Stolen By the Rakish Duke (Stolen by the Duke #8)
Chapter 1
Chapter One
“He’s late,” Isabella whispered, her voice carrying the sharp edge of disapproval that had become increasingly familiar over the past fortnight. “A gentleman does not keep his bride waiting at the altar.”
Lady Beatrice Hunton drew in a measured breath, her gloved fingers smoothing imaginary wrinkles from her ivory silk gown.
The small chapel, adorned with modest arrangements of white roses and delicate greenery, suddenly felt airless despite its vaulted ceilings and ancient stone walls. Shafts of colored light filtered through the stained glass, casting jeweled patterns over the assembled guests.
Today’s gathering was mercifully limited to family and intimate acquaintances due to the hasty nature of the arrangement.
“Philip will arrive any moment,” Beatrice murmured, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her uncertainty. “The roads from London might be congested. Perhaps there was an incident with his carriage.”
Her twin sister’s blue eyes, a perfect mirror of her own, narrowed skeptically.
“The Marquess of Mallingham has had ample time to prepare for this day. His tardiness speaks volumes about his regard for the occasion.” Isabella adjusted her position slightly, the rustle of her pale blue silk gown punctuating her disapproval.
“Particularly when the occasion concerns a daughter of Ironstone.”
Beatrice could not deny the truth in Isabella’s assessment. The hastily arranged wedding had come together with remarkable efficiency, thanks to her stepmother’s organizational prowess. Yet the groom’s punctuality appeared to be the one element beyond the Duchess of Ironstone’s control.
Now, the Duchess approached, her elegant figure the very embodiment of aristocratic composure.
“My dear,” she said, her voice pitched low enough to ensure privacy amidst the growing murmurs of the assembled guests, “you look pale. Are you quite well?”
Beatrice opened her mouth, her mind racing to come up with a response that would neither alarm nor mislead her stepmother. Then, her father came over, his features arranged in an expression of barely contained impatience.
“This is unacceptable behavior,” the Duke of Ironstone said, his jaw tensing. “I shall give your groom a piece of my mind once the ceremony is over.”
Beatrice fought to keep her expression neutral.
Her stepmother placed a calming hand on the Duke’s arm. “Edwin, let us give him a few more moments. Gentlemen often find themselves delayed on significant occasions.”
Her smile belied the quiet authority in her tone—a skill Beatrice had long admired in the woman who had so gracefully assumed the role of mother figure in her life.
“A man who cannot arrive promptly to claim a daughter of Ironstone is undeserving of her hand,” her father muttered darkly, though he remained in place at his wife’s gentle insistence. “If Mallingham thinks that his rank affords him the luxury of discourtesy, he must be swiftly corrected.”
“Father, I am certain it’s an honest mistake,” Beatrice whispered softly. “Philip will be here, as he promised.”
Her father’s nostrils flared, but he offered no response.
Beatrice’s gaze drifted once more toward the chapel entrance, both anxiety and relief swirling within her breast.
Her arrangement with Philip had seemed so sensible when they had agreed to it: a marriage of convenience that would provide her with security and status, while allowing him to maintain appearances. She fidgeted uncomfortably and tugged on the sleeve of her gown.
Where is he?
Immediately, Beatrice’s mind flashed to Anna, the commoner whom Philip truly loved.
Is he with her? Did he go to her before our wedding?
Yet standing here amid the expectant silence, the hollow nature of their bargain pressed upon Beatrice like an unexpected weight.
The logical part of her wanted him to appear in the grand chapel doorway, but a deeper, hidden part of her…
Yes, becoming her friend’s wife meant a respectable title and comfortable existence, certainly, but there would be no love. No romantic love, at least. The kind that Beatrice had been reading about since childhood.
To forget the tightness in her chest, her eyes drifted further away.
Then, she noticed him.
There was a tall, imposing figure standing near the rear of the chapel, partially obscured by shadow. The stranger’s severe countenance bore a minor resemblance to Philip, though his features were sharper, more commanding, and far, far more handsome.
The man swept his eyes across the assembled guests with an intensity that caused Beatrice to draw in a breath involuntarily.
“Who is that?” she whispered to Isabella, inclining her head subtly toward the stranger, grateful for the momentary distraction from her increasingly troubled thoughts.
Isabella followed her sister’s gaze, her face brightening with recognition. “That must be the Duke of Stagmore, your groom’s cousin.”
Beatrice glanced back at the man as she recalled Philip mentioning his cousin.
“I heard he recently returned from abroad,” Isabella continued.
“Lady Geraldine mentioned at the Simmons’ musicale that he had been attending to business matters on the Continent.
” Her voice lowered conspiratorially. “Apparently, he’s quite the rake, though one with sufficient fortune and title to render his indiscretions mere eccentricities in the eyes of Society. ”
Beatrice nodded, her sister’s words confirming what she herself recalled Philip saying about his cousin. Then, she studied the Duke with renewed interest, noting the proud set of his shoulders and the cool detachment with which he observed the proceedings.
Unlike the other guests, who exchanged whispers behind gloved hands or fans, he stood in solitary silence, a figure apart from the social choreography unfolding around him.
Suddenly, the chapel door opened with a decisive creak.
