Page 99 of Stolen By the Rakish Duke
Eleanor nodded solemnly. “If you say so. But if you are sad, you should tell someone. Keeping sad things inside only makes them sadder. That’s what Mother says.”
“Your mother is very wise,” Beatrice murmured, extinguishing the candle. “Sleep well, little one.”
Later, safely ensconced in her old bedchamber, Beatrice finally allowed her composure to crumble. She dismissed her maid with a murmured word, locked the door, and sank onto the edge of the bed, her body shaking with the effort of containing her grief.
The tears came then, hot and silent, soaking the pillow she pressed to her face to muffle any sound. She wept for the tenderness Leo had shown her, for the intimacy they had shared, for the future she had begun to envision at his side.
Most of all, she wept for the man beneath his facade—the wounded boy who had never learned that vulnerability could be a strength rather than a weakness.
Eventually, exhaustion claimed her, dragging her into fitful sleep still fully dressed, tears drying on her cheeks.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Any word from your men at the docks, Blackwood?” Leo demanded, pacing the confines of his study with barely contained energy. The dark shadows beneath his eyes betrayed three sleepless nights.
“Not since yesterday, Your Grace.” Blackwood’s weathered face revealed nothing. “My informant claims that Westbury visited his warehouse before dawn but vanished again like smoke.”
Leo slammed his hand against the mantelpiece. “Not good enough. That man poisoned the Duchess. Every hour he remains free is another hour he plots his next attack.”
Blackwood nodded, unruffled by his outburst. “I understand your frustration, but these investigations require patience. Rush now, and he’ll slip through our fingers.”
“Patience?” Leo’s laugh held no humor. “While that snake slithers freely through London? Double your men. Triple them if necessary. I’ll cover every expense.”
“As you wish, Your Grace.” Blackwood gathered his notes. “I’ll report any developments immediately.”
When the door closed behind him, Leo collapsed into his chair, bone-deep exhaustion washing over him.
Five days since Beatrice had left for her family home. Five endless days since she had called him a coward—words that cut deeper because they were true.
He had thrown himself into hunting Westbury with ruthless determination, as if capturing the villain could somehow fill the emptiness in his chest where Beatrice had been.
A sharp knock interrupted his brooding.
“Enter,” he called, straightening in his chair.
Adrian stepped inside, taking in his disheveled appearance with a raised eyebrow. “Good God, man. When did you last sleep? You look like hell warmed over.”
“Your observational skills remain unrivaled,” Leo replied, irritation edging his voice. “Was there something you needed?”
Adrian settled into the chair opposite, uninvited. “To prevent you from working yourself into an early grave, apparently.” He gestured toward the empty decanter. “Your valet says you’ve barely eaten since Tuesday.”
“I’ll eat when Westbury is in chains,” Leo muttered, avoiding the concern in his friend’s gaze. “Why are you here, Adrian?”
Adrian studied him for a long moment. “The servants tell me the Duchess has left for her family home.”
Leo flinched at the mention of Beatrice, her name alone enough to make his heart clench.
“A temporary arrangement,” he said tersely, “until this business with Westbury is concluded.”
“Is that what you told her, or what you told yourself?” Adrian’s voice remained conversational, but his eyes missed nothing.
“Don’t start.” Leo rose abruptly, moving to the window to escape his friend’s perceptive gaze.
Outside, rain misted the garden, turning the world gray and formless.
“Someone must.” Adrian’s voice softened. “You’re destroying yourself, Leo. And for what? You think capturing Westbury will heal what you’ve broken with your wife?”
“This isn’t about Beatrice.” The lie tasted bitter on Leo’s tongue.