He let out a long, silent breath. It felt like tearing a piece of old, rusted chain from his heart.
I must say something…
“You are right, Oliver,” Benedict said finally. “That is unfair. To both of you.” He reached out, not to pat his son’s head, but to stroke the fine, dark hair away from the boy’s forehead. “I… I have been slow to speak of her. It is difficult for me. Can you be patient with your old man?”
Oliver nodded without a word, his eyes fixed on him.
“You know what? I promise you this,” Benedict continued, meeting his son’s eyes. “I promise that we will talk about her. Not tonight. Not all at once. But we will start small. I will tell you a story about your mother. Soon.”
Oliver’s lower lip wobbled, not with sadness, but with overwhelming relief. Benedict knew it because it was what he, too, had longed for all his life, but never received. Oliver lunged forward, up and out of the covers, throwing his small arms around Benedict’s neck and squeezing with surprising strength.
“Thank you, Papa,” he whispered against his ear. “Thank you.”
Benedict sat rigidly for a second, unsure how to respond to the fierce gratitude. Then, with slow yielding, he relaxed. He brought his hand up and gently patted Oliver’s back, then stroked the back of his head.
When Oliver finally let go, his face was radiant. He settled back down beneath the covers, his eyes closing almost immediately. Benedict waited until the boy’s breathing evened out into the slow, steady rhythm of sleep before pulling the covers up to his chin and quietly rising from the bed.
He paused at the door, glancing back at the sleeping form of his son. He felt strangely hollowed out, but somehow less burdened. He had kept his promise to Isla, even if she hadn’t known it yet.
He had taken the first step away from the specter of the past, all for the sake of his boy in that bed.
Isla woke slowly, the fine linen sheets tangling around her legs, her body aching in the most pleasurable and confusing way. The memory of the previous night was not merely a dream. It was a physical truth imprinted on her skin, as true as any mark.
The cold wall. The hot rush of Benedict’s body against mine. The raw, possessive heat of his voice. The shocking praise for me scars, as if they somehow make me more, and not less, beautiful…
She lay still for a long time, watching the London light filter weakly through the heavy window drapes. She swore she could smell snow coming, a reminder of the upcoming holidays they would spend at Ealdwick. What would the future hold for them, with all that had happened? Her heart hammered against her ribs, caught between exhilarating hope and crushing dread.
Had the intimacy meant something real?
Had his words about her courage and beauty been genuine, or were they simply the passionate pronouncements of a permanently disciplined man temporarily losing control? He had called their first kiss a mistake. She could not bear to face another rejection, especially after he had seen so much of her.
By the time she rose, dressing in a simple, high-necked morning gown with Lydia’s assistance, she had convinced herself of the latter.
The Duke of Ealdwick was a man of control. Passion was an anomaly, an error he would quickly correct.
I cannae get me hopes up again, she willed herself as she left her quarters.
She descended to the breakfast room, her stomach twisting with anxiety but also a fervent need for sustenance. She had a bit too much champagne the prior evening for her lack of experience at such outings.
Oliver was already seated, happily attacking a bowl of warm porridge with cinnamon. He looked quite happy, with a large smile across his face. Yet, it was the figure at the head of the table that drew all her focus.
Benedict was there, dining happily with his son. He was flawlessly groomed in a dark navy coat, his black hair neatly brushed back, his beard trimmed to perfection. He was reading a newspaper, a cup of coffee at his elbow, and a hard-boiled egg. He looked every inch the impenetrable, perfectly composed Duke she had married. There was no sign in his demeanor of the man who had pinned her against a wall and kissed the breath from her body.
He looked up as she entered, offering a perfectly polite smile, which promptly set her blood on fire.
“Good morning, Duchess. You slept late. I trust the ball did not… overly tax your constitution?” His voice was utterly casual, his tone light.
Isla felt a spike of deep, bitter frustration. She forced a smile in return, trying to ignore the heat that instantly flooded her cheeks.
Is he teasin’ me?
“Good morning, Yer Grace. Not at all. I enjoyed myself immensely.”
“Good,” he said, turning a page of the newspaper. “I informed the staff we would be visiting the modiste this afternoon. We should ensure your wardrobe is complete before the next round of entertainments begin.”
Oliver piped up excitedly as he scooped another bite of porridge, “Papa says we will all visit the park later, Isla!”
“That would be lovely, Oliver,” she replied, sitting down and accepting a plate of eggs from a footman.
