“Aye,” she confirmed, removing her cloak and handing it to a maid. “Mrs. Callahan saw to it in her letters to our staff here.”
They climbed the stairs together, the silence broken only by the muffled sounds of the staff below and the rhythmic creak of the steps under their feet. The shared task of carrying the boy lent a strange intimacy to the moment, a flash of the family life they were living.
They reached Oliver’s quarters, and Benedict stood in the middle of the room, a vast space made cozy by a crackling fire and the familiar sight of his small bed and trunk. He gently placed Oliver down, rug and all. The boy sighed happily and immediately curled into a ball.
Isla quickly knelt to pull off his boots. “Sleep now, my brave wee traveler,” she murmured, placing a kiss on his cheek.
She turned to find Benedict standing over her, his shadow enveloping her entirely.
“The Arrowfells’ social engagement is tomorrow, Duchess,” he said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Which means tonight is still mine. You will earn your social victory then, but now I shall collect my reward after we sup.”
He didn’t wait for a response, simply turning and walking toward the door. Isla stood, her knees weak, watching his broad back disappear into the shadows of the hall.
Tonight is still mine. You will earn your social victory then, but now I shall collect my reward after we sup.
He hadn’t asked. He had stated. She felt a furious blush spread from her neck, but underneath it, a tremor of something else—a lurch of anticipation.
With a shake of her head, she knelt by the bed again, pulling the heavy rug free of Oliver and tucking the blankets around him to distract herself. The boy, already deep in the easy sleep of a child well-loved and thoroughly exhausted, only shifted with a soft sigh.
She lingered for a moment, tracing the curve of his cheek, letting the sight of his peaceful face steel her.
Twenty minutes late for dinner, Isla descended the main staircase. Benedict was already seated at the head of the polished mahogany table in the secondary dining room, reading a stack of parliamentary papers, a glass of dark claret untouched by his elbow. He glanced up as she entered, his eyes cool and appraising.
“You are tardy, Duchess,” he noted, his voice flat.
“The boy was tired and I didnae want to leave him,” she replied, taking her seat a respectable distance away. The footman immediately filled her own glass and silently served the firstcourse. It was Isla’s favorite after a long ride, a clear, delicate consommé.
The meal was eaten in a silence heavier than any they had shared on the journey. Benedict ate with his usual efficiency, his focus split between the papers and his plate. Every tiny clink of silver against porcelain felt like a shout as the anticipation grew within her. She kept her gaze fixed on the tablecloth, acutely aware of the space between them.
Finally, Benedict folded his papers with a sharp, decisive snap.
“The Arrowfells will require your utmost charm tomorrow,” he said, pushing his empty plate away. “We shall retire to bed now.”
“I am most grateful, for all of this,” she answered, setting her own fork down.
He merely stood, his tall, powerful frame swallowing all the light in the room. His dark hair fell, framing his bearded face as his blue eyes sparkled at her dangerously.
“Good,” he said, his voice dropping low.
He pushed his chair back with a scrape and walked toward the door leading to the main hall, then paused, looking back at her over his shoulder.
“Come, Isla.”
Isla followed him from the warm supper room, down the long, empty corridor to the master suite. The vast bedroom was dim, lit only by a low fire and a single oil lamp on a distant chest. The heavy, gold-threaded curtains had already been drawn tight against the London night. The air smelled of fine linen and Benedict’s masculine scent, more intoxicating than the lavish claret they had at dinner.
He was already moving, stripping off his waistcoat and tossing it carelessly onto a velvet chaise. His movements were swift and impatient. He didn’t look at her, yet she felt the full weight of his focus. She thrived on the feeling, her blood rushing to that familiar place that pulled her to him like a spell.
Isla stood just inside the door, her hands clenched at her sides. She felt the familiar, hot flare of desire, yet also felt so unsure as to what her husband wanted from her.
“Ye needn’t rush, Yer Grace,” she managed. “I am nae goin’ anywhere.”
He stopped, his fingers hovering over the buttons of his shirt, and finally turned. The fire lit his high cheekbones and amplified the dark intensity in his eyes.
“I am aware of that, Duchess,” he said, his voice soft.
He finished unbuttoning his shirt, impossibly slow now as her eyes roved over his every muscle, before he finally shrugged it off. He let it fall silently to the thick carpet with a cocky grin.He was a magnificent figure, his chest broad and deeply muscled from fencing and riding, now bare to the lamplight.
He walked the few steps that separated them, stopping close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. She could smell the faintest trace of claret on his breath. He lifted a hand, and she instinctively flinched. She wanted him so badly, yet she was still so unsure in these moments of what to do, how to act, and what he wanted.
