Page 91 of Stolen By the Rakish Duke

“I’m staying.” Leo’s tone left no room for argument. He moved to the window, giving the maids space to work while maintaining his vigil.

Rain had begun to fall, droplets streaking the windowpanes like tears. London stretched beyond, oblivious to the fear squeezing his heart. Somewhere out there, Westbury lurked—calculating, watching, waiting.

This was a warning, Leo knew. A demonstration of how easily the man could reach them, even in the heart of Society.

And Leo had failed to stop it.

Behind him, Dr. Morris directed the maids in a hushed tone. Cool compresses for the fever. Sips of water mixed with medicine when she could be roused enough to swallow. Clean linens as the poison left her system.

When the physician finally approached him, Leo steeled himself for the worst.

“She’s young and strong,” Dr. Morris said, answering the question Leo couldn’t voice. “The dose wasn’t fatal. With proper care, she should recover.”

“Should?”

The older man sighed. “These next hours are critical. The fever must be managed, and fluids must be maintained. Watch for changes in her breathing, or any sign the poison is affecting her heart.”

Leo nodded, memorizing each instruction. “And you’ll stay?”

“Of course.” Dr. Morris squeezed his shoulder. “I’ve sent for my assistant; I need more medicine. We’ll see her through this, Your Grace.”

The maids withdrew, leaving only Leo, Dr. Morris, and Beatrice’s lady’s maid Emilia, who insisted on staying despite her red-rimmed eyes and trembling hands.

“You should rest, Your Grace,” Dr. Morris suggested as midnight approached. “There’s little to be done now but wait.”

“I’m not leaving her.” Leo pulled a chair to Beatrice’s bedside, taking her limp hand in his own. Her skin still burned. Her breathing was rapid and shallow.

The physician didn’t argue, merely nodded and retreated to a chair in the corner, prepared to intervene if needed.

Leo sat as the night deepened, holding Beatrice’s hand as if he could tether her to this world through sheer force of will.

In the flickering candlelight, she looked impossibly young, impossibly vulnerable. Her dark hair was fanned across the pillow, damp with sweat at her temples. Her cheeks, usually so quick to flush with emotion, were pale except for two spots of a feverish red high on her cheekbones.

“You’re the strongest person I know,” Leo whispered, pressing her knuckles to his lips. “Fight this, Beatrice. Come back to me.”

She didn’t respond, lost in whatever fever dreams had claimed her. Leo brushed damp curls from her forehead, his touch gentle as he replaced the cool cloth that had warmed against her skin.

How had she become so essential to him in such a short time? This woman who had entered his life under the most unlikely of circumstances, who had seen past his carefully constructed defenses to the wounded man beneath. Who had shown him that warmth could exist beyond the ice his father had forced upon him.

And now she lay poisoned because of him. Because he had failed to protect her.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice breaking. “This is my fault. I should have been more vigilant. Should have anticipated—” He broke off as his throat constricted.

He bent his head, pressing his forehead to their joined hands, fighting for composure.

Dr. Morris tactfully looked away, pretending to consult his medical bag.

The hours crawled by. Leo bathed Beatrice’s face with cool water, coaxed medicine between her lips when the physician instructed, and changed the linens when sweat soaked through them.

He worked mechanically, pushing aside his fear to focus on each task. If he concentrated on the practical needs of the moment, he could almost forget the terror lurking beneath.

Almost.

Dawn approached, pale light seeping around the edges of the curtains. Beatrice’s breathing had slowed somewhat, though her fever still raged. Dr. Morris dozed in his chair, exhaustion finally claiming him.

Leo sat unmoving, his body aching from maintaining the same position for hours, his eyes gritty with unshed tears and lack of sleep. He watched the faint rise and fall of Beatrice’s chest, counting each breath as if it might be her last.

Ice baths had been his father’s method of discipline. A way to force strength, to punish weakness, to forge the perfect duke from a boy who felt too much. Leo had endured them until they became a ritual, until the cold became so familiar that he thought himself immune to its bite.