“Until tomorrow, Your Grace,” he said as he left the room, closing the door behind him with a thud.
Benedict pulled his fine linen shirt over his head and tossed the garment onto a velvet-upholstered chair. The fabric settled in a soft, rumpled heap, a small chaos he usually would not tolerate.
He strode to his monumental bed, the polished walnut headboard looming in the low light, and tore back the heavy jacquard duvet. He practically collapsed beneath the covers,letting out a sharp, audible sigh that felt less like release and more like a surrender.
Rolling onto his stomach, he drove his face into the large, feather-stuffed pillow with a dull thud. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force his mind blank, but the darkness behind his lids was filled with her image.
He saw Isla as she had been just hours ago, standing beside him at the altar. Despite her obvious self-consciousness at being on display, she was a luminous vision in white silk, the long, delicate veil barely obscuring the sharp cheekbones of her porcelain face.
The memory stirred a low, creating an uncomfortable churning sensation in his chest. He thought of the moment they had stood together, moments after the vows, the expected pause before he kissed her. He remembered the faint scent of heather that clung to her curly, dark blonde locks.
For a fleeting, agonizing second, he had wished he could have found the capacity within himself to offer her a real kiss, something warm and honest.
If only he were a different man, a man less defined by duty and more by feeling…
He hated the vulnerability of that thought and quickly pushed it away.
He turned his mind deliberately back to the image of his study, to the orderly rows of his ledgers and what would be on his docket for tomorrow.
In less than a minute, his conscious mind failed him, and he fell into a deep, heavy sleep.
Chapter Seven
“Am I disturbing you?” A soft whisper said through the cracked door.
The next morning, the sun streamed through the bedroom window, and Isla woke to a quiet knock on her door.
It was Oliver.
She got up and wrapped a dressing robe around her. She strode over and opened the door to find him smiling shyly, already dressed and ready for the day.
“I was wondering if you would like me to show you the house?” he asked. “I know Mrs. Callahan said she was arranging for someone on the staff to take you, but as a man of this manor and the future Duke of Ealdwick, I would like to do it myself. Is that all right?”
“I would like that very much, Lord Oliver,” she said, her heart lifting. “Why nae give me a few moments to get ready and we can take a nice stroll about the manor before we break our fasts? How does that sound?”
“That is a splendid idea, Your Grace!”
“Please, call me, Isla.”
“Isla. That is a lovely name.”
Isla dressed quickly in a simple day dress and wrapped her hair into quick braids, without bothering to ring for her maid. She stepped outside the door, and without pause, Oliver began his tour of the vast manor, his small hand tucked in hers. He showed her the great hall, the music room, and the library, which was his favorite room. It smelled of old musty tomes and rich mahogany.
“One day, I am going to read all the books on these shelves!” He said as he showed her the organized sections of works by subject and author. “Have you read all these books?”
“I am a most voracious reader, but I daenae think I could ever read all these books. Although ye are inspirin’ me to try!”
His enthusiasm is infectious.
They finally reached the long portrait gallery on the far east side of the first floor, where stern-faced family members stared down from their gilded frames.
“This is my papa,” Oliver said, pointing to a portrait of an equally handsome but much younger Duke.
His eyes were softer in the painting, yet just as strikingly blue. He even wore a faint, gentle smile that touched the corners of his lips. Next to him was a woman; she had a striking face and dark, shining hair.
Isla knew instantly that this must be his late wife, Cecilia.
“And this is my mama,” he said, his voice a little wistful. “I never got to meet her. Papa doesn’t talk about her very much. I like this picture of her.”
