Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
When the carriage pulled up to the grand front entrance, Benedict was the first to step out.
He offered Isla his hand, his touch gentlemanly.
Yet, the memory of its recent, rough intimacy made her pulse leap.
As they entered the dimly lit entrance hall, the hushed atmosphere of the late hour was immediately broken.
A small, pajama-clad figure burst out from the shadow of the drawing room door and into the foyer.
“Papa! Isla!”
It was Oliver, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
“You’re back! How was the ball? Did Isla wear the beautiful gown? Was there a dragon?”
“Oliver,” Benedict said as he stopped dead in his tracks, his voice sharp with reprimand. “You should be in bed. It is well past your bedtime.”
The boy flinched, his excitement instantly replaced by familiar shame. He dropped his gaze to the floor, favoring his limp as he fidgeted with the hem of his nightshirt.
“I really am sorry, Papa. I just… I wanted to wait up and ask Isla. I snuck down after my governess put me to sleep, and I napped in the drawing room. I just wanted to see you…”
Isla stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on Oliver’s shoulder, offering a small, comforting squeeze. She looked up at Benedict, her own expression challenging him.
“It was lovely, Oliver,” she said softly, her cheeks warming slightly under the glare of the hall lamp as she recalled just how they had spent the latter part of the evening. “Aye, I wore the gown. And while there were no dragons, there was much dancin’. And I got to see me sister and brother!”
Oliver’s face brightened immediately. “Did you have a good time, Isla? Did they have cakes?”
She looked from the boy’s eager, hopeful face to the intimidating man standing next to her. Benedict was currently watching their exchange with an unreadable expression, which only fueled Isla to give the boy more of the attention he deserved.
I will lead by example if nae with force. He will see, this is the way.
Isla smiled, the genuine warmth reaching her eyes. “I did. A very good time, indeed. It only would have been better if you were there.”
Oliver sighed contentedly, his eyes once again growing heavy with sleep. “Good. I’m glad you weren’t bored.”
Benedict looked at Isla, his gaze dropping to the visible blush on her neck, before turning back to his son. He sighed, the sound heavy and weary.
“Come along, young man,” Benedict said, his voice softer now. “You have tired our Duchess quite enough. It is time for bed.”
To Isla’s complete shock, Benedict did not simply send the boy off with the governess. Instead, he reached down and scooped Oliver up into his arms, simply carrying the boy’s weight easily.
Oliver gasped, clutching his father’s neck, stunned into silence by this rare display of physical affection.
Benedict met Isla’s wide eyes over Oliver’s shoulder.
“Rest, Duchess,” he commanded softly to her, the possessiveness still there, but now imbued with tenderness. “You earned it.”
With that, he carried his son up the grand staircase, leaving Isla alone in the echoing hall, utterly shaken.
Benedict carried his son up the vast staircase to his room. Oliver, still half asleep but clinging tightly to his father’s neck, was wrapped in a blanket that warmed his heart.
Especially after the dizzying, uncontrolled passion with Isla in that room.
A thought for another moment… a private one.
He nudged open the door to Oliver’s room with his elbow and tiptoed into the room. He carefully placed the boy in his large, four-poster bed.
“There, there, son,” Benedict murmured, pulling the heavy velvet covers up to Oliver’s chin and fluffing his pillows. “Now, no more nonsense. It is long past midnight. You need your sleep if we are to explore the park tomorrow.”
Oliver wriggled deeper into the pillows, his eyes wide and bright in the dim light cast by a small bedside lamp.
“Papa, tell me about the dancing,” Oliver whispered. “Isla said it was a good time. Did you dance with her?”
Benedict sat down heavily on the edge of the mattress, his legs tired from the dancing and tense from all that he had held inside.
He had intended to give a curt summary and leave, but Oliver’s innocent eagerness and the memory of Isla’s flushed, defiant face in the abandoned drawing-room made him pause.
“I did,” Benedict admitted, pulling his shirt loose with a weary tug. “It was a waltz. Isla did quite well. A bit fast for my taste, but we navigated the turns well enough.”
“That sounds funny, Papa.” Oliver giggled, clearly imagining his imposing father spinning on a dance floor. “Did she look like a queen or a princess?”
“She looked… fetching I suppose,” Benedict conceded, the word not quite capturing the stunning image of Isla in the sapphire gown, her emerald eyes sparking fire. “And no, there were no dragons. Just a lot of very talkative gentlemen and bright chandeliers.”
