Page 96 of Stolen By the Rakish Duke

“I watched you nearly die in my arms. Is that not reason enough for my… distance?”

“Distance implies negligence,” she said sharply. “This is avoidance. Deliberate avoidance.”

He shifted, his hands clenching at his sides. “I failed to protect you,” he mumbled.

“You couldn’t have known.”

“I should have,” he countered, his voice hardening. “As your husband, it is my duty.”

That last word stung. “What about what’s beyond duty? What about my feelings?”

“Our agreement was to protect your reputation. To rescue you from scandal,” he said coldly.

Her chest tightened. “Is that what’s more important? Our initial agreement?”

He remained silent, his jaw tight, his eyes dark.

She stepped closer, her courage surging. “Then tell me the truth. Were the past weeks, our closeness, our intimacy, merely a way to pass the time until we found Philip? Until Westbury is caught?”

“Selfish,” he said finally, the word clipped. “It was selfish to let it progress. To let you?—”

“To let me care?” she interrupted, incredulous. “To feel? You think that was a mistake?”

“To put you at risk,” he said simply. “My attention made you a target.”

The truth hit her with cold clarity. “You believe Westbury would harm me because of us.”

“I know it,” he admitted, his voice almost a whisper. “He saw what you’ve become to me. Used it against us both.”

“So your solution is to push me away?” she asked, her voice trembling with emotion, though she forced herself to remain steady. “To pretend there’s nothing between us?”

“My solution is to keep you safe,” he said, stepping toward the door. “Once Westbury is dealt with, we can live the separate lives we agreed upon.”

Separate lives. As if their marriage were a ledger of obligations, nothing more.

Her hands clenched at her sides. “You are… Heavens, Leo, you are a coward,” she whispered, the word sharp and unflinching.

He paused, his hand on the doorknob, his jaw tightening. “You don’t understand.”

“I understand perfectly,” she said, her voice stronger now. “You’re not pushing me away to protect me. You’re pushing me away to protectyourself. Vulnerability terrifies you more than any threat outside this house, and now you’re punishing us both.”

He did not reply, and the silence that stretched between them was heavy, almost unbearable.

Beatrice drew herself up, her chin lifted. “I will not retreat. I will not hide. I will not let fear dictate how I live. Or how I love.”

His profile was sharp in the morning light, his jaw rigid, his eyes stormy, but she saw the slightest hesitation in his posture, a crack in his armor.

But he didn’t offer a response.

“I see,” she said quietly, swallowing past the lump in her throat. “Then I will trouble you no further, Your Grace.”

“Rest well, Duchess,” he said, then inclined his head in a formal bow and left the room.

Beatrice stood alone, her hands pressed to her chest as tears threatened to spill over. But she would not let him see them. Not now, not ever.

She would carry her agency with her, even if he could not yet match it.

Morning dawned gray and cheerless, rain tapping against the windows like impatient fingers. Beatrice stood in her chamber, watching Emilia pack a small valise with mechanical efficiency.