to close the door. “Told you everything I know. She’s gone, rent unpaid, and good riddance.”
Before Leo could respond with what would likely have been a demand for compliance, Beatrice stepped forward, allowing her hood to fall back just enough to reveal her face while maintaining the modest appearance of her borrowed garment.
“Mr. Thompson,” she addressed him, her voice gentle yet clear. “We understand your frustration regarding the unpaid rent. Perhaps this might ease that particular concern?”