Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
“Notify Flark and the rest of the household staff that we have arrived, and are not to be disturbed,” Benedict told the footman.
“Of course, Your Grace. I will help you and Her Grace out of the carriage and let them know at once—”
“Now,” Benedict ordered as he flung the carriage door open himself and ushered Isla out. “We are fine.”
The footman quickly bowed and hurried toward the townhouse, running up the stairs at full speed.
Isla and Benedict followed behind him, the cold air swirling around them as snowflakes started to fall.
He threw the door open, and they saw the servants.
They were already aware of the early arrival, quietly slipping away with practiced ease.
Only one lamp flickered, casting long shadows along the main staircase.
As soon as they were left alone in the foyer, Isla walked to the mahogany bench. She let out a soft sigh, shrugging off her heavy velvet cloak. The rich fabric slipped from her shoulders and fell in a smooth, dark pool onto the bench beneath her.
“Ye need to listen to me, Yer Grace,” she said plainly. “Ye cannae make a spectacle like that, and now in our home in front of our staff. Everyone saw. Everyone heard. Ye keep makin’ me look like a child ye have to drag about.”
Benedict walked past her to the coat rack, then, undoing the buttons of his greatcoat in a rush. He kept his back to her as he did it, focusing on handing the coat to a lone waiting footman, who materialized silently from the shadows and vanished just as quickly as if by magic.
“I made you look like you are mine,” he stated, turning around, his eyes cold and searching. “Which you are, Isla. And better they fear me than pity you. As for the staff of this household, they are well compensated for their discretion.”
“Pity? I daenae want any pity! I want respect! To be an equal,” she replied, rising from the bench and taking a step toward him. “And I was gainin’ it tonight! Elspeth and Hugo are good people.”
“I did not say they were not—”
“In fact, I think they saw me as an equal! Ye destroyed that fragile start to a friendship with yer… yer dramatics!”
“Dramatics? Do you take me for the stage?”
He finally moved, covering the distance between them in two long strides. He stopped, just inches from her, forcing her to tilt her head back to meet his gaze.
“I am nae playin’ around on this! Ye must hear me, Benedict.”
“You think my concern for your reputation and your feelings is merely dramatics? You are mistaken, Isla.”
“It was unnecessary!” Isla countered, though her voice wavered the more she spoke.
“I was embarrassed by that man, aye… but I was more embarrassed by the way ye handled it. We agreed, remember? A quiet, respectable partnership. Nothin’ loud.
Nothin’ to draw attention where there shouldnae be any. Ye did the exact opposite!”
Benedict’s expression tightened, the blue of his eyes darkening to the color of a wintery sea.
He reached out, his hand sliding up and down her arm, his thumb resting just above the silk cuff of her glove and tracing the outline of her bicep.
He bit his lip as he ran his thumb up and down again, the scent of her reaching his nostrils as he breathed her deep.
She had gotten under his skin, and more surprisingly, he liked it.
This woman will be my undoing.
“I am tired of pretending that this partnership is only quiet and respectable,” he growled in frustration, his coldness melting away to something hot and demanding.
“Even a man like me has his limits, Isla. I saw him look at you. I saw the way his eyes lingered on your face, on your scars, as if you were a specimen to be scrutinized. And I saw the way you slumped, the defeat in your eyes. It made me furious. All I could see was red.”
He shifted his grip on her, moving his hand from her arm up to trace her collarbone, and finally to the delicate skin around her neck.
His fingers did not squeeze, but the pressure was firm.
His touch was possessive, a claim. He felt her swallow a breath with a huff, then lick her lips.
She looked up at him as if a startled doe, and he was the hunter.
“You are mine. And when a man insults what is mine, I do not brush it off like the fresh fallen snow. I do not send a mild-mannered note the next day like some old maid. I make a promise, one that he will never forget.”
His thumb brushed the pulse point beneath her ear, and the very last of Isla’s breath dissolved into a soft gasp. She smelled of champagne and something sweet, making him lick his lips again at the idea of tasting her.
He lowered his head, not for a kiss, but to whisper against her earlobe, his breath hot on her skin.
“And I do not let anyone insult what is mine, mo chridhe.”
The Gaelic endearment, spoken by him in that dark tone, was the final undoing of her resistance, and he knew it. He felt her shiver against him, her hands lifting to grasp his collar, then for more balance as her legs became unsteady beneath her.
“Take me upstairs, mo chridhe,” she whispered back as she touched her lips up to his neck, her heart pounding against his ribs as she leaned heavily into him.
Without another word, he swept her into his arms as if she were as light as a feather. He did not stumble or break his stride, carrying her effortlessly up the long, dark stairs and down the hall toward his master suite.
