Page 50 of Stolen By the Rakish Duke
Beatrice’s eyes widened.
Chapter Sixteen
“Your modesty seems somewhat belated, Duchess,” Leo observed, amusement evident in his voice as Beatrice turned away with such haste that she nearly lost her balance.
She braced herself against the bedpost as the soft rustle of his discarded clothing reached her. Every instinct of propriety wrestled with a curiosity she couldn’t quite quell.
Then, she heard water splash into what she presumed was the bathtub.
“Considering you’ve already seen me in a similar state of undress during your unexpected visit to the folly.”
The memory of that encounter—his powerful form rising from the bath like some classical statue come to life—sent a fresh wave of heat through her body.
“Propriety demands certain observances, regardless of previous… circumstances,” she managed, her voice steadier than she would have anticipated.
His laugh, a rich, genuine sound in contrast to the practiced chuckle she was used to hearing from him, filled the small chamber with warmth.
Beatrice perched on the edge of the bed, her back turned, trying to ignore the soft sounds of him moving about behind her. She peeled off her bonnet and coat, folding them with rigid care, though her fingers shook slightly.
Leo was behind her, naked. Totally bare. And the thought set her skin on fire.
The splash of water slowed, leaving only the steady drum of rain and the occasional growl of distant thunder. The quiet pressed against her, and before she realized it, words slipped out, betraying her attention.
“Why do you take ice baths?” she asked. “It seems a peculiar habit, particularly when conventional comforts are readily available.”
For several moments, she thought he would ignore her question. The silence stretched until she began to regret speaking at all. But then he answered.
“My father liked to test character with a bit of discomfort,” he said lightly, as if he were discussing the weather. “Ice baths were his preferred method.‘Master the cold, and you master yourself,’he would say. I never minded. It does make a man… steadier.”
Something in his calm, measured tone made her pause. She turned despite herself, drawn by a sense that he was keeping more beneath the surface.
She found him sitting in the narrow tub, water clinging to his broad shoulders, his muscles flexing as he shifted to fit. Her eyes lingered on him, but it was his expression that rooted her in place—distant, withdrawn. As if his thoughts were far from the room, buried in memories she could not reach.
“Your father… He began this with you?” she asked softly, keeping her voice low, careful not to press too hard.
Leo’s gaze met hers, steady but untroubled. “Yes,” he said simply. “He saw no reason to let anyone else do it. Started when I was small.”
Her heart clenched at the thought, but his tone, so calm and unremarkable, made it impossible to see it as anything more than routine for him.
“How old were you when he started?” she asked.
Leo looked away for a moment. “The first time, I was… six years old. I was crying over a fallen horse, I believe. Displays of emotion were considered unacceptable weaknesses, and they required immediate correction.”
His calm account of what must have been a terrifying ordeal sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with the drafty room. She pressed her lips into a thin line.
“That seems rather harsh for a child’s tears,” she said, her voice steady, though the anger simmering beneath it demanded careful control.
“There were worse times,” he admitted, his voice flat, almost conversational, as if recounting an ordinary lesson. “Once, around nine or ten, I stumbled over some Latin declensions. He left me in the ice bath until I passed out. The physician mentioned later that a few more minutes would’ve killed me.” He shrugged lightly, and she detected a faint, humorless curve to his lips. “He seemed more disappointed that I wasn’t stronger than concerned about… well, me surviving, I suppose.”
The revelation stunned Beatrice into momentary silence. Hearing him speak so matter-of-factly about what must have been cruel, if not traumatic, for a child made pieces of him that she had never understood click into place.
The distance he kept even now, the careful control of his emotions… it wasn’t affectation. It was how he had learned to survive.
“Yet you keep at it,” she said at last, her voice soft, though her words carried all the wonder and concern she could not disguise.
Leo held her gaze, stripped bare yet somehow still armored in his usual reserve.
“Habit,” he uttered. “Or perhaps perverse commemoration. I find it… sobering. A reminder I can keep control when every instinct screams at me to give in.”