Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Isla lay awake in her oversized bed, tossing and turning about, trying to find a comfortable space that would lure her into sound sleep. Yet, the lingering image of Oliver’s stricken face, followed by the hard, unyielding line of Benedict’s jaw, had left her nerves as taut as bowstrings.
She felt a furious, protective loyalty to the boy, but also a baffling, frustrating attraction to the Duke. No. Her husband.
It was that line of his jaw that kept her from rest, that cold, unforgiving mask he donned when his temper flared, that was also impossibly handsome.
Why, she wondered, pressing a fist to the pillow, does that forbiddin’ exterior not send me runnin’?
Her mind drifted once more to earlier, before the eruption at the table, she had seen him smile at Oliver.
It was fleeting, yes. And perhaps a touch stiff, but it was there.
It was a softening around the eyes, a genuine upward curve of his lips that transformed his face.
That look suggested a man capable of warmth, a man yearning to be the father his son needed, even if he didn’t know how.
That small, unguarded sliver of humanity was what truly unsettled her, even more than his handsomeness.
It was the potential for connection. She found herself enraptured by the promise of the man beneath the Duke.
And then there was his voice. His deep, steady voice, when he had spoken to her earlier about the estate, about her background.
He hadn’t dismissed her passion for stories or her love of history.
Instead, he had given her a rare, subtle nod of respect, a quiet acknowledgment that her thoughts held value.
I might like to hear some of those stories myself, he had said.
It was an interest in her mind, the most intriguing pull of all. It was a profound difference from every other man she had ever heard of. She was drawn to him not despite his complexity, but because of those jarring, sudden flashes of vulnerability and respect that broke through his armor.
He is nae easy, but I suspect worth the fight.
Finally, she threw off the heavy covers and slipped a dressing gown over her shift. She grabbed a taper from her bedside and moved quietly out of her chamber, down the hall, and down the back staircase.
A simple remedy was required, and she did not want to ring for it. She could use the walk, the soothing work of making something.
Warm milk, just the way me maither used to prepare it for us.
She crept down the servants’ stairs, the dark wood groaning under her, until she reached the large kitchens.
A single oil lamp cast a pool of gold light on the vast prep table, and when she stepped into the warmth, she stopped dead in her tracks.
The Duke.
He sat on a stool next to the cold range, his dark hair rumpled, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was not looking at ledgers or estate documents as she usually observed. Instead, he was slowly, deliberately, eating a slice of chocolate cake.
A thick, lavish piece of gateau.
He looked up at her, his blue eyes catching the lamplight.
“Yer Grace,” she murmured as she pulled her gown tighter, making a hasty retreat. “Forgive me, I didnae ken anyone would be down here at this hour. I shall leave at once…”
“Stay,” he said, his voice deep and quiet.
“If ye say so,” she whispered.
They stood there, looking at each other in silence. The stark quiet swelled around them, as loud as any symphony could play. All she could hear was the distant ticking of the grandfather clock upstairs in the hall.
“What do you want, Isla?” He asked, breaking her focus on the tick tock tick tock.
“Only some warm milk. I couldnae sleep.”
He slid off the stool, moving with quiet, effortless efficiency. He found a small saucepan and the milk pitcher on a nearby counter. Isla followed him, stunned. He banked embers, set the pan on the grate, and began to stir the milk with a wooden spoon as if he had been doing it all his life.
“I am surprised to find the Duke of Ealdwick tendin’ to a stovetop,” she ventured, her voice regaining some of its usual spirit.
He kept his attention on the pan, as if performing surgery.
“Any self-respecting man should be able to manage his own needs without summoning staff at all hours. My staff have long days. It is not their duty to fetch me a midnight slice of cake,” he said as he glanced pointedly at the gateau. “I can take care of myself.”
Isla followed his gaze to the rich dessert. “I didnae expect ye to have such a sweet tooth. Seems terribly lavish for someone as pragmatic as ye.”
He fell silent, fingers brushing the edge of the table, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular.
After a moment, he lifted his eyes and gave a curt nod. “It is my favorite… though I found I had little appetite for it at dinner after Oliver left.”
Isla found a clean spoon and, without asking, reached across and dipped it into the lush gateau.
She lifted a dark, creamy piece to her mouth.
She watched the Duke narrow his eyes at the blatant disregard for ownership, but for some reason, he did not say anything or try to reprimand her. She took it as a small victory.
“Aye… This. Is. Excellent,” she sighed in bliss. “Ye are a great judge of sweets, but ye are too stern with the lad.”
