Just how will I make this up to me husband?
The forest soon gave way to the gray of the winter landscape and bare trees. The rhythm of the horses’ hooves and the steady rumble of the heavy carriage were the only sounds.
For hours, Benedict maintained the pretense of intense concentration on his ledgers, his pen scratching across the paper, his monocle occasionally raised to inspect a complex column of figures. But Isla, attuned to his countenance so well, knew it was a performance. The true heat of the journey came from their proximity.
Every time she shifted on the plush seat, her sable cloak brushing against his thigh, the small sound seemed deafening. Each time she looked out the window, the movement broughther hair closer to his shoulder in the small space. He never once looked up to meet her eye, yet she felt the constant, heavy weight of his gaze. The aching anticipation had settled deep in her core as she thought of her Christmas present for her husband.
Around midday, they stopped briefly at a coaching inn to feed the horses. Oliver, energized by the meal and the momentary release from the carriage, spent ten lively minutes running circles around the inn’s yard before Benedict hauled him back inside. Isla noticed how carefree he was, and how, without the scrutiny of others, he seemed to move quite well for his ailment.
I will need to encourage him more, and since Callum has taught him how to play shinty, we could hire someone to come and give him more proper lessons…
Once they resumed the journey, the warmth of the fresh embers in their foot warmers, the heavy air, and the steady rocking motion finally lured the boy into a deep sleep.
Oliver’s head dropped heavily onto Benedict’s shoulder. The Duke, caught mid-calculation, froze. Ilsa watched him look down at the mop of dark hair, the same as his own, his jaw tightening slightly. He lifted his free hand, not to push the boy away, but to carefully reposition the velvet rug over his sleeping form.
Benedict then adjusted his papers so the boy’s head would not crush them, and finally, he lifted his head and let his eyes fall on her.
“He is asleep now,” Isla whispered, the words barely audible over the clatter of the road. “And quite comfortable with ye.”
“Yes,” Benedict replied, his voice a low rumble. “Two more hours, Duchess. Perhaps two and a half, given the congestion near the city.”
“It is a long wait, Yer Grace,” she teased, running the tip of her gloved finger along the carriage window frame and looking at him, sending a jolt between his legs.
“The longer the wait, the sharper the relief,” he countered, his lips barely moving as he licked them.
He reached out with the hand that wasn’t supporting Oliver, his fingers gliding across the seat between them until his knuckles brushed against her skirts.
“Later, Duchess,” he said as he brought his hand back and began his work once more.
As the afternoon waned, the landscape outside changed with it. The quiet, winding roads gave way to cobbled streets, flanked by increasingly taller brick buildings.
The air, once sharp with country frost, became thick with the scent of coal smoke and the tang of the Thames. Gas lamps flickered to life in the deepening sunset, bathing the city in a yellow glow. The shouts of hawkers, the relentless roll of other carriages, and the distant ringing of bells surrounded them.
“Look, Oliver!” Isla exclaimed, forgetting he was asleep. She immediately lowered her voice, gently shaking his arm. “We are here,mo chridhe!”
Oliver stirred, blinking against the new lights, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten. He gasped as the carriage rounded a corner onto a wide, stately street. The Ealdwick townhouse, imposing and dark, stood waiting for them.
“Because I was so good on the carriage ride, can we go to the theatre again before we leave?”
“We will see,” Isla said as she helped him gather his book and move away the blankets. “Let us go inside.”
The carriage squealed to a halt. Before the footman could even reach the door, Benedict had thrown it open himself, his impatience finally breaking as it often did.
“Oliver’s luggage must be brought from the top immediately to his nursery. The remaining essentials should be taken directly to the master suite. Hurry, we are cold and travel-worn,” Benedict instructed a waiting footman, his voice cutting through the noise. “We will see ourselves in.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” the footman said as he set to work.
The moment the carriage door opened, a gust of cool, city air and a flurry of activity surrounded them. She carefully lifted the still-groggy Oliver from his seat.
“Come, wee lad,” she whispered, pulling the heavy velvet rug around him. “We are home. Well, one of our homes. I am nae sure I will get used to all this, but I will try.”
Benedict stood on the step, waiting. As Isla awkwardly tried to navigate the carriage steps while holding the boy, Benedict reached out. He didn’t take the rug or steady her. Instead, he took Oliver fully into his own arms, easily maneuvering the boy’s weight as if he were carrying a stack of papers. Oliver, half-asleep and half-awake, simply burrowed against his father’s chest with a soft moan.
Isla followed him, her body tingling from the sudden loss of the boy’s weight, now only acutely aware of the proximity of her husband’s body. The cool wintry air was no comparison to the heat she felt when close to Benedict.
They walked side-by-side up the stone steps and into the grand entrance hall. The air inside the townhouse was rich, warmed by newly stoked coal fires and fresh potpourri. A small army of the London staff, dressed in the Ealdwick livery, lined the hall, bowing in unison.
Benedict ignored them, walking directly toward the wide marble staircase. “Isla, Oliver’s room is prepared, is it not?” he asked, his voice low and firm.
