Page 68 of Stolen By the Rakish Duke

There was something vulnerable in his voice that made her heart ache for him. It seemed as if he really needed to show this to her, and she didn’t want to stop him.

So, when he turned the key, she did not stop him. It protested, metal grinding against metal, but finally gave way.

“I want you to see this.”

The door swung inward on creaking hinges, and the first thing they were greeted with was… books. Hundreds—no, thousands of them stacked in towering columns that created a labyrinth across the floor.

More makeshift shelves lined the walls. Manuscripts lay open on a massive desk, the faded ink barely visible in the shaft of sunlight that pierced the dusty air.

“What is this?” Beatrice breathed, stepping inside. The scent of old paper and leather and time itself enveloped her.

“My great-aunt Margaret’s sanctuary.” Leo stayed in the doorway, silhouetted against the corridor’s brighter light. “She never married. Said she had better things to do than become some man’s broodmare and nursemaid.”

Beatrice turned to look at him, but he only stood there, serenely watching her.

“She lived here her whole life,” he continued. “Corresponding with scholars across Europe, studying languages and philosophy and natural sciences. My father sealed this room after she died. Said her work was unseemly for the family name. An embarrassment to the dukedom.”

Beatrice moved deeper into the room, trailing her fingers over the book spines. Latin. Greek. Arabic. French. German. The breadth of knowledge represented here stole her breath.

“Why show me now?”

He stepped inside, dust motes swirling in his wake like tiny stars.

“Because I thought you’d appreciate it.” His footsteps were hesitant, as though he expected the floor to give way beneath him. “And because I wanted to share something with you that I’ve kept locked away. Something real.”

Her throat closed. She abandoned the books and moved to him, taking his hands in her own.

“Thank you,” she said simply.

Words seemed inadequate for what this gesture meant, that he trusted her with a piece of himself he had protected so carefully.

His fingers tightened around hers, his grip almost desperate. “I thought we might restore it together. Make it accessible again. Let her work see daylight after all these years.”

“I’d love that.” She squeezed his hands gently. “Will you tell me about her? About your great-aunt Margaret.”

Golden light surrounded them like a cocoon, warm and private and safe.

Leo was silent for a long moment, staring at their entwined hands. Then, he said, “She wasn’t what my grandfather expected when she came to live here.” The words came slowly, as though he was choosing each one with care. “He wanted her to be quiet and decorative and cause no trouble.”

Beatrice’s lips twitched. “But she wasn’t.”

“No.” A genuine smile touched Leo’s lips. “She was brilliant. Spoke six languages fluently and could read a dozen more. She challenged him at every turn, questioned every assumption. And he punished her for it.”

Beatrice’s chest ached at the bitterness in his voice. “How?”

“Ridicule, at first. He’d mock her at dinner parties, make jokes about bluestockings and unnatural women. Withheld her allowance, so she was dependent on him for everything. Wouldn’t let her publish under the family name, claiming it would bring shame upon the dukedom.”

His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the skin.

“And then there were the ice baths.”

The words fell like stones into water, sending ripples through the quiet room.

“My grandfather invented them,” Leo continued, his voice going flat and emotionless. “A way to correct weakness or improper behavior. Aunt Margaret got them when she dared to argue philosophy with his guests. When she questioned his edicts. When she forgot her place.”

Beatrice’s vision blurred. She reached out, cupping his face in both hands, making him look at her.

“And you,” she whispered. “He used them on you, too.”