“How are ye farin’, Eilidh?” Isla asked, her gaze soft. “We must be quick before Aunt Honoria sends the hounds after ye.”
Eilidh’s eyes were sparkling. “Oh, I am well, Isla. Everyone is talkin’ about yer weddin’, not the silly rumor now.”
“That is great news,” Isla said as she clasped her hands.
“Aunt Honoria says His Grace is quite the prize catch. Well respected and a hard worker for someone of his station.” She paused, then tilted her head. “But more importantly, how are ye? Ye seem… different somehow. I cannae put me finger on it, but I can feel it. I noticed it just the other day, but wasnae sure then… What is it, sister?”
Isla felt the familiar heat rise in her cheeks, thinking of the kisses, the argument, and the overwhelming vulnerability she had felt to be in a position she had only once dreamed of.
“Our relationship… it has changed a bit I suppose,” Isla admitted, keeping her voice low. “It is not exactly the cold arrangement we started with…”
Eilidh squeezed her hand, her expression ecstatic. “Oh, Isla! I am so happy for ye. Ye deserve every measure of happiness and love, more than anyone I have ever known.”
“Thank you,mo chridhe,” Isla murmured, her heart filled by her sister’s love.
“Your Grace,” Sir Bertram said, offering a mocking bow. “I see you have found your way to the refreshments. Do take care not to spill anything on the floor. The staff find the cleaning tedious enough as it is, especially after… well, after a country woman has been allowed to roam freely like a wild mare.” He eyed her scars with unconcealed distaste. “One must always be mindful of one’s place, mustn’t one?”
Their private moment was unceremoniously interrupted by the approach of a portly gentleman known as Sir Bertram. Isla vaguely remembered him from the previous balls she had attended during the Season. He had a glass of sherry in one hand and smelled violently of drink.
He has forgotten his place… who would say such a thing to a duchess? Oh right, a scarred, spinster like me…
Isla felt the familiar, heavy weight of humiliation settle upon her shoulders, and she slumped. Her throat constricted, and she gripped the stem of her glass so hard she feared it might snap. She tried to formulate a composed retort, but the words failed her. She grew so tired of the nastiness of polite society.
Before she could speak, a voice as cold as steel cut through the buzz of the room.
“Sir Bertram, I suggest you take that generous draught of that sherry and find a new conversation partner. Now.”
Benedict was suddenly standing directly behind Isla, his presence a cold, furious heat. She glanced behind her to see that his blue eyes had narrowed into slits as he stared at him.
“Your Grace! You mistake my meaning, you did not hear the whole conversation,” Sir Bertram stammered as Isla noticed just how red his nose was. “Merely making a jest, I assure you! A harmless bit of banter.”
“There is nothing harmless about insulting my wife,” Benedict stated, his voice a terrifying growl that drew the attention of the adjacent group, who had previously been discussing stitch patterns. He placed a hand firmly on her lower back, guiding her closer to him.
“Of course, Your Grace. My apologies, Your Graces. A mere slip of the tongue from an old man like me.”
“A slip I advise you to never repeat,” Benedict said, taking a step closer to the retreating man, towering over him. He looked past Sir Bertram to the cluster of shocked observers. “Let this be clear to all of you, Her Grace is my wife. Whoever believes they may insult her, question her lineage, or comment upon her personhood will find they have graver consequences to face than mere social exclusion. That is not a threat, but a promise.”
His words hung heavy in the silence as eyes darted nervously.
Isla saw one woman mouthing to anotherDid you say anything?
The crowd, realizing the Duke was entirely serious, quickly dispersed, leaving a large, uncomfortable clearing around the couple as if they were outsiders. A familiar feeling for Isla, but for once… she was not alone.
I am nae sure that did more good than harm…
Benedict turned toward her then, his breath ragged, and his eyes hot as he looked down at her. She looked back up at him and offered a small smile, thinking for the first time, he looked more like a knight in shining armor out of the pages ofLe Morte d’Arthurthan a stoic Duke. He had spirit, and for that, Isla was grateful.
Without another word or a moment’s pause, he grabbed her hand, his fingers crushing around hers. He steered her forcefully toward the exit.
“But what of me sister and aunt? I cannae leave without sayin’ goodbye to them, or to our hosts…” she said as they reached the entrance of the townhouse.
“Have you never heard of an Irish goodbye?” He said as he hoisted his great coat on his broad shoulders. “Isn’t it all the same to your Gaelic folk?”
“Och, nae!” She said as he grabbed her hand once more, his touch hot and possessive as his fingers wrapped around her hand.
“You will send word to them later at your aunt’s, and you can invite them to dine with us before we go back to the country.”
“But…”
