Page 93 of Stolen By the Rakish Duke

He turned away from the window, the morning light accentuating the sharp angles of his face. Dark shadows bruised the skin beneath his eyes, and his cravat was loose, his usually immaculate appearance showing signs of a sleepless night.

The relief that flickered in his eyes was quickly masked by something cooler, more distant.

“Belladonna.” His voice was clipped, businesslike. “A small dose, thankfully. Dr. Morris believes you’ve survived the worst of it.”

Beatrice pushed herself into a sitting position, fighting a wave of dizziness. The sheets pooled around her waist as she leaned against the headboard, studying her husband’s rigid posture.

Something had changed.

The tenderness he had shown through the night, which she remembered in hazy fragments, had vanished with the dawn.

“I remember feeling strange after the champagne,” she said. “Then, everything became… blurred.”

Leo approached the bed but maintained a careful distance between them. “You collapsed. I brought you home immediately.”

“And you stayed with me.”

It wasn’t a question. Even through the fever dreams, she had felt his presence, his hand holding hers, his voice murmuring reassurances when nightmares threatened.

His jaw tightened. “It was the least I could do.”

“The least you could do,” she repeated softly, hurt blooming in her chest at his coldness.

Leo turned away, pulling the cord beside the bed with sharp efficiency. “You need food and water. The doctor said both are essential for your recovery.”

Before she could respond, he was already moving toward the door.

“I’ll inform the staff that you’re awake. Dr. Morris will want to examine you.”

“Leo—” Her hand reached for him, but he was already beyond her grasp.

“Rest, Beatrice.” His eyes met hers briefly, and what she saw there—guilt, fear, and something else she couldn’t name—made her breath catch. “We’ll speak later.”

The door closed behind him with quiet finality, leaving her alone with questions that multiplied by the second.

Leo paced the confines of Blackwood’s cramped office, tension radiating from his body. Rain drummed against the windows, matching the staccato of his footsteps.

“We’re close, Your Grace,” Blackwood assured him, spreading papers across his cluttered desk. “The physician’s testimony regarding the poison is damning. With the Duchess’s account of what she consumed at the musicale, we can establish a clear timeline.”

“And Westbury?” Leo demanded, pausing his restless pacing.

“We have men watching every port and every coaching inn. He’s still in London. I’d stake my reputation on it.” Blackwood’sweathered face hardened. “He thinks himself too clever to flee immediately.”

Leo’s hands clenched at his sides. “He nearly killed my wife.”

“And he’ll pay for it,” Blackwood promised. “But we need a few more days to tighten the noose. If we move too quickly, he might slip through our fingers.”

“I want him caught now,” Leo growled. “Before he can make another attempt.”

“I’ll do my best to catch him as quickly as possible, Your Grace.” Blackwood met his gaze unflinchingly. “We’ll have him, I swear it.”

Leo nodded tersely. “Good. I won’t have him threaten anyone else in my family.”

Rain had intensified by the time he returned to the townhouse, his greatcoat heavy with moisture.

Peters stepped into the room. “Your Grace, Her Grace has requested your presence in her chambers. She has been reading for some time and wishes to speak with you.”

Leo’s jaw tightened. He allowed himself a brief, tight-lipped acknowledgment and followed Peters up the polished staircase, each step measured.