Page 90 of Stolen By the Rakish Duke

Time stretched and compressed in strange ways.

Had minutes passed, or hours? Beatrice couldn’t tell. The only constant was Leo, his thumb drawing rhythmic circles on her wrist, his voice steady in her ear.

“Stay with me,” he repeated. “Just a little longer. The doctor’s coming. Stay with me, Beatrice.”

She tried, God how she tried. But the darkness was so tempting, the cold so penetrating. Her eyes fluttered shut despite Leo’s increasingly urgent pleas.

The last thing she heard was his voice, cracking with an emotion she had never heard from him before.

“Don’t leave me, Beatrice. Please. I can’t lose you.”

Leo paced the length of Windermere’s study, every muscle in his body strung taut with fear. Beatrice lay pale and still on the settee, her breathing shallow, her skin burning beneath his touch. Dr. Morris bent over her, his expression grave as he examined her.

“Well?” Leo demanded when the physician finally straightened. “What is it?”

Dr. Morris adjusted his spectacles, his weathered face grim. “Poison, almost certainly. The symptoms are consistent with belladonna, though thankfully, a relatively small dose.”

The word ‘poison’ rang in Leo’s ears. He had suspected—known, really, from the moment she swayed—but hearing the doctor say it out loud sent ice through his veins.

“Can you treat it?” He fought to keep his voice steady.

“I’ve administered an emetic and charcoal to absorb what remains,” the doctor replied. “But the Duchess must be immediately moved somewhere she can be properly monitored. Her condition is… precarious.”

Leo nodded, a decision made in an instant. “My carriage is waiting. We’ll take her to our townhouse.”

“I’ll come with you,” Dr. Morris said, already packing his medical bag. “She’ll need constant attention through the night.”

Windermere appeared at Leo’s elbow, his expression grave. “I’ve cleared the servants’ entrance. You can avoid the main hall and any… unwanted attention.”

“Thank you.” Leo clasped the man’s shoulder briefly. “And the servants who served the champagne?”

“Being questioned by my steward as we speak.” Windermere’s voice dropped. “This was no accident, was it?”

“No.” Leo’s jaw tightened. “I have my suspicions.”

“Westbury,” Windermere guessed, his voice barely above a whisper.

Leo didn’t confirm or deny it, but his silence was answer enough.

He turned back to Beatrice, gathering her slight form in his arms. She felt fragile—impossibly so—her head lolling against his shoulder, her skin hot through the thin silk of her gown.

“Let’s go,” he ordered, already moving toward the door.

The Duchess of Windermere intercepted them, her face pale with concern. “I’ll call on you tomorrow,” she promised, squeezing his arm. “Anything you need—anything at all—send word immediately.”

Isabella stood beside her, tears streaming down her face. “Take care of her,” she pleaded, her voice breaking. “Swear it.”

“On my life,” Leo vowed, the words heavy with meaning.

The journey home passed in a blur of anxiety. Leo cradled Beatrice in his lap, counting each shallow breath, murmuring constant reassurance, though he wasn’t certain she could hear him. Dr. Morris sat opposite them, pressing his fingers to her wrist at regular intervals, his face revealing nothing.

Servants rushed to meet them when the carriage halted before the townhouse, Peters directing footmen with uncharacteristic urgency.

“Your Grace’s chambers have been prepared,” the butler announced as Leo carried Beatrice inside. “Fresh linens, water—everything Dr. Morris requested.”

Leo nodded, taking the stairs two at a time despite his burden. In his bedchamber, he laid Beatrice gently on the bed, reluctant to release her even as the maids hurried to remove her evening clothes and replace them with a light nightgown.

“Your Grace,” Dr. Morris said quietly, “you should wait outside while we?—”