“We are going home,” he commanded, his voice dark with fury. “Now.”
The air outside the Arrowfell townhouse was a crisp contrast to the cloying heat of the party.
Isla, still reeling from the sudden, dramatic confrontation and Benedict’s terrifying display of proprietary fury, stumbled slightly as he pulled her down the steps in a rush.
Benedict’s imposing black town coach, with the Ealdwick crest emblazoned on the door, was already waiting, as if it had been summoned and brought around with remarkable speed by the hounds of hell.
“Benedict, wait! I need a moment to catch me breath!” Isla protested, her voice a whisper as he all but shoved her into the luxurious, dark interior of the coach.
He followed her in, slamming the door shut with a force that rattled the glass. The footman, already on his perch, gave the command to the horses, and the carriage lurched forward.
The silence that descended inside the moving carriage felt volatile, charged with unspent rage that emanated from Benedict in palpable waves. She could not figure out why he cared so much, as the whispers that followed her were a steady fixture in her life.
He sat opposite her, his arms crossed over his chest, his jaw set in a rigid line as his fingers ran through his beard. His eyes, the startling, icy blue that had terrified Sir Bertram, were fixed on the passing streets.
Isla finally broke the strained silence, her voice trembling slightly, though she willed it to be steady.
“Yer Grace, ye had no reason to drag me away quite like that. It was rude to our hosts, who were most kind to me. Ye left me sister and aunt to explain our sudden departure, which is unfair too...” she whispered.
He turned his gaze on her, and the intensity of it made her instinctively pull back against the plush velvet.
“No right?” He huffed. “I had every right, Duchess. I am your husband. And I will not stand idly by while a drunken fool like Sir Bertram attempts to humiliate you.”
“I was handlin’ it,” she insisted, though a part of her knew that was a lie. She had been frozen, mortified, her carefully constructed composure shattered by his crude words. “I had only just met Elspeth! I liked her! And ye embarrassed me in front of everyone, Benedict. Now everyone will talk about yer hot temper instead of the lovely new Duchess.”
He gave a short, sharp, humorless laugh. “They would talk anyway, Isla. Do you truly think a polite, vapid conversation about stitch patterns or the weather would have spared you from the vultures at that party, Elspeth and Hugo excluded? They had already decided on their narrative at our last engagement. The Duke, rashly married to the scarred Scottish spinster. At least now they have a new, more terrifying narrative. A Duke who will destroy anyone who dares to question, comment, or insult his choice.”
Isla stared at him, stunned by his brutal honesty. He wasn’t defending himself then. He was defending her, albeit in the most drastic, scorched-earth manner possible. His anger, she realized with a strange, dizzying clarity, wasn’t directed at her, and perhaps it never was.
It is fury on me behalf.
“I… I am grateful, Yer Grace,” she conceded softly. “It was good of ye to stand up for me. But ye did not need to make such a public threat.”
“I most certainly did,” he countered, leaning forward, his warm breath filling the carriage. “You do not understand these people like I do, Isla. They prey on perceived weakness. You stand there, silent, allowing their poison to seep in, and they will take it as an invitation to do more. I just drew a line in the sand that they will not cross. It’s for your protection, not my ego. I assure you of that. No one harms what is mine.”
“I can protect myself,” she argued, her chin lifting instinctively.
“I saw your face, Isla. You were retreating into the shell you had built around yourself, that old bitterness and hurt. And I will not allow that man, or any other, to strip you of your dignity while you are standing next to me.”
“I have dealt with arses like him me whole life,” Isla said, her voice barely audible. “I’m used to it…I…”
“Well, you needn’t be anymore,” he stated firmly. “You are the Duchess of Ealdwick. That title means something, because I have rebuilt it for my family. It is a shield, and I will ensure everyone knows that if they try to strike through it, they strike at me.”
The carriage hit a slight rut, and Isla was jostled toward him. The brief, physical proximity sent a sudden, startling jolt through her. She quickly pulled back, but the moment had done its damage. She felt a familiar warmth rising in her cheeks, not just anger, although that lingered, but a confusing, exhilarating mix of shame and desire.
What is it about this man that unnerves me so?
She looked at his profile again, at the stubborn set of his jaw, the severe lines of his coat, the strong, capable hands resting on his knees.
Aye, those hands…
This cold, stoic Duke, her husband of convenience as she once thought, was fiercely protective of her. It was a strange, powerful sensation, feeling so completely and publicly defended that it went straight in between her legs. It was more intoxicating than any of the fine brandy served at Arrowfell.
“We are home, Your Graces,” the footman called as the carriage came to a halt outside their townhouse.
Chapter Seventeen
“Notify Flark and the rest of the household staff that we have arrived, and are not to be disturbed,” Benedict told the footman.
