Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
It was the day before their anticipated departure for Ealdwick Manor, which was continually delayed by trips to the theatre, business dealings, and other such things, much to the duke’s chagrin.
The morning dawned clear and brisk, a light frost in the air as the December chill had truly set in. Isla insisted over breakfast that they spend their last afternoon in London away from the stifling formality of calls and ledgers. They had spent enough time on such things.
“I think we deserve a proper exploration of the city before we return to the country,” Isla said as she finished the last of her boiled egg, dabbing her lips with her napkin.
“Ooh that sounds so exciting!” Oliver said as he finished his toast. “What do you have in mind, Isla?”
“How about a stroll through London and we can see what we find… what do ye think, Yer Grace?” She said with a smile as he looked at her from behind his newspaper.
“Very well,” Benedict said as he set the paper down and took a sip of coffee. “It will be blizzarding soon enough in England, I am sure. Where would you like to go?”
“I think it is better if I surprise ye,” Isla said with a wry smile, rising from her seat and scurrying to her quarters to get ready.
And so, the trio set off on a walk through the city later that morning.
They made their way down the cobblestone streets until they reached the bustling city center.
Isla steered Benedict and Oliver toward a lively square known for a colorful riot of handmade quilts and jars of preserves, and street performers.
The scents of roasted nuts filled the air.
Oliver, clutching Isla’s hand, was overwhelmed by all the goings-on yet clearly thrilled by the spectacle of it with the grin that took up his face. Benedict stalked beside them, his shoulders taut beneath his coat as he passed through the busy square.
“This is awfully busy,” Benedict said with a huff. “Is there something you were looking for in particular, Your Grace?”
“Nay, it is just for a bit of fun. Lookin’ at all the treats is part of it… although I would love a warm pastry.”
“Oh Isla, do you hear that music?” Oliver yelped with joy. “I have never heard such happy sounds!”
They stopped near a patch of cobbled ground where a small, energetic band was playing a lively reel. Children and young couples had gathered around, laughing as they attempted the complicated steps, their joy infectious.
Benedict looked up and noticed that the streetlamps were adorned with garland and thought for a moment about the holidays and what that may mean for them as a family of three.
“Look, Oliver!” Isla exclaimed, breaking Benedict from his thoughts. Her green eyes were sparkling as she tapped her foot to the music. “A proper Scottish jig! Come on, let’s join in.”
Oliver immediately pulled back, bumping gently into Benedict’s side. His face clouded over, the previous excitement vanishing with the cold winter wind. “Oh, no, Isla. I… I do not think I should.”
Isla knelt immediately, bringing herself to his level. “Nonsense!”
“But… I am clumsy here,” Oliver whispered, looking miserably down at his feet. The limp he tried so hard to hide was always more noticeable when he was tired or trying to move too quickly. “I would only trip over everyone and embarrass Papa.”
Benedict watched as Isla cupped his cheek, her expression warm. “Oliver, every single person out here is a little clumsy. And with some of them with drink I would wager! It is what makes it fun! And if ye trip, ye just laugh and keep on goin’.”
“Perhaps,” Oliver said softly, still not conceding.
“Besides,” she glanced up at Benedict, a glint in her eye. “We will nae be alone in our awkwardness. Yer father will join us.”
Benedict blinked rapidly. “I beg your pardon, Isla. I most certainly will not. I abhor dancing on the best of occasions, and I certainly do not jig. Dukes do not publicly expose their lack of rhythm.”
Isla faced him, her stance uncompromising. “A Duke who fears a bit of music is a Duke who has forgotten how to live, Benedict. Look at yer son.”
“I am not afraid, Isla,” he barked as he looked down at Oliver, his eyes wide and searching.
“Ye see?” Isla pressed, her voice firm. “He needs ye. He needs to ken ye will look foolish for him. Just for a moment.”
Benedict stared down at her, then at the hopeful face of his son. The need to protect Oliver, which had become his driving force, outweighed the need to maintain his image.
For so long I have tried to keep him from the world, perhaps it is time to try a new approach.
“Very well,” Benedict conceded, his eyes widening dramatically at Isla. “But if I break an ankle, I shall blame you and your barbaric dances, Duchess.”
“I shall be sure to catch ye, Yer Grace,” Isla giggled.
