“When your marriage threatens your stability, it becomes my topic,” Kenneth shot back, his voice low. “You made a promise to that woman. You have always been a man of your word… I know you did not have it easy with your old man, but you are more than that. You have happiness, right in front of you. All you need to do is grab it.”
Benedict set his glass down once more with a loud thunk. “You misunderstand me and my life entirely,” he rasped. “I am not throwing her away. I am protecting her. And myself. We are returning to the original arrangement.”
“As you say,” Kenneth huffed as he crossed his arms across his chest.
“It is safe. It is for the best. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have had enough of your unsolicited counsel. I am sure there is someone else here you can bother.”
Benedict watched his friend walk away, the familiar muscle twitching in his jaw in irritation. The silence Kenneth left behind was not an improvement to aid his mood. Rather, it was a loud, empty space where Kenneth’s infuriating, honest concern had been. He picked up his brandy glass and swallowed a large gulp, the amber liquid burning a trail down his throat.
Safe. For the best.
The words tasted like dirt in his mouth, even to him. Kenneth’s parting shot, “As you say”, had the weight of a condemnation.
He is right, of course, the pompous bastard.
Kenneth had known him since they were boys at Eton, through his crushing years under his father’s shadow, and through Cecilia. Kenneth saw past his polished façade and into the man who, for the first time in years, felt a terrifying, reckless urge to discard his carefully constructed walls but could not do it.
An urge that had been ignited by Isla.
He had felt aneedto be with her, a desire that transcended duty and arrangement. And yet, that feeling, the pure, unadulterated vulnerability, was a terrifying echo of the past.
It is a mistake.
Benedict leaned back into the worn leather, closing his eyes against the low light of the room. He felt utterly drained. The thought of returning to his empty room at the townhouse, the thought of Isla’s heavy distance since their quarrel, felt intolerable. He had done this for her. He had to believe that. The old arrangement was a solid, defensible ground. The alternative was a crumbling cliff edge from which no one would return.
As his mind wrestled with itself, he remained oblivious to the figure in the deep, shadowed corner of the room, near the small, seldom-used card table.
Lamfort? No, it cannot be…
He wasn’t a member of White’s, and if it was him, Benedict tried to figure out how he had gotten in there. He must have been a guest of a minor, forgettable baronet who did not know how unhinged he truly was.
It must be someone else.
Yet, something inside of Benedict knew that it was Lamfort. That he had been watching him since he arrived, despite his mind being clouded with drink. Benedict looked up and saw Lamfort taking a slow sip of his port, his gaze never leaving Benedict.
I cannot even find comfort here, Benedict cursed inwardly as he got up from his seat and marched out of the club without a word to anyone. He found his carriage waiting outside, waking the napping coachman with a rough knock on the door.
“Let us be off,” Benedict barked as he made his way inside, not waiting for the coachman to open the door. “Now.”
“Where to, Your Grace? The Townhouse?” He asked.
“No,” Benedict replied. “Ride around London, until I say otherwise.”
“At once, Your Grace.”
Isla was curled deeply into the velvet chaise in her private quarters, a heavy blanket wrapped around her and a cup of chamomile tea within arm’s reach. The evening had drawn in, leaving the room illuminated by the glow of a single lamp and the low, dancing flames in the hearth.
In her hands,The Highland Holidaywas a welcome distraction from all that troubled her. She had borrowed it from Elspeth, who had recommended it enthusiastically. Isla let her eyes drift over the page, soaking in the sights and the sounds of home.
The heroine was a woman burdened by a secret she carried for her clan, and at that very moment was bracing herself against a blizzard on a treacherous mountain path, trying to reach the ancient, snowbound keep of her enemy and soulmate.
Aye, I ken this feelin’ too well,Isla thought to herself, her mind again thinking of Benedict against her will.To be so drawn and so repelled.
Before she knew it, Isla was nearing the climax of the book. The two had been forced to share a small, smoky hut after the heroine had twisted her ankle. They’d spent a tense night sharing their stories, realizing the feud was built on a series of misunderstandings and a conniving, jealous third party.
Despite Isla’s interest, her eyelids grew heavy with each passing word. The fire crackled, the narrative tension was resolved, and the sweet promise of fictional love was a comforting balm for her weary spirit. The book slipped slightly in her grasp, and she was just beginning to drift into a catnap, a lovely, drowsy warmth settling over her, when a soft knock broke the spell. The door creaked open, and suddenly, Oliver appeared in the archway.
“Isla,” he whispered, rubbing his eyes and yawning loudly. “I cannot fall asleep. The shadows are too big in my room. I am…afraid. Can you hold me?”
