Page 46 of Stolen By the Rakish Duke

“I-I apologize for the intrusion,” she stammered, fixing her gaze on the rough stone wall before her. “I didn’t realize—I’ve been looking for you, and no one knew where… I mean, I should have knocked?—”

Behind her came the sloshing of water as he stepped out of the bath, then the rustle of fabric, and she desperately hoped it was a towel.

“I remembered something,” she continued, the words tumbling out in her mortification. “About Philip. A place he mentioned once. I thought you would want to know immediately. I didn’t mean to?—”

“Turn around, Duchess.”

His voice was closer now. Too close.

She shook her head, clutching her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “I should go. This isn’t proper.”

“You are my wife.” His voice dropped further, the words vibrating through her like plucked violin strings. “And you will turn around.”

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to obey, because she certainly felt like defying him at that moment. But doing so would only defeat the purpose for which she came.

Slowly, reluctantly, she turned around.

He stood mere feet away, a towel wrapped low around his hips. Water still clung to his skin, tracing paths down his chest that her eyes followed helplessly. His hair was damp, curling slightly at his temples.

She tried to focus on his face, but her gaze kept dropping to his body. To the broad expanse of his chest, to the ridges of his abdomen, to the trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath the towel.

Leo’s lips curled into a knowing smile that only intensified the heat in her cheeks.

“See something you like, Duchess?” he asked, his voice a low, teasing rumble.

“I—” Her mouth was dry as desert sand. “That’s not—I came to tell you about Philip.”

Something shifted in his eyes, amusement giving way to sharp focus. “What about Philip?”

She latched onto the change of subject with desperate gratitude. “Thornfield. It’s an estate in Surrey, owned by a distant relation. He used to summer there as a child. He mentioned it once—said it was so remote that even his own family rarely visited. If he needed a place to hide…”

“Thornfield,” Leo repeated, his expression turning thoughtful. “Yes, I know of it. Belonged to our great-uncle, Lord Harcourt. I’d forgotten about it entirely.” He studied her face with sudden intensity. “This could be significant. Well done, Duchess.”

The praise warmed her in ways she didn’t care to examine too closely. So, she did not, and forced herself to focus on the matter at hand… although not necessarily on the vision before her.

“I’ll investigate immediately,” he added, taking a step closer.

The movement sent another droplet of water down his chest. Beatrice tracked its path helplessly, her breath catching.

“I should go,” she whispered, unable to look away. “Let you dress.”

“Does my state of undress disturb you, Duchess?” he asked, something darker and more dangerous lacing his tone. “We are man and wife, after all.”

Beatrice jutted her chin in defiance. “Don’t you think you should focus more on the issue at hand?” she retorted, unwilling to let him bully her with his state of undress, determined to ignore the heat it ignited in her belly.

His expression shuttered almost instantly. “I’ll look into Thornfield immediately,” he said, his tone businesslike once more. “It’s an excellent lead. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”

She nodded and stepped back, wrapping her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, though the air was far from cold.

“I’ll leave you to dress,” she said, turning toward the door.

“Duchess,” he called as her hand touched the latch.

She paused, not turning around, afraid of what she might see—or worse, what she might not see—on his face. “Yes?”

“We’ll find him,” he said. “We’ll find Philip, and we’ll deal with Westbury. I promise you that.”

She nodded once, then fled, not trusting herself to speak.