“Of course, Your Grace. I just learned that you are leaving for Ealdwick soon?”
Benedict stepped fully into the room, his hulking presence dwarfing the older man. “We are. And when we return to London, I shall send you notice should you like to arrange for a proper call.”
Lamfort chuckled, the sound brittle as his belly shook. “Of course, Your Grace. Always so proper! I must confess, this was all brought on by my deep affection for, well… for all members of the Ealdwick household. Past and present.” He shot a pointed, lingering look at Isla. “It has been a delight, Your Grace. I trust your journey home will be uneventful.”
He bowed deeply and offered a final, unnerving smile, then swept out of the room like a tempest.
Isla sat down heavily, her shoulders slumping as she ran a hand over her eyes. Oliver returned with the biscuits and looked atthe empty chair, then visibly relaxed as he set them down on the table.
“He is gone,mo chridhe. Ye can go back to your lessons now,” Isla said softly. “Ye can go to the library, and I will meet ye shortly.”
The boy rushed to the corner, grabbed his books, and skipped out of the drawing room, leaving Isla and Benedict alone.
Isla looked up at him as he stood rigid by the empty hearth, staring at the spot where Lamfort had stood moments ago.
“That man is a poisonous creature,” Benedict finally bit out. “Always has been you know.”
“He is surely a bother,” Isla agreed, rising and walking toward him. “Why does he have such free rein to be so pesty, Benedict? He seemed… fixated on yer former wife. He said some things to me…”
Benedict stiffened, running a hand through his dark hair. “Lamfort has always been a jackal. He was quite close to Cecilia. She was his cousin, you know. Lamfort attached himself to her circle like a parasite. A leech.”
Isla took a tentative step closer. “Ye have never spoken of her before.”
“I find it difficult,” he admitted as he finally met her gaze, his voice rough. He paused, collecting himself. “And not for the reasons you may expect. We were not… in love, as one reads about in the books. She was an excellent match that helped me at a time when the duchy needed repair.”
“Oh?”
“It is a long story,” he said with a sigh. “There is much you do not know and that I do not discuss openly.”
“We have time,” Isla said softly, encouraging him. “Why nae start where it feels right?”
“The guilt is always there, you see. About everything. I—I was too aloof, too consumed by the burdens of the title and picking up the pieces my father had left fall around us. I failed Cecilia. I should have protected her from everything, including the demands of this life. And when she died…” He stopped, swallowing hard.
Isla placed a hand softly on his arm. “How did she die?”
Perhaps if he says it, he can be freed of the burden…
“Fever. A sudden, cruel fever that took her in three days.” He turned, leaning his forearm on the mantelpiece, his head bowed. “It was all so quick. And brutal. Just like… just like my mother. Right after childbirth.”
Isla stood in shocked silence. She knew the Duke’s mother had died young, but the pain in his voice made the fact real.
“My mother died when I was born,” Benedict continued, his voice barely audible. “From what little my father shared, she had been ill during the pregnancy, and a fever during the birth took her life.”
“Oh, Benedict?—”
“Father insisted that Dukes do not show distress. So, whenever I cried for her, a woman I never even knew, he said I was weak. He said I was just like her. He was a vicious man, Isla. Cruel and distant. He used her death to harden me… it worked.”
He lifted his head, his eyes burning with a fierce, self-loathing intensity as he began to pace the room.
“When Cecilia died, I felt that same sense of failure. I could not save my mother, and I could not save my wife. They both died under my roof. I see Oliver, and I worry every day that I am repeating my father’s cruelty. That I am too cold to truly care for anyone. But it is all I have ever known…”
Isla closed the small distance between them. She reached up and placed her hands on either side of his face, forcing him to look down at her.
“Stop, Benedict! Stop right there,” she commanded softly, her accent pronounced with emotion.
“How do you give something that you never received yourself?”
“Ye are nothing like yer father. Ye are fierce, aye, and ye are far too stoic, but ye are nae cruel. Ye are a good man. I ken ye have love in yer heart, I can feel it in me own bones.”
