Page 5 of Stolen By the Rakish Duke

Beatrice blinked at him. There was some logic there. It was a good scaffold for her reputation, no matter how imperfect it seemed at the surface.

She turned away, her mind racing. The Duke’s proposal, while startling, offered a path forward that would preserve her reputation and protect her family from the taint of scandal.

Yet, to bind herself to this commanding stranger, whose very presence seemed to alter the atmosphere of a room… it was a daunting prospect.

“I need a moment to consider,” she said finally.

“Of course.” The Duke inclined his head slightly, the gesture both gracious and somehow unyielding. “Though I should note that the longer we remain here alone, the more your guests will speculate.”

Beatrice recognized the truth in his statement. Already, she could imagine the whispers echoing through the chapel, the curious glances that would greet their return.

The situation demanded swift resolution, one way or another.

With a deep breath, she made her decision. “Very well, Your Grace. I accept your proposal.”

If he was surprised by her acquiescence, he gave no sign of it. Instead, he offered a short, formal bow. “A sensible choice, My Lady. Shall we inform your father?”

Together they emerged from the antechamber, Beatrice acutely aware of the immediate hush that fell over the chapel as they appeared.

Her father stepped forward, his eyes still blazing with rage. “Well?” he demanded, his gaze flicking between her and the Duke.

Beatrice lifted her chin, summoning every ounce of composure she possessed. “I have accepted the Duke of Stagmore’s proposal, Father.”

A murmur rippled through the assembled guests, a wave of astonishment that seemed to gather momentum with each passing second.

Isabella moved to her side, her eyes wide with disbelief. “Beatrice, you cannot be serious,” she whispered urgently. “This is madness. You know nothing about this man.”

“I know that he has offered a solution where others have created only problems,” Beatrice replied quietly. “And I know my own mind, Isabella.”

Her stepmother approached, her elegant features composed despite the extraordinary turn of events. “My dear,” she said softly, placing a gentle hand on her arm, “there is no need for such haste. We can weather this difficulty together, as a family. This is not the only path available to you.”

Beatrice felt a surge of affection for her stepmother, whose concern was evident beneath her restrained exterior. “I appreciate your concern, Christine, but I have considered the matter carefully.”

Her father’s grunt cut through the murmurs, commanding immediate attention. “My daughter deserves better than to be passed from one man to another like a parcel at a Christmas exchange.”

“With all due respect, Duke,” the Duke of Stagmore interjected, his tone measured but carrying an undercurrent of steel, “what Lady Beatrice deserves is to be spared the humiliation that my cousin’s actions would otherwise inflict. I offer not a consolation prize, but my protection.”

The two Dukes studied each other. Beatrice could sense the tension between them—two powerful men accustomed to commanding, now at odds over her future.

Isabella’s hand found hers, squeezing tightly. “Bea, please reconsider. There is no need for such hasty action.”

Beatrice returned the squeeze, drawing strength from her twin’s concern even as she maintained her resolve. “My mind is made up, Sister.”

Her father studied her intently, seeking perhaps some sign of coercion or uncertainty. Finding none, his shoulders straightened imperceptibly. “You are certain of this course?”

“I am, Father,” Beatrice confirmed, her voice steady despite the tumult of emotions beneath her composed exterior.

After a moment of consideration that seemed to stretch into eternity, her father gave a curt nod. “Very well. But let it be known that if any harm comes to my daughter, no title or fortune will shield you from my retribution, Stagmore.”

The Duke’s expression remained imperturbable in the face of the thinly veiled threat.

“I shall obtain a special license and make the necessary arrangements within the week,” he replied, addressing Beatrice rather than her father. “We shall proceed with minimal delay.”

Beatrice bobbed a formal curtsy, the motion automatic, a product of years of training in proper etiquette. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

As her father and her newly intended faced each other, Beatrice found herself wondering what kind of bargain she had just struck.

And with what kind of man.