Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
“Must you read every single book in the library?”
Beatrice looked up from her novel. Her breath caught at the sight of Leo in the doorway.
Sunlight streamed through the windows behind him, turning his ash-brown hair to burnished gold. He leaned against the doorframe with an ease she had never seen in him before—no tension, no guarded posture. Just a man comfortable in his own home.
Her husband.
The thought still sent a flutter through her chest.
“I’m attempting it.” She marked the page with a ribbon, reluctant to abandon the Gothic novel she had found tucked behind a collection of sermons. “Your collection is remarkable.”
Leo crossed to the chair opposite hers, moving with that fluid grace she had come to recognize. The chair creaked as he settled into it, stretching his long legs before him.
“My grandfather was the true bibliophile. I merely inherited the spoils of his obsession.”
“Then you inherited a treasure.” She set the book aside, giving him her full attention. His eyes tracked the movement, lingering on her hands. “Three Shakespeare first editions this morning alone. And a signed copy of Milton I’m almost afraid to touch.”
It had been two weeks since they had returned with Philip, who had been hidden in one of Adrian’s residences. Still away from Anna, but Leo had thought it was best for their safety that they were kept separate.
The Bow Street Runner’s investigation into Lord Westbury was progressing, but the immediate danger had receded enough that they could now retreat to their estate in lazy days and rather… sleepless nights.
Two weeks had been spent discovering her husband in ways she had never imagined when she had stood in that chapel and accepted his unexpected proposal.
His deep, genuine laughter was now one of her favorite sounds. The way he sought her out throughout the day, finding excuses to be in whatever room she occupied. How his fingers stayed warm now when they touched hers, no longer the marble coldness that had characterized their early encounters.
The ice baths had stopped. She knew without inquiring, and she didn’t want to ask. She decided that she would wait for him to tell her himself. She wanted him to want to.
“I have another treasure to show you.” He slid his hand across the small table between them. “If you can bear to abandon Shakespeare for an hour or two.”
His palm was so warm when she placed hers in it. The calluses on his fingers, earned from riding and other pursuits she was only beginning to learn about, rasped gently against her softer skin. He helped her to her feet, but didn’t release her hand.
“Now, I’m intrigued.” She let him pull her closer, until barely a foot separated them. “Are you seducing me into hunting game?” she asked, mischievous amusement lacing her tone. “Or perhaps you wish to teach me the secret to closing many business deals?”
He chuckled. “Nothing so exciting, I promise.”
His thumb traced lazy circles on her wrist, right where her pulse jumped beneath the skin.
Could he feel it? The way her heart raced whenever he touched her?
From the way his eyes twinkled, she knew he could.
“Though I can’t promise you won’t be scandalized.”
They walked through the corridors, and Beatrice ran her fingers along the ancient paneling, feeling the grain of wood that had stood for over two centuries.
“I love this house. It has such… character.”
“My father hated this wing.” Leo’s voice went flat as he supplied this piece of information. “Said it was a reminder of when the family was merely gentry. He wanted to tear it down, build something more suitable to ducal dignity.”
“I’m glad he didn’t.”
“My great-aunt wouldn’t let him.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “She lived here, you see. Claimed squatter’s rights to the whole east wing.”
They stopped before a heavy oak door, its surface dark with age. Iron hinges, probably original to the house, held it in place. Leo withdrew a key from his waistcoat, but his hand hesitated on the lock.
“This room hasn’t been opened since my father died.” His throat worked. “Five years of dust and silence.”
Something in his voice made her chest tighten. She placed her free hand over his on the key, steadying him. “We don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
There was something vulnerable in his voice that made her heart ache for him. It seemed as if he really needed to show this to her, and she didn’t want to stop him.
So, when he turned the key, she did not stop him. It protested, metal grinding against metal, but finally gave way.
“I want you to see this.”
The door swung inward on creaking hinges, and the first thing they were greeted with was… books. Hundreds—no, thousands of them stacked in towering columns that created a labyrinth across the floor.
More makeshift shelves lined the walls. Manuscripts lay open on a massive desk, the faded ink barely visible in the shaft of sunlight that pierced the dusty air.
“What is this?” Beatrice breathed, stepping inside. The scent of old paper and leather and time itself enveloped her.
