Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Candlelight and the clatter of utensils filled the dining hall of Rochdale Castle, and the sound of it was so unusual that Oscar was still taking his time getting accustomed to it.
He had already drunk two glasses of wine, had already made sure to integrate himself into the conversations, and yet the reality of his full dining hall still unsettled him.
“Your Grace.” A female voice snagged his attention, snapping him out of his almost dissociative state. He blinked at Isabella’s youngest sister, Alicia. “You must enjoy such a large gathering. Isabella has often said that you both prefer eating alone.”
He caught his wife’s gaze, trying not to frown in question. She had written about such things? And not only that, but she had worded it not to make him seem as though he had forced her to eat alone. She only smiled softly at him, lifting her shoulders.
“Well…” He cleared his throat. “When one does not have company, one does not entirely have a need for a large dining hall.”
“So it pleases you, then, to have company tonight?” Alicia pressed, her eyes bright. For a lady so young, he had already seen her persistence. There was a sort of stubbornness to her that he recognized from Isabella.
“I imagine it does not,” Edmund snorted, and Oscar looked toward where his friend sat on one length of the table. He was next to Isabella’s friend, Lady Mary, who watched Isabella with keen, knowing eyes, as if sensing anything amiss that could not be spoken about.
She seemed protective, and Oscar liked that. Isabella deserved somebody like these protective ladies around the table.
“Alicia.” This time it was Hermia who spoke.
She sat next to the Duke of Branmere, and on the Duke’s other side was Charles’s daughter from his first marriage, and Hermia’s stepdaughter, Phoebe.
The trio hadn’t kept to themselves despite being their family unit, and it was clear to see just how much the sisters shared their lives despite living so far apart. “Leave His Grace alone.”
“Oh, Hermia,” Isabella laughed, “we are family. I am certain you can call my husband by his Christian name.” Her beautiful eyes caught his, and Oscar’s body jolted, as it always did when he looked head-on at her. He gave her a small nod to confirm her offer.
“Then may I call you Oscar?” Alicia asked, leaning forward to cup her chin, smiling self-assuredly.
“Isabella will tell you that I extensively believe in dropping titles altogether. I understand the need for them, but I find it bizarre that, upon meeting another lady, I still must call her Lady just for the pleasure of others who think it is courteous.”
Despite himself, Oscar laughed, short and surprised. “You have very strong opinions, Lady Alicia.”
“See! This is what I mean. Please call me Alicia. Just Alicia. I do not need to have a title before my name. I am a lady plenty enough otherwise.”
“Then we may be Oscar and Alicia.”
“After all, we are family,” Alicia pointed out. “So, we ought to be more comfortable with one another, no?”
Stunned and wordless, Oscar just nodded. What else could he say? He had never had a fully functioning family, not one that laughed without force or spoke without thinking of what to say. Yet, he sat around the table with Alicia and Sibyl, Hermia and her family, his own wife, and their friends.
It was strange to be surrounded by such good people, and Oscar, in his own way, couldn’t get comfortable with it.
If anything, he couldn’t stop looking at the trio that was Hermia, her husband, Charles, and their daughter, Phoebe.
Oscar had heard through rumors—thanks to Edmund’s incessant love of ton gossip and informing Oscar against his own desires—that although Phoebe was not Hermia’s biological daughter, the duchess had taken her under her wing as a stepmother.
He could see it now: how Hermia’s face lit up whenever she looked at the young girl, barely two and ten. How her voice softened when she spoke to Phoebe, but her tone was more humorous when she spoke with her sisters.
It made something deeply twist in Oscar’s chest, looking at the simple family, wondering what hardships they had all faced to get to that point.
Maybe they all had easy lives. Maybe they had not had to fight tooth and nail, with fists and rifles through a military, to find what Oscar had found in Isabella.
But he watched his wife watching the family Hermia had, and something dug deep in his sternum.
“Oscar?”
He was aware of someone saying his name, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the desperate look Isabella gave her eldest sister.
Had he deprived her of a family? They both took precautions to ensure nothing came from their coupling, but what if she wanted it, deep down?
He had never even thought of discussing it, and some part of him felt so bitter and disgusted with himself for that.
