Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
“Yer Grace,” Isla began sweetly, leaning casually against the door frame the next day after afternoon tea. “Am I interruptin’ important business?”
She had found Benedict in his study, buried under papers and correspondence.
“Ah Isla, I am unfortunately occupied. Did you need the household accounts?” He asked without looking up, engrossed in numbers and ledgers. “They are somewhere around here…”
“Nay. I need yer attention for a moment, if ye please,” she said, stepping into the room and batting her eyelashes at him. “We are leavin’ London in two days and…”
“I am aware of the passing of time, Your Grace,” he said, grabbing wax to seal an envelope and setting it to a nearby flame.
“Oliver has been well-behaved and quiet with all the business we have had in the city.”
“Yes, what are you getting at? I am in a terrible hurry to be rid of this business.”
“Well, he hasnae seen a real pantomime. Not a proper London one. In fact, he said he has never been to the theatre…”
“We took him to Hyde Park,” Benedict said dismissively.
“Yer Grace,” Isla said, a singsong tone to her voice. “The show is the talk of the ton, it will be so fun!”
Benedict finally laid down his envelope and seal, his blue eyes meeting hers across the wooden desk. Isla’s breath caught as she took in the startling, intense blue even in the dim light of the afternoon, the memories of the night before flooding her mind as her brow began to glisten with sweat.
“I fail to see the necessity of a pantomime, Isla. He is not a babe.”
“Precisely! Nay, he is a young lad who needs some joy before he is hauled back to the quiet halls of Ealdwick,” Isla countered, planting her hands on her hips as she leaned over the desk.
“We should take him to the King’s Theatre.
The Highland King is showin’, a silly thing, aye…
but I ken it would delight him and the scene with the pantomime is supposed to be quite funny. ”
“It would bore me to tears,” Benedict stated flatly. “I have never cared for the theater.”
“Well, think of it as another respectable social outin’ then. Aye, a chance to show the ton that the Duchess of Ealdwick doesnae require seclusion followin’ yer dramatic defense of her,” she challenged, the corner of her mouth twitching as she winked at him.
He looked up and studied her for a long, silent moment with silent satisfaction. She could see him weighing the options, and just then, she cocked her hip to one side, giving him a wide smile.
I ken ye like these hips…
The corner of his mouth twitched to a reluctant grin, mirroring hers.
“Very well, Isla,” he conceded with a sigh. “You may arrange it for the three of us. But I shall not suffer through the performance unnecessarily. We will take a private box, surely.”
“I will see it done!” Isla said as she whisked up her skirts and set out to arrange for their theatrical debut. “Daenae worry!”
Isla went downstairs to find Mrs. Callahan in her small office.
“His Grace wants to go to the theatre? Are you telling me that pigs will soon be flying? That the oceans will freeze and we will be able to ice skate to America?”
“Not so much as that,” Isla said with a belly laugh. “I was surprised he gave in as well but give in he surely did. Can you help me get word to the theatre to secure their most luxurious private box?”
“It would be my pleasure,” Mrs. Callahan said as she rose from her chair. “You really are a breath of fresh air, Your Grace. Please forgive my informality, but you are most refreshing. For His Grace, for his son…for all of us really.”
“Thank ye, Mrs. Callahan,” Isla said with a smile. “I am glad ye came with us to London to help manage things here. I ken ye must be eager to return to Ealdwick Manor.”
“You have no idea,” the older woman said with a laugh. “Well, I shall be on with the arrangements!”
Isla wasted no time in fetching Oliver after his music lesson with his governess. His reaction was everything Isla had hoped for.
“The theatre? With a stage and a curtain?” Oliver’s normally reserved demeanor was replaced with unadulterated joy as he leapt up from his book.
The boy looked from Isla to his father, his eyes shining. “Papa, may I truly go with you both?”
Benedict, who was reading the evening paper by the fire after a simple supper for just the three of them, lowered it slightly, revealing only his eyes. “Since Her Grace seems intent on indulging you, yes, Oliver. You may truly go. Try to behave.”
Oliver rushed forward and hugged his father’s knee. “Thank you, Papa! I will behave perfectly, you will see! Thank you, Isla!”
With one last embrace, Oliver went back over to his book and began looking through the pages. His smile had stretched across his face as he occasionally looked up from his reading to his father.
“He is quite enthused. I… am glad to see him that way,” he admitted, his voice low as he absently ruffled his son’s hair.
