Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
“Look, Papa!” Oliver called out, pointing an eager finger out the carriage window. “There are so many coaches in London! And the buildings are so close together. It is remarkable!”
Benedict, who was staring fixedly out the opposite window, finally lowered his gaze to look at his son. “It is a city, Oliver. They build vertically because space is limited. Pay attention to the traffic. The drivers here are fools. Best you learn that now.”
Isla watched the exchange, her hand resting lightly on Oliver’s shoulder. She offered a small smile to the boy, then finally addressed the Duke.
Their journey to the London townhouse was undertaken in the same constrained silence they had grown accustomed to in the week after that stolen kiss.
“Ye daenae seem eager to return to the city, Yer Grace,” she said, her voice flat, matching his formal tone. “This is at yer behest. I would have been happy enough to remain at Ealdwick, much as I like to see me family.”
He turned his head slowly, his azure eyes meeting hers for the first time in days. Isla noted instantly just how devoid they were of warmth, and she wrapped her coat tighter around her body for heat.
“I find London necessary, not enjoyable. I have estate business that must be concluded in person. The social obligations are a regrettable necessity as well, to secure our marriage in the eyes of the ton.”
“Regrettable for whom?” Isla countered, letting a thread of her usual defiance slip through as she lowered her voice to a whisper. “For me, perhaps, who will have to endure the ton’s curiosity? Or for ye, who must present a wife ye can barely tolerate in private, even on the very best of days?”
Benedict stiffened, his jaw clenching.
Ah, yes. A response…Not a positive one, but a response nonetheless, Isla thought to herself.
He spoke through gritted teeth, his voice barely audible over the noise of the busy street. “Your role is to stand next to me, smile, and remain mostly, but not entirely, silent. That should not be an onerous burden, even for you. We will return to Ealdwick soon enough.”
Isla gave a short, hard laugh that held no humor. “Do ye truly believe that is all they will require of the Highland bride? They will dissect every movement, every look. They will want to know why ye married a woman like me.”
“Then give them nothing to dissect,” Benedict clipped. “We are presenting a united front. You will conduct yourself as a duchess should. You will wear the gowns and jewels I provide, and you will remember that every action you take reflects upon my house.”
“Our house.”
“Yes. Our house.”
Oliver, clearly sensing the sudden, sharp tension, quickly pointed at a passing vendor. “Look, a man with a trained monkey! Ooh! Did you see it, Papa? He had a little coat on!”
The Duke’s attention snapped back to his son. “Yes, Oliver. I saw it. A silly display.” He reached out and gently adjusted the boy’s collar with something resembling a smile on his face. “We are almost home now. Remember your manners when we arrive.”
Isla leaned back against the plush velvet, her composure regained. “I will see to my manners as well, Yer Grace,” she murmured, her emerald eyes now fixed on his face. “We will all fall in line.”
The carriage pulled to a sudden halt in front of an exquisite townhouse, which was three stories high with ornate windows and a large, gilded door.
“We are home,” Benedict said with a grumble. “Let us go inside.”
Why am I so nervous? Isla thought.
That evening, she prepared for their first public outing in the ton as man and wife. It was a grand Christmastide ball hosted by Lady Featherstone, and everyone who was anyone would be in attendance.
“Please hold still, Your Grace,” Margie said.
Isla felt she was far too efficient in this task, pulling her dark blonde hair into an elegant knot and securing a simple string of pearls around her neck.
“I am sorry, Margie,” Isla said. “I am nae used to all this.”
“It is no problem, Your Grace. You will get used to the London standards. I much prefer the country as well, though,” she said with a small smile.
“Perhaps…”
Isla stood before the tall mirror, studying the woman reflected there. The sapphire velvet gown clung elegantly, its modest décolletage and long, pointed sleeves a study in restrained beauty. It was exquisite. Too exquisite, perhaps.
Yet no finery could quite disguise what lay beneath. The uneven texture of her cheek still caught the light, the faint, rope-like scars on her arms only just hidden by the rich fabric. She had cleaned up well, she supposed… but the face staring back at her felt like a stranger’s.
A mistake.
The Duke’s words echoed in her mind as she prayed for strength. She hated that she was still dressing for a man who had made it painfully clear he found her undesirable. Yet, she knew she had a role to play.
“A bit of perfume, Your Grace,” Margie said as she dabbed her wrists. “Scents of honeysuckle, lavender and heather.”
