He kept his attention on the pan, as if performing surgery. “Any self-respecting man should be able to manage his own needswithout summoning staff at all hours. My staff have long days. It is not their duty to fetch me a midnight slice of cake,” he said as he glanced pointedly at the gateau. “I can take care of myself.”
Isla followed his gaze to the rich dessert. “I didnae expect ye to have such a sweet tooth. Seems terribly lavish for someone as pragmatic as ye.”
He fell silent, fingers brushing the edge of the table, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular.
After a moment, he lifted his eyes and gave a curt nod. “It is my favorite… though I found I had little appetite for it at dinner after Oliver left.”
Isla found a clean spoon and, without asking, reached across and dipped it into the lush gateau. She lifted a dark, creamy piece to her mouth. She watched the Duke narrow his eyes at the blatant disregard for ownership, but for some reason, he did not say anything or try to reprimand her. She took it as a small victory.
“Aye… This. Is. Excellent,” she sighed in bliss. “Ye are a great judge of sweets, but ye are too stern with the lad.”
Benedict set the milk spoon down. “I do not want him to feel sad about things he cannot control,” he stated, his voice tight. “I do not want him to dwell on a mother he never really knew or feel the ache of a loss he is too young to truly comprehend. I am doing what is best for my son. Something my own father never did.”
Isla put the spoon down and faced him, her stance softening as she angled her body toward him as if pulled by some phantom thread. “Yer Grace, he is not feelin’ loss. He is feelin’ curiosity and a need for connection. He is a bright lad, much like ye were, I imagine. He kens ye feel pain… he wants to ken about the woman you loved enough to grieve. Take small steps. Answer one question a day. Tell him her favorite color, or if she liked to read poetry in the garden.”
She reached out, placing a gentle hand on his muscled forearm. The pads on her fingers prickled at the connection, the pure heat that filled her from the smallest touch. Her heartbeat grew impossibly fast as she waited for his response.
“Perhaps,” he said finally.
“He will be grateful. Grateful for even that small kindness,” she pressed as she caressed him a bit more, testing the boundary.
He clenched his jaw, the muscle working under her touch. He did not pull away but simply nodded.
“He is very fond of you,” he conceded. “I have heard it not just from Oliver, but the staff. The governess, as well as Mrs. Callahan.”
Isla smiled, a genuine, luminous expression that softened the lines of her scars. “And I of him. He is a lovely lad, despite having such a curmudgeon for a faither.”
She took her hand away from him then and dipped her spoon back into the cake with playful defiance as she licked the last bits of frosting from it.
Isla watched Benedict’s mouth twitch, halfway between a scowl and a smile. He took a step closer to her, leaning in until his breath caressed her cheek.
As Isla was already reaching for a third bite, she was jolted, startled by the closeness of him. In a sudden movement, she smeared a thick line of melted chocolate across her lower lip and chin. She looked up at him beneath her full eyelashes, her mouth a pouty smile. Her heart pounded against her heavy chest as she waited.
Let us see what he thinks of me now… of me makin’ meself a dessert…
“Careful there, you will make a mess,” Benedict rasped. “Whatever will we do about that?”
His eyes immediately dropped to the streak of dark sweetness, and the air thickened. The room was charged with a sudden tension that had nothing to do with milk, gateau, or manners.
He raised his hand, his large thumb brushing lightly, deliberately, against her skin as he wiped the chocolate off. His gaze never left hers as he did it.
Then, his thumb returned to his own lips. She watched as he slowly, thoroughly, licked the chocolate from his skin, his eyes fixed on hers.
Isla’s breath caught in her throat at the sight. Every nerve ending on her body felt singed. A part of her thought she would catch on fire, to burn up in a single crisp. She felt a rush of heat and a desperate, reckless urge to close the remaining inches between them. She angled her body closer to him, her chest heavy and heaving as she began to lean.
He rested his arms on the table, leaning into her…
A sudden, bubbling sound ripped through the silence.
The milk!
The milk was completely forgotten in the saucepan and had boiled over, sputtering and sizzling onto the hot embers below with a pungent smell.
They both drew back instantly, the spell broken as they began to scramble. Benedict grabbed a nearby wet rag, cursing under his breath, and pulled the pan off the grate.
“It is late,” he said, his voice rough but controlled as he coughed. He looked everywhere but at her as he poured the milk into a cup and set it before her. “Here’s your milk. It is not terribly scalded, but I could make you another cup if you wish.”
She glanced at the cup and the steaming liquid before her, a cold, heavy sense of disappointment weighing her chest.
