Chapter 15 #2
Benedict was there, dining happily with his son.
He was flawlessly groomed in a dark navy coat, his black hair neatly brushed back, his beard trimmed to perfection.
He was reading a newspaper, a cup of coffee at his elbow, and a hard-boiled egg.
He looked every inch the impenetrable, perfectly composed Duke she had married.
There was no sign in his demeanor of the man who had pinned her against a wall and kissed the breath from her body.
He looked up as she entered, offering a perfectly polite smile, which promptly set her blood on fire.
“Good morning, Duchess. You slept late. I trust the ball did not… overly tax your constitution?” His voice was utterly casual, his tone light.
Isla felt a spike of deep, bitter frustration. She forced a smile in return, trying to ignore the heat that instantly flooded her cheeks.
Is he teasin’ me?
“Good morning, Yer Grace. Not at all. I enjoyed myself immensely.”
“Good,” he said, turning a page of the newspaper. “I informed the staff we would be visiting the modiste this afternoon. We should ensure your wardrobe is complete before the next round of entertainments begin.”
Oliver piped up excitedly as he scooped another bite of porridge, “Papa says we will all visit the park later, Isla!”
“That would be lovely, Oliver,” she replied, sitting down and accepting a plate of eggs from a footman.
Isla tried to catch Benedict’s eye to no avail. She searched for a lingering look, a flicker of heat, anything to acknowledge last night. To her chagrin, the Duke remained resolutely composed, the picture of masculine poise.
It meant nothing, she told herself firmly, gripping her fork tightly as she scooped up her eggs.
A single, fleeting moment of lust.
The realization was painful, but not foreign.
Nevertheless, it reignited the deep-seated fear that her scars and prior spinsterhood rendered her unworthy of true affection.
She was useful for his son, perhaps desirable for a midnight skirmish on occasion, but she was not, and never would be, cherished.
The one thing she had always wanted, more than anything in the world.
Matching his composure, Isla straightened her spine as she took a sip of hot tea. “I shall ensure the carriage is ready for the modiste at noon, then, Yer Grace,” she replied. “And I shall accompany Oliver to his music lesson this morning.”
Benedict lowered his newspaper, offering a measured nod. “Excellent. I knew I could rely on your assistance in managing our household in the city, Isla.”
His casual praise for her competence felt like a dismissal of her womanhood. In another setting, she may have liked it. Yet now, she met his gaze, holding it steady.
So be it.
She then turned to smile at Oliver, deciding that if he was going to treat her as a colleague and a protector, she would match him. She would no longer read into the memory of his mouth on hers.
Oh, but that mouth…
Later that afternoon, after ensuring Isla was settled with the modiste and Oliver was engaged with his lessons, Benedict escaped the townhouse for the familiar refuge of his favorite gentleman’s club.
He chose a worn leather chair tucked into a quiet corner, ordered the most expensive, deep amber brandy, and attempted to immerse himself in documents concerning his latest investments. There were several updates sent to him from the Earl of Bedfordshire that required review.
It was a futile exercise.
The scent of leather and old paper could not overpower the ghosts of the previous night.
The dizzying feel of Isla’s body pressed against me. The sudden, sharp scent of her skin. The memory of her green eyes blazing with defiance and desire as I brought her over the edge.
He was pouring a second, unnecessary measure of brandy when a familiar, amused voice cut through the hushed tones of the club.
“Good heavens, Ben. Are the markets truly that brutal this quarter? Or has your tailor just delivered an invoice of exceptional horror? Ooh! Has Her Grace emptied your coffers on fine silks from Paris?”
Kenneth Arnold, rakishly dressed and impeccably cheerful, slid into the facing chair. He signaled a waiter for claret, his eyes fixed on Benedict’s unusually tight jaw.
“Neither,” Benedict replied curtly, snapping shut the ledger. “I am merely finding the endless stream of society engagements tiresome. And the London air is taxing. I long to return to Ealdwick. You know I do not have the constitution for life in the city.”
Kenneth leaned back, crossing one elegantly shod ankle over the other.
“Tiresome? No, my friend, that look on your face is not one of fatigue or finance.” He took a slow sip of his wine, savoring the moment.
“It is the look of a besotted man attempting to claim he only sees his reflection in the water.”
Benedict scowled, his composure finally cracking. “I have no idea what idiocy you are attempting to conjure now, Kenneth, but I assure you, you are mistaken. I am not ‘besotted’ with anyone.”
Kenneth chuckled, a low, easy sound that always managed to infuriate Benedict when he was feeling testy. “Ah, yes. Her Grace. Practical. Convenient. And yet, you nearly caused a riot last night by sweeping her off her feet!”
“I did not—”
“Oh no, it was quite literally, from what I saw. You made it abundantly clear to every man in the room that she is yours. You looked every bit the rutting stag claiming his territory, not the Duke maintaining a practical union as you assert.”
“You mistake possessiveness for passion,” Benedict shot back, lifting his glass to hide his sudden defensive heat as he drained his glass. “I merely dislike that odious Lamfort approaching my wife. The man is a viper. I have always disliked him. I told you this already.”
“Granted, Lamfort is insufferable,” Kenneth conceded easily.
“But the aggression, Ben? The white-knuckled grip on her arm? The way you looked at her when the dance ended? You were vibrating with something far more intense than mere displeasure over a breach of etiquette. Admit it to me. I am your oldest friend.” Kenneth paused, his voice dropping slightly, though still laced with teasing.
Benedict felt his control slipping again. He slammed his brandy glass onto the side table. The denial he formed was sharp, but even to his own ears, it felt hollow, ringing with another defensive lie. He kept his mouth shut, shaking his head from side to side.
“You’ve gone from being coldly indifferent to intensely, visibly rattled by the woman,” Kenneth said softly. “If you didn’t care for her, truly, why would you let her, or the simple proximity of another man, affect your cool, calm control?”
“I was preserving the united front required for our return to London. To silence the rumors I was interested in her little sister for once and for all! She is my Duchess, and I will not have her publicly pestered by fortune hunters or men who gossip,” he insisted, his blue eyes hard on his friend.
“If you say so,” Kenneth said as he took a sip of claret.
“It is a matter of duty, Kenneth. That is all. It is always duty.”
Kenneth simply nodded at him, his expression one of maddening, gentle skepticism. He didn’t press, though, nor argue further. Benedict knew that, for a man like him, his silence was more damning than any accusation.
He stood up, adjusting his cuffs. “Well, if it is only duty, Ben, I suggest you try looking a bit less like a man who has finally found something he can’t govern.
It makes the rest of us feel terribly inadequate.
” Kenneth clapped him lightly on the shoulder.
“Good day, Your Grace. I trust your accounts will soon be settled,” he said loudly, so that others would overhear and not misconstrue their conversation.
Benedict watched his friend walk away. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair, the gesture utterly undisciplined, but he did not care. He knew Kenneth was wrong about the besotted part. Love was a weakness, a cruelty he couldn’t afford. But he also knew Kenneth was right about everything else.
He was intensely and physically rattled.
And the Duchess was entirely to blame.