Page 97 of Stolen By the Rakish Duke

“Just for a few days, Your Grace?” the maid asked, folding a pale green morning dress with practiced care.

“Yes.” Beatrice’s voice was steady, betraying none of her inner turmoil. “I wish to visit my family. It’s been too long since I’ve seen my siblings.”

Emilia nodded, though her eyes held concern. “And His Grace? Shall I inform him of your plans?”

“I’ve left a note in his study.” The words tasted like ash on Beatrice’s tongue. “He’s aware I’ll be staying at Ironstone House temporarily.”

In truth, the note had been brief to the point of coldness:I shall be at my father’s house. Send word when Westbury is apprehended.

No farewell. No endearment. Nothing to suggest the intimacy they had shared only days ago.

An hour later, Beatrice descended the stairs, her traveling cloak fastened against the autumn chill. Peters waited in the entrance hall, concern evident beneath his formal demeanor.

“The carriage is ready, Your Grace,” he informed her. “His Grace asked me to convey his regrets that pressing business matters have prevented him from seeing you off.”

“Thank you, Peters.” Beatrice kept her voice even, though the slight burned. Leo couldn’t even bid her farewell? “Please make sure that His Grace has everything he needs during my absence.”

The footman bowed. “Of course, Your Grace.”

The journey to Ironstone House passed in a blur of rain-streaked streets and gray skies that matched her mood. London bustled around her carriage—merchants hawking their wares, ladies dodging puddles, gentlemen striding purposefully toward clubs and coffeehouses.

Life continued, oblivious to her heartbreak.

The Ironstone butler received her with a dignified welcome, though surprise flickered briefly in his eyes at her sudden arrival.

“Is my father at home?” Beatrice asked, surrendering her damp cloak. “And my stepmother?”

“In the morning room, Your Grace, with the young master and Lady Eleanor. Lady Isabella has just returned from her ride.”

Beatrice nodded, steeling herself. She had cried herself to sleep the night before, but no trace of those tears must show now. Her family would worry, pose questions, might even confront Leo—and that she could not allow. This pain was hers to bear alone.

She paused outside the morning room, drawing a deep breath and arranging her features into a pleasant mask. Calm. Collected. The dutiful daughter come to visit her beloved family.

“Beatrice!” Eleanor’s delighted squeal was the first thing she heard as she entered.

Her seven-year-old half-sister abandoned her watercolors and flew across the room, barreling into her with unrestrained enthusiasm.

“Hello, sweetheart,” Beatrice said, bending to embrace the child, grateful for the moment to compose herself further. “Have you been practicing your painting?”

“Every day!” Eleanor tugged her toward the table where her artwork lay scattered. “Look, I’ve been doing landscapes, just like you showed me.”

Henry approached more sedately, though delight brightened his serious young face. At eleven, he was already conscious of his position as heir, modeling himself after their father in both appearance and conduct.

“Sister,” he greeted with a formal bow that made Beatrice’s heart ache with affection. “We didn’t expect you today.”

“A surprise visit,” she explained, ruffling his dark hair. “I’ve missed you all.”

“Beatrice!” Christine rose from her chair by the window, elegant as always despite the early hour. Her keen eyes searched Beatrice’s face, and Beatrice forced herself to meet her gaze steadily. “What a lovely surprise. Is His Grace with you?”

“Leo had business in town,” Beatrice replied, the lie coming easily to her lips. “I thought I might spend a few days here, if that’s not an imposition.”

“Nonsense,” her father’s deep voice rumbled from the doorway. Edwin Hunton, the Duke of Ironstone, stood tall and imposing, though his stern countenance softened at the sight of his eldest daughter. “Your home is always open to you.”

Beatrice crossed to him, accepting his brief but warm embrace. “Thank you, Father. I hope I’m not disrupting your plans.”

“Not at all,” Christine assured her. “How are you feeling now, dear?”

“Just tired from the journey,” Beatrice replied. “Traffic was abysmal in the rain.”