“My great-aunt Margaret’s sanctuary.” Leo stayed in the doorway, silhouetted against the corridor’s brighter light. “She never married. Said she had better things to do than become some man’s broodmare and nursemaid.”
Beatrice turned to look at him, but he only stood there, serenely watching her.
“She lived here her whole life,” he continued. “Corresponding with scholars across Europe, studying languages and philosophy and natural sciences. My father sealed this room after she died. Said her work was unseemly for the family name. An embarrassment to the dukedom.”
Beatrice moved deeper into the room, trailing her fingers over the book spines. Latin. Greek. Arabic. French. German. The breadth of knowledge represented here stole her breath.
“Why show me now?”
He stepped inside, dust motes swirling in his wake like tiny stars.
“Because I thought you’d appreciate it.” His footsteps were hesitant, as though he expected the floor to give way beneath him. “And because I wanted to share something with you that I’ve kept locked away. Something real.”
Her throat closed. She abandoned the books and moved to him, taking his hands in her own.
“Thank you,” she said simply.
Words seemed inadequate for what this gesture meant, that he trusted her with a piece of himself he had protected so carefully.
His fingers tightened around hers, his grip almost desperate. “I thought we might restore it together. Make it accessible again. Let her work see daylight after all these years.”
“I’d love that.” She squeezed his hands gently. “Will you tell me about her? About your great-aunt Margaret.”
Golden light surrounded them like a cocoon, warm and private and safe.
Leo was silent for a long moment, staring at their entwined hands. Then, he said, “She wasn’t what my grandfather expected when she came to live here.” The words came slowly, as though he was choosing each one with care. “He wanted her to be quiet and decorative and cause no trouble.”
Beatrice’s lips twitched. “But she wasn’t.”
“No.” A genuine smile touched Leo’s lips. “She was brilliant. Spoke six languages fluently and could read a dozen more. She challenged him at every turn, questioned every assumption. And he punished her for it.”
Beatrice’s chest ached at the bitterness in his voice. “How?”
“Ridicule, at first. He’d mock her at dinner parties, make jokes about bluestockings and unnatural women. Withheld her allowance, so she was dependent on him for everything. Wouldn’t let her publish under the family name, claiming it would bring shame upon the dukedom.”
His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the skin.
“And then there were the ice baths.”
The words fell like stones into water, sending ripples through the quiet room.
“My grandfather invented them,” Leo continued, his voice going flat and emotionless. “A way to correct weakness or improper behavior. Aunt Margaret got them when she dared to argue philosophy with his guests. When she questioned his edicts. When she forgot her place.”
Beatrice’s vision blurred. She reached out, cupping his face in both hands, making him look at her.
“And you,” she whispered. “He used them on you, too.”
“He died before I was old enough to draw his attention. But my father learned well.” Leo’s eyes were dark, his pupils blown wide. “Any show of defiance required immediate correction. Ice baths were his preferred method. Quick. Effective. Left no visible marks.”
Her heart was racing. “Your mother—”
“Encouraged it.” The words were brutal in their simplicity. “She thought I needed to be strong. That sensitivity was dangerous for a duke. She’d stand there, watching while my father held me under, telling me it was for my own good. That this would make me worthy of the title.”
A tear escaped, rolling down Beatrice’s cheek. He had talked enough about this, and yet it still made her heart ache.
“Leo—” Her voice broke on his name.
“They’re both dead now.” He shrugged, but the gesture was anything but casual. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Look at me,” she said fiercely, pulling him against her. “You survived, Leo. Despite everything they did to you, you survived. And you’re nothing like them. Nothing.”
He buried his face in her hair, his arms wrapping around her waist. His breath was warm against her neck, slightly unsteady.
“Sometimes I wonder,” he murmured. “When I catch myself being cold, distant… I hear their words coming out of my mouth.”
“Then I’ll remind you.” She stroked his hair, the silky strands slipping through her fingers.
“Every day if I have to. You are not your parents. The man who protects Anna and Philip? Who showed me this room? Who stopped taking ice baths because he found something warmer?” She pulled back to meet his eyes.
“That man is nothing like his parents or his grandfather.”
Something cracked in his expression—a wall crumbling, exposing the vulnerability beneath.