Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
“Your Grace, you look as though you are planning a hostile takeover of the entire city,” Kenneth drawled as he strode toward him, sipping champagne. “Is the Earl truly that dreadful, or is it simply the realization that being married means fewer late nights at the gaming hell?”
Across the glittering expanse of the ballroom, Benedict had finished his business and managed to escape the Earl of Bedfordshire, only to find himself pinned by the amused gaze of Kenneth.
He had made it no more than halfway across the room before his raised eyebrow found him, followed by a knowing wink.
With a huff, Benedict strolled over to meet him. He heard Kenneth’s teasing tone but ignored it. His eyes were fixed on the far side of the room, where a figure with an infuriatingly polished smile was holding Isla’s attention.
If he would just turn his head a bit more this way, I could see who the devil it is… It is not her brother…
“Ah,” Kenneth said, following his friend’s gaze. “Viscount Lamfort. I heard he’s been making the rounds this evening with all the ladies, though I confess I never understood his appeal.” Kenneth leaned closer. “I also noted your scowl only appeared the moment he engaged your dear wife.”
“Watch yourself.”
“Is that… jealousy I see?”
“Nonsense,” Benedict snapped, his voice low. “I have always disliked Lamfort, from when I first met him. He is an oily, self-important fool. Always with an ulterior motive.”
“Indeed,” Kenneth agreed, his eyes twinkling.
“I’ve seen the underbelly of that viper.
He is also Cecilia’s cousin, and last I checked, he harbored a rather tragic devotion to her memory…
which naturally translates into an overly, irrational hatred for you?
I suppose it is only reasonable that you would object to him charming your new wife and asking her to dance. ”
“He is not charming anyone, I can assure you,” Benedict ground out, clenching his fists at his sides. “He is preying on her good nature.”
“And you are her formidable protector, of course,” Kenneth murmured.
Benedict blinked, his mind racing back to what Kenneth had said a moment ago.
“Wait,” he said, “Did you say dance?”
Kenneth smirked. “Run along then.”
Benedict ignored his prodding as the music swelled. It was a lively waltz from the sound of it, and at that very moment, Benedict watched Lamfort offer Isla his hand. Isla placed her hand in his.
That is it. No one touches what is mine.
The sight of Lamfort’s fingers closing around Isla’s hand sent a blinding, lightning bolt of fury through Benedict.
All the carefully constructed walls, the hasty marriage, the guilt over Cecilia, crumbled in an instant. He moved with the focused, determined stride of a man reclaiming what was his. He set down an empty glass on a tray and curled his fists at his sides.
He reached them just as Lamfort was guiding Isla towards the open floor.
Without a word of apology or explanation, Benedict clamped a hand firmly on Lamfort’s shoulder.
It was purposefully hard, a grip that made the Viscount visibly uncomfortable.
Then, he moved to Isla’s side with a plastered smile.
“Lamfort,” Benedict said. “Her Grace is reserved for her husband for this set.”
He did not wait for Lamfort’s stunned, sputtering reply, which would surely have been inadequate.
Instead, Benedict seized Isla’s wrist, pulling her from the Viscount’s side, and swept her directly into the flow of the starting waltz like a whirling dervish.
Isla stumbled as she tried to follow his movements, unable to predict them as they launched into the dance.
She was trying desperately to catch her breath when the Duke’s large hand settled with firmness at the small of her back, as if they were designed to live there.
She felt like a toy set in motion, and suddenly they moved, spinning into the dance.
“What in God’s name do you think ye are doin’?” Isla hissed, her green eyes blazing up at him. She was furious, her pulse already beating a frantic rhythm against the heel of his hand. “Ye are makin’ a spectacle! Ye cannae just assault another peer of the realm like this!”
“I do not care,” Benedict retorted, his eyes holding hers with intense focus, daring her to look away. “Let them stare.”
“You ken that it makes me uncomfortable… when others gawk at me scars, or—”
“You are wrong. They should all see that you are mine, Duchess. No other man may lay a hand on you or demand your time. And in that dress, I assure you that men’s eyes are averted elsewhere,” he said as his eyes drifted to her buxom chest. “This dress is quite flattering, my Duchess.”
“I am nae yers,” she whispered fiercely, trying to ignore the heat that radiated through the fabric of their clothes and melted them together as they spun to the music.
