She looked from the boy’s eager, hopeful face to the intimidating man standing next to her. Benedict was currently watching their exchange with an unreadable expression, which only fueled Isla to give the boy more of the attention he deserved.
I will lead by example if nae with force. He will see, this is the way.
Isla smiled, the genuine warmth reaching her eyes. “I did. A very good time, indeed. It only would have been better if you were there.”
Oliver sighed contentedly, his eyes once again growing heavy with sleep. “Good. I’m glad you weren’t bored.”
Benedict looked at Isla, his gaze dropping to the visible blush on her neck, before turning back to his son. He sighed, the sound heavy and weary.
“Come along, young man,” Benedict said, his voice softer now. “You have tired our Duchess quite enough. It is time for bed.”
To Isla’s complete shock, Benedict did not simply send the boy off with the governess. Instead, he reached down and scooped Oliver up into his arms, simply carrying the boy’s weight easily.
Oliver gasped, clutching his father’s neck, stunned into silence by this rare display of physical affection.
Benedict met Isla’s wide eyes over Oliver’s shoulder.
“Rest, Duchess,” he commanded softly to her, the possessiveness still there, but now imbued with tenderness. “You earned it.”
With that, he carried his son up the grand staircase, leaving Isla alone in the echoing hall, utterly shaken.
Benedict carried his son up the vast staircase to his room. Oliver, still half asleep but clinging tightly to his father’s neck, was wrapped in a blanket that warmed his heart.
Especially after the dizzying, uncontrolled passion with Isla in that room.
A thought for another moment… a private one.
He nudged open the door to Oliver’s room with his elbow and tiptoed into the room. He carefully placed the boy in his large, four-poster bed.
“There, there, son,” Benedict murmured, pulling the heavy velvet covers up to Oliver’s chin and fluffing his pillows. “Now, no more nonsense. It is long past midnight. You need your sleep if we are to explore the park tomorrow.”
Oliver wriggled deeper into the pillows, his eyes wide and bright in the dim light cast by a small bedside lamp.
“Papa, tell me about the dancing,” Oliver whispered. “Isla said it was a good time. Did you dance with her?”
Benedict sat down heavily on the edge of the mattress, his legs tired from the dancing and tense from all that he had held inside. He had intended to give a curt summary and leave, but Oliver’s innocent eagerness and the memory of Isla’s flushed, defiant face in the abandoned drawing-room made him pause.
“I did,” Benedict admitted, pulling his shirt loose with a weary tug. “It was a waltz. Isla did quite well. A bit fast for my taste, but we navigated the turns well enough.”
“That sounds funny, Papa.” Oliver giggled, clearly imagining his imposing father spinning on a dance floor. “Did she look like a queen or a princess?”
“She looked… fetching I suppose,” Benedict conceded, the word not quite capturing the stunning image of Isla in the sapphire gown, her emerald eyes sparking fire. “And no, there were no dragons. Just a lot of very talkative gentlemen and bright chandeliers.”
Oliver sighed contentedly. He shifted slightly, then his expression grew serious.
“Papa,” he started quietly, picking at the blanket’s fringe with his little fingers. “Isla is so kind to me. And she always talks about her brother and sister, and her mama and papa from Scotland. Her mama died a long time ago now, but her papa only died two years ago.”
“I am aware,” Benedict said, unaware of what the boy would say next but hanging on his every word.
“But… she still doesn’t know anything about my mama. Not really.”
The air in the room seemed to thicken. Benedict’s hands, which had been resting loosely on his knees, clenched as his nails dug into his skin. This was the wall he always hit with Oliver. Cecilia was the one subject that pulled him instantly back into the crushing weight of his guilt.
How do I explain to my son that his cross to bear is also mine? That we both lost mothers in childbirth, and have been forced to go through life with insufficient fathers…
He opened his mouth to deliver the usual curt dismissal. But then, Isla’s gentle face, her fierce loyalty, and the clear-eyed accusation she had leveled against him flashed in his mind.
Ye are goin’ to make Oliver resent ye.
