Page 95 of Stolen By the Rakish Duke

She had not overexerted herself; Dr. Morris’s instructions had been followed with careful obedience. Yet her thoughts refused to remain idle. Every detail of the past days—the fear, the fever, Anna’s quiet bravery—kept pushing her forward, insisting that she act rather than wait.

She found herself moving toward the library, not for books, but for a chance to see Leo, to remind him that she existed outside his investigation. Her hand brushed along the banister as she descended, steady but not hurried, her agency balanced against her recovery.

“Your Grace?” Emilia’s voice called softly from the doorway.

Beatrice looked up, offering a small smile. “Yes?”

“A letter has arrived for you. From the Duchess of Windermere.”

She took the note, letting her fingers linger on the seal for a moment before breaking it.

Georgina’s hand was evident in every graceful loop and flourish, her words a balm and a reminder of the world beyond the confines of illness and investigation.

Beatrice refolded the note carefully, then glanced toward the hall, catching the sound of the front door opening. Footsteps fell with the familiar cadence of Leo’s stride, precise and unyielding.

Her chest tightened with determination. She stepped into the corridor, moving to meet him, careful not to impede his progress but unable to resist the pull to see him, to reach him in the small way she could.

“Leo,” she said gently, lifting her hand as if to touch his arm.

He barely glanced at her, already turning toward his study, papers in hand, his mind sharp with the hunt for Westbury.

“Beatrice,” he acknowledged, his voice low. “I need to review these reports. Westbury won’t wait for our convenience.”

Her hand lingered in the air, the faintest tremor of frustration brushing against her calm exterior. She had no desire to hinder him, yet the urge to be seen, to matter beyond the mission he had placed above all else, won out.

“I understand,” she said softly, letting her hand fall. “But… you’re here. I wanted to make sure you were safe, too.”

For a fleeting moment, his gaze flicked to her, a hint of warmth flashing across his features before the hunt claimed him again.

“I am,” he said, his voice clipped. “Focus on your recovery. That is all that matters right now.”

Beatrice exhaled, resisting the urge to argue, to insist. She could not defy the doctor, not yet, but she would not fade into the background either.

She would be present, quietly insisting on her place beside him, even if in small ways, until the moment he allowed himself to notice.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“Why are you wandering about?” Leo asked, then faltered, surprise flickering across his features before he masked it with careful neutrality.

“I am recovering, yes, but that does not mean I must remain hidden. That is beside the point.”

His shoulders stiffened, and she could almost feel the tension radiating off him. “And what is the point?”

“This,” she said, her voice low but firm, “is about us. We need to talk.”

He hesitated, and something flickered in his eyes—fear, resistance, maybe guilt.

For a moment, she wondered if she would have to force the man she had grown to love to confront her. But he gave a stiff nod and gestured toward his study.

She followed, closing the door behind her with deliberate care.

She faced him, her hands clasped loosely before her. “Since the musicale, you’ve barely looked at me. You’ve withdrawn completely.”

Leo moved to the window, distancing himself. “I am occupied with the investigation. Blackwood is close to apprehending Westbury.”

“That is not an answer.” She stepped closer. “You’ve avoided me. As if what happened between us, everything we shared, never existed.”

His face remained unreadable, the mask in place, but she caught the briefest flicker of emotion before it vanished.