The trio stepped onto the cobbled dance area. Oliver was, as he predicted, clumsy at first and especially compared to the children around him who moved so effortlessly. His left leg lagged slightly, throwing off his timing as he tried to imitate the movement of the experienced dancers.
Benedict watched on as Isla refused to let him retreat. She took his hands, simplifying the steps.
“Look at me, Oliver. One-two, jump! One-two, step!”
Benedict stood stiffly beside them, attempting the basic footwork with the grave seriousness of a man negotiating a treaty, but he attempted, nonetheless.
He knew that he looked utterly ridiculous, but he did not stop.
Oliver caught sight of his father’s painfully focused expression and let out a hesitant laugh, covering his little mouth with his hands.
As the music quickened, Isla linked her arm through Benedict’s, pulling him into a slightly faster, less formal step. She leaned in, her eyes sparkling with pure delight.
“Loosen yer spine, Benedict! Ye look like a tree trunk!”
He looked down at her, a muscle twitching in his jaw, but then, seeing Oliver successfully executing a simple hop, a faint smile touched Benedict’s lips.
He allowed his weight to shift, letting Isla lead him.
He gave in to the foreign submission of control, his stiffness melting into a steady movement as he listened to the music build.
I am dancing? I am laughing?
And oh, were they were laughing.
A Duke, a Duchess, and his son, moving together in the London sun, were indistinguishable from any other delighted family.
Later that afternoon, Oliver was safely tucked into bed for an afternoon rest, and Isla stood on the main staircase.
“What are you thinking about, Duchess?” Benedict asked, appearing at the foot of the stairs, looking tired but softer than usual.
“Oliver was fascinated by the stars earlier as I read to him,” she explained, descending the last steps as she looked to the window. “He kept asking if the theatre ceiling was the night sky. He seems to have a real fascination with the great, wide world above us.”
“His young mind is working,” Benedict dismissed. “That is all.”
“It is a yearnin’ for wonder,” Isla corrected. She stopped and looked at him, an idea forming. “I am thinkin’ we should nae dine in the dining room, Benedict. We should take our supper in the small conservatory.”
Benedict frowned. “The conservatory?”
“Aye!”
“It is not set up for dinner, and it is glass. It will be chilly. And entirely unsuitable.”
“We will have a fire brought in, and all the lamps. And it is the only place in this entire house where the ceiling is glass!” Isla said as she approached him, taking his hand and squeezing it. “We can look up and see the sky with Oliver while we eat. Just one last adventure before we leave.”
Benedict sighed, the resistance performative. “You are determined to overturn every rule of this house… aren’t you, Duchess?”
“Only the daft ones,” she replied, leading him toward the back of the house.
“It is only because I have agreed to it,” he barked. “I am still in charge.”
“Of course, Yer Grace,” she said with a small curtsy.
The conservatory was transformed by late afternoon, just as the sun began to fully set.
Tapers on large candelabras glowed everywhere, casting warm reflections off the glass roof, which revealed the dark, star-dusted London sky.
A small, intimate table was set for three.
Oliver was already there, utterly delighted, pointing at the constellations and making sketches in a notepad with charcoal.
Dinner was a blissfully relaxed affair. Oliver, freed from the strict rules of the main dining room, spoke freely about the phases of the moon and the vastness of the cosmos.
Benedict, unaccustomed to such casualness, gradually loosened.
He was overcome by the warm light and the sound of Oliver’s frequent giggles, mostly prompted by Isla’s silly jokes.
“Oh Isla, tell a ridiculous story again! You always tell the best stories!”
“Which one? Ye ken I have many,” Isla said as she took a small sip from her wine glass.
“Oh, you had said something once about the one about the farmer and the shooting star,” Oliver demanded, wiping a smudge of chocolate gateau from his chin.
“Nay, nay, lad. That tale is for the carriage ride tomorrow,” Isla said, leaning closer to the boy. “It is a long journey, and we will have plenty of time then.”
“That sounds great!” Oliver said as he polished off the last of his bite. “I am a bit tired, if I am being honest.”
“Which you always must be, young Duke,” Benedict said as he drained the last of his glass.
“Aye, I think it is almost time for ye to go to bed,” Isla said softly. “Although, I think there is one last thing I have to do.”
Suddenly, she reached out and with a swift, playful motion, used her thumb to transfer the smudge of chocolate from Oliver’s chin directly onto the side of Benedict’s hard jaw.
