Chapter 24 #2
Around midday, they stopped briefly at a coaching inn to feed the horses.
Oliver, energized by the meal and the momentary release from the carriage, spent ten lively minutes running circles around the inn’s yard before Benedict hauled him back inside.
Isla noticed how carefree he was, and how, without the scrutiny of others, he seemed to move quite well for his ailment.
I will need to encourage him more, and since Callum has taught him how to play shinty, we could hire someone to come and give him more proper lessons…
Once they resumed the journey, the warmth of the fresh embers in their foot warmers, the heavy air, and the steady rocking motion finally lured the boy into a deep sleep.
Oliver’s head dropped heavily onto Benedict’s shoulder.
The Duke, caught mid-calculation, froze.
Ilsa watched him look down at the mop of dark hair, the same as his own, his jaw tightening slightly.
He lifted his free hand, not to push the boy away, but to carefully reposition the velvet rug over his sleeping form.
Benedict then adjusted his papers so the boy’s head would not crush them, and finally, he lifted his head and let his eyes fall on her.
“He is asleep now,” Isla whispered, the words barely audible over the clatter of the road. “And quite comfortable with ye.”
“Yes,” Benedict replied, his voice a low rumble. “Two more hours, Duchess. Perhaps two and a half, given the congestion near the city.”
“It is a long wait, Yer Grace,” she teased, running the tip of her gloved finger along the carriage window frame and looking at him, sending a jolt between his legs.
“The longer the wait, the sharper the relief,” he countered, his lips barely moving as he licked them.
He reached out with the hand that wasn’t supporting Oliver, his fingers gliding across the seat between them until his knuckles brushed against her skirts.
“Later, Duchess,” he said as he brought his hand back and began his work once more.
As the afternoon waned, the landscape outside changed with it. The quiet, winding roads gave way to cobbled streets, flanked by increasingly taller brick buildings.
The air, once sharp with country frost, became thick with the scent of coal smoke and the tang of the Thames.
Gas lamps flickered to life in the deepening sunset, bathing the city in a yellow glow.
The shouts of hawkers, the relentless roll of other carriages, and the distant ringing of bells surrounded them.
“Look, Oliver!” Isla exclaimed, forgetting he was asleep. She immediately lowered her voice, gently shaking his arm. “We are here, mo chridhe!”
Oliver stirred, blinking against the new lights, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten. He gasped as the carriage rounded a corner onto a wide, stately street. The Ealdwick townhouse, imposing and dark, stood waiting for them.
“Because I was so good on the carriage ride, can we go to the theatre again before we leave?”
“We will see,” Isla said as she helped him gather his book and move away the blankets. “Let us go inside.”
The carriage squealed to a halt. Before the footman could even reach the door, Benedict had thrown it open himself, his impatience finally breaking as it often did.
“Oliver’s luggage must be brought from the top immediately to his nursery. The remaining essentials should be taken directly to the master suite. Hurry, we are cold and travel-worn,” Benedict instructed a waiting footman, his voice cutting through the noise. “We will see ourselves in.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” the footman said as he set to work.
The moment the carriage door opened, a gust of cool, city air and a flurry of activity surrounded them. She carefully lifted the still-groggy Oliver from his seat.
“Come, wee lad,” she whispered, pulling the heavy velvet rug around him. “We are home. Well, one of our homes. I am nae sure I will get used to all this, but I will try.”
Benedict stood on the step, waiting. As Isla awkwardly tried to navigate the carriage steps while holding the boy, Benedict reached out.
He didn’t take the rug or steady her. Instead, he took Oliver fully into his own arms, easily maneuvering the boy’s weight as if he were carrying a stack of papers.
Oliver, half-asleep and half-awake, simply burrowed against his father’s chest with a soft moan.
Isla followed him, her body tingling from the sudden loss of the boy’s weight, now only acutely aware of the proximity of her husband’s body. The cool wintry air was no comparison to the heat she felt when close to Benedict.
They walked side-by-side up the stone steps and into the grand entrance hall. The air inside the townhouse was rich, warmed by newly stoked coal fires and fresh potpourri. A small army of the London staff, dressed in the Ealdwick livery, lined the hall, bowing in unison.
Benedict ignored them, walking directly toward the wide marble staircase. “Isla, Oliver’s room is prepared, is it not?” he asked, his voice low and firm.
“Aye,” she confirmed, removing her cloak and handing it to a maid. “Mrs. Callahan saw to it in her letters to our staff here.”
They climbed the stairs together, the silence broken only by the muffled sounds of the staff below and the rhythmic creak of the steps under their feet. The shared task of carrying the boy lent a strange intimacy to the moment, a flash of the family life they were living.
They reached Oliver’s quarters, and Benedict stood in the middle of the room, a vast space made cozy by a crackling fire and the familiar sight of his small bed and trunk. He gently placed Oliver down, rug and all. The boy sighed happily and immediately curled into a ball.
