Page 94 of Stolen By the Rakish Duke

Beatrice’s chambers were quiet, pale daylight filtering through the drapes. She sat in an armchair by the window, a book open in her lap. The faint crease of concentration on her brow drew his attention, and he felt a stab of guilt in his chest.

She should not have to summon him; he should be protecting her, shielding her from everything.

She looked up at his entrance, hope flickering in her eyes, quickly tempered with restraint.

“Leo,” she greeted softly.

He inclined his head, keeping his tone clipped. “You wished to see me.”

“I did,” she affirmed, closing her book. “How was your meeting with Mr. Blackwood?”

“Productive.” He kept his tone neutral, professional. “He believes they’re close to apprehending Westbury.”

“That’s good news.” She hesitated, then set her book aside. “Leo, is something wrong? You’ve been… different since that night.”

He turned away, unable to meet her searching gaze. “I should see to some correspondence.”

He felt rather than saw her flinch at his dismissal, but he forced himself to continue to the door.

Distance was necessary now. Distance to protect her, to ensure Westbury saw no further advantage in targeting her. No matter what it cost them both.

Once in the privacy of his study, Leo pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching rain transform the garden into a blur of green and gray. His reflection stared back at him, hollow-eyed and haunted.

The image of Beatrice collapsing in his arms, her skin burning with fever, her breathing shallow and uneven… it wouldn’t leave him, nor would the knowledge that his connection to her had made her vulnerable.

If she died…

Leo shook his head sharply, as if to dislodge the thought.

She hadn’t died. She would recover.

But a part of him felt like he had been too careless, too distracted to protect her. No, he couldn’t let that happen again. He had to sharpen his focus, to let the sentiment go.

For her sake. For her safety.

When darkness fell, Leo found himself in his chambers, the flickering candlelight reflecting off the polished wood and leather-bound books.

The servants had obeyed his terse instructions without question, filling the large, claw-footed tub with ice and water before discreetly withdrawing.

He stripped with methodical precision, folding each garment as though it mattered, and stepped toward the bath.

The cold hit him immediately, a shock that stole his breath and tightened every muscle. He submerged himself slowly, letting the icy water crawl up his calves, his thighs, and envelop his chest.

“Master the cold, and you master yourself,”his father’s voice echoed in his mind.

Leo closed his eyes, willing the clarity that had always accompanied the ritual to emerge.

This was penance for his failure to protect Beatrice, for caring too much, wanting too much, needing her beyond reason.

But even as his body submitted to the ice, his mind rebelled. Thoughts of Beatrice flooded his consciousness: her smile, the warmth of her presence, the light she had brought into his ordered life.

The clarity he sought remained elusive, submerged beneath emotions he could not name, a chaotic current he both feared and craved.

The next few days passed in a measured rhythm of recovery and quiet tension. Beatrice’s strength returned slowly, each step forward careful and deliberate, yet her mind remained restless.

Leo moved through the house with a relentless purpose, checking reports, speaking in clipped tones with Blackwood, his attention focused entirely on Westbury. He was present in body, but in every other way, he seemed elsewhere, locked in a pursuit that left no room for her.

Beatrice lingered in her sitting room after breakfast, the morning sunlight spilling across the polished floors.