“Of course, Your Grace. I will help you and Her Grace out of the carriage and let them know at once?—”
“Now,” Benedict ordered as he flung the carriage door open himself and ushered Isla out. “We are fine.”
The footman quickly bowed and hurried toward the townhouse, running up the stairs at full speed.
Isla and Benedict followed behind him, the cold air swirling around them as snowflakes started to fall. He threw the door open, and they saw the servants. They were already aware of the early arrival, quietly slipping away with practiced ease. Only one lamp flickered, casting long shadows along the main staircase.
As soon as they were left alone in the foyer, Isla walked to the mahogany bench. She let out a soft sigh, shrugging off her heavy velvet cloak. The rich fabric slipped from her shoulders and fell in a smooth, dark pool onto the bench beneath her.
“Ye need to listen to me, Yer Grace,” she said plainly. “Ye cannae make a spectacle like that, and now in our home in front of our staff. Everyone saw. Everyone heard. Ye keep makin’ me look like a child ye have to drag about.”
Benedict walked past her to the coat rack, then, undoing the buttons of his greatcoat in a rush. He kept his back to her as he did it, focusing on handing the coat to a lone waiting footman, who materialized silently from the shadows and vanished just as quickly as if by magic.
“I made you look like you are mine,” he stated, turning around, his eyes cold and searching. “Which you are, Isla. And better they fear me than pity you. As for the staff of this household, they are well compensated for their discretion.”
“Pity? I daenae want any pity! I want respect! To be an equal,” she replied, rising from the bench and taking a step toward him. “And I was gainin’ it tonight! Elspeth and Hugo are good people.”
“I did not say they were not?—”
“In fact, I think they saw me as an equal! Ye destroyed that fragile start to a friendship with yer… yer dramatics!”
“Dramatics? Do you take me for the stage?”
He finally moved, covering the distance between them in two long strides. He stopped, just inches from her, forcing her to tilt her head back to meet his gaze.
“I am nae playin’ around on this! Ye must hear me, Benedict.”
“You think my concern for your reputation and your feelings is merelydramatics? You are mistaken, Isla.”
“It was unnecessary!” Isla countered, though her voice wavered the more she spoke. “I was embarrassed by that man, aye… but I was more embarrassed by the way ye handled it. We agreed, remember? A quiet, respectable partnership. Nothin’ loud. Nothin’ to draw attention where there shouldnae be any. Ye did the exact opposite!”
Benedict’s expression tightened, the blue of his eyes darkening to the color of a wintery sea. He reached out, his hand sliding up and down her arm, his thumb resting just above the silk cuff of her glove and tracing the outline of her bicep. He bit his lip as he ran his thumb up and down again, the scent of her reaching his nostrils as he breathed her deep. She had gotten under his skin, and more surprisingly, he liked it.
This woman will be my undoing.
“I am tired of pretending that this partnership is only quiet and respectable,” he growled in frustration, his coldness meltingaway to something hot and demanding. “Even a man like me has his limits, Isla. I saw him look at you. I saw the way his eyes lingered on your face, on your scars, as if you were a specimen to be scrutinized. And I saw the way you slumped, the defeat in your eyes. It made me furious. All I could see was red.”
He shifted his grip on her, moving his hand from her arm up to trace her collarbone, and finally to the delicate skin around her neck. His fingers did not squeeze, but the pressure was firm. His touch was possessive, a claim. He felt her swallow a breath with a huff, then lick her lips. She looked up at him as if a startled doe, and he was the hunter.
“You are mine. And when a man insults what is mine, I do not brush it off like the fresh fallen snow. I do not send a mild-mannered note the next day like some old maid. I make a promise, one that he will never forget.”
His thumb brushed the pulse point beneath her ear, and the very last of Isla’s breath dissolved into a soft gasp. She smelled of champagne and something sweet, making him lick his lips again at the idea of tasting her.
He lowered his head, not for a kiss, but to whisper against her earlobe, his breath hot on her skin.
“And I do not let anyone insult what is mine,mo chridhe.”
The Gaelic endearment, spoken by him in that dark tone, was the final undoing of her resistance, and he knew it. He felt hershiver against him, her hands lifting to grasp his collar, then for more balance as her legs became unsteady beneath her.
“Take me upstairs,mo chridhe,” she whispered back as she touched her lips up to his neck, her heart pounding against his ribs as she leaned heavily into him.
Without another word, he swept her into his arms as if she were as light as a feather. He did not stumble or break his stride, carrying her effortlessly up the long, dark stairs and down the hall toward his master suite.
He pushed open the ajar door with his boot and strode in, setting her down in the center of the vast bedroom. He went back and shut it gently, turning back to face her. Her face was illuminated only by the faint light filtering from the streetlamps below and a dying fire in the hearth. He kept his hands on her waist, pulling her flush against his solid body.
“This dress…” he hissed, his gaze raking over the emerald silk. “It suits you well but is too much in the way. Whatever shall I do with it?”
He did not wait for a response. With a swift movement, he reached behind her and pulled the laces of her gown down roughly, making her moan as she arched her back to help.
