Page 77 of Stolen By the Rakish Duke

Beatrice marveled at how naturally Leo adapted to her family’s dynamics, matching her father’s seriousness, entertaining the children, and deflecting Isabella’s barbs with good humor.

By the time they retired to the drawing room for tea, Henry had become Leo’s devoted shadow, while Eleanor had extracted promises of riding lessons and tours of the manor’s most interesting rooms. Even her father seemed grudgingly impressed, though his protective gaze still followed her with lingering concern.

“He’ll be pestering him for a chess match before the night’s through,” Christine murmured as she joined Beatrice near the fireplace. “Your father never could resist testing a man’s strategic thinking.”

“Leo plays brilliantly,” Beatrice replied, watching as her husband demonstrated a particularly complex move to an enthralled Henry. “Though he may let Papa win for diplomatic reasons.”

Christine laughed softly. “I doubt that would earn him any favors. Edwin detests being patronized.”

“As does Leo.”

“Then we will have an interesting evening, indeed.” Christine’s gaze turned searching. “You seem happy, Bea. Truly happy, not merely making the best of circumstances.”

Heat crawled up Beatrice’s neck. “I am.”

“Your marriage was so sudden. We worried…” Christine hesitated, her composure briefly faltering. “Is he good to you? Not just courteous or proper, but genuinely kind?”

The question caught Beatrice off guard. She had expected an interrogation about their hasty union, a probe for cracks in their story, not this simple concern for her happiness.

“Yes,” she said finally, the word carrying the weight of everything she couldn’t quite articulate. “He is.”

Christine squeezed her hand. “Then that’s all that matters.”

But her sister was not easily convinced.

Later, when the gentlemen retired to the library for brandy and the children were taken to bed, Isabella cornered Beatrice in a window alcove, away from Christine’s moderating influence.

“All right, out with it,” she demanded without preamble. “What’s happened?”

Beatrice kept her expression neutral. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t play the innocent with me, Bea. We shared a womb, remember?” Isabella leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “The last time I saw you, you were trapped in a marriage of convenience with a notorious rake who could barely look at you. Now, you’re mooning over each other like characters in those ridiculous novels you read.”

“I do not moon?—”

“You absolutely do. And so does he, which is infinitely more shocking.” Isabella eyed her narrowly. “You’ve fallen in love with him, haven’t you?”

The blunt question hit her hard. Beatrice had been circling the truth for weeks, unwilling to name the emotion that had taken root in her heart. Hearing it spoken aloud, and by Isabella of all people, left her momentarily speechless.

“That’s absurd,” she forced out, though the denial sounded hollow even to her own ears.

“Is it?” Isabella challenged. “Because you used to be a terrible liar, and you haven’t improved much.”

Beatrice turned toward the window, unable to meet her twin’s penetrating gaze. Outside, night had settled over the estate, leaving only the moonlight to silver the formal gardens.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen,” she said quietly, the admission slipping out before she could stop it. “Our arrangement was clear from the beginning. Mutual benefit, nothing more.”

“And yet?” Isabella prompted.

“And yet…” Beatrice sighed, the tension leaving her shoulders. “He’s totally different from all the rumors about him, Bella. He’s… He makes me feel…”

“Seen,” Isabella finished softly, surprising Beatrice with her perception. “Like he actually sees you, beyond the ton’s whispers, beyond our father’s title.”

Beatrice nodded, her throat suddenly tight. “Yes.”

“And does he love you in return?”

Love? When had she said anything about love?