Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
“Keep your chin high, Isla,” Benedict murmured, his voice low just for her. He steered her through a cluster of staring dowagers. “Their opinions are as dusty as their headpieces.”
The low murmur of the reception felt less like a crowd and more like a thousand buzzing insects. All of whom were focused on Isla. She clung to Benedict’s arm, her spine stiff in the emerald silk gown. Whispers followed around them like swirling smoke.
“I remember how to conduct myself, Yer Grace,” Isla replied, maintaining a steady pace beside him.
She felt the familiar mix of gratitude for his defense and irritation at his assumption of her weakness.
The two days that followed Lady Featherstone’s ball were filled with all the appointments and chores they needed to complete before returning to the countryside.
Isla suspected some of that included Christmas shopping for Oliver, as well as some business transactions.
She had been most preoccupied by the modiste, needing to acquire more gowns befitting her station.
Isla was brought back to the present moment when a tall, broad-shouldered gentleman with an open, cheerful face intercepted their path, his hand already extended toward Benedict.
“Your Grace! You kept this close to the chest,” the man exclaimed, his voice booming slightly over the gentle orchestral music. “Congratulations are certainly in order. I am most happy for you.”
“Your Grace,” Benedict replied in kind, a rare, genuine smile touching his lips. “I had little choice in the speed of the affair. Allow me to present my wife, the Duchess of Ealdwick. Isla, this is the Duke and Duchess of Arrowfell, Hugo and Elspeth.”
Isla curtseyed, and her breath caught as she looked at the Duchess of Arrowfell. Elspeth had a warm, open face and a decidedly earthy quality that felt instantly familiar. She looked more fairy than human, yet incredibly elegant and captivating. Isla liked her instantly.
“It is a pleasure, Yer Grace,” Isla said formally.
Elspeth’s smile widened, and she took Isla’s hand, giving it an extra, firm squeeze.
“Aye! Away with the formality, lass! While you are at Arrowfell, me name is Elspeth. And bless me, yer accent is as unmistakable as mine.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially.
“I knew there was a reason I liked you straight away.”
Isla’s face lit up. “I am! From Dalrigh Hall. Ye are Scottish, too? Oh heavens, I am terribly happy to meet ye!”
“Through and through, though Hugo dragged me down to England, unfortunately,” Elspeth winked. “Quite literally if ye can imagine!”
“Aye, I think I can,” Isla said with a hearty giggle as she looked between Hugo and Benedict.
“It is a relief to finally meet another kin in these stiflin’ drawin’ rooms,” Elspeth said with another wink. “Lucky for me, we still keep our home in Scotland, so we get up there a few times each year. Do ye ken Inverhall?”
A wave of homesickness and pure joy washed over Isla.
They spent the next quarter of an hour discussing the relative merits of Edinburgh versus London and the latest novel written by the mastermind behind The Highland Holiday.
Benedict and Hugo stood beside them, exchanging dry comments and clearly enjoying the unexpected kinship.
“I suppose we should get these two together more often,” Hugo said as he offered Benedict a brandy. “You will have to invite us to stay with you at Ealdwick. I have not been in some time.”
“We would be delighted,” Isla said, a bright smile on her face as she looked at Elspeth.
“It is settled then. After the holidays,” Benedict said as he tipped his glass back.
“There she is,” Eilidh said as she and Aunt Honoria approached them. Isla imagined they were also most eager to greet the Duke and Duchess of Arrowfell.
“Your Graces, it is an honor to be here at Arrowfell townhouse,” Aunt Honoria said with a deep curtsy. “Your Grace, I hear you are also from Scotland?” She said, looking toward Elspeth then.
“Aye, I surely am,” she said with a smile.
While Elspeth charmed Aunt Honoria, Isla managed to pull her younger sister aside toward a quieter alcove, near a large potted fern.
“How are ye farin’, Eilidh?” Isla asked, her gaze soft. “We must be quick before Aunt Honoria sends the hounds after ye.”
Eilidh’s eyes were sparkling. “Oh, I am well, Isla. Everyone is talkin’ about yer weddin’, not the silly rumor now.”
“That is great news,” Isla said as she clasped her hands.
“Aunt Honoria says His Grace is quite the prize catch. Well respected and a hard worker for someone of his station.” She paused, then tilted her head.
“But more importantly, how are ye? Ye seem… different somehow. I cannae put me finger on it, but I can feel it. I noticed it just the other day, but wasnae sure then… What is it, sister?”
