Chapter 8 #2
Beatrice’s discomfort at his increasingly unsettling line of questioning grew, and she knew it was time to put a stop to it before it ballooned into something she could neither control nor condone.
But then, at that moment, Leo appeared beside her again, as though he had been watching her all this time, his hand settling possessively on her waist.
“Lord Westbury,” he greeted cordially, though his eyes had hardened to a glacial blue. “I see you’ve made the acquaintance of my Duchess.”
“We were discussing the remarkable circumstances of your marriage,” Westbury replied, his gaze darting between them with calculated assessment. “Such a romantic tale. Love at first sight, I understand? Though one wonders what became of your cousin. His disappearance remains something of a mystery.”
“My cousin’s whereabouts are no concern of yours,” Leo replied, his voice steady, though the underlying steel was unmistakable. “And while I appreciate Society’s natural interest in our happiness, my wife and I prefer to focus on our future rather than what might have been.”
Westbury inclined his head in acknowledgment, though his expression suggested this exchange was far from over. “Of course. Though, should you hear from Lord Mallingham, do convey my regards. We had matters of mutual interest to discuss.”
Leo’s thumb grazed her waist softly. “I shall keep that in mind. If you’ll excuse us, I believe the next dance is beginning.”
As he guided her smoothly away from Westbury’s unsettling presence, Beatrice felt a curious mix of gratitude for his intervention and apprehension at the exchange she had just witnessed.
There had been something distinctly unsettling in Lord Westbury’s manner: calculation behind his seemingly casual inquiries that suggested motives far removed from mere social curiosity.
“That man knows something,” she murmured as they joined the forming set for a waltz. “His interest in Philip seemed… pointed.”
Leo’s expression revealed nothing to the onlookers, though his eyes, when they met hers, held a sharpened awareness that matched her own. “Indeed. An interesting development, wouldn’t you say? Perhaps our agreement may serve purposes beyond the merely social, after all.”
He guided her toward the center of the ballroom as the orchestra struck the opening notes of a waltz. Wordlessly, he drew her into position, one hand on her waist, the other clasping hers.
Even through her gloves and the layers of her gown, Beatrice felt the heat of his touch like a brand against her skin. As husband and wife, they could stand closer than unmarried couples without raising eyebrows, yet the intimacy of their position still sent an unexpected flutter through her chest.
The nearness of him, the scent of sandalwood and bergamot, the steady strength of his frame, seemed suddenly more overwhelming than it had any right to be.
“You are too tense, my Duchess,” Leo observed, his voice pitched low for her ears only as they began to move with the music.
Beatrice forced herself to focus on his words rather than the disconcerting awareness of his proximity, as that would only increase the tension in her shoulders.
“Well, maybe because you’re too…” she trailed off, at a loss for what to accuse him of.
His lips curled into a rakish grin, making her cheeks redden. “Too what, my Duchess?”
She frowned. “Too… annoying!” she snapped.
“Tut, tut, tut,” he said, sounding altogether very smug. “We’re madly in love, remember?”
He followed that with a tender caress up her arm and back down to her elbow, and she could not deny the flare of heat in her chest at his touch.
She flashed him a saccharine-sweet smile. “I can be ‘madly in love’ with you and still want to gouge your eyes out.”
She watched as his eyes widened, before he let out a low laugh that sent a shiver down her spine.
“Ah, at least we already act like a couple in our tenth year of marriage.”
Beatrice narrowed her eyes at him. Still, she could not quite suppress the small smile tugging at her lips.
Beatrice hesitated at the threshold of Leo’s study, listening to the soft scrape of his polished shoes against the marble floor as he moved toward the desk.
“A cognac, I think,” he announced, glancing back at her. “I believe we have matters to discuss that require fortification.”
Her fingers fidgeted with the folds of her silk skirts, tugging at the fabric as if the motion could quell the unease in her stomach.
She followed him, stepping carefully, and made a point of closing the door behind her.
It was a small gesture, practically insignificant, but in her mind, it spoke volumes.
A tacit acknowledgment of their shared predicament, a concession that she was beginning to understand the subtle give-and-take of their arrangement.
The room smelled of beeswax and tobacco, the leather-bound volumes lining the shelves forming a masculine sanctuary that she had never been invited into before. And yet, here she was, welcome—or at least tolerated—and she recognized the significance of that as she lingered near the hearth.
Leo poured amber liquid into two crystal glasses, and as he handed one to her, their fingers brushed briefly.
Beatrice felt an unexpected jolt of awareness, a quick pulse in her chest, and she deliberately delayed raising the glass to her lips, cradling it between her fingers as if drawing some measure of composure from its weight.
“Lord Westbury’s interest in Philip cannot be coincidental,” she said, forcing calm authority into her voice. “His questions felt meticulous, as though he’d thought them over before.”
Leo’s gaze met hers, steady and attentive. “Indeed,” he said, and there was something in the casual tilt of his head that made her momentarily aware of his proximity. “The question becomes, what connection exists between a respected peer of the realm and my wayward cousin?”
She drew in a measured breath, forcing herself to straighten her back and speak as a duchess, not as a woman whose pulse had betrayed her attention to every shift in his expression.
“I think I have the answer to that question,” she said, allowing only a hint of reluctance to color her words.
Leo sank into the leather armchair, adopting an air of patient receptivity rather than the interrogation she feared he might employ.
Good. If I am to speak the truth, I must be given space.
“Philip has been involved with a young woman for months,” she revealed, keeping her gaze level and her voice measured. “A commoner named Anna Finley.”
Leo’s fingers tightened slightly around his glass, but he gave no other indication of surprise. She noted it, nonetheless, filing the reaction away.
“A commoner? And this explains his disappearance?” he asked, his voice as calm as a placid lake, though she could sense the undercurrent of displeasure.
“She works at an establishment called the Gilded Lion,” Beatrice said, aware that a faint blush colored her cheeks despite her best efforts. “I believe it is a gaming hell.”
As she spoke, she watched him piece the puzzle together, the cold clarity in his eyes confirming what she already suspected: he was calculating, arranging each fact with merciless precision, and the outcome of his deductions was not likely to be pleasant.
“And you possessed this information throughout our acquaintance? Throughout our marriage negotiations?” His voice was even, but there was an edge to it that made her pulse quicken.
Beatrice steeled herself.
Philip swore me to secrecy, she reminded herself.
“I did not know if I could trust you with Philip’s secret,” she replied. “He swore me to secrecy regarding their attachment.”