Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Irefuse to wear that monstrosity.”
Leo stared at the embroidered waistcoat his valet held up, a riot of peacock blues and greens that would make Adrian weep with envy.
“It’s perfectly fashionable, Your Grace.”
“It’s perfectly hideous.” Leo turned to where Beatrice sat at her dressing table, watching the exchange with barely concealed amusement. “I’ll look like an overgrown parrot.”
She bit her lip, her eyes dancing. “I think you’d make a very handsome parrot.”
“Traitor.”
“It’s the Haverford ball,” she reminded him, rising to cross the room. Her gown whispered against the carpet, and Leo’s mouth went dry despite the absurdity of their debate. “Lady Haverford is notoriously particular about the dress code. You know this.”
“I know she’s notoriously mad.”
But he was already losing the battle, especially when Beatrice reached out to smooth the offending garment with gentle fingers.
“Just this once?” She looked up at him through her lashes—a move she had learned drove him to distraction. “For me?”
He caught her hand, bringing it to his lips. “You fight dirty, Duchess.”
“I learned from the best.”
His valet coughed delicately. “Shall I lay it out then, Your Grace?”
Leo sighed. “Do your worst.”
“Excellent choice, Your Grace.” The elderly man bustled away with the waistcoat, radiating vindication.
Beatrice laughed softly. “You’ve made him unbearably smug.”
“He’ll recover from my martyrdom.” Leo pulled her closer, his hands settling on her waist. “Though I expect compensation for this sacrifice.”
“Do you?” Her fingers toyed with his cravat. “What sort of compensation?”
“I’ll think of something.” His mouth found the sensitive spot behind her ear, and she shivered. “Several somethings, in fact.”
“Leo,” she breathed, but didn’t pull away. “We’ll be late.”
“Worth it.”
“Edmonds just pressed your evening clothes.”
“He can press them again.”
She laughed, the sound vibrating against his lips. “You’re incorrigible.”
“You like it.”
“I—” She paused, her cheeks flushing pink. “Yes, I suppose I do.”
The admission sent heat through him. Even now, after months of marriage, her honest responses still had the power to shatter his composure.
Two hours later, they stood in the Haverford ballroom, and Leo had to admit—grudgingly—that the waistcoat wasn’t entirely terrible. At least not compared to all the other catastrophes there.
“Stop fidgeting,” Beatrice murmured, her hand tucked in the crook of his elbow.
“I’m not fidgeting.”
“You’ve adjusted your cravat three times in as many minutes.”
“Because it’s strangling me.”
She laughed, the sound drawing appreciative glances from nearby gentlemen. Leo felt a familiar surge of possessiveness and drew her fractionally closer.
Mine, a primal part of him insisted. Mine.
“Lord and Lady Haverford are approaching,” she warned softly. “Smile. Be charming.”
“I’m always charming.”
“You’re always something.”
Their hosts descended with all the pomp of visiting royalty. Lady Haverford, resplendent in purple silk that matched her elaborate turban, took Beatrice’s hands.
“Your Grace! How absolutely radiant you look!” She turned her shrewd eyes on Leo. “Marriage agrees with you both, I see. Such a romantic tale. Love at first sight, was it not?”
“Indeed,” Leo replied smoothly. “Though I’d hardly call it sight alone. The Duchess’s wit captured me as thoroughly as her beauty.”
Beatrice’s fingers tightened on his arm—in warning or appreciation, he wasn’t certain.
Lady Haverford beamed. “How perfectly charming! You must tell everyone how you knew. That moment of recognition.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “I do so enjoy a good love story.”
Before Leo could form an appropriately romantic response, Lord Haverford interjected with blessedly practical concerns about drainage systems and crop rotation.
Within minutes, Leo found himself deep in a discussion about agriculture while Beatrice was whisked away by Lady Haverford’s enthusiastic circle.
He tracked her movement across the ballroom, unable to help himself. She laughed at something Lady Jersey said, her head tilted just so, the candlelight catching in her dark curls. His chest constricted with that now-familiar sensation—part need, part something far more dangerous.
“You’re staring again, my friend.”
Leo didn’t need to turn. “Adrian. How kind of you to state the obvious.”
Adrian materialized at his elbow, impeccably dressed as always. “Can’t help myself. The transformation is remarkable. From London’s eternal bachelor to…” He gestured vaguely to Leo’s face. “Whatever this is.”
“Whatever what is?”
“That expression. Like you’ve swallowed sunshine.” Adrian grinned. “It’s nauseating.”
“Your jealousy is showing.”
“Not jealousy, but bewilderment.” Adrian accepted a glass of champagne from a passing footman. “Being happy suits you, old boy. Even in that waistcoat.”
