“Your Grace, you look as though you are planning a hostile takeover of the entire city,” Kenneth drawled as he strode toward him, sipping champagne. “Is the Earl truly that dreadful, or is it simply the realization that being married means fewer late nights at the gaming hell?”
Across the glittering expanse of the ballroom, Benedict had finished his business and managed to escape the Earl of Bedfordshire, only to find himself pinned by the amused gaze of Kenneth.
He had made it no more than halfway across the room before his raised eyebrow found him, followed by a knowing wink.
With a huff, Benedict strolled over to meet him. He heard Kenneth’s teasing tone but ignored it. His eyes were fixed on the far side of the room, where a figure with an infuriatingly polished smile was holding Isla’s attention.
If he would just turn his head a bit more this way, I could see who the devil it is… It is not her brother…
“Ah,” Kenneth said, following his friend’s gaze. “Viscount Lamfort. I heard he’s been making the rounds this evening with all the ladies, though I confess I never understood his appeal.” Kenneth leaned closer. “I also noted your scowl only appeared the moment he engaged your dear wife.”
“Watch yourself.”
“Is that… jealousy I see?”
“Nonsense,” Benedict snapped, his voice low. “I have always disliked Lamfort, from when I first met him. He is an oily, self-important fool. Always with an ulterior motive.”
“Indeed,” Kenneth agreed, his eyes twinkling. “I’ve seen the underbelly of that viper. He is also Cecilia’s cousin, and last I checked, he harbored a rather tragic devotion to her memory… which naturally translates into an overly, irrational hatred for you? I suppose it is only reasonable that you would object to him charming your new wife and asking her to dance.”
“He is not charming anyone, I can assure you,” Benedict ground out, clenching his fists at his sides. “He is preying on her good nature.”
“And you are her formidable protector, of course,” Kenneth murmured.
Benedict blinked, his mind racing back to what Kenneth had said a moment ago.
“Wait,” he said, “Did you say dance?”
Kenneth smirked. “Run along then.”
Benedict ignored his prodding as the music swelled. It was a lively waltz from the sound of it, and at that very moment, Benedict watched Lamfort offer Isla his hand. Isla placed her hand in his.
That is it. No one touches what is mine.
The sight of Lamfort’s fingers closing around Isla’s hand sent a blinding, lightning bolt of fury through Benedict.
All the carefully constructed walls, the hasty marriage, the guilt over Cecilia, crumbled in an instant. He moved with the focused, determined stride of a man reclaiming what was his. He set down an empty glass on a tray and curled his fists at his sides.
He reached them just as Lamfort was guiding Isla towards the open floor. Without a word of apology or explanation, Benedict clamped a hand firmly on Lamfort’s shoulder. It was purposefully hard, a grip that made the Viscount visibly uncomfortable. Then, he moved to Isla’s side with a plastered smile.
“Lamfort,” Benedict said. “Her Grace is reserved for her husband for this set.”
He did not wait for Lamfort’s stunned, sputtering reply, which would surely have been inadequate.
Instead, Benedict seized Isla’s wrist, pulling her from the Viscount’s side, and swept her directly into the flow of the starting waltz like a whirling dervish.
Isla stumbled as she tried to follow his movements, unable to predict them as they launched into the dance. She was trying desperately to catch her breath when the Duke’s large hand settled with firmness at the small of her back, as if they were designed to live there. She felt like a toy set in motion, and suddenly they moved, spinning into the dance.
“What in God’s name do you think ye are doin’?” Isla hissed, her green eyes blazing up at him. She was furious, her pulse already beating a frantic rhythm against the heel of his hand. “Ye are makin’ a spectacle! Ye cannae just assault another peer of the realm like this!”
“I do not care,” Benedict retorted, his eyes holding hers with intense focus, daring her to look away. “Let them stare.”
“You ken that it makes me uncomfortable… when others gawk at me scars, or?—”
“You are wrong. They should all see that you are mine, Duchess. No other man may lay a hand on you or demand your time. And in that dress, I assure you that men’s eyes are averted elsewhere,” he said as his eyes drifted to her buxom chest. “This dress is quite flattering, my Duchess.”
“I am nae yers,” she whispered fiercely, trying to ignore the heat that radiated through the fabric of their clothes and melted them together as they spun to the music. “Ye daenae own me. We have an arrangement, as ye love to remind me! One that is purely convenient, and I will speak to whomever I wish.”
“Do not test me, Duchess.”
