Benedict blinked rapidly. “I beg your pardon, Isla. I most certainly will not. I abhor dancing on the best of occasions, and I certainly do notjig. Dukes do not publicly expose their lack of rhythm.”
Isla faced him, her stance uncompromising. “A Duke who fears a bit of music is a Duke who has forgotten how to live, Benedict. Look at yer son.”
“I am not afraid, Isla,” he barked as he looked down at Oliver, his eyes wide and searching.
“Ye see?” Isla pressed, her voice firm. “He needs ye. He needs to ken ye will look foolish for him. Just for a moment.”
Benedict stared down at her, then at the hopeful face of his son. The need to protect Oliver, which had become his driving force, outweighed the need to maintain his image.
For so long I have tried to keep him from the world, perhaps it is time to try a new approach.
“Very well,” Benedict conceded, his eyes widening dramatically at Isla. “But if I break an ankle, I shall blame you and your barbaric dances,Duchess.”
“I shall be sure to catch ye, Yer Grace,” Isla giggled.
The trio stepped onto the cobbled dance area. Oliver was, as he predicted, clumsy at first and especially compared to the children around him who moved so effortlessly. His left leg lagged slightly, throwing off his timing as he tried to imitate the movement of the experienced dancers.
Benedict watched on as Isla refused to let him retreat. She took his hands, simplifying the steps.
“Look at me, Oliver. One-two, jump! One-two, step!”
Benedict stood stiffly beside them, attempting the basic footwork with the grave seriousness of a man negotiating a treaty, but he attempted, nonetheless. He knew that he looked utterly ridiculous, but he did not stop. Oliver caught sight of his father’s painfully focused expression and let out a hesitant laugh, covering his little mouth with his hands.
As the music quickened, Isla linked her arm through Benedict’s, pulling him into a slightly faster, less formal step. She leaned in, her eyes sparkling with pure delight.
“Loosen yer spine, Benedict! Ye look like a tree trunk!”
He looked down at her, a muscle twitching in his jaw, but then, seeing Oliver successfully executing a simple hop, a faint smile touched Benedict’s lips. He allowed his weight to shift, letting Isla lead him. He gave in to the foreign submission of control, his stiffness melting into a steady movement as he listened to the music build.
I am dancing?I am laughing?
And oh, were they were laughing.
A Duke, a Duchess, and his son, moving together in the London sun, were indistinguishable from any other delighted family.
Later that afternoon, Oliver was safely tucked into bed for an afternoon rest, and Isla stood on the main staircase.
“What are you thinking about, Duchess?” Benedict asked, appearing at the foot of the stairs, looking tired but softer than usual.
“Oliver was fascinated by the stars earlier as I read to him,” she explained, descending the last steps as she looked to the window. “He kept asking if the theatre ceiling was the night sky. He seems to have a real fascination with the great, wide world above us.”
“His young mind is working,” Benedict dismissed. “That is all.”
“It is a yearnin’ for wonder,” Isla corrected. She stopped and looked at him, an idea forming. “I am thinkin’ we should nae dine in the dining room, Benedict. We should take our supper in the small conservatory.”
Benedict frowned. “The conservatory?”
“Aye!”
“It is not set up for dinner, and it is glass. It will be chilly. And entirely unsuitable.”
“We will have a fire brought in, and all the lamps. And it is the only place in this entire house where the ceiling is glass!” Isla said as she approached him, taking his hand and squeezing it. “We can look up and see the sky with Oliver while we eat. Just one last adventure before we leave.”
Benedict sighed, the resistance performative. “You are determined to overturn every rule of this house… aren’t you, Duchess?”
“Only the daft ones,” she replied, leading him toward the back of the house.
“It is only because I have agreed to it,” he barked. “I am still in charge.”
