Page 89 of Stolen By the Rakish Duke

“Someone must educate them,” Isabella replied airily. “They come out of university thinking they know everything, when they’ve barely scratched the surface.”

Lady Pennington cackled with delight. “Oh, I do like this one. She reminds me of myself at her age. Terrified half the ton with my opinions.”

“Only half?” Isabella asked innocently.

“The other half was too dense to realize they should be terrified,” Lady Pennington replied. “Men, mostly.”

Leo raised his hands in mock surrender. “I know when I’m outnumbered.”

Beatrice took another sip of champagne, a strange buzzing beginning at the base of her skull. The room seemed suddenly warmer, the voices around her blurring into indistinct noise. She blinked, trying to focus on Isabella’s banter, but the words slipped away like water through cupped hands.

“Beatrice?” Leo’s voice seemed very distant. “Are you well?”

She tried to respond, but her tongue felt strangely thick. The glass tilted in her hand, champagne sloshing perilously close to the rim. Leo took it from her, setting it aside with smooth efficiency that belied the concern in his eyes.

“Just a bit warm,” she managed, though the words came out slurred.

A chill raced through her despite her claim, gooseflesh rising all over her arms. The room began to spin alarmingly.

Leo’s arm was around her waist instantly, steady and strong. “Perhaps some air,” he said.

The words were directed at Lady Pennington, but his attention was entirely on Beatrice.

Lady Pennington’s face swam in and out of focus as Beatrice nodded. “Yes, air. That would be?—”

Her knees buckled.

Isabella’s face paled with shock. “Bea!” she gasped.

Leo caught Beatrice, his grip tightening as he pulled her against his chest. Through the growing fog, Beatrice registered the hush falling over the nearby guests, the quick, smooth way Leo moved through the crowd toward a side door.

“Leo—” She clutched at his lapels, her fingers clumsy and uncooperative. “Something’s wrong.”

“I know, darling.” His voice was calm but tight with controlled fear. “Hold on. I’ve got you.”

He shouldered through a door into a quieter room—a study, she thought dimly, registering leather-bound books and the scent of tobacco. He lowered her onto a settee, kneeling beside her.

“Beatrice.” He cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing her cheeks. “Look at me. Stay awake.”

She tried, fighting against the heaviness of her eyelids. His face blurred and doubled before her, the room spinning in lazy circles.

“So cold,” she whispered, her teeth beginning to chatter. “Why is it so cold?”

Leo shrugged out of his evening coat and draped it over her. He pressed his hand against her forehead, then her cheek, checking for fever. “You’re burning up.”

He turned, barking orders at someone she couldn’t see. “Send for Dr. Morris immediately. And bring water—cold, with ice if available.”

“Leo—” Beatrice reached for him, relieved when his warm hand closed around her frigid fingers. “The champagne. I think?—”

“Don’t speak.” He pressed a kiss to her knuckles, his expression grim. “I know. Just stay with me, darling. Stay awake.”

Beatrice fought against the darkness edging her vision, focusing on Leo’s face, the feel of his hand around hers. Voices came and went—Georgina’s concerned questions, a servant bringing water, the Duke of Windermere offering his assistance.

Isabella appeared. “Tell me how to help.”

“Fetch Father,” Beatrice managed, though the words felt like stones in her mouth. “And Christine.”

“They’ve already been sent for,” Isabella assured her, taking her other hand. Her fingers were cool against Beatrice’s burning skin. “Just hold on.”