Page 92 of Stolen By the Rakish Duke

Butthis—watching Beatrice suffer, powerless to ease her pain—was a new kind of ice. It froze him from the inside out, turned his blood to slush in his veins, crystallized around his heart until each beat felt like shattered glass.

“I’ve spent my life avoiding this,” he confessed to her unconscious form. “This… vulnerability. This fear of losing someone who matters. My father would call it a weakness.”

And now, he feared… he feared that the blasted man had been right all along.

His thumb brushed across her knuckles, the steady motion almost meditative. Her fingers twitched in his grasp.

Leo froze, hardly daring to hope. Her eyelids fluttered, though they didn’t open.

“Leo,” she murmured, the word barely audible. “Cold…”

“I’m here.” He leaned closer, his heart hammering against his ribs. “I’m right here, darling.”

Her eyes opened briefly, unfocused and fever-bright, before closing again. But she had spoken. She had recognized him. It had to be a good sign.

Dr. Morris stirred in his chair, roused by their voices. He crossed to the bed, then felt Beatrice’s pulse and checked her temperature with the back of his hand.

“The fever’s breaking,” he announced, relief evident in his weathered features. “She’s turning the corner, Your Grace.”

Leo exhaled, a shuddering breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. “She’ll recover?”

“I believe so, yes. The worst has passed.” The physician squeezed his shoulder. “You should rest now. I’ll stay with her.”

“No.” Leo shook his head. “I want to be here when she wakes.”

The doctor studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “As you wish.”

Leo settled back in his chair, Beatrice’s hand still clasped in his. The first genuine hope in hours unfurled in his chest, tentative but growing.

His wife would live. She would recover. And when she did, Westbury would pay for every moment of fear, every hour of suffering he had caused. Not just for attempting to harmBeatrice, but for the threat to Philip and Anna, and the disruption to all their lives.

This ended now. No more waiting, no more defensive measures. As soon as Beatrice was well enough, Leo would take the fight directly to Westbury, employing every resource at his disposal to bring him to justice.

Outside, dawn broke fully over London, washing the room in golden light. Leo closed his burning eyes briefly, allowing himself a moment of pure relief. Through the window, a bird began to sing, its notes clear and sweet in the early morning stillness.

And at that moment, Leo made a difficult decision.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“What was in the champagne?” Beatrice asked, her voice still rough from sleep.

Her throat felt raw, as though she had swallowed broken glass, and her mouth tasted of metal and something bitter.

Memory returned in fragments: the crowded musicale, Lady Pennington’s laughter, Isabella’s sharp wit, the strange buzzing that had begun at the base of her skull.

The room spun slightly as she tried to focus, her body feeling simultaneously leaden and weightless, as if she might float away if she didn’t grip the sheets beneath her fingers.

Sunlight filtered through a gap in the heavy curtains, falling across the bed in a narrow golden beam. It illuminated the dust motes dancing in the air and cast the rest of the chamber into shadow.

The familiar scent of her lavender perfume mingled with valerian, perhaps, or laudanum. Her nightgown clung to her skin, still damp with the last remnants of fever sweat.

She brushed a tangle of dark curls from her face, noticing the tremor in her fingers.

How long had she been unconscious?

The last clear memory was of Leo’s arms around her, his voice urgent in her ear as the world tilted and went dark.

Leo.