She cleared her throat softly and forced her attention back to the stage, turning with a bump back to face front. “I just wantedto say… that the, um, the scenery is quite impressive, Yer Gra—Benedict,” she whispered, not looking at him. “Aye?”
He did not reply.
Instead, his fingers slowly, carefully, moved back to the rear of her seat. This time, he did not touch her. He did not need to. The proximity was an agony of frustrated need that was more palpable than any stroke of his fingers. It was a silent challenge, a demand only she could hear.
I am powerless against his pull…
Oliver, meanwhile, was completely absorbed and oblivious to the growing tension offstage. He shifted again, leaning his head against Isla’s shoulder as a giant dog entered the scene.
“I wish I had a dog like that,” Oliver said, almost to himself.
“Well, ye never ken what can happen,” Isla said with a small wink. “Christmas is comin’ after all…”
The boy shifted again, leaning on his legs to get a closer look at the action on stage and not quite hearing Isla’s words.
I will have to remember that… somethin’ to talk to me husband about later…
“He likes you immensely, Isla,” Benedict whispered, his voice low, his breath stirring the fine hairs at her neck once more.
“He is a good lad,” Isla whispered back, her heart hammering against her ribs, her body aching with the need to turn fully into him, to feel the comfort and fire of his embrace.
As the silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken thoughts and physical proximity, Isla slowly turned her head. Her gaze lifted, meeting the Duke’s eyes directly in the dim theatre box.
In that instant, everything else receded. The muted rumble of the audience, the stiffness of her gown, the weight of their complicated reality, all of it vanished. His eyes, dark blue and fathomless, held hers in a silent, profound lock. She could read nothing of his thoughts, only the intense, focused heat of his gaze. It felt as if they were falling, slowly, endlessly, into the singularity of that one look. She lost all track of where they were or who was watching. The space between them seemed to shrink, charged with a magnetic, terrifying intimacy that made her pulse thunder in her ears.
A sudden, loud intrusion shattered the spell.
“The play will continue after a short intermission,” an announcement rang out as the actors exited the stage. With that, the house lights abruptly came up, flooding the box with a stark, unwelcome glare that violently yanked Isla back to reality. She blinked, feeling a faintness that had nothing to do with the stuffy theatre air, and immediately looked away, her cheeks burning.
“Papa, I must excuse myself,” Oliver said as he went to visit the necessary room, leaving Isla and Benedict alone in the box. “I promise not to dawdle!”
“Mind your manners and come right back, Oliver,” he said with a smile, handing him a few coins. “Be sure to grab a small refreshment as well.”
“Thank you, Papa! Thank you so much!” He said as he left the box.
Benedict leaned back in his seat and put his arms behind his head, his eyes dark as the ocean as he watched her stand to stretch her legs.
“You are exquisite tonight, Duchess,” he said, his voice husky. “Perhaps you were right to have us come, even just to see you dressed up like this one last time before we leave London.”
“We still have one more act,” she said shyly. “Ye may change yer mind.”
“Ah yes, I now find myself deeply regretting my promise to Oliver that we remain through the entire performance.”
Isla trembled, bringing a hand to her mouth. It was all so fresh, so new, so overwhelming. She hardly knew where to turn, what to feel, and how to act.
“We… we cannae…be so open,” she managed, her tongue suddenly thick in her mouth and desperate for water. She could feel the raw desire emanating from him, mirroring the aching void inside her as he licked the side of his lip. “Oliver will return. Someone might see.”
“Oh, I know,” he agreed, his eyes never leaving hers. “Waiting and wanting is half the fun.”
He reached out and she leaned down to him, her cleavage on display. With the lightest possible touch, he ran the back of his finger along the curve of her jaw, right up to the line of her ear.
“A terrible predicament,” he mused, a dark smile touching his full lips as he stroked his beard. “To be so close to what I desire, and yet utterly incapable of claiming it. Whatever will we do about this?”
“I…I…”
“You are a smart lass, Isla,” he said with a tease. “Will you think of a way to make it up to me when we are home?”
The moment stretched, charged, and agonizing as she thought of a retort to no avail. Isla wanted to beg him to take her, right there, against the plush velvet. She was hungry. And needy. And wet.
