Chapter Eleven
Isla lay awake in her oversized bed, tossing and turning about, trying to find a comfortable space that would lure her into sound sleep. Yet, the lingering image of Oliver’s stricken face, followed by the hard, unyielding line of Benedict’s jaw, had left her nerves as taut as bowstrings.
She felt a furious, protective loyalty to the boy, but also a baffling, frustrating attraction to the Duke. No. Her husband.
It was that line of his jaw that kept her from rest, that cold, unforgiving mask he donned when his temper flared, that was also impossibly handsome.
Why,she wondered, pressing a fist to the pillow,does that forbiddin’ exterior not send me runnin’?
Her mind drifted once more to earlier, before the eruption at the table, she had seen him smile at Oliver.
It was fleeting, yes. And perhaps a touch stiff, but it was there.
It was a softening around the eyes, a genuine upward curve of his lips that transformed his face. That look suggested a man capable of warmth, a man yearning to be the father his son needed, even if he didn’t know how. That small, unguarded sliver of humanity was what truly unsettled her, even more than his handsomeness.
It was the potential for connection. She found herself enraptured by the promise of the man beneath the Duke.
And then there was his voice. His deep, steady voice, when he had spoken to her earlier about the estate, about her background. He hadn’t dismissed her passion for stories or her love of history. Instead, he had given her a rare, subtle nod of respect, a quiet acknowledgment that her thoughts held value.
I might like to hear some of those stories myself,he had said.
It was an interest inher mind, the most intriguing pull of all. It was a profound difference from every other man she had ever heard of. She was drawn to him not despite his complexity, but because of those jarring, sudden flashes of vulnerability and respect that broke through his armor.
He is nae easy, but I suspect worth the fight.
Finally, she threw off the heavy covers and slipped a dressing gown over her shift. She grabbed a taper from her bedside andmoved quietly out of her chamber, down the hall, and down the back staircase.
A simple remedy was required, and she did not want to ring for it. She could use the walk, the soothing work of making something.
Warm milk, just the way me maither used to prepare it for us.
She crept down the servants’ stairs, the dark wood groaning under her, until she reached the large kitchens.
A single oil lamp cast a pool of gold light on the vast prep table, and when she stepped into the warmth, she stopped dead in her tracks.
The Duke.
He sat on a stool next to the cold range, his dark hair rumpled, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was not looking at ledgers or estate documents as she usually observed. Instead, he was slowly, deliberately, eating a slice of chocolate cake.
A thick, lavish piece of gateau.
He looked up at her, his blue eyes catching the lamplight.
“Yer Grace,” she murmured as she pulled her gown tighter, making a hasty retreat. “Forgive me, I didnae ken anyone would be down here at this hour. I shall leave at once…”
“Stay,” he said, his voice deep and quiet.
“If ye say so,” she whispered.
They stood there, looking at each other in silence. The stark quiet swelled around them, as loud as any symphony could play. All she could hear was the distant ticking of the grandfather clock upstairs in the hall.
“What do you want, Isla?” He asked, breaking her focus on the tick tock tick tock.
“Only some warm milk. I couldnae sleep.”
He slid off the stool, moving with quiet, effortless efficiency. He found a small saucepan and the milk pitcher on a nearby counter. Isla followed him, stunned. He banked embers, set the pan on the grate, and began to stir the milk with a wooden spoon as if he had been doing it all his life.
“I am surprised to find the Duke of Ealdwick tendin’ to a stovetop,” she ventured, her voice regaining some of its usual spirit.