Isla felt the familiar heat rise in her cheeks, thinking of the kisses, the argument, and the overwhelming vulnerability she had felt to be in a position she had only once dreamed of.
“Our relationship… it has changed a bit I suppose,” Isla admitted, keeping her voice low. “It is not exactly the cold arrangement we started with…”
Eilidh squeezed her hand, her expression ecstatic. “Oh, Isla! I am so happy for ye. Ye deserve every measure of happiness and love, more than anyone I have ever known.”
“Thank you, mo chridhe,” Isla murmured, her heart filled by her sister’s love.
“Your Grace,” Sir Bertram said, offering a mocking bow.
“I see you have found your way to the refreshments. Do take care not to spill anything on the floor. The staff find the cleaning tedious enough as it is, especially after… well, after a country woman has been allowed to roam freely like a wild mare.” He eyed her scars with unconcealed distaste.
“One must always be mindful of one’s place, mustn’t one? ”
Their private moment was unceremoniously interrupted by the approach of a portly gentleman known as Sir Bertram. Isla vaguely remembered him from the previous balls she had attended during the Season. He had a glass of sherry in one hand and smelled violently of drink.
He has forgotten his place… who would say such a thing to a duchess? Oh right, a scarred, spinster like me…
Isla felt the familiar, heavy weight of humiliation settle upon her shoulders, and she slumped.
Her throat constricted, and she gripped the stem of her glass so hard she feared it might snap.
She tried to formulate a composed retort, but the words failed her.
She grew so tired of the nastiness of polite society.
Before she could speak, a voice as cold as steel cut through the buzz of the room.
“Sir Bertram, I suggest you take that generous draught of that sherry and find a new conversation partner. Now.”
Benedict was suddenly standing directly behind Isla, his presence a cold, furious heat. She glanced behind her to see that his blue eyes had narrowed into slits as he stared at him.
“Your Grace! You mistake my meaning, you did not hear the whole conversation,” Sir Bertram stammered as Isla noticed just how red his nose was. “Merely making a jest, I assure you! A harmless bit of banter.”
“There is nothing harmless about insulting my wife,” Benedict stated, his voice a terrifying growl that drew the attention of the adjacent group, who had previously been discussing stitch patterns. He placed a hand firmly on her lower back, guiding her closer to him.
“Of course, Your Grace. My apologies, Your Graces. A mere slip of the tongue from an old man like me.”
“A slip I advise you to never repeat,” Benedict said, taking a step closer to the retreating man, towering over him.
He looked past Sir Bertram to the cluster of shocked observers.
“Let this be clear to all of you, Her Grace is my wife. Whoever believes they may insult her, question her lineage, or comment upon her personhood will find they have graver consequences to face than mere social exclusion. That is not a threat, but a promise.”
His words hung heavy in the silence as eyes darted nervously.
Isla saw one woman mouthing to another Did you say anything?
The crowd, realizing the Duke was entirely serious, quickly dispersed, leaving a large, uncomfortable clearing around the couple as if they were outsiders. A familiar feeling for Isla, but for once… she was not alone.
I am nae sure that did more good than harm…
Benedict turned toward her then, his breath ragged, and his eyes hot as he looked down at her.
She looked back up at him and offered a small smile, thinking for the first time, he looked more like a knight in shining armor out of the pages of Le Morte d’Arthur than a stoic Duke.
He had spirit, and for that, Isla was grateful.
Without another word or a moment’s pause, he grabbed her hand, his fingers crushing around hers. He steered her forcefully toward the exit.
“But what of me sister and aunt? I cannae leave without sayin’ goodbye to them, or to our hosts…” she said as they reached the entrance of the townhouse.
“Have you never heard of an Irish goodbye?” He said as he hoisted his great coat on his broad shoulders. “Isn’t it all the same to your Gaelic folk?”
“Och, nae!” She said as he grabbed her hand once more, his touch hot and possessive as his fingers wrapped around her hand.
“You will send word to them later at your aunt’s, and you can invite them to dine with us before we go back to the country.”
“But…”
“We are going home,” he commanded, his voice dark with fury. “Now.”
The air outside the Arrowfell townhouse was a crisp contrast to the cloying heat of the party.
Isla, still reeling from the sudden, dramatic confrontation and Benedict’s terrifying display of proprietary fury, stumbled slightly as he pulled her down the steps in a rush.
