Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Later that night, the manor had settled into a quiet hush as the day’s activities came to a close and the servants performed their final duties before retiring downstairs.
Isla, dressed in a simple nightgown, felt a strange restlessness as she sat at her vanity brushing her hair over and over. She was lucky she had such voluminous, blond curls for all she brushed. The distraction was of no use.
After her brief but meaningful dinner with Oliver, she found her thoughts consumed by the man in the adjoining room. Her husband.
The thought of their wedding night, however fictional their marriage was, weighed on her chest. She set down her brush and walked to the adjoining door, her hand hovering over the knob, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs.
She took a deep breath and, losing her nerve, walked back to her vanity and began brushing again.
She set the brush down again, this time with force. She got up again, walked to the door, and this time, knocked softly.
Nothing.
Another moment passed, and losing her nerve, Isla turned to walk away when the door was suddenly opened.
The Duke stood in the doorway, his tall, muscular frame silhouetted against the candlelight that warmed his room. He was also dressed for bed, but Isla instantly noticed that his white linen shirt was unbuttoned, halfway down his chest, and filled with curls of chest hair.
Her eyes were drawn to the strong, furred expanse of muscle that was nestled beneath the surface. Isla’s gaze dropped further, then shot back up, her cheeks flushing with heat.
Aye, I daenae ken how a scarred spinster has managed it… But this man is an absolute God…
A slight, ironic smile touched his lips as Isla fought for words to come out of her mouth.
“While I find the gawking flattering, Duchess, I am here to speak with you.”
“I am nae gawkin’ at ye!” she insisted, her Scottish brogue more pronounced than usual with her false protestations.
It is nae what I sought to do, but I would very much like to.
“I simply wished to ken… Well… Um, why ye did not join us for dinner?”
He leaned against the doorframe, his arm stretched up to showcase his perfect bicep, but his stony expression was unreadable.
“I had work, as I told the footman to inform you. Matters of the estate do not cease for our arrangement.”
“Oliver was happy.”
The Duke remained silent.
“Is a son’s well-bein’ not a matter of importance? More important that affairs of yer estate?” she shot back. “Ye should have made time to join us…”
“In order to provide this life for my son, the affairs of this duchy must be attended to. You have no idea the horrors that befall a Duke who does not maintain order!”
“He was lonely. He told me he always dines in the schoolroom!”
“It was his governess’s job to see to his needs,” he replied, his voice flat. “Not mine. That is what she is compensated to do. She is more qualified and can see that he is more nourished. Now, you are here to help in that role as well.”
“Qualified? Ye are his faither! That is the qualification, Yer Grace,” she added at the end, nearly forgetting her place.
“I run this house like a tight ship. I employ experts to help in those areas I lack.”
“Am I an employee then, Yer Grace? Another person to order about?”
“You are my wife.”
“I daenae ken what that even means on yer terms, with all yer rules and regulations and—”
“Is that what this is truly about, Duchess?” He asked as he ran a hand through his hair. “The dinner?”
“Nae just the dinner, nay…”
“So, what is it about?”
Her blush deepened, a furious heat that burned from her cheeks all the way to the tips of her ears. She dropped her gaze to the unbuttoned shirt, almost against her will, then quickly looked away. She spoke so softly he had to lean in to hear her.
“Well…”
“Well?”
“Is there something else you require of me?”
“It is more the opposite, somethin’ ye may require… of me?”
“I am growing more confused by the moment,” he frowned. “What is it, Duchess? Are you unwell?”
“It is… it is our weddin’ night, Yer Grace.”
He was silent again for a long moment, his gaze unwavering as butterflies swarm inside of Isla’s belly. If this conversation lingered any longer, she would be unwell.
“I already have an heir, whom you have surely met. My duties are done, so yours are as well. You need not worry, I will not force myself upon you.”
“I… I assumed ye would still want to…”
“You assumed incorrectly,” he said, his voice cold and final.
“Oh.”
“If there is nothing else, you may retire. You have a household to manage tomorrow, so you should enjoy your rest while you can. I saw to it that your quarters were made comfortable and that you would have all that you require.”
“Aye. More than adequate… thank ye,” Isla whispered as her heart plummeted, a painful, heavy ache in her chest.
She had known the terms of their bargain, yet his cold rejection still stung. It was not just his words. No. It was the look in his eyes as he studied her, a shuttered, distant gaze that made her feel invisible.
It is me hideous scars, she thought with a familiar, bitter certainty. Me face, me unladylike hands. I am nae the kind of woman men like him desire.
She met his gaze then, holding her chin high despite the hurt. It was something she learned to do long ago.
“Goodnight, Yer Grace.”
She turned, walked back into her chamber, and with a quiet, decisive click, locked the door between them.
Benedict stood in front of the fireplace, a glass of brandy in his hand. He set it down on the mantle and paced to the window of his room, staring down at the moonlit grounds.
The quiet click of her door locking still echoed in his mind.
Click. Click. Click.
He had been a fool to think a woman like her, a woman who had faced a boar to protect her siblings as a young girl and dressed as her own brother to save him from a duel, would simply accept his terms.
She wanted more, of course she did. Her bravery was reckless, yes.
It was also captivating. She was captivating.
In what manner? Surely, he could not even begin to describe it…
Yet it preoccupied his thoughts like a metronome in an empty room.
