Chapter 18 #2
“Well, ye never ken what can happen,” Isla said with a small wink. “Christmas is comin’ after all…”
The boy shifted again, leaning on his legs to get a closer look at the action on stage and not quite hearing Isla’s words.
I will have to remember that… somethin’ to talk to me husband about later…
“He likes you immensely, Isla,” Benedict whispered, his voice low, his breath stirring the fine hairs at her neck once more.
“He is a good lad,” Isla whispered back, her heart hammering against her ribs, her body aching with the need to turn fully into him, to feel the comfort and fire of his embrace.
As the silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken thoughts and physical proximity, Isla slowly turned her head. Her gaze lifted, meeting the Duke’s eyes directly in the dim theatre box.
In that instant, everything else receded.
The muted rumble of the audience, the stiffness of her gown, the weight of their complicated reality, all of it vanished.
His eyes, dark blue and fathomless, held hers in a silent, profound lock.
She could read nothing of his thoughts, only the intense, focused heat of his gaze.
It felt as if they were falling, slowly, endlessly, into the singularity of that one look.
She lost all track of where they were or who was watching.
The space between them seemed to shrink, charged with a magnetic, terrifying intimacy that made her pulse thunder in her ears.
A sudden, loud intrusion shattered the spell.
“The play will continue after a short intermission,” an announcement rang out as the actors exited the stage.
With that, the house lights abruptly came up, flooding the box with a stark, unwelcome glare that violently yanked Isla back to reality.
She blinked, feeling a faintness that had nothing to do with the stuffy theatre air, and immediately looked away, her cheeks burning.
“Papa, I must excuse myself,” Oliver said as he went to visit the necessary room, leaving Isla and Benedict alone in the box. “I promise not to dawdle!”
“Mind your manners and come right back, Oliver,” he said with a smile, handing him a few coins. “Be sure to grab a small refreshment as well.”
“Thank you, Papa! Thank you so much!” He said as he left the box.
Benedict leaned back in his seat and put his arms behind his head, his eyes dark as the ocean as he watched her stand to stretch her legs.
“You are exquisite tonight, Duchess,” he said, his voice husky. “Perhaps you were right to have us come, even just to see you dressed up like this one last time before we leave London.”
“We still have one more act,” she said shyly. “Ye may change yer mind.”
“Ah yes, I now find myself deeply regretting my promise to Oliver that we remain through the entire performance.”
Isla trembled, bringing a hand to her mouth. It was all so fresh, so new, so overwhelming. She hardly knew where to turn, what to feel, and how to act.
“We… we cannae…be so open,” she managed, her tongue suddenly thick in her mouth and desperate for water. She could feel the raw desire emanating from him, mirroring the aching void inside her as he licked the side of his lip. “Oliver will return. Someone might see.”
“Oh, I know,” he agreed, his eyes never leaving hers. “Waiting and wanting is half the fun.”
He reached out and she leaned down to him, her cleavage on display. With the lightest possible touch, he ran the back of his finger along the curve of her jaw, right up to the line of her ear.
“A terrible predicament,” he mused, a dark smile touching his full lips as he stroked his beard. “To be so close to what I desire, and yet utterly incapable of claiming it. Whatever will we do about this?”
“I…I…”
“You are a smart lass, Isla,” he said with a tease. “Will you think of a way to make it up to me when we are home?”
The moment stretched, charged, and agonizing as she thought of a retort to no avail. Isla wanted to beg him to take her, right there, against the plush velvet. She was hungry. And needy. And wet.
Then, the door to the box clicked open.
“I am back!” Oliver announced cheerfully, bounding into the box, his attention immediately returning to the now-raising curtain. “And guess what? I brought roasted nuts!”
“Splendid,” Isla said with a smile. “I am in desperate need of some sugar!”
Benedict rose from his seat and walked to the front row, taking the seat next to Isla and grabbing a fistful of nuts.
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, his gaze fixed on the stage as the play began once more.
But as Isla placed her hand back on her lap, he quickly covered it with his own, pressing a silent, possessive claim she couldn’t deny.
I am nae imagin’ this silent promise. He wants me. He needs me.
He kept it there, his large, warm hand completely enveloping hers, throughout the rest of the performance.
The final curtain fell with a thunderous rush of velvet and applause as the entire audience rose to their feet. Oliver, who had been leaning into Isla’s side for the entire last act, sprang upright, clapping furiously, his eyes wider and brighter than the diamonds on Isla’s ears.
“Papa! Isla! Wasn’t it simply the best thing you have ever seen?” he cried.
“Aye, it was grand, mo chridhe,” Isla agreed, laughing and squeezing his arm.
The energy of the crowd felt like a wave pressing against their box, and the sudden warmth of Benedict’s hand, lifting hers from the armrest, was an anchor that brought her back to reality.
“We must hurry,” Benedict murmured, not looking at either of them, but holding her hand firmly enough to convey his command. “The crush to leave will be tremendous. Come, Oliver, quickly now.”
“Yes, Papa!”
They slipped out of the box and into the velvet-lined corridor.
The Duke had timed their exit perfectly, and they avoided the worst of the surging crowd by using a private staircase.
But the press of humanity outside the theatre was still overwhelming.
Everywhere they turned, there was a river of silk, fur, and flashing jewelry, all illuminated by the flickering gas lamps and the torches of the waiting footmen outside carriages.