Isla quickly knelt to pull off his boots. “Sleep now, my brave wee traveler,” she murmured, placing a kiss on his cheek.
She turned to find Benedict standing over her, his shadow enveloping her entirely.
“The Arrowfells’ social engagement is tomorrow, Duchess,” he said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Which means tonight is still mine. You will earn your social victory then, but now I shall collect my reward after we sup.”
He didn’t wait for a response, simply turning and walking toward the door. Isla stood, her knees weak, watching his broad back disappear into the shadows of the hall.
Tonight is still mine. You will earn your social victory then, but now I shall collect my reward after we sup.
He hadn’t asked. He had stated. She felt a furious blush spread from her neck, but underneath it, a tremor of something else—a lurch of anticipation.
With a shake of her head, she knelt by the bed again, pulling the heavy rug free of Oliver and tucking the blankets around him to distract herself. The boy, already deep in the easy sleep of a child well-loved and thoroughly exhausted, only shifted with a soft sigh.
She lingered for a moment, tracing the curve of his cheek, letting the sight of his peaceful face steel her.
Twenty minutes late for dinner, Isla descended the main staircase.
Benedict was already seated at the head of the polished mahogany table in the secondary dining room, reading a stack of parliamentary papers, a glass of dark claret untouched by his elbow.
He glanced up as she entered, his eyes cool and appraising.
“You are tardy, Duchess,” he noted, his voice flat.
“The boy was tired and I didnae want to leave him,” she replied, taking her seat a respectable distance away. The footman immediately filled her own glass and silently served the first course. It was Isla’s favorite after a long ride, a clear, delicate consommé.
The meal was eaten in a silence heavier than any they had shared on the journey.
Benedict ate with his usual efficiency, his focus split between the papers and his plate.
Every tiny clink of silver against porcelain felt like a shout as the anticipation grew within her.
She kept her gaze fixed on the tablecloth, acutely aware of the space between them.
Finally, Benedict folded his papers with a sharp, decisive snap.
“The Arrowfells will require your utmost charm tomorrow,” he said, pushing his empty plate away. “We shall retire to bed now.”
“I am most grateful, for all of this,” she answered, setting her own fork down.
He merely stood, his tall, powerful frame swallowing all the light in the room. His dark hair fell, framing his bearded face as his blue eyes sparkled at her dangerously.
“Good,” he said, his voice dropping low.
He pushed his chair back with a scrape and walked toward the door leading to the main hall, then paused, looking back at her over his shoulder.
“Come, Isla.”
Isla followed him from the warm supper room, down the long, empty corridor to the master suite.
The vast bedroom was dim, lit only by a low fire and a single oil lamp on a distant chest. The heavy, gold-threaded curtains had already been drawn tight against the London night.
The air smelled of fine linen and Benedict’s masculine scent, more intoxicating than the lavish claret they had at dinner.
He was already moving, stripping off his waistcoat and tossing it carelessly onto a velvet chaise.
His movements were swift and impatient. He didn’t look at her, yet she felt the full weight of his focus.
She thrived on the feeling, her blood rushing to that familiar place that pulled her to him like a spell.
Isla stood just inside the door, her hands clenched at her sides. She felt the familiar, hot flare of desire, yet also felt so unsure as to what her husband wanted from her.
“Ye needn’t rush, Yer Grace,” she managed. “I am nae goin’ anywhere.”
He stopped, his fingers hovering over the buttons of his shirt, and finally turned. The fire lit his high cheekbones and amplified the dark intensity in his eyes.
“I am aware of that, Duchess,” he said, his voice soft.
He finished unbuttoning his shirt, impossibly slow now as her eyes roved over his every muscle, before he finally shrugged it off.
He let it fall silently to the thick carpet with a cocky grin.
He was a magnificent figure, his chest broad and deeply muscled from fencing and riding, now bare to the lamplight.
He walked the few steps that separated them, stopping close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze.
She could smell the faintest trace of claret on his breath.
He lifted a hand, and she instinctively flinched.
She wanted him so badly, yet she was still so unsure in these moments of what to do, how to act, and what he wanted.
All I want is to please him…
His fingers caught the edge of her dress, pulling it free and letting it slide down her back to reveal her chemise. Then, his large hand cupped the back of her neck, his thumb pressing into the fine hair at her nape.
“That is right, Duchess,” he murmured. “The debt is due. And you will find,” he added, his eyes dropping to her full mouth, “that I am a thorough collector.”
He simply held her then, his thumb stroking that sensitive spot, forcing her to breathe in the heat of his body and the promise of the coming darkness.
“You want me to go slower, my sweet?” He rasped.
“Aye,” she said as her desire took over, filling her with a confidence she had never known. She wriggled out of her chemise, revealing her body to him then. “I want to take our time.”
“Your wish is my command,” he whispered in her ear as he drew her into his arms. “You know just being with you is all the reward I require? That your happiness is all I desire, Duchess?”