Then, the door to the box clicked open.
“I am back!” Oliver announced cheerfully, bounding into the box, his attention immediately returning to the now-raising curtain. “And guess what? I brought roasted nuts!”
“Splendid,” Isla said with a smile. “I am in desperate need of some sugar!”
Benedict rose from his seat and walked to the front row, taking the seat next to Isla and grabbing a fistful of nuts. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, his gaze fixed on the stage as the play began once more. But as Isla placed her hand back on her lap, he quickly covered it with his own, pressing a silent, possessive claim she couldn’t deny.
I am nae imagin’ this silent promise. He wants me. He needs me.
He kept it there, his large, warm hand completely enveloping hers, throughout the rest of the performance.
The final curtain fell with a thunderous rush of velvet and applause as the entire audience rose to their feet. Oliver, who had been leaning into Isla’s side for the entire last act, sprang upright, clapping furiously, his eyes wider and brighter than the diamonds on Isla’s ears.
“Papa! Isla! Wasn’t it simply the best thing you have ever seen?” he cried.
“Aye, it was grand,mo chridhe,” Isla agreed, laughing and squeezing his arm.
The energy of the crowd felt like a wave pressing against their box, and the sudden warmth of Benedict’s hand, lifting hers from the armrest, was an anchor that brought her back to reality.
“We must hurry,” Benedict murmured, not looking at either of them, but holding her hand firmly enough to convey his command. “The crush to leave will be tremendous. Come, Oliver, quickly now.”
“Yes, Papa!”
They slipped out of the box and into the velvet-lined corridor. The Duke had timed their exit perfectly, and they avoided the worst of the surging crowd by using a private staircase. But the press of humanity outside the theatre was still overwhelming. Everywhere they turned, there was a river of silk, fur, and flashing jewelry, all illuminated by the flickering gas lamps and the torches of the waiting footmen outside carriages.
Oliver, high on roasted nuts and excitement, suddenly found the crowd too much. He stopped, clinging to the skirt of Isla’s gown, looking small and overwhelmed as he inched closer to her.
“Papa, it’s too noisy,” he whimpered with a loud yawn.
Benedict immediately scooped the boy up. He held him securely against his chest, the boy’s head resting on his shoulder.
“It is only a moment, son,” Benedict said, his voice a low, reassuring rumble. “We are going straight to the carriage. Although I am just now realizing you have never intentionally stayed up this late before. Do you feel all right, Oliver?”
“Yes, Papa,” Oliver said with another yawn. “It was the best night of my life…”
Isla followed close behind them as they moved past the bustling masses. The footman, immaculate in Ealdwick livery, cleared a path to their waiting black carriage at the corner.
Once inside, the door slammed shut, cutting off the city with a welcome thud. Oliver lay stretched out on the plush leather seat, his head pillowed in Isla’s lap, his velvet coat rumpled. The soft clatter of the hooves and the gentle rocking motion of the springs were a peaceful lullaby.
Isla smoothed his hair, which had finally escaped the perfect Fauntleroy ribbon, and watched his eyelids flutter and settle. He was asleep before they had crossed the busy street.
“He had a marvelous time,” she whispered, leaning back slightly, suddenly aware that Benedict was seated opposite her, his long legs stretching out toward hers.
“He did,” Benedict confirmed, his voice thick and warm in the confined space. “Thank you for insisting, Isla. It was necessary for him to have a bit of fun, see the world beyond Ealdwick.”
She felt his gaze on her, but the light was too dim to read his expression. She only knew that the void between them was closing rapidly with every passing second. With Oliver asleep, the only buffer was the boy’s small body nestled in her lap.
She shifted her hand from Oliver’s hair to the rich fabric of the carriage seat. Benedict’s hand followed the movement, not touching her yet, but resting inches from her gloved wrist.
Just touch me, ye fool. Take me hand once more.
Her breath hitched, shallow and fast. Then, Benedict moved. He didn’t reach for her hand. Instead, he slowly lifted his own, reaching for the velvet curtain hanging across the small window. He adjusted it, pulling it tighter, plunging the carriage into almost complete darkness.
“Better,” he breathed, the word like a caress.
He then reached over the sleeping child, his large hand finally closing over her own in a slow, tender embrace. His thumb began to stroke the soft glove, a blissfully repetitive motion that both relaxed and excited her.
Isla closed her eyes, utterly helpless. The scent of sandalwood and crisp wool,his scent, was all around her.
