Page 53 of Stolen By the Rakish Duke

Despite herself, Beatrice’s eyes strayed, drawn to the strength in his shoulders, the subtle flex of muscles across his chestand arms, the faint scars hinting at experiences she could only imagine?—

“You’re staring, Duchess,” he observed, though his tone held amusement rather than censure.

Heat flared in her cheeks, but she made no effort to hide it as she went and sat down on the bed.

Her gaze stayed steady. “Perhaps I am,” she relented, letting the words fall with unexpected frankness. “But not for the reasons you think.”

Leo arched an eyebrow, drawing the towel more securely around his waist. “Enlighten me, then.”

Beatrice’s fingers twisted in her skirts as she searched for the right words.

At last, she lifted her chin, meeting his eyes squarely. “Because I see more than I expected to. Not merely the rake who swept me into a marriage of convenience. Not merely the duke who bathes in ice for sport. I see… a man who was shaped by cruelty. And yet still a man who stands before me.”

His amusement evaporated, replaced by a stillness he could not entirely disguise. “A rather grim portrait,” he murmured.

“No,” she said quickly, her voice firm despite the faint tremor that betrayed her nerves. “Not grim, but resilient. The ice doesnot make you who you are, Leo. Your father does not.Youdo. And I think—” She exhaled. “I think you are a good man, whether you believe it or not.”

Silence followed, broken only by the relentless drumming of rain against the window. Her words struck with more force than any accusation, for they carried no demand, no judgment. Only conviction.

Leo moved before she could even think to step back. She felt rather than saw him cross the space, the faint chill of his damp skin brushing past her as he lowered himself onto the bed beside her.

The mattress dipped under his weight, and she turned to face him, pale but steady, aware of the cold radiating from him against the warmth she offered.

Then, almost without thought, her hand reached out. She pressed it to his chest, over the steady beat of his heart. His hand came down over hers, trapping her fingers lightly, and she felt the subtle strength in his touch.

Her eyes stayed on his, never straying, drinking in the man before her. She saw him fully, without pretense.

“You are unlike anyone I have ever known,” he murmured.

The words struck her as if torn from a part of him that rarely spoke.

Her lips parted. “And you continue to astound me.”

The distance between them vanished as if the storm itself conspired to draw them closer. Her breath mingled with his. No fear lingered in her gaze, only a clarity that shook him more than any icy water ever had.

He leaned in. She met him halfway. And he kissed her.

Their lips met with surprising gentleness, a question rather than a claim. Beatrice answered instantly, pressing her hand against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beneath her palm, grounding herself. He deepened the kiss, savoring her lips, and she felt the faint hitch of her breath, the subtle catch in her chest that made her pulse quicken.

Outside, the storm, the search for Philip, the shadows of their past… it all fell away. There was only Leo—cold and solid against her warmth, a presence that demanded a response.

When he broke the kiss, it was not to retreat, but to trail his lips along the delicate line of her jaw and down the column of her throat.

She trembled as heat pooled in her core, but her fingers threaded through his damp hair, urging him closer, keeping him there.

“Your… Your Grace,” she breathed, but he shook his head.

“Leo. You called me by name only a moment ago. Do it again,” he said.

The sound of it sent warmth to places both thrilling and intimate.

“Leo,” she whispered, letting his name slip like a prayer and carry her surrender.

Leo laid her back on the thin mattress, careful with his weight, reverent in every movement. His hands found the fastenings of her gown, and she guided them, arching into him, letting her lips meet his again, fervent and unguarded.

“You feel so good in my arms, Beatrice,” he murmured against her mouth as his hands slid over the lacings of her gown, then hovered, as if in silent question.

She answered with action, her hands guiding his, helping him peel back stubborn fabric, her breath warm against his cheek.