“Thank you, Isla,” he said softly.
The snow began to fall around them, soft and silent, dusting the edges of the blanket. Isla watched the flakes dance, her chest full as a realization dawned on her.
All evening, during their quiet conversation, he had not once looked at her scars. His gaze had lingered instead on her face, steady and unflinching, as though she were whole.
It had been so long since anyone outside her family had regarded her without pity or polite surprise.
The thought left her breathless—a fragile, wondrous sense of freedom she had not known she still longed for.
And yet, for all the boy’s gentleness… Isla couldn’t help but think of his father, who was a whole other matter.
For the Duke remained at a distance she could not cross. Always courteous, always correct, but never quite there. His composure was a mask, and though his acceptance comforted her, it only deepened the ache of his absence.
Will I ever be truly seen by me own husband?
She was a duchess now, surrounded by comfort, adorned in luxury.
But beneath all the splendor, she had never felt more achingly alone.
Chapter Eight
“It is simple, Lord Oliver! Just swing your leg over!” the instructor huffed, his arms crossed as he put a rolled cigarette in his mouth and lit it with a match. “You can do this!”
It was an unusually warm afternoon for December. After tackling the day’s accounts, Isla pulled on her riding habit, not wanting to waste the fair weather. She had just received another letter from Eilidh, reporting that all was well in London and that the whispers really were dissipating. Her heart was feeling lighter than it had been in days, and she felt the need to exert herself.
She had been craving the feel of a horse beneath her, the rush of wind in her face. As she approached the stables, she heard voices in the riding ring.
Peeking through the wooden fence, she saw Oliver and his riding instructor. He was a portly man with a scowl, arguing about something or other with the young boy.
Oliver’s small face was a mask of shame and frustration. His governess stood nearby, wringing her hands.
“I can’t!” he said, his voice small and defeated.
Isla noticed instantly that his limp was more pronounced on the soft dirt of the ring, and he stumbled as he tried to lift his foot to the stirrup, even with a small stool.
Isla’s heart ached. The boy wasn’t just struggling with his leg. He was struggling with a shame that was etched into every line of his body.
She unlatched the gate and walked in, her skirts swishing. She knew how hard it could be, thinking back to the months it took for her face and arms to heal over. She closed her eyes as she remembered the pain of it all, both internal and external.
“Good afternoon,” she said, her voice gentle. The instructor and governess looked at her, startled. “May I try and be of some help?”
The instructor scoffed, but Isla paid him no mind. She walked to Oliver, kneeling so she was at his eye level.
“That is a magnificent animal,” she said, nodding toward the horse. “And she knows it. She wants to be ridden by someone strong and brave.”
Oliver’s eyes were filled with tears at her words in an instant. “I am not strong,” he whispered. “And I am slow.”
“There is nay shame in being cautious with a great beast,” Isla replied, her voice firm yet compassionate. “The brave ones are the ones who try. Now, a horse is a livin’ thing. We do nay demand from them, we ask.”
“We ask?”
“Aye, let us try something different.”
She got to her feet, took his hand, and led him around the horse, talking to the animal in a soft, musical voice.
“Tha thu socair,” she said, her Gaelic accent soothing to both boy and beast.
“What does that mean?”
