“Marion and I can help ye plan it!” Elspeth said. “Ye will love her so much!”
Benedict leaned back, considering her argument and his need to keep her happy, given all that had come between them.
It will occupy her in the new year…
“Very well. Let us do it. You shall host the grandest ball of next season, Isla.”
Isla’s smile was brilliant. “Oh, thank you, Your Grace! This will be marvelous! We must work on mockup invitations! And I know just who should be the guest of honor.”
“Who is that?” he asked, taking another bite of his sausage.
“Well, you, of course, as the master of the house,” she said with a playful tilt of her chin. “But also, your new bride. I want to host the ball, but I want you to be the guest of honor. It is high time you were truly introduced to London.”
Before Benedict could offer his usual protest, Elspeth spoke up, her voice warm and decisive.
“Aye, Isla is entirely right about this,” Elspeth smiled at Isla. “It is a marvelous idea, Yer Grace. When I first married Hugo and came south, I was only known as his bride. A ball in your honor is precisely the ticket to ensure you are known for your own merits and position. It will be your official London welcoming in the New Year. A chance for society to acknowledge the new Duchess. On her terms.”
“Well said,” Hugo said to his wife.
Elspeth shifted Fiona gently in her arms. “Yemusthave the ball, Isla, and it must be for ye. It’s what everyone is waitin’ for, whether they admit it or not.”
Benedict shifted in his seat, the combined force of the two Duchesses leaving him little room for negotiation. He found himself looking at Isla with a new layer of respect. She had not only come up with the idea, but she had gained a powerful ally for it.
“Then it is settled,” Isla said. “Now, about the menu... I want a hint of the Highlands in every dish. Elspeth, perhaps ye canadvise me on the best Highland dishes that will shock and delight the London palate?”
Elspeth’s eyes lit up. “Me dear, it would be me pleasure! We shall make this the talk of the season. What a grand thing to look forward to plannin’ after the holidays.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Later that day, Benedict found himself in the familiar, heavy leather chair of White’s Gentleman’s club, his father’s favorite haunt as well. The air was thick with pipe smoke, men avoiding their households amid the upcoming holiday and the requisite preparations and whispered politics. But he wasn’t there for the conversation.
Benedict was there for the distance and the drink. He ordered his third glass of brandy, his gaze fixed on the low-burning fire, trying to use the heat and the liquor to burn away the image of Isla’s betrayed face.
“Your Grace, a moment?”
He looked up to see Kenneth standing over him, his expression one of measured concern.
“Kenneth,” Benedict acknowledged coolly, swirling his glass. “I am preoccupied as you can see.”
“Clearly,” Kenneth said, taking the liberty of sitting opposite him. “The whole house is aware, from which I just came.”
“Kenneth,” Benedict barked. “Mind your place.”
“Oliver is aware that something is not right. What happened with you and the Duchess?”
“It is not of your concern-”
“You are handling this in the way you handle everything you don’t wish to acknowledge. You are burying it beneath a mountain of indifference. I see through it, friend,” Kenneth said, his eyes searching.
“What do you know about that? You’re a bachelor, with no real family. Do not speak of what you do not know,” he said as he slammed his glass down on the side table.
“I know it doesn’t suit Her Grace, old man. She is a fiery woman, with a heart and a soul. I have seen how she cares for you.”
“This is for her benefit, not mine!”
“She is not Cecilia, nor is she some easily dismissed society woman. I will not let you push her away with your harsh words, I have known you too long and care too much for you.”
Benedict’s hand tightened around his glass, his knuckles white. “You overstep yourself, Kenneth. My marriage is not a topic for the club. I came here to escape all that-”
