Tears streamed down Oliver’s cheeks as he rushed off, his limp more pronounced in his haste to leave the ring.
“You,” he began, but Isla didn’t give him a chance to finish.
“That was a cruel thing to do, especially in front of everyone,” she said, her voice shaking. “He was nae to blame! He was happy, Yer Grace! Ye cannae just tell a lad he isnae allowed to feel joy… just because ye are so afraid of him gettin’ hurt!”
“I am not discussing this with you,” he snapped. “I did not ask for your opinion on how I handle my son. Your responsibility is to care for him as a mother would, and to keep him out of harm’s way.”
“And nothing happened to him,” she retorted, stepping closer.
“I will be the judge of that.”
“He was fine. We had the situation in hand. You cannae wrap him in cotton wool for the rest of his life, shieldin’ him from the world. He needs to live. He needs to ride and fall… and get back up again. He needs to face his fears, nae be punished for havin’ them.”
“He ismy son,” Benedict said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “And his safety ismy business. You will hear me on this.”
“And I am the Duchess,” she countered. “And I care for him. He isnae as fragile as ye think. He is just… a lad. He willnae be able to grow into the man he needs to be if you constantly shield him from every minor setback.”
They stood inches apart now, their chests heaving, their breaths mingling in the early winter air. Benedict’s heart pounded, a chaotic rhythm of anger and something else entirely. He realized with anger that it was the sudden, electric awareness of the woman before him. Then, his eyes drifted further down, revealing the top two buttons of her bodice.
Undone.
The perfect fullness of her heaving chest, the barely contained fury in her emerald eyes that had such full, dark eyelashes. And now, the smallest bit of cleavage poking out of her bodice from the rushed effort to rescue Oliver.
His eyes raised back up to avert from her chest, landing on her rosy lips for a fleeting, searing moment before he took a decisive step back.
“Keep him out of harm’s way, Duchess,” he ordered.
He turned and marched away, leaving her standing alone in the middle of the riding ring.
A tremor of pure, unadulterated fury coursed through Benedict. He felt his hands clench into fists beneath his gloves.
Keep him out of harm’s way.
The words tasted sour in his mouth, a hollow command directed as much at himself as at her.
He wished he could do better for his son, but the ghosts of his past pulled at him.
And ghosts?
He could still feel the phantom heat of her breath on his cheek, the electric shock of having been so close to his wife. He was close enough to count the frantic rise and fall of her chest, close enough for his eyes to betray him and drop to the fullness of her lips, of her breasts.
Damn her.
She had stood her ground and defied him, the Duke, in front of the stable hands in the shadows and that stammering instructor, who reeked of stale smoke. She was meant to be pliant, grateful, invisible. In fact, he had done everything he could to avoid her on most days.
Today, she was a storm of emerald eyes and fiery indignation that he could not ignore.
He strode away from the riding ring, the gravel crunching under his boots, each step a strained attempt to distance himself. He did not stop until he reached the heavy oak door of his study, throwing it open with all his strength.
The latch shuddered, and the sound of the thick wood slamming against the frame satisfied him. He crossed the room to his desk, kicking a footstool out of his path. The fire in the hearth was a low, sullen glow.
Benedict gripped the back of his leather chair, knuckles white, leaning into the resistance of the wood.
She called me cruel. Perhaps I am…
The accusation pierced through the thick hide around his cool heart as he sat down.
She does not understand why I am this way. She can’t, because I have not told her anything about me.