Benedict set the milk spoon down. “I do not want him to feel sad about things he cannot control,” he stated, his voice tight.
“I do not want him to dwell on a mother he never really knew or feel the ache of a loss he is too young to truly comprehend. I am doing what is best for my son. Something my own father never did.”
Isla put the spoon down and faced him, her stance softening as she angled her body toward him as if pulled by some phantom thread.
“Yer Grace, he is not feelin’ loss. He is feelin’ curiosity and a need for connection.
He is a bright lad, much like ye were, I imagine.
He kens ye feel pain… he wants to ken about the woman you loved enough to grieve.
Take small steps. Answer one question a day.
Tell him her favorite color, or if she liked to read poetry in the garden. ”
She reached out, placing a gentle hand on his muscled forearm. The pads on her fingers prickled at the connection, the pure heat that filled her from the smallest touch. Her heartbeat grew impossibly fast as she waited for his response.
“Perhaps,” he said finally.
“He will be grateful. Grateful for even that small kindness,” she pressed as she caressed him a bit more, testing the boundary.
He clenched his jaw, the muscle working under her touch. He did not pull away but simply nodded.
“He is very fond of you,” he conceded. “I have heard it not just from Oliver, but the staff. The governess, as well as Mrs. Callahan.”
Isla smiled, a genuine, luminous expression that softened the lines of her scars. “And I of him. He is a lovely lad, despite having such a curmudgeon for a faither.”
She took her hand away from him then and dipped her spoon back into the cake with playful defiance as she licked the last bits of frosting from it.
Isla watched Benedict’s mouth twitch, halfway between a scowl and a smile. He took a step closer to her, leaning in until his breath caressed her cheek.
As Isla was already reaching for a third bite, she was jolted, startled by the closeness of him.
In a sudden movement, she smeared a thick line of melted chocolate across her lower lip and chin.
She looked up at him beneath her full eyelashes, her mouth a pouty smile.
Her heart pounded against her heavy chest as she waited.
Let us see what he thinks of me now… of me makin’ meself a dessert…
“Careful there, you will make a mess,” Benedict rasped. “Whatever will we do about that?”
His eyes immediately dropped to the streak of dark sweetness, and the air thickened. The room was charged with a sudden tension that had nothing to do with milk, gateau, or manners.
He raised his hand, his large thumb brushing lightly, deliberately, against her skin as he wiped the chocolate off. His gaze never left hers as he did it.
Then, his thumb returned to his own lips. She watched as he slowly, thoroughly, licked the chocolate from his skin, his eyes fixed on hers.
Isla’s breath caught in her throat at the sight.
Every nerve ending on her body felt singed.
A part of her thought she would catch on fire, to burn up in a single crisp.
She felt a rush of heat and a desperate, reckless urge to close the remaining inches between them.
She angled her body closer to him, her chest heavy and heaving as she began to lean.
He rested his arms on the table, leaning into her…
A sudden, bubbling sound ripped through the silence.
The milk!
The milk was completely forgotten in the saucepan and had boiled over, sputtering and sizzling onto the hot embers below with a pungent smell.
They both drew back instantly, the spell broken as they began to scramble. Benedict grabbed a nearby wet rag, cursing under his breath, and pulled the pan off the grate.
“It is late,” he said, his voice rough but controlled as he coughed. He looked everywhere but at her as he poured the milk into a cup and set it before her. “Here’s your milk. It is not terribly scalded, but I could make you another cup if you wish.”
She glanced at the cup and the steaming liquid before her, a cold, heavy sense of disappointment weighing her chest.
“Thank ye,” she mumbled as she looked up. “This will be fine.”
“Goodnight, Your Grace,” he said as he rushed out of the kitchen and up the stairs.
“Goodnight, Yer Grace…” she repeated softly to his retreating back, clutching the wooden spoon in her fingers as her knuckles grew white.
Without thinking, she put it in between her teeth. She bit down hard and shut her eyes tightly. She could not help but think of how far they may have taken their passion if not for the milk.
The bloody milk!
After a moment, she placed the spoon carefully in the sink. With her cup in her hand, she walked out of the kitchen and paused at the foot of the servants’ staircase.
She closed her eyes, allowing the recent memory of the Duke to flash behind her lids.
The startling azure of his eyes. The intimidating breadth of his massive shoulders. The tense line of his jaw.
She licked her lips slowly, savoring the fading sweetness of the chocolate that still lingered on her mouth.