Oliver, high on roasted nuts and excitement, suddenly found the crowd too much. He stopped, clinging to the skirt of Isla’s gown, looking small and overwhelmed as he inched closer to her.
“Papa, it’s too noisy,” he whimpered with a loud yawn.
Benedict immediately scooped the boy up. He held him securely against his chest, the boy’s head resting on his shoulder.
“It is only a moment, son,” Benedict said, his voice a low, reassuring rumble. “We are going straight to the carriage. Although I am just now realizing you have never intentionally stayed up this late before. Do you feel all right, Oliver?”
“Yes, Papa,” Oliver said with another yawn. “It was the best night of my life…”
Isla followed close behind them as they moved past the bustling masses. The footman, immaculate in Ealdwick livery, cleared a path to their waiting black carriage at the corner.
Once inside, the door slammed shut, cutting off the city with a welcome thud. Oliver lay stretched out on the plush leather seat, his head pillowed in Isla’s lap, his velvet coat rumpled. The soft clatter of the hooves and the gentle rocking motion of the springs were a peaceful lullaby.
Isla smoothed his hair, which had finally escaped the perfect Fauntleroy ribbon, and watched his eyelids flutter and settle. He was asleep before they had crossed the busy street.
“He had a marvelous time,” she whispered, leaning back slightly, suddenly aware that Benedict was seated opposite her, his long legs stretching out toward hers.
“He did,” Benedict confirmed, his voice thick and warm in the confined space. “Thank you for insisting, Isla. It was necessary for him to have a bit of fun, see the world beyond Ealdwick.”
She felt his gaze on her, but the light was too dim to read his expression. She only knew that the void between them was closing rapidly with every passing second. With Oliver asleep, the only buffer was the boy’s small body nestled in her lap.
She shifted her hand from Oliver’s hair to the rich fabric of the carriage seat. Benedict’s hand followed the movement, not touching her yet, but resting inches from her gloved wrist.
Just touch me, ye fool. Take me hand once more.
Her breath hitched, shallow and fast. Then, Benedict moved. He didn’t reach for her hand. Instead, he slowly lifted his own, reaching for the velvet curtain hanging across the small window. He adjusted it, pulling it tighter, plunging the carriage into almost complete darkness.
“Better,” he breathed, the word like a caress.
He then reached over the sleeping child, his large hand finally closing over her own in a slow, tender embrace. His thumb began to stroke the soft glove, a blissfully repetitive motion that both relaxed and excited her.
Isla closed her eyes, utterly helpless. The scent of sandalwood and crisp wool, his scent, was all around her.
This is more magical than the theatre itself.
“Ye are a torment, Benedict,” she whispered, her voice a fragile wisp of sound.
He shifted, leaning forward slightly. He lifted their clasped hands and brought her gloved knuckles to his lips, pressing a kiss.
“We are almost home,” she whispered, the thought of his bed, his room, her pulse hammering in her temples.
The carriage finally came to a smooth stop. The doors flew open, revealing the faces of footmen and the magnificent stone facade of Ealdwick Townhouse.
“I’ll take him,” Benedict said immediately, releasing her hand. He moved with swift, silent efficiency.
Isla carefully lifted Oliver’s head and slid out from beneath him. Benedict gathered the boy effortlessly, cradling his limp body against his broad shoulder. Oliver stirred slightly, burrowing his face deeper into his father’s coat, but did not wake.
They entered the vast foyer, and Benedict nodded to Isla as he approached the stairs. He took them two at a time, yet carefully ensuring the movement did not jostle Oliver.
Isla watched the powerful lines of his back, the way he protected his son. A deep appreciation for both swelled in her chest, mixing violently with the raw hunger he had kindled in the carriage.
For the first time in her life, she felt truly wanted.
They reached the top floor, the heavy, wool carpet muffling his heavy steps. Oliver’s room was dimly lit by a whale-oil lamp.
“He’s dead to the world, Miss Mary,” Benedict said to the maid who was waiting, his voice soft as silk.
“I can see, Your Grace,” the nurse replied. “If you’ll just place him gently… I will make sure he is fully settled before I retire below for the evening.”
Benedict walked to the small, four-poster bed.
He lowered his son onto the mattress and removed his overcoat, leaving him in his britches.
Then, he carefully pulled the blankets over the boy’s shoulders and tucked them under his chin.
He spent a long moment simply watching Oliver sleep, brushing the hair from his forehead.
He felt then that Isla stood in the doorway, her arms wrapped around herself, scenting her jasmine perfume.
As Benedict turned to leave, his eyes met Isla’s over the head of the sleeping child.
The tenderness evaporated, replaced instantly by the dark, compelling desire she had seen in the opera box.
“Goodnight, Oliver,” Isla murmured, stepping into the room and kissing the boy’s temple.
“Goodnight, mo chridhe,” Benedict echoed softly.
He paused at the door, giving the nurse a small nod before ushering Isla out and down the hall to his quarters with a slow, deliberate click of the latch. He leaned his immense height against the wood of the door.
“Will you show me now, Isla?” he asked, his voice gravelly. “What does my little duchess have planned for me?”
Isla took one step toward him, then another.
“I will think of somethin’, Yer Grace,” she said with a small curtsy, showcasing her generous bosom. “But I will need ye to teach me a bit more.”
“Come over to the chair by the fire and sit on my lap, good girl. I will show you a thing or two…”