“Then it is worth a hundred pantomimes,” Isla replied simply.
“Perhaps…” the Duke said as he lifted his newspaper back up. “Well done, Duchess.”
“Look, Isla! Look at all the people!” Oliver whispered, utterly transfixed by the scene. “It is just like I imagined in my dream last night!”
The following evening, the Duke and Duchess of Ealdwick arrived at the King’s Theatre in Covent Garden with young Oliver.
The family was instantly ushered into a lavish private box overlooking stage left.
Oliver was dressed smartly in a blue velvet coat, his sometimes-messy hair pulled back perfectly like Little Lord Fauntleroy.
He pressed himself to the velvet railing, his face alight as the chandeliers were raised and the vast, crimson curtain shimmered, waiting to open and unfold the scene.
Isla wore a deep red gown that fitted her perfectly at the bodice and puffed out in a full skirt. She had paired it with long, white gloves and sparkling diamond earrings. Her hair was pulled up in an elegant chignon, her dark blonde locks falling in two pieces to frame her face.
She stood next to him, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. “Aye, mo chridhe. It is quite the spectacle, is it nae? I remember me first time seein’ such a sight, and I was much older than ye are now.”
“I am so lucky!” Oliver screeched as he grabbed her hand. “Can we take our seats? Will it be starting soon?”
“Oh aye, let us take these two up front,” Isla said as she patted the seat of the chair.
The lush private box had six padded seats in two rows, with a deep burgundy carpet and dark walls with black curtains. There was a small table on either side for refreshments to be set.
Benedict silently took a seat in the middle of the row behind them.
When Isla settled into the plush chair, also in the middle, she realized how close he was.
She felt his breath hot on the back of her neck, making her skin prickle.
The confines of the box were intimate, the darkness surrounding them a stark contrast to the brilliant, noisy stage below. It felt as if it were a dream.
She took a hand and ran it up and down her neck, her gloved fingers tracing the curls at the nape of her neck.
I can feel him breathin’ harder now…
The music suddenly swelled, and the curtain rose on a scene of painted mountains. The sky was as blue as a robin’s egg, the green of the mountains as rich as an emerald. Isla smiled to herself as they were blatantly and charmingly Scottish.
Home.
Oliver let out a delighted gasp as the actors made their entrances. He turned to Isla, his excitement bubbling over, and began to lean on her arm, his focus entirely on the stage.
“It is where you are from, Isla!” he whispered to her, and she patted his arm. “The Highlands!”
Benedict was leaning forward slightly, his elbow resting on the padded back of Isla’s chair.
As he reached to adjust the positioning of his seat by putting his hand on her chair, he brushed the delicate skin of her neck again, a tease that sent a jolt straight through her as if lightning.
He let his fingers linger for a moment, taking a small lock of hair and twirling it in his fingers.
He leaned forward more, his breath hotter still on her neck.
The contact was instantaneous, electric. And thankfully, completely hidden from Oliver, who was laughing loudly at a harlequin on stage.
Isla tried to shift away from his touch, if only to steady herself, but the box was too small. The subtle scent of Benedict’s cologne, that familiar, expensive scent of sandalwood and crisp air, was overwhelming in the enclosed space. She was enveloped by him.
Is this room shrinkin’ or am I losin’ me mind?
She arched her back and turned slightly, risking a glance at him.
Benedict was not watching the stage.
His gaze was fixed on the graceful curve of her neck and exposed shoulders in her exquisite evening gown.
She watched his eyes drop to her mouth. He was utterly still, his jaw relaxed, his usual severity softened by the dim, warm light of the stage below.
And then, he did the most peculiar thing of all.
He smiled.
She cleared her throat softly and forced her attention back to the stage, turning with a bump back to face front. “I just wanted to say… that the, um, the scenery is quite impressive, Yer Gra—Benedict,” she whispered, not looking at him. “Aye?”
He did not reply.
Instead, his fingers slowly, carefully, moved back to the rear of her seat. This time, he did not touch her. He did not need to. The proximity was an agony of frustrated need that was more palpable than any stroke of his fingers. It was a silent challenge, a demand only she could hear.
I am powerless against his pull…
Oliver, meanwhile, was completely absorbed and oblivious to the growing tension offstage. He shifted again, leaning his head against Isla’s shoulder as a giant dog entered the scene.
“I wish I had a dog like that,” Oliver said, almost to himself.