“What?” he snapped on instinct, finding the source of his name being spoken. It came from Lady Mary, and he swallowed his next bitter retort he’d usually reserve for Edmund when he was bothered too greatly.
“Apologies, Lady Mary, I did not hear what you said,” he smoothed over. “Please tell me again?”
“I was simply remarking on how Lord Harcross throws the most delightful balls. Do you agree? Lord Harcross says the two of you are good friends.”
Oscar looked between Edmund and Lady Mary, raising a brow. He noticed that Isabella did too, cocking her head in that thoughtful way. He filed away a mental note to ask her about it later, suddenly invested in how much his friend looked across at Lady Mary.
“Oh, come now, Lady Mary,” Edmund intervened when Oscar was too silent for too long. “My soirees are merely part of my role. As a marquess, I must impress, no?”
“And impress you do, as I am certain you know,” Lady Mary giggled, and Oscar noted the peculiar flush on his friend’s face. Very few ladies had done such a thing to his usually very confident friend.
“You compliment me too graciously, Lady Mary,” Edmund chuckled, taking a sip of his wine.
Around the table, the two of them were watched with thoughtful enough expressions that Oscar actually realized they all thought the same thing.
That a single man and a single lady might find something in common to take beyond tonight.
But Oscar still noted how Isabella watched her sister with her stepdaughter, and he drank away the bitter punch that hit his gut. Had he deprived her? He chased away the thought with another gulp of wine. Her eyes were so wide. Did she envy her sister?
He turned his focus back to Edmund and how he kept looking at Lady Mary. He tried to decipher the looks they gave one another. Something in him wrenched, for he had never seen such a thing, and he was sure he had never felt such a thing. Still, he glanced at his wife, questioning himself.
“Do you like my parties, Lady Mary?” Edmund asked, and Oscar swore he detected a hint of insecurity in his friend’s voice.
“Oh, very much, Lord Harcross,” Lady Mary said. “After all, I see myself as a conventional lady of the ton, and, as you know, every eligible lady does attend your balls. Ah, speaking of, Isabella, Lord Stanton did not bother you at Lord and Lady Farrell’s dinner party the other night, I hope?”
At the reminder of the event, Oscar’s hand tightened on his wineglass. Nothing remarkable had happened at it, but Lord Stanton had, in fact, been there, and Oscar had needed to fight every instinct he had not to punch the man through the nearest wall for even daring to show his face.
“Mercifully, he did not bother either of us,” Isabella said, smiling at her friend, and then at Oscar.
He noticed how her smile went a little softer when it was aimed at him.
It was as though she still put on a front to convince everybody she was all right.
With him, that front was dropped, and it struck him to see that.
“Good,” Hermia cut in, her voice hard. “I do not like his even attending the events he knows you will be at.”
“I am certain our mother was overjoyed, though,” Sibyl muttered, and the sisters all looked to her.
She was usually the understanding one, from what Oscar knew and had learned through Isabella.
But bitterness coated her tongue, and she shook her head.
“She is becoming more ruthless in her hunt for a match for me, and…” She inhaled sharply.
“I do not know. She keeps speaking about Lord Stanton, and I have half a fear she might try to match me with him. She still thinks he is a good choice.”
“Which is precisely why an invitation was not extended to her tonight,” Isabella answered, her voice bright.
“Good,” Hermia said again.
“Good!” Phoebe called out, laughing to herself. She had a round face, still innocent with childhood, but when she peered over at Oscar, her eyes turned curious. “You are like my papa, are you not? A duke.”
Oscar glanced at Charles, who smiled behind his fist.
“I am indeed,” Oscar answered. “And Lady Isabella is my duchess, as Lady Hermia is your father’s.”
Phoebe considered that with a hum, looking between the two couples. “Do you always wear dark clothing? Papa does a lot, but Hermia insists on putting pretty colors on him when she can. Does Lady Isabella do the same?”
Despite himself, Oscar laughed. “I just prefer darker clothing, but Lady Isabella has certainly tried to encourage me otherwise.”
“You should listen to her,” Phoebe said, very matter-of-factly. “Ladies know good things about fashion.”
Hermia and Charles both let out a laugh at that, as if Phoebe was implying Dukes did not know a thing about fashion simply for preferring their darker palettes.