Leo grunted. “The waistcoat was her idea.”
“Of course it was.” Adrian’s smile turned knowing. “And you’d wear a jester’s motley if she asked, wouldn’t you?”
Leo didn’t dignify that with a response, mainly because they both knew the answer.
Adrian laughed. “Remarkable. Truly remarkable.” He sipped on his champagne. “I never thought I’d see the day when Leo Ashwell became domesticated.”
Leo did not like the way Adrian said that. Oh, not at all. And that was why he snapped. “I’m not domesticated.”
But his friend only laughed at him. “You’re wearing peacock feathers and quite happy with your wife on your arm.”
Leo’s jaw clenched.
“Oh, don’t look like that.” Adrian clapped him on the shoulder, obviously unaware of his inner turmoil. “But it suits you, old friend. Far better than that cold demeanor you’ve always carried.”
Leo’s retort died as he caught sight of his wife again. She had moved to the terrace doors, fanning herself against the ballroom’s heat. Without conscious thought, his feet carried him toward her.
“Oh, look at him go,” Adrian called from behind him.
But Leo didn’t care a wit. All he cared about was reaching his wife.
“Escaping?” he asked, joining her in the cooler evening air.
She started, then smiled. “Breathing. Lady Haverford’s circle is… enthusiastic.”
“About what?”
“You, mostly.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “They want to know if you’re truly reformed, or if I’ve simply tamed the beast.”
“And what did you tell them?”
She turned to face him fully, the terrace’s shadows dancing across her features. “That beasts make poor pets but excellent partners.”
Heat pooled in his gut. “Is that what I am? Your partner?”
“Well, you are my husband.” Something vulnerable flickered in her expression. “Or are we still pretending that this is merely—”
The music inside swelled, a waltz beginning. Leo extended his hand toward her without breaking eye contact. “Dance with me.”
“Out here?”
“Why not? No one’s watching.”
She hesitated for only a moment before placing her hand in his.
The terrace stones were less forgiving than a ballroom floor, but Leo didn’t care. He pulled her close—closer than propriety allowed inside—and they moved together in the darkness.
“This is scandalous,” she whispered, but made no move to increase the distance between them.
“Oh, we’ve done worse, haven’t we?” He smirked at her.
She hit him on the shoulder. “Leo!”
“This is perfect.” His hand pressed against the small of her back, feeling the warmth of her through layers of silk. “No performance. No audience. Just us.”
His words seemed to calm her because she soon relaxed and rested her head against his shoulder.
Something in his chest cracked open. He didn’t want to name what that was, either.
They swayed together, the music drifting out like a distant dream, the night wrapping them in temporary solitude.
“I wrote to Philip today,” Beatrice said quietly. “To let him know about Westbury’s movements.”
Leo’s jaw tightened. “What did you tell him?”
“That we’re handling it. That he and Anna remain safe.” She pulled back enough to meet his eyes. “You don’t approve.”
“I approve of keeping him informed. I don’t approve of the worry I heard in your voice just now.”
“He’s my friend. I can’t help worrying about him.”
“I know.” Leo brushed a curl from her face. “Just as I can’t help wanting to shield you from every unpleasant thing in this world. Even though you’d throttle me for trying.”
Her smile softened. “I would. But I appreciate the impulse.”
“Do you?” He traced the curve of her cheek with his thumb. “Appreciate it?”
“Among other things.” Her breath caught as his hand slid to the nape of her neck. “Leo—”
“We should go back inside,” he said, though he made no move to release her.
“Yes.”
“They’ll wonder where we’ve gone.”
“Undoubtedly.”
Neither of them moved.
The waltz ended, and another began. Leo committed this moment to memory—the way moonlight silvered her skin, how perfectly she fit against him, the trust in her eyes.
“I never thanked you,” he said suddenly.
“For what?”
“For seeing me, the real me, beneath all the…” He gestured vaguely to himself. “Everything else.”
Her hand came up to cup his jaw. “You don’t have to thank me for that, Leo. I am so honored to know the real you.”
Voices drifted from the ballroom, breaking the moment. Reality reasserted itself with jarring abruptness.
Leo stepped back reluctantly, offering his arm with exaggerated formality. “Shall we return to civilization, Duchess?”
“If we must.”
Inside, the party had reached its crescendo. Leo led them through clusters of guests, accepting congratulations and deflecting questions with practiced ease. Beatrice remained at his side, her presence grounding him when the crowd threatened to overwhelm him.
“There you are!” Her father’s voice cut through the din. He approached with Christine, Henry and Eleanor trailing behind like ducklings. “We’ve been searching for you.”
“Apologies, Duke.” Leo bowed to him. “We stepped out for air.”