A breathless young man rushed directly to the Duke of Stagmore. Their hushed words were inaudible from where Beatrice stood, but she saw the Duke’s expression transform before her very eyes. His features hardened into a mask of cold fury that sent an involuntary shiver down her spine.
“Something is amiss,” her father observed, his voice low and tense.
The Duke of Stagmore dismissed the man with a curt nod before striding purposefully toward their small party, his movements possessing the fluid grace of someone who was born to reign.
As he approached, Beatrice found herself captivated by the intensity of his blue eyes, dark like the depths of the ocean.
“Duke,” he addressed her father, offering a formal bow. “I am Leonard Ashwell, the Duke of Stagmore. I regret to inform you that my cousin, the Marquess of Mallingham, has departed London unexpectedly.”
A moment of stunned silence followed this announcement.
“Departed?” her father hissed. “What do you mean, sir?”
Beatrice noticed how several guests were now staring, their eyes full of alarm.
“It appears,” the Duke of Stagmore replied, his gaze flickering briefly to Beatrice, the momentary attention akin to an unexpected touch against her skin, “that my cousin has chosen to absent himself rather than honor his commitment.”
The implication hung in the air, stark and undeniable: she had been jilted.
Lady Geraldine let out a loud gasp from her position in the pews.
How had she heard their conversation? Then again, Isabella had always called her a hare, for she had a keen ear for gossip.
The gasp seemed to fracture the stunned silence into a cascade of whispers that rippled through the chapel like wind through summer wheat.
“What?” Beatrice whispered to the Duke.
Despite her shock, she felt a curious lightness overtake her, as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders even as another settled upon her reputation.
She ought to be devastated, humiliated by such a public rejection, yet all she could feel was a peculiar relief, along with concern for Philip, her dearest friend.
“This is unconscionable!” her father growled, his fury a gathering storm that threatened to break upon the Duke of Stagmore’s impassive countenance. “Your cousin has brought shame upon my daughter. I will find him, and I cannot promise you in what condition he’ll be returned to you, Stagmore.”
Her stepmother placed a restraining hand on his arm, though Beatrice could see the subtle tightening around her eyes that signaled distress.
Isabella took Beatrice’s hand in a protective hold, her fingers cold despite the warmth of the chapel.
“If the Marquess shows his face in London again, he will find himself unwelcome in every drawing room of consequence,” she declared, her voice carrying an unmistakable authority, similar to their father’s.
The Duke of Stagmore’s attention shifted fully to Beatrice. “I assure you, Lady Beatrice, my cousin will be held to account for his actions.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Beatrice found herself saying, her voice steadier than she had anticipated, surprising even herself with its clarity. “What is done is done.”
A curious spark flickered in the Duke’s eyes. “Nevertheless, a gentleman honors his obligations, and Philip has failed in his most fundamental duty.”
“My daughter is right. The damage is done,” her father interjected, his voice cold with rage. “I suggest you convey to your cousin that he would be wise to remain absent from Society indefinitely. That is, if you find him before I do.”
The Duke of Stagmore held Beatrice’s gaze for a moment longer, his scrutiny so direct and uncompromising that she felt a strange warmth rise to her cheeks.
Then, he turned to address her father. “I will marry Lady Beatrice.”
The declaration hung in the air, so unexpected that for a moment, no one seemed capable of speaking. It was as if the orchestra at a ball had suddenly changed from a sedate country dance to a vigorous waltz without warning, leaving the dancers momentarily bewildered.
“I beg your pardon, Duke?” her father sputtered, his composure momentarily forgotten.
“My cousin’s actions have placed Lady Beatrice in an untenable position,” the Duke of Stagmore continued, his tone matter-of-fact, as though discussing the purchase of a horse rather than a matrimonial alliance.
“As his closest relative, I am obligated to rectify the situation. I will take Philip’s place and honor the arrangement. ”
Beatrice stared at him in disbelief, certain she had misunderstood. The chapel seemed to recede around her, the murmurs of the guests fading to a distant hum as she struggled to comprehend the Duke’s unexpected proposal.
“Your Grace, surely you cannot mean—” she began.
“I assure you, My Lady, I am entirely serious,” he interrupted, his gaze returning to hers with unsettling intensity. “The marriage contract will be amended, and the ceremony may proceed with minimal disruption.”
“Preposterous!” Isabella exclaimed, her fingers tightening around Beatrice’s hand. “Surely you would not have her wed a stranger, as though a gentleman’s title alone could compel affection!”
The Duke raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Would you prefer that your sister bear the stigma of being jilted? The ton’s memory is long, and its mercy is… nonexistent,” he said.
Beatrice swallowed at the finality in those words.
“How dare you presume—” her father began, bristling with indignation.
“Father,” she interjected, surprising herself with her boldness. “Might I speak with His Grace privately for a moment?”
A tense silence followed her request, broken only by the murmurs from the small congregation. She supposed it was a blessing that this ceremony was a small affair.
Her father studied her carefully before giving a reluctant nod. “You may use the antechamber, but Isabella shall accompany you.”
“I require only a moment. Isabella should stay here,” Beatrice assured him.
She moved delicately, placing one foot in front of the other, as she was determined not to falter.
She knew not what she meant to say to the Duke of Stagmore once they were given a moment alone together, but she steeled her nerves and readied herself for the challenge of this conversation.