Chapter 11
The exertion of kneading dough, and the heat from the ovens caused Sofia’s stiff, constricting gown to scratch uncomfortably against her slippery skin. Stoically clad in his topcoat and cravat, Christopher too suffered for his proprietary. His cheeks were flushed red and perspiration gathered on his brow.
Even his indomitable cowlick was wilting. She watched as a bead of sweat trickled down his temple. “This is ridiculous. I am not from the social class where men suffer through sweltering heat with unnecessary layers of clothing. Remove your topcoat and neckcloth before I’m forced to drag your unconscious form outside for air. At least one of us should be comfortable.”
Christopher cast her a stubborn look.
“Don’t be mulish. The boys have gone to bed and there is no one to see you but me. I assure you that the sight of your shirtsleeves will not cause me to swoon.” I hope.
His gaze dropped away, the tips of his fingers worrying back and forth across his forehead.
“Surely you are not so modest as that.”
His eyes closed. “It isn’t modesty so much as…” His boots shuffled as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
Sofia waited.
“It’s only… it’s rather hot in here.”
Sofia sighed. “Si. That is the point I am attempting to make.”
“It’s been rather hot for a long time, and I am afraid my shirt sleeves are a sweaty mess at this point.” He crossed his arms over his chest and studied his boots. Then, quietly, “It’s not exactly the picture I would like resurfacing in your dreams tonight. Me, smelling like a field labourer, with a perspiration-soaked shirt adhered to my armpits. Moreover, you deserve the company of a man who cares more for your comfort than his own.”
Her heart stuttered at his words.
One February, her father had left them without coal for a month in favour of spending their last coin on a first-edition copy of Species Plantarum. A year later, when she had swallowed her pride and begged her brother to stay, his anger at their father’s betrayal had been stronger than his loyalty to her. Dropping a kiss on the top of her head, Oliver had pried her fingers from his shirtfront and walked away without looking back. But now, this man she had scarcely known for a month cared enough for her good opinion that he opted to smother himself in a sweltering kitchen rather than risk offending her sensibilities.
It was a ridiculous, insignificant thing. She repeated it like a chant in her mind— ridiculous and insignificant. But, just as it had been that first night when he’d left fairy stories at her bedside, her heart refused to see the gesture as anything but grand.
“I suppose it’s rather too late to salvage my gentlemanly splendour at this point. Discussing my armpits is unlikely to give you enchanting dreams.” He gave her a self-deprecating smile.
“Christopher, come here.”
His playfulness evaporated in an instant. His entire body reacted to her use of his Christian name, fingers curling into his palms, eye widening, chest expanding on a deep inhalation as if he could draw the intimacy of that moment inside himself and hold it there. He blinked, then blinked again.
“Vieni qui, Christopher.” His name melted on her tongue.
Slowly, he moved one foot, and then the other, until he was standing inches from her with an expression she did not recognise on his face. What had begun as a practical suggestion had rapidly transformed into something far more sensual.
Sofia raised her hand and rested it lightly against his chest. She stroked the wilted point of his collar with her index finger. Up, then down. “I will valet for you if you will permit me.”
He answered with the slightest of nods, his lips parting. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from those lips. Pink. They looked unbearably soft, and she could imagine all too well what they would feel like pressed against hers. She had been kissed in her younger, more carefree youth, but not by anyone like Christopher. Christopher was a man, a generous attentive man, and she knew he would kiss her mouth with eager, exacting care, learning the taste of her millimetre by millimetre.
Her other hand came to join the first.
Palms flat against the muscles of his chest, she reached beneath his coat and over his shoulders. Strong, lean shoulders that flexed as her fingers slid across the soft cloth of his shirt. His coat slipped to the floor and her pulse leapt at the sound of his rough exhalation.
“Christ, I hope Gabriel’s never had this reaction to my valet services,” he mumbled, a flicker of humour still glinting in his eyes despite the delicious intensity crackling between them.
“The cravat now.”
Ensnared by his intimate, heavy-lidded gaze, she took to the task at a leisurely pace, the silk gliding between her fingers as she unravelled him. When her fingers grazed his nape, an indelicate shiver ran through him—a reaction he neither concealed nor explained away.