Benedict’s imposing black town coach, with the Ealdwick crest emblazoned on the door, was already waiting, as if it had been summoned and brought around with remarkable speed by the hounds of hell.
“Benedict, wait! I need a moment to catch me breath!” Isla protested, her voice a whisper as he all but shoved her into the luxurious, dark interior of the coach.
He followed her in, slamming the door shut with a force that rattled the glass. The footman, already on his perch, gave the command to the horses, and the carriage lurched forward.
The silence that descended inside the moving carriage felt volatile, charged with unspent rage that emanated from Benedict in palpable waves. She could not figure out why he cared so much, as the whispers that followed her were a steady fixture in her life.
He sat opposite her, his arms crossed over his chest, his jaw set in a rigid line as his fingers ran through his beard. His eyes, the startling, icy blue that had terrified Sir Bertram, were fixed on the passing streets.
Isla finally broke the strained silence, her voice trembling slightly, though she willed it to be steady.
“Yer Grace, ye had no reason to drag me away quite like that. It was rude to our hosts, who were most kind to me. Ye left me sister and aunt to explain our sudden departure, which is unfair too...” she whispered.
He turned his gaze on her, and the intensity of it made her instinctively pull back against the plush velvet.
“No right?” He huffed. “I had every right, Duchess. I am your husband. And I will not stand idly by while a drunken fool like Sir Bertram attempts to humiliate you.”
“I was handlin’ it,” she insisted, though a part of her knew that was a lie.
She had been frozen, mortified, her carefully constructed composure shattered by his crude words.
“I had only just met Elspeth! I liked her! And ye embarrassed me in front of everyone, Benedict. Now everyone will talk about yer hot temper instead of the lovely new Duchess.”
He gave a short, sharp, humorless laugh.
“They would talk anyway, Isla. Do you truly think a polite, vapid conversation about stitch patterns or the weather would have spared you from the vultures at that party, Elspeth and Hugo excluded? They had already decided on their narrative at our last engagement. The Duke, rashly married to the scarred Scottish spinster. At least now they have a new, more terrifying narrative. A Duke who will destroy anyone who dares to question, comment, or insult his choice.”
Isla stared at him, stunned by his brutal honesty. He wasn’t defending himself then. He was defending her, albeit in the most drastic, scorched-earth manner possible. His anger, she realized with a strange, dizzying clarity, wasn’t directed at her, and perhaps it never was.
It is fury on me behalf.
“I… I am grateful, Yer Grace,” she conceded softly. “It was good of ye to stand up for me. But ye did not need to make such a public threat.”
“I most certainly did,” he countered, leaning forward, his warm breath filling the carriage.
“You do not understand these people like I do, Isla. They prey on perceived weakness. You stand there, silent, allowing their poison to seep in, and they will take it as an invitation to do more. I just drew a line in the sand that they will not cross. It’s for your protection, not my ego.
I assure you of that. No one harms what is mine. ”
“I can protect myself,” she argued, her chin lifting instinctively.
“I saw your face, Isla. You were retreating into the shell you had built around yourself, that old bitterness and hurt. And I will not allow that man, or any other, to strip you of your dignity while you are standing next to me.”
“I have dealt with arses like him me whole life,” Isla said, her voice barely audible. “I’m used to it…I…”
“Well, you needn’t be anymore,” he stated firmly. “You are the Duchess of Ealdwick. That title means something, because I have rebuilt it for my family. It is a shield, and I will ensure everyone knows that if they try to strike through it, they strike at me.”
The carriage hit a slight rut, and Isla was jostled toward him.
The brief, physical proximity sent a sudden, startling jolt through her.
She quickly pulled back, but the moment had done its damage.
She felt a familiar warmth rising in her cheeks, not just anger, although that lingered, but a confusing, exhilarating mix of shame and desire.
What is it about this man that unnerves me so?
She looked at his profile again, at the stubborn set of his jaw, the severe lines of his coat, the strong, capable hands resting on his knees.
Aye, those hands…
This cold, stoic Duke, her husband of convenience as she once thought, was fiercely protective of her.
It was a strange, powerful sensation, feeling so completely and publicly defended that it went straight in between her legs.
It was more intoxicating than any of the fine brandy served at Arrowfell.
“We are home, Your Graces,” the footman called as the carriage came to a halt outside their townhouse.