“Ye daenae own me. We have an arrangement, as ye love to remind me! One that is purely convenient, and I will speak to whomever I wish.”
“Do not test me, Duchess.”
“How can I test you? You leave me to myself out at Ealdwick Manor. I have nay friends out there! Then, ye snatch me away the moment someone deigns to talk to me?”
He pulled her closer, the distance between them shrinking to a dangerous minimum. “Lamfort is entirely unacceptable, and other men being near you is not convenient for me at all. In fact, I find it quite intolerable.”
“Intolerable?” she challenged, her chest rising and falling quickly as she looked up at him. “Ye have nae right to this kind of possessiveness! Ye have nae earned it!”
“Watch yourself, Duchess.”
“You kissed me. And ye called it a mistake, and now ye want to claim me in front of the entire ton? Ye me impossibly close to yer perfect body and I am to…to” She was flustered by his proximity, yet she did not wish to give up an inch of the high ground. “That is the height of hypocrisy!”
“Hypocrisy be damned,” he muttered, his expression hardening. His hand slid slightly, tightening its grip on her back and grazing the top of her full bottom. “You are my wife, and I claim the right to protect what is mine.”
He leaned down, his mouth near her ear again, the warm intensity of his breath sending hot shivers down her spine.
“If you allow a snake like Lamfort near you again, I will not simply claim you on a dance floor, Isla, for all the ton to see,” he vowed, his voice low and gravelly.
“I will take you from this ball, carry you home, and ensure that every moment you spend in my company is a reminder that you are bound to me and no other.”
Her breath hitched and caught in her throat. The heat and sudden dominance of his words made her head spin. All the longing, the sharp sting of his previous rejections, were momentarily erased by the overwhelming force of him and his immediate, undeniable attraction.
“Wait a moment… did you say perfect body?”
“Ye must have misheard me,” she said, her cheeks growing redder with each twirl about the dance floor, eyes following them like they were playing a cricket match.
“Well, what did you say then, wife?”
“I could use a hot toddy?”
“You will have to do better than that.”
The music, mercifully, ended with a final note of string instruments as the room began to rise in applause.
Is that for us, or for the players?
Isla stood rigid in his arms for a long second, her eyes locked with his.
The moment was too intense, too palpable.
She could see the same dark, desperate desire reflected in the depths of his azure eyes, and she knew, with a sudden, devastating clarity, that another second would lead to another inevitable, painful rejection.
It was all too much, too fast. She was balancing on a house of cards, and it was only a matter of time before she came crashing down again.
I cannae endure him pullin’ toward me only to yank himself away from me again... it hurts too much…
Isla took a shaky step back as the applause finally finished and the next song started, pulling her hand from his grip.
“I… I cannae,” she whispered, not to him but to herself. “This is too much.”
Before the Duke could say a word, before he could reach for her again and dampen her resolve, she turned on her heel and fled.
She pushed through the crowd with the panicked, urgent need to escape. Not them. Him.
She needed to put distance between herself and the terrifying, demanding desire he had just ignited inside of her.
Benedict did not hesitate.
The shock of Isla’s sudden bolt lasted only a few seconds before the instinctual need to follow her took over, his feet moving before his brain could register what he was doing.
He muttered an apology to the nearest peer and moved through the crowd with swift, purposeful focus, careful not to bump anyone.
His eyes scanned the packed ballroom. Luckily, she stood out easily to him, but that was because he had memorized her appearance from all the times she haunted his dreams. She was a tall, statuesque woman with perfect curves and luminous dark blonde hair.
While other women sank into the background, she shone bright.
Her scars only accentuated her striking otherworldliness.
She is mine.
He made his way to a long, empty hall and into a gallery. He found her in a small room tucked away behind the main gallery, dimly lit by the moon filtering through a fine lace curtain.
She was standing by the cold hearth, her back to the door, her shoulders rising and falling quickly with uneven breaths. She ran her hands up and down her arms, and all Benedict wanted to do was wrap himself around her, to show her the heat he felt for her.
“Isla,” he commanded, closing the heavy door with a click that echoed in the small space. “What is the matter?”
She spun around, her eyes flashing green fire, her composure completely gone as she shook her hair down, falling past her shoulders.