Page 78 of Stolen By the Rakish Duke

Of course, Beatrice knew she was being pedantic, but she couldn’t claim something that neither of them had discussed.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “He’s never said the words. But then neither have I.”

At that, Isabella rolled her eyes. “Men rarely do until they’re forced,” she said with surprising wisdom. “But his actions speak clearly enough.”

“What do you mean?”

Isabella rolled her eyes again. “For heaven’s sake, Bea. I’ve had the misfortune of sitting across from you both all evening. The man looks at you like you hung the moon and stars. When Henry knocked over that vase at dinner, his first instinct was to check if you were upset, not the priceless porcelain. And have you noticed how he’s positioned himself all evening to keep you in his sight?”

“He has?” Beatrice blinked.

“Constantly. It’s rather sweet in a possessive, brooding way.”

Beatrice felt warmth spread through her chest at her sister’s observations. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Because you were too busy staring at him,” Isabella teased, though her expression quickly sobered. “Just… be careful, Bea. I want to believe he’s worthy of you, but his reputation?—”

“Doesn’t do him justice,” Beatrice interrupted gently. “Just as my reputation doesn’t do me justice.”

Isabella considered this, then nodded reluctantly. “Fair enough,” she said, then a twinkle entered her eyes that made Beatrice immediately suspicious. “So…”

“What?” Beatrice asked warily.

“Does that mean you’ve… made love?”

Beatrice’s eyes went wide. “Isabella!”

“You have!” Isabella giggled. “Your blush tells me that you’ve done it! Tell me, then!”

Oh God.

“Tell you what?”

“Is it as good as the novels say it is?”

“Good God, Bella,” Beatrice groaned, but her sister was undeterred.

“Oh, just tell me!”

They were interrupted by the return of the gentlemen, and she had never been so grateful to see a group of men in her life.

Leo’s gaze immediately found hers across the room, and her heart stuttered at the blatant longing in his eyes, visible for a fleeting moment before propriety reasserted itself.

“See what I mean?” Isabella whispered. “Utterly besotted.”

Beatrice couldn’t suppress her smile. “Perhaps.”

“Your husband challenged me to a game of chess,” her father announced as he approached, an odd note in his voice that she couldn’t quite decipher. “Most illuminating.”

“Did he win?” Isabella asked bluntly.

Their father’s mouth twitched. “We agreed to call it a draw.”

“Translation: neither would concede defeat,” Christine murmured, joining the conversation with practiced ease. “How diplomatic of you both.”

Leo came to stand beside Beatrice, his hand brushing hers briefly before propriety dictated that he step back. The fleeting contact sent sparks dancing along her skin.

“Your family is delightful,” he said quietly.