“Duly noted,” Oscar laughed. “What color do you suggest?”
“Lilac,” the little girl said decisively. “It is my favorite color at the moment.”
“Phoebe, stop terrorizing His Grace,” Charles told her, but there was still laughter in his voice, and a smile on his face. Oscar had once heard rumors about Charles’s temper with his daughter, but there was no sign of that now. Only sheer adoration.
That pang of longing reared itself once more, and Oscar wondered if he himself wanted what the three of them had.
He did not know if he did. He was terrified his own temperament would stop him from being a good father, and he refused to ever put a child through what his parents had done to him.
How they had treated him, and he couldn’t take the risk that he would be any better.
Oscar drank again and caught his wife’s gaze. She cocked her head in silent question, but he smiled at her, a wordless all is fine. She knew differently, of course, but they could not discuss anything in front of their guests.
Edmund looked between the two of them, and then back to Hermia’s family, his face thoughtful.
Oscar could only hope that his friend wasn’t thinking the same as him and had an idea to bring up the subject of children.
Thankfully, he didn’t, although Oscar knew that when the two of them met alone, he likely would.
The remainder of the dinner party made Oscar lapse into silence, but once their guests were gone, Isabella came back to him in the dining hall after waving off her family.
“Are you all ri—”
Before her question could form fully, Oscar caught her waist in his hands and pushed her back against the table.
He had already dismissed his staff, and now, all he wanted was to have his hands on his wife, to ignore the questions in his head, the doubts, and the worries that he might not be giving her everything she wanted.
That she might be protecting him by not voicing those wants.
“I am perfectly fine,” he growled into her neck, desire already overtaking him. “Take me inside you.”
Isabella’s head tipped back as she fluttered out a shaky sigh, a coy smile already on her face as she tugged up her skirts. “I have wanted you all night. I enjoy the sight of you at a dinner table, dressed up, bathed in candlelight.”
“And I, you,” he told her, mouth still lingering on her throat.
His hands already had his breeches unfastened, his length freed.
He nipped at her skin, groaning when Isabella parted her legs.
He found her already aroused, and slipping himself into her felt like being back where he belonged. Nestled into her, Oscar let himself go.
He thrust into her mercilessly from the first entry, and Isabella’s breathy cries filled the dining hall beautifully, the room echoing her moans.
She gripped the table behind her, her eyes fluttering shut with pleasure.
The table creaked beneath his movements, and he half feared he was being too rough with his wife, but when she opened her eyes, he saw the deepest arousal there.
She gripped the back of his hair, pulling his face to hers.
Her teeth snagged his lip, meeting his wildness, and he groaned into her. He took everything he wanted and gave it all right back to her. Isabella took him, her body moving in tandem with his own, and he found he could not hold on to his release for much longer.
“Climax for me,” he breathed out, mouth enclosing the shell of her ear. He dragged his teeth down the skin just beneath her ear. “Give me your release, Isabella.”
Around his length, her walls tightened, and he thrust even harder, bringing them both to their breaking point. When Isabella released, her nails scratched over his head, and he shuddered at the slight sting of it, tipping into his climax with a loud shout.
After they parted, Isabella kissed him so hard he lost his breath, but when she pulled back, her expression was serious.
“Do not think this lets you evade whatever was on your mind. I could see your thoughts churning during dinner.”
“Everything is perfectly fine,” he told her.
I want to give you everything you want, but I fear I cannot.
That I am not. I fear my shadows are still too impenetrable, that I will deprive you of the light a family of your own could bring to your life.
I fear fatherhood, but I fear not giving you enough in life.
“I do not believe you,” she said softly, kissing him again. “But I will not push. You can tell me when you are ready.”
Oscar only nodded. He didn’t think he would be. Opening up such a conversation was too vulnerable, and he had shared so much already. For this one thing, he could stay reserved. With one last kiss, Oscar slipped his hand into Isabella’s and led her back to her chambers.
He half thought about retreating to his own room to fall into his thoughts, but he found he did not want to do that.
Instead, he undressed at her side before slipping into her bed with her and pressing a kiss to her shoulder as they fell asleep.