Page 52 of Stolen By the Rakish Duke

He tilted his head slightly, considering her question as if it were of little consequence. “Colder, naturally,” he said lightly. “But it hardly matters.”

Without thinking, her hand rose, coming to rest lightly on his shoulder. The contact shocked her in a way the cold never could, a sudden awareness that sparked through her whenever they were near.

He was indeed like marble beneath her fingertips, but under that chill, she felt the steady thrum of his heartbeat, a reminder of the man beneath the cold mask he often wore.

“You’re freezing,” she murmured, more tender than she meant.

His gaze found hers, blue darkening to midnight in the dim light. “Does that concern you, wife?” His voice dipped, resonating through her in a way that bypassed sound entirely.

Her heart skipped a beat.

The use of the wordwifetugged at her heart in a way she had not anticipated. It was simple, unembellished, yet it carried a weight she could not ignore.

Her lips parted slightly, and she suddenly became conscious of the dry, curious sensation that had formed in her mouth, as if the word itself had stolen her breath.

Something stirred deep within her, a mix of surprise and warmth that sent a subtle thrill through her. She felt an unfamiliar tightness in her stomach, a flutter that had little to do with propriety or expectations and everything to do with the man before her.

Wife.Not merely a title or formality. There was intent behind it, a recognition of bond, of connection, of claim.

“It seems… unnecessary to put oneself through such discomfort when alternatives exist,” she said, aware that their conversation had crossed into a territory where literal and metaphorical blurred.

“And what alternative would you suggest?”

His question carried weight far beyond the bath, and she felt it as keenly as the warmth of his skin beneath her hand.

Beatrice teetered on the edge of some unspoken threshold, a moment that might shift the careful boundaries they had set. She should have pulled back, letting propriety and habit dictate her actions. Yet the storm beyond the window seemed to strip away the usual rules, leaving her unusually fearless.

“Perhaps,” she said, her voice steadier than she expected, given the frantic beat of her heart, “warmth might prove just as clarifying.”

Leo’s pupils dilated, searching, intense.

“An interesting hypothesis,” he remarked, his voice light but his eyes serious. “Though it requires empirical testing.”

Beatrice allowed a smile, soft and deliberate, to curve her lips as heat curled low in her stomach.

“The scientific method applied to human comfort,” she murmured. “How very modern of you, Your Grace.”

“I’ve been accused of many things, darling, but rarely modernity,” he replied, the faint curve of his lips easing some of the tension between them. “Though I find myself increasingly open to… contemporary approaches when tradition fails.”

The implication lingered, this intimate proximity, the air between them thick with intensity.

“Perhaps you should step out of the bath before hypothermia renders the experiment moot,” she said.

He nodded but stayed where he was, seemingly aware of the vulnerability that leaving the bath entailed.

“If you would be so kind as to pass me the towel,” he murmured.

Chapter Seventeen

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Beatrice retrieved the towel, holding it out with a composure that belied the fluttering in her chest.

Leo rose from the bath in one single, fluid motion, water sliding down his broad shoulders and chest. She kept her eyes on his face, maintaining the dignity of acknowledgment while resisting the urge to let her gaze wander.

“Thank you,” he murmured, wrapping the towel around his waist with effortless control before stepping fully out of the tub.

Droplets clung to him, catching the lamplight like tiny stars on skin that was both hard and alive.