He pushed open the ajar door with his boot and strode in, setting her down in the center of the vast bedroom.
He went back and shut it gently, turning back to face her.
Her face was illuminated only by the faint light filtering from the streetlamps below and a dying fire in the hearth.
He kept his hands on her waist, pulling her flush against his solid body.
“This dress…” he hissed, his gaze raking over the emerald silk. “It suits you well but is too much in the way. Whatever shall I do with it?”
He did not wait for a response. With a swift movement, he reached behind her and pulled the laces of her gown down roughly, making her moan as she arched her back to help.
“What if ye rip the laces,” she said with a tremble.
“Then I will buy you another, my Duchess.”
The fabric shivered down her body then, falling into a rich, silken puddle at her feet. She was left only in her corset, shoes and stockings, and chemise.
He wasted no time, pushing the tight, restrictive garments aside, his hands seeking the bare skin of her shoulders, then trailing down the curve of her spine.
“You are breathtaking, Isla,” he murmured, his voice thick with reverence. “Let me see you. Let me see all of you.”
“But…I cannae…” Isla trailed off, her trembling growing stronger.
“Yes, you can. You are the most magnificent creature I have ever seen. Show me how beautiful you are, my sweet,” he said softly as he kissed her cheek.
She stood back for a moment, surrendering to his order, and let him rake his eyes over her. She had become intoxicated by the words, fueled by the lure of his dark blue eyes, as the pull became so great.
Isla knew that Benedict was a man of action in business, and his passion behind closed doors was no different.
He commanded her attention with just a glance, his orders a trance.
And yet, it was more complex than that, as every touch felt like a question he was afraid to ask.
It was as if he needed her to want him just as much, a plea for acceptance he could not speak.
He knelt before her then, pushing the final stays of her corset up, and pressed his lips to her abdomen, right where the delicate fabric met her skin.
“You have fought for everything you have,” he said, his voice husky as he rose and pulled her chemise down, revealing the pale, crisscrossing scars across her arms in the faint light.
He did not flinch.
Instead, he kissed each line, each ridge of healed skin, with a tenderness that brought tears to her eyes.
“These scars… they tell your story. They are proof of your fire, your stubborn strength. They are not blemishes. They are the most beautiful part of you.”
“Do ye… really think I am beautiful?” She asked finally, the words spilling out before she could swallow them.
He then lifted her and laid her gently onto the bed, his reverence for her the only answer she needed.
She watched as he quickly discarded his own clothes, a swift efficiency that spoke of his impatience, making her grow needy for him.
He was so powerful, his body all hard lines and shadows in the dim light.
He came down over her, kissing her deeply.
Each caress of his mouth was more intense and represented a fierce ownership.
His hands roamed her body while he continued to kiss her, worshipping her curves and hollows in a way no one had ever before.
He explored her with a thoroughness that left her gasping for breath as she arched her back toward him in involuntary response.
For all their eagerness, he took his time, prolonging the anticipation until Isla was twisting beneath him, desperate for the final connection.
“I need ye now, Benedict,” she pleaded, digging her nails lightly into the skin of his back and pulling him close. “I am ready for ye…I think…”
He lifted his head, his blue eyes dark and fathomless.
“Yes. You do. And I am here. I am yours as much as you are mine. You are truly bewitching, Isla. There is no one like you…”
He positioned himself above her, easing into her slowly and carefully, making sure that her body adjusted. Finally, he filled her completely, and Isla cried out, the pleasure inside of her overwhelming.
“You can take it, Duchess,” he said with a whisper. “Take a deep breath.”
He settled into a deep, deliberate rhythm, then as she let herself go with his motions. She found that by relaxing into him, she was able to get past the fleeting pain she felt.
He was dominant in his power, yet always watching her face, ensuring her pleasure matched his own. The previous bickering was forgotten. All she could feel was the profound, physical communication of respect and desire that pulsed between them.
As the intensity built and he drove himself harder and faster into her, touching the deepest parts of her, a strange look of control and focus crossed Benedict’s face.
He continued pounding as he drove them both toward a crashing climax, keeping his control taut until the last possible moment.
With a deep, guttural sound, Benedict pulled out, spending his release against her thigh before collapsing heavily beside her, his broad chest heaving. He immediately pulled her into his embrace, wrapping his arms tightly around her, burying his face in her hair.
“Mine,” he whispered, the word both a claim and a release.
Isla nestled against him, her body exhausted but glowing with a satisfaction she had never known.
“I know, Yer Grace,” she sighed, tracing the outline of his arm. “I am yers.”
“That’s my good girl,” he said as he pulled her even closer, and they succumbed to peaceful sleep.