Page 8 of Stolen By the Rakish Duke

At once, his stiffness vanished. He wrapped his arms around her neck, squeezing with the eagerness of a boy who had barely been allowed to show his feelings.

“Take care of yourself, Bea,” he murmured into her embrace. “And if the Duke is unkind, send word, and I will challenge him to a duel when I am older.”

Beatrice could not help but smile at his boyish gallantry. “I’ve no doubt you’d defend my honor admirably, darling. I assure you, though, such measures will not be necessary.”

Her father approached the Duke. “Stagmore,” he began. “I entrust you with my daughter’s well-being. Should you fail inthis sacred duty, know thatnothingwill shield you from the consequences.”

The Duke of Stagmore regarded him with the cool assessment of a commander recognizing another. “I understand your position perfectly, Duke. Your daughter shall want for nothing under my protection.”

Her stepmother intervened with practiced grace, placing a hand on her father’s arm. “Come now, Edwin. You must not threaten our new son-in-law so openly,” she said, her light tone belying the warning in her eyes. “After all, marriage is a partnership, not a battle.”

With final embraces exchanged and farewells spoken, Beatrice hopped into the Duke’s carriage, a luxurious conveyance upholstered in deep burgundy leather and appointed with every comfort imaginable for long-distance travel.

The Duke joined her moments later, taking the seat opposite rather than beside her, a decision for which she felt both relief and, strangely, a twinge of disappointment.

As the carriage lurched into motion, Beatrice gazed through the window at the diminishing figures of her family, wondering when she might see them again and what kind of life awaited her at Stagmore Manor.

“I apologize for my cousin’s deplorable behavior,” the Duke said suddenly, his deep voice startling her after such prolonged quiet. “Philip has always been impulsive, but I never imagined him capable of such dishonorable conduct.”

The silence had stretched between them for over an hour. Neither had seemed inclined to break it as the streets of London began to give way to the verdant plains of the countryside. The lush green landscapes of early summer had blurred into a tapestry of emerald and gold in the late afternoon light.

“You do not need to apologize, Your Grace,” Beatrice replied, settling her gaze on him with calm dignity. “You have already done more than duty required.”

“Nevertheless,” he persisted, his expression unreadable, “the circumstances of our union are far from ideal.”

Beatrice inclined her head in acknowledgment but offered no further comment, sensing that their conversation was veering toward dangerous territory.

The Duke, however, seemed disinclined to respect her reticence. “You were close to Philip, I understand?”

“As I told you before, we had a cordial friendship,” Beatrice responded carefully.

“Yet he never mentioned you in his correspondence with me,” the Duke observed, his tone casual but his gaze sharp. “Curious, is it not, that he would arrange to marry a woman of whom he spoke so little?”

Beatrice felt a prickle of unease at the direction of his inquiry. “Perhaps your cousin found other matters more worthy of discussion in his letters to you,” she said.

“Perhaps,” he conceded, though his expression suggested he found her explanation unconvincing. “Or perhaps your arrangement with Philip was of such a… particular nature that he deemed it prudent to keep it confidential.”

She bristled, his insinuation making her blood simmer. “I assure you, Your Grace, our arrangement was entirely honorable.”

At least, her part of their arrangement was honorable. She honored her and Philip’s friendship.

But Philip had disappeared. He hadn’t honored the most significant part of their arrangement. Part of her wished to scream, and another part wished to run all over the streets, looking for him. He had promised to become her husband, to end the tedious, ostentatious torture of the marriage mart.

He had been so convinced to see this deal through. So what had held him back now?

Beatrice couldn’t help but worry for him. He had promised to come. What had stopped him? She only had two answers: he either went back on his word and eloped with his beloved, or…

Or something had happened to him.

“Was it?” the Duke pressed, leaning forward slightly. “Then you must be able to explain why a man would abandon his bride mere hours before their wedding, without any warning or explanation.”

“I cannot speak to Philip’s motivations,” Beatrice replied, her composure beginning to fray under this unexpected interrogation.

“Cannot, or will not?” the Duke countered, his blue eyes narrowing. “Philip wrote to me about many things over the years. Yet, suddenly, he decides to marry, and the lady in question remains a mystery to me until the very day of the wedding. Then, just as suddenly, he vanishes. Such circumstances invite speculation.”

Beatrice’s patience, already strained by the events of the past few days, finally snapped. “Is this an interrogation, Your Grace? For I was under the impression I had married a duke, not a magistrate.”

The corner of his mouth quirked in a smile that held no warmth. “Merely an observation, Duchess. Philip’s behavior seems most out of character.”