Benedict needed time to compose himself.
She had supper with my son. In the dining room. Something I might consider doing if I had the slightest idea of how to be a father, as if my own had given me any insight on what that may be…
He walked to the window and slapped his hands together in frustration, staring out at the impenetrable dark of the Ealdwick estate as winter began its descent on England. Flark met him moments later, putting on his greatcoat, then making his way to the door.
“And, Flark,” the Duke called after him, his tone clipped. “One last item to address.”
“Yes, Your Grace?” He said, turning to face him and retrieving a small notepad and charcoal.
In his old age, Flark had to occasionally make notes so as not to miss something.
“Inform the cook that Lord Oliver and Her Grace may dine together in the formal dining room. While I do not have time to do such things, it is… a sound decision.”
“I will see it done,” he said, not needing to make a note after all, and walking out the door.
Benedict took a deep breath and fastened his greatcoat tight around him, walking hastily to the door and slamming it shut.
He went down the hall, down the great stairs, and out the front door without a word to anyone. He walked for a few minutes until he reached the great fountain that punctuated the entrance to the manor. It was a large stone pool with a single woman in the middle, pouring a basin into it. She was almost a fairy, ifnot so tall. When he was a young boy, wandering the grounds by himself while his father was on some bender or worse in London, he would make up stories about her.
Standing there, the stars beginning to twinkle above him like a celestial blanket, he felt a presence. He stared at the statue, worn by the years of English weather, yet just as beautiful as it would have been when it was carved. It reminded him of someone; someone he dared not name.
He turned on his heel and stormed into the house.
It is time for this long day to be an end, he thought as he set off to his quarters.
Chapter Six
Later that night, the manor had settled into a quiet hush as the day’s activities came to a close and the servants performed their final duties before retiring downstairs.
Isla, dressed in a simple nightgown, felt a strange restlessness as she sat at her vanity brushing her hair over and over. She was lucky she had such voluminous, blond curls for all she brushed. The distraction was of no use.
After her brief but meaningful dinner with Oliver, she found her thoughts consumed by the man in the adjoining room. Her husband.
The thought of their wedding night, however fictional their marriage was, weighed on her chest. She set down her brush and walked to the adjoining door, her hand hovering over the knob, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. She took a deep breath and, losing her nerve, walked back to her vanity and began brushing again.
She set the brush down again, this time with force. She got up again, walked to the door, and this time, knocked softly.
Nothing.
Another moment passed, and losing her nerve, Isla turned to walk away when the door was suddenly opened.
The Duke stood in the doorway, his tall, muscular frame silhouetted against the candlelight that warmed his room. He was also dressed for bed, but Isla instantly noticed that his white linen shirt was unbuttoned, halfway down his chest, and filled with curls of chest hair.
Her eyes were drawn to the strong, furred expanse of muscle that was nestled beneath the surface. Isla’s gaze dropped further, then shot back up, her cheeks flushing with heat.
Aye, I daenae ken how a scarred spinster has managed it… But this man is an absolute God…
A slight, ironic smile touched his lips as Isla fought for words to come out of her mouth.
“While I find the gawking flattering, Duchess, I am here to speak with you.”
“I am nae gawkin’ at ye!” she insisted, her Scottish brogue more pronounced than usual with her false protestations.
It is nae what I sought to do, but I would very much like to.
“I simply wished to ken… Well… Um, why ye did not join us for dinner?”
He leaned against the doorframe, his arm stretched up to showcase his perfect bicep, but his stony expression was unreadable.