She had a determined quality he had not seen in a very long time, one which intrigued and infuriated him.
He walked back to the fireplace and took a long sip of his brandy, the amber liquid burning a path down his throat.
Mr. Flark entered the room and began to quietly lay out his clothes for the next morning. Benedict assumed he would then make an exit, but he began polishing his shoes. He knew well that Flark was stalling, but for what reason, he did not care.
All he could think about was her.
“Is there anything else you need, Your Grace?” Flark asked finally, as he refreshed Benedict’s tumbler from a nearby decanter. “I have made sure your correspondence went out to post and your appointments have been drawn up tomorrow so that you have a clear schedule.”
Benedict shook his head as he took the glass, his eyes still on the fire.
Like that fire, he felt hot, wild, out of control.
He was a man who prized order and predictability above all else.
He had offered a bargain, a logical, emotionless contract to solve a problem for a woman who had passed the prime age for marriage. Yet, she was a force of nature.
“Her Grace’s countenance seems well for her first day… content, I suppose,” Flark commented, folding a waistcoat. “The staff have been quite taken with her, even in the few hours she has been here. And young Lord Oliver seems to have quite taken to her as well…”
Benedict’s jaw tightened at the mention of their dinner once more. He knew Flark was trying to be helpful, to give him an opening to talk.
Flark had been a part of the staff for Benedict’s entire life, first as his father’s valet.
In some ways, he was as close as family, perhaps more so.
All his father had shown him was coolness, drinking himself into oblivion in the years that preceded his death, nearly throwing the duchy into ruin. But he didn’t want to talk about it.
“She is a duchess now, Flark. Her place is here. That is that.”
“Indeed, Your Grace. It is a fortunate thing that she is so well-suited to the role.”
Benedict said nothing further, yet the muscle in his cheek twitched as he rubbed it with the cool glass.
Yes, Isla is well-suited to the role in a way I had not anticipated…
She was not a mere ornament meant to decorate his arm as he attended the tiresome events of the ton, which he cared naught for.
Isla was made of greater character than that.
Her worth, he realized, was not measured by the envy she might inspire in other ladies, or by the perfect sweep of her gown.
She was deeper, infinitely more substantial than a beautiful, silent accessory.
A familiar surge of admiration struck him, the same powerful feeling that had hit him when she had stood up to him at the duel, and likely faced down that boar in the forest. She had stood up to him, the respected Duke of Ealdwick, with an iron spine of resolve that was simply not expected.
Nonetheless, he knew that Isla would take on her duties as Duchess quickly.
Not because she was docile or eager to please, but as a woman of substance and strength who understood the weight of responsibility.
She would not be merely present. She would act.
And in that moment, the truth settled upon him.
I did not secure a prize to display, but a true partner who would stand firm against the shallow currents of my world.
He closed his eyes and rubbed his palm over them, seeing her reaction to his coolness just minutes ago. She had looked at him with such hurt in her eyes, a wound he had inflicted with his thoughtless words.
I must wade carefully, so I do not get in over my head. This is not my first marriage, but it should be my last. For my son, for the stability of this household. I cannot muddy the waters with any undue emotion, on my part or hers.
He had a son to protect, and he would not allow himself to be distracted by a woman’s soft heart, no matter how much he found himself intrigued by her.
He knew that her scars were a source of embarrassment, that they weighed heavily upon her.
Yet, he found them oddly beautiful, a testament to the will that she held in her heart to fight and to protect what was precious and right.
He admired her curves and tall stature, her bright green eyes as radiant as the Scottish Highlands.
Perhaps it was just as well that she had no idea how beautiful she truly was to him.
“That will be all, Flark,” Benedict said as he handed him the empty glass.
“Until tomorrow, Your Grace,” he said as he left the room, closing the door behind him with a thud.
Benedict pulled his fine linen shirt over his head and tossed the garment onto a velvet-upholstered chair. The fabric settled in a soft, rumpled heap, a small chaos he usually would not tolerate.
He strode to his monumental bed, the polished walnut headboard looming in the low light, and tore back the heavy jacquard duvet. He practically collapsed beneath the covers, letting out a sharp, audible sigh that felt less like release and more like a surrender.
Rolling onto his stomach, he drove his face into the large, feather-stuffed pillow with a dull thud. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force his mind blank, but the darkness behind his lids was filled with her image.
He saw Isla as she had been just hours ago, standing beside him at the altar. Despite her obvious self-consciousness at being on display, she was a luminous vision in white silk, the long, delicate veil barely obscuring the sharp cheekbones of her porcelain face.
The memory stirred a low, creating an uncomfortable churning sensation in his chest. He thought of the moment they had stood together, moments after the vows, the expected pause before he kissed her. He remembered the faint scent of heather that clung to her curly, dark blonde locks.
For a fleeting, agonizing second, he had wished he could have found the capacity within himself to offer her a real kiss, something warm and honest.
If only he were a different man, a man less defined by duty and more by feeling…
He hated the vulnerability of that thought and quickly pushed it away.
He turned his mind deliberately back to the image of his study, to the orderly rows of his ledgers and what would be on his docket for tomorrow.
In less than a minute, his conscious mind failed him, and he fell into a deep, heavy sleep.