Isla brought a wrist to her nose and inhaled deeply. It was a lovely scent, and she hoped that it would bring her some comfort in the night ahead. It made her think of the summer winds of Scotland, and she smiled genuinely.
“That is most kind. Thank ye, for the addition, Margie.”
With a final look in the mirror and a nod, Isla walked to the hall and lingered at the top of the stairs, listening to a conversation below.
“You will go to bed on time, and I will be sure that we go to Hyde Park tomorrow, Oliver,” the Duke said, perfectly coiffed, cloaked, and gloved for the evening’s festivities.
“Oh, I will, Papa! I just want to see Isla before I do, to say goodnight! Is that all right with you?”
“Very well—”
“Wow! Look, Papa!” Oliver shouted as he pointed at her.
The Duke turned toward the grand staircase at the sound of her step. She watched his gaze sweep over her, giving her newfound confidence as she strode down.
Yes, I do still have some effect on this man…
“Papa,” Oliver whispered, a smile lighting his face. He nudged his father’s leg with his knee. “Go to her, Papa. Tell her she looks like a fairy queen. She does, doesn’t she?”
The soft command broke the Duke’s trance. He blinked and strode toward Isla. He offered his arm as she reached the bottom, his touch formal and distant.
“You are ready, Duchess,” he whispered to her. His voice was huskier than usual. “The carriage awaits us.”
Oliver rushed over to Isla then, throwing his arms around her legs. She bent down and ruffled his hair playfully before planting a soft kiss on his head.
“Sweet dreams to ye, Oliver,” she said with a smile. “I will see ye in the mornin’.”
“You really do look like a queen, Isla,” the boy said as he gave one last squeeze. “Won’t you be cold?”
“Ye are too kind to me, lad… but thank ye. This dress is far too lovely for a great coat. I will suffer for fashion but thank ye very much.”
“Shall we?” The Duke said once more, leaving no room for argument.
Isla simply nodded to him as he led her out the door, down the stairs, and into the waiting carriage.
The vehicle moved slowly down the cobblestone street as Isla took in the sounds of the London night.
She looked out the window, watching the flickering gaslight of the streetlamps streak across the glass. She could feel the weight of her husband’s presence across the narrow space, and she sought any source of distraction.
She leaned closer to the window, pleased to see that Orion’s belt was visible. She counted the stars, one-two-three…
Luckily, Lady Featherstone is nae far…
After a few passing moments, they arrived and ascended the grand staircase to the townhouse.
Liveried servants ushered them into the grand, glittering ballroom. Isla was overwhelmed by the sound of the ten-piece orchestra, the rich scents of champagne, perfume, and hot gossip.
All eyes turned.
“Their Graces, the Duke and Duchess of Ealdwick,” the steward announced.
This was the moment the ton would discuss the rumors, pass judgment on the match, and feast upon the spectacle of her marriage.
The Duke led her forward, his pace unwavering and his shoulders high. She was grateful for his presence, for he was the one radiating a cold confidence that dared anyone to stare too long.
He was a force, and yet, they did stare.
Isla felt hundreds of eyes raking over her, assessing her choice of gown, her hairstyle, her posture. The silence was quickly replaced by low-pitched whispering, barely masked by the music that played. Isla didn’t need to hear the words they spoke to know their subject.
The scars. The spinster. The fool who married her.
A burning heat crept up her neck, and her hands clenched on her husband’s arm. She felt every single mark on her face, magnified tenfold under the brilliant light of the chandeliers. She tried to smile, but her lips felt stiff and dry. She licked and bit them, trying to calm herself.
“Duchess,” he murmured, his thumb brushing her wrist. “Eyes forward. Let them watch. They envy what they’ll never have.” He glanced down at her briefly. “You’re the Duchess of Ealdwick. Don’t forget it.”
The cool, unyielding force of his will poured into her, steadying her like an anchor in a stormy sea. She inhaled deeply, adjusted her posture, and pushed her shoulders back. She fixed her eyes on a distant point above the crowded floor, just like a dancer would use while doing pirouettes.
“I apologize,” the Duke murmured as he took a step closer to her.
“For what?” She asked softly as he leaned close enough for his breath to brush her ear.
“I must be away for just a moment, Isla,” he said as he placed his hand on the small of her back, sending an unwanted thrill up her spine.
“Must you?” She responded, afraid of what would befall her without his shield. “We only just arrived.”