Page 69 of Stolen By the Rakish Duke
“He died before I was old enough to draw his attention. But my father learned well.” Leo’s eyes were dark, his pupils blown wide. “Any show of defiance required immediate correction. Ice baths were his preferred method. Quick. Effective. Left no visible marks.”
Her heart was racing. “Your mother?—”
“Encouraged it.” The words were brutal in their simplicity. “She thought I needed to be strong. That sensitivity was dangerous for a duke. She’d stand there, watching while my father held meunder, telling me it was for my own good. That this would make me worthy of the title.”
A tear escaped, rolling down Beatrice’s cheek. He had talked enough about this, and yet it still made her heart ache.
“Leo—” Her voice broke on his name.
“They’re both dead now.” He shrugged, but the gesture was anything but casual. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Look at me,” she said fiercely, pulling him against her. “You survived, Leo. Despite everything they did to you, you survived. And you’re nothing like them.Nothing.”
He buried his face in her hair, his arms wrapping around her waist. His breath was warm against her neck, slightly unsteady.
“Sometimes I wonder,” he murmured. “When I catch myself being cold, distant… I hear their words coming out of my mouth.”
“Then I’ll remind you.” She stroked his hair, the silky strands slipping through her fingers. “Every day if I have to. You are not your parents. The man who protects Anna and Philip? Who showed me this room? Who stopped taking ice baths because he found something warmer?” She pulled back to meet his eyes. “That man is nothing like his parents or his grandfather.”
Something cracked in his expression—a wall crumbling, exposing the vulnerability beneath.
“Since that night at the inn,” he said quietly, “I haven’t needed the ice. Haven’t even thought about it. You…” He swallowed hard. “Thank you.”
Her pulse jumped, heat flooding through her. “I know.”
His hand cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing her cheekbone. “Perhaps I should show my gratitude.”
The kiss was gentle and unlike their urgent couplings of before. This slow massage of his lips indicated that he was savoring her. Discovering. They were learning the shape of each other with unhurried attention.
She melted into him, her fingers curling into his lapels, anchoring herself as the world narrowed to this: his mouth on hers, his warmth surrounding her, the taste of him better than anything she had ever known.
When they finally parted, both breathing hard, his forehead rested against hers.
“Is my gratitude clear enough?” he asked, his lips brushing hers with each word.
“I might need more clarification.” She smiled against his mouth. “For thorough understanding.”
His laugh rumbled through her, vibrating in her chest where they pressed together.
“Minx.” He nipped her lower lip gently. “Though perhaps somewhere with less dust? I’d rather not have you sneezing through our… clarifications.”
Joy bubbled in her chest, bright and effervescent. “Practical as always, husband.”
His gaze swept the room once more, taking in the towers of books, the scattered manuscripts, the evidence of his great-aunt’s brilliant, constrained life.
“We’ll start tomorrow,” he decided. “Catalog everything. Maybe even publish some of her work. With proper attribution this time. Lady Margaret Ashwell deserves to be known.”
“Lady Margaret Ashwell.” Beatrice tested out the name, liking the sound of it. “The world should know her contributions.”
His hand found the small of her back as they moved toward the door, warm and possessive in a way that made her stomach flutter. “She would have liked you.”
“I wish I had met her.”
His fingers flexed against her spine, pulling her fractionally closer.
“Me too,” he said quietly as he locked the door behind them. “I’m only just beginning to understand what she sacrificed. What she endured. The price she paid for refusing to be what they wanted her to be.”
They walked through the corridors, emerging into the grand entrance hall just as Mrs. Fairchild approached with a letter on a silver salver.