Oliver sighed contentedly. He shifted slightly, then his expression grew serious.
“Papa,” he started quietly, picking at the blanket’s fringe with his little fingers. “Isla is so kind to me. And she always talks about her brother and sister, and her mama and papa from Scotland. Her mama died a long time ago now, but her papa only died two years ago.”
“I am aware,” Benedict said, unaware of what the boy would say next but hanging on his every word.
“But… she still doesn’t know anything about my mama. Not really.”
The air in the room seemed to thicken. Benedict’s hands, which had been resting loosely on his knees, clenched as his nails dug into his skin. This was the wall he always hit with Oliver. Cecilia was the one subject that pulled him instantly back into the crushing weight of his guilt.
How do I explain to my son that his cross to bear is also mine? That we both lost mothers in childbirth, and have been forced to go through life with insufficient fathers…
He opened his mouth to deliver the usual curt dismissal. But then, Isla’s gentle face, her fierce loyalty, and the clear-eyed accusation she had leveled against him flashed in his mind.
Ye are goin’ to make Oliver resent ye.
He let out a long, silent breath. It felt like tearing a piece of old, rusted chain from his heart.
I must say something…
“You are right, Oliver,” Benedict said finally. “That is unfair. To both of you.” He reached out, not to pat his son’s head, but to stroke the fine, dark hair away from the boy’s forehead. “I… I have been slow to speak of her. It is difficult for me. Can you be patient with your old man?”
Oliver nodded without a word, his eyes fixed on him.
“You know what? I promise you this,” Benedict continued, meeting his son’s eyes. “I promise that we will talk about her. Not tonight. Not all at once. But we will start small. I will tell you a story about your mother. Soon.”
Oliver’s lower lip wobbled, not with sadness, but with overwhelming relief.
Benedict knew it because it was what he, too, had longed for all his life, but never received.
Oliver lunged forward, up and out of the covers, throwing his small arms around Benedict’s neck and squeezing with surprising strength.
“Thank you, Papa,” he whispered against his ear. “Thank you.”
Benedict sat rigidly for a second, unsure how to respond to the fierce gratitude. Then, with slow yielding, he relaxed. He brought his hand up and gently patted Oliver’s back, then stroked the back of his head.
When Oliver finally let go, his face was radiant. He settled back down beneath the covers, his eyes closing almost immediately. Benedict waited until the boy’s breathing evened out into the slow, steady rhythm of sleep before pulling the covers up to his chin and quietly rising from the bed.
He paused at the door, glancing back at the sleeping form of his son. He felt strangely hollowed out, but somehow less burdened. He had kept his promise to Isla, even if she hadn’t known it yet.
He had taken the first step away from the specter of the past, all for the sake of his boy in that bed.
Isla woke slowly, the fine linen sheets tangling around her legs, her body aching in the most pleasurable and confusing way. The memory of the previous night was not merely a dream. It was a physical truth imprinted on her skin, as true as any mark.
The cold wall. The hot rush of Benedict’s body against mine. The raw, possessive heat of his voice. The shocking praise for me scars, as if they somehow make me more, and not less, beautiful…
She lay still for a long time, watching the London light filter weakly through the heavy window drapes.
She swore she could smell snow coming, a reminder of the upcoming holidays they would spend at Ealdwick.
What would the future hold for them, with all that had happened?
Her heart hammered against her ribs, caught between exhilarating hope and crushing dread.
Had the intimacy meant something real?
Had his words about her courage and beauty been genuine, or were they simply the passionate pronouncements of a permanently disciplined man temporarily losing control?
He had called their first kiss a mistake.
She could not bear to face another rejection, especially after he had seen so much of her.
By the time she rose, dressing in a simple, high-necked morning gown with Lydia’s assistance, she had convinced herself of the latter.
The Duke of Ealdwick was a man of control. Passion was an anomaly, an error he would quickly correct.
I cannae get me hopes up again, she willed herself as she left her quarters.
She descended to the breakfast room, her stomach twisting with anxiety but also a fervent need for sustenance. She had a bit too much champagne the prior evening for her lack of experience at such outings.
Oliver was already seated, happily attacking a bowl of warm porridge with cinnamon. He looked quite happy, with a large smile across his face. Yet, it was the figure at the head of the table that drew all her focus.