Benedict froze, his eyes widening in pure shock. Isla immediately erupted into a fit of laughter, clutching her ribs. Oliver looked horrified, then started to giggle nervously.
“Isla!” Benedict exclaimed, his tone half-outraged, half-amused. He wiped at the smudge with a napkin, but the attempt only spread the chocolate into a dark streak. “You did that. On purpose!”
“Aye, I did,” she confessed as she roared with laughter, her eyes wet with tears.
“Whatever for?” He rasped as he fought back laughter.
“Ye needed a bit of color, Yer Grace. Ye were looking too serious for the cosmos.”
Before she could plan a retreat, Benedict threw down his napkin and was on his feet. He picked up his fork, scooped a dollop of the rich, dark gateau, and, with the precision of an archer, flicked a large, generous stripe right across the bridge of Isla’s nose.
“There,” he stated, his voice deep with satisfied revenge, a genuine, powerful laugh finally escaping his chest. “We are even, Duchess.”
Oliver burst into delighted, unrestrained laughter, clapping his hands.
“This is better than the theatre, Papa!”
“Perhaps there is a spot for you yet on the stage?” Isla said with a wry smile.
“Perhaps,” Benedict said as he crossed his arms over his wide chest.
Isla, smeared with chocolate, looked at Benedict. She watched him laugh then, a real, chest-shaking, honest sound, for the very first time in their short marriage.
It sent warmth to her heart that trailed lower as her pulse quickened. He looked incredibly handsome when disheveled and completely human.
Hours later, the townhouse was peaceful, calm, and silent. Oliver was likely dreaming of the stars, nestled in his bed. The servants had all retired below, enjoying well-deserved rest.
And, in the master suite, the fire was low, casting shadows that danced across the elegant room. Isla lay naked on the sheets, the lingering scent of chocolate faint on her skin as she looked up at her husband.
Benedict stood at the window, pulling the curtains shut. When he turned, his expression was heavy with desire, yet softer as she took in his full blue eyes.
He has changed so much in such a short time… or perhaps this is who he really was inside all along?
“You, Duchess,” he murmured, walking toward the bed. “You are entirely too much trouble for your own good. You know that, don’t you?”
“And ye are entirely too easily amused by a bit of cake, Yer Grace,” she countered, holding out her arms to him. “Quite childish if ye ask me… but most endearin’. The way to stay young is to be young at heart…or so they say.”
He reached the bed and knelt over her, his eyes dark. He reached for the plate that held the remains of the gateau by the bedside.
“I like a bit of play.”
“Aye?”
“You taste of the stars and trouble, my Highland duchess,” he whispered, before trailing a tiny sliver of the rich, dark chocolate down the curve of her throat. “I find I have acquired a taste for both.”
He brought his mouth down and licked the dark, sweet cream. Then, he swiped another taste and trailed it from her collarbone to her breasts to the flat plane of her tight belly.
Isla arched beneath him, gasping, her control shredding under the intimate, sensual focus of his attention as she waited for the feeling of his tongue on her skin.
“Shall I have another taste, sweet duchess?” He purred as he lowered his head once more to lick the trail of sweet chocolate, proceeding to worship her body with his mouth. “You taste like Heaven…”
When he finally rose, poised above her, his breathing ragged, his eyes were blazing.
“Normally, I would make sure you are good and ready for me, but something tells me you already are,” he rasped as he undid his pants.
“Aye, I am ready for ye, husband,” she whispered.
He entered her then, slow and deep, filling the aching void she had felt all evening.
“Mine, Isla,” he groaned into her mouth, moving with the deep, possessive rhythm she craved more than oxygen itself.
“Always,” she purred as she wrapped her legs tight around him, as he pounded into her again and again.
He drove them both higher and higher, the passion fierce and undeniable, praising her with every thrust.
“You. Are. My. Good. Girl.”
“Aye, Benedict!”
As the familiar, unbearable pressure mounted, Benedict abruptly paused, his breath hitching as he wiped sweat from his brow. He pulled back, his jaw tight with the effort of control, escaping her body just as his release shattered through him, spilling himself on her belly.
“Mine,” he said as he collapsed on her, his heart hammering against her chest.
Isla simply held him, stroking his damp hair. His fierce control and protective instinct, even in the height of passion, only cemented the profound, deep faith she had placed in him.