Page 79 of Stolen By the Rakish Duke

“Even Isabella?”

“Especially Isabella. Her protective instincts remind me of a mother wolf defending her cubs.”

Beatrice laughed softly. “Don’t let her hear that comparison. She fancies herself more panther than wolf.”

Leo’s smile reached his eyes, crinkling the corners in a way that made her heart swell. “Duly noted.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a footman, who was bearing a sealed letter on a silver salver.

“For you, Your Grace,” he said, presenting it to Leo. “The messenger said it was urgent.”

Leo broke the seal, his expression darkening as he read the contents. Beatrice felt a chill of foreboding.

“What is it?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

Leo glanced at her, his eyes hard with sudden determination. “Westbury has been spotted. Not fleeing to France as we thought, but heading north.” He folded the letter with precise movements. “Toward us.”

Fear seized Beatrice’s heart. “Philip?—”

“Is still safe,” Leo assured her, his hand finding hers without concern for who might notice. “But it seems our enemy has decided to change the game.”

“What will we do?”

Leo’s jaw tightened in a way she had come to recognize—the Duke replacing the man, duty overriding desire. “I need time to plan. But we’ll find a way to end this, I promise you.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

“Irefuse to wear that monstrosity.”

Leo stared at the embroidered waistcoat his valet held up, a riot of peacock blues and greens that would make Adrian weep with envy.

“It’s perfectly fashionable, Your Grace.”

“It’s perfectly hideous.” Leo turned to where Beatrice sat at her dressing table, watching the exchange with barely concealed amusement. “I’ll look like an overgrown parrot.”

She bit her lip, her eyes dancing. “I think you’d make a very handsome parrot.”

“Traitor.”

“It’s the Haverford ball,” she reminded him, rising to cross the room. Her gown whispered against the carpet, and Leo’s mouth went dry despite the absurdity of their debate. “Lady Haverford is notoriously particular about the dress code. You know this.”

“I know she’s notoriously mad.”

But he was already losing the battle, especially when Beatrice reached out to smooth the offending garment with gentle fingers.

“Just this once?” She looked up at him through her lashes—a move she had learned drove him to distraction. “For me?”

He caught her hand, bringing it to his lips. “You fight dirty, Duchess.”

“I learned from the best.”

His valet coughed delicately. “Shall I lay it out then, Your Grace?”

Leo sighed. “Do your worst.”

“Excellent choice, Your Grace.” The elderly man bustled away with the waistcoat, radiating vindication.

Beatrice laughed softly. “You’ve made him unbearably smug.”