The cravat fluttered to the floor, and he caught her hand in his before she could retreat, pressing it to his chest over the drumming of his heart. Warmth kindled in her belly, prickling as it spread, until she was nothing more than needy anticipation.
“Better?” Sofia asked.
“Better than I’ve ever been.” He raised his other hand to her cheek, the backs of his fingers sweeping up and down the angle of her jaw, exploring the texture of her skin with painstaking care.
“Bene.” Her tongue flicked out to wet her lips. “The biscotti are burning.”
“I know the feeling.”
The sound of his voice, low and husky, raised goosebumps across her skin.
“You called me Christopher.”
“Si.”
“Does this mean we can be friends again tomorrow?”
“Si.”
“Thank God.”
His head dipped lower, then, his lips hovering just above hers.
He was going to kiss her and she was dizzy with the desire to press her body against his. She wanted it more than she had wanted food when she was weak with hunger. Wanted it more than she wanted her next breath.
Three urgent strikes to the servant’s entrance rattled the hinges of the great wooden door, startling them apart. “Open up!”
Christopher let out an expletive then shook his head. “Rescue the biscotti, sweetheart. I’ll see to this.”
Christopher crossedto the door and threw back the lock. The moment the latch released, a pair of grooms stumbled in, half dragging a filthy, battered man between them. His shirt was torn open and blood dripped to the floor at his feet. The ragged edges of the fabric stuck to the gaping puncture wound in his abdomen. Little of his russet-brown skin remained unscathed by dirt and red blotches that would become dark bruising by the morning. Keene would have thought him dead if not for his guttural moan as one lad adjusted his grip.
Abandoning the tray of biscuits, Sofia lunged towards the stranger with a startled cry, clutching his face between her hands then running her fingers down his neck and chest. “Maria Madre di Dio, Oli! Cosa ti è successo, fratello?” Hands that had teased across Christopher’s skin only moments before were now bathed in this man’s blood, pressed to where it pooled.
Snatching a kitchen cloth, Christopher replaced Sofia’s slippery fingers with his own. “George, put him on the table, then go for the doctor! Marcus, get Gabriel.”
Sofia followed, whispering to the unconscious man, “Ti amo, idiota. Non morirai!”
The moment he was lowered to the table, she took his great meaty hand in one of her own and smoothed his matted curls with the other. Christopher knew exactly ten Italian phrases. “I love you,” was one.
Blistering heat curled in his stomach. “Who is he?”
“My brother. Oliver.”
He nodded, rage and relief shouldering to the surface, battling for space. He took care to keep both from his expression. If her brother had been nearby, why had she arrived starving in their apple orchard? Keene pushed the question away, along with all the others that bubbled up in its place.
“There is a first aid box in Mrs Janewood’s sitting room, in the second drawer down in her desk. Get it.”
She hesitated, her thumb stroking tenderly across Oliver’s bruised cheek.
“Sofia. Go.”
Anguish gleaming in her eyes, she turned and ran, nearly colliding with a very rumpled Gabriel as he charged into the kitchens.
“It’s Sofia’s brother. I don’t know anything else.”
Gabriel’s eyebrows furrowed. “I assume the doctor is on his way? I told Violet to remain upstairs, which means any moment she’ll?—”
“Oh, the poor little lamb. Who is he?”
“Be walking through the door,” Gabriel finished with a rueful smile.
Only Violet could take in this bedraggled, portly, disaster of a man who smelled like piss and whisky and label him a “poor little lamb.”
“Miss Lioni has a brother. An older one who’s been eating far better than she, apparently.” Keene spat the words out.
Violet’s hand landed on his forearm, a thread of caution beneath layers of sympathy. “Best put that under your hat until after he sees the doctor, Christopher. I’ll go for water to clean him up.”
“You’ll ring for a servant and go back to bed.”
She turned that gentle touch on Gabriel, her fingers light against the centre of his back.
“I mean it, Violet. We don’t know anything about this man,” Gabriel said rather pointlessly.
“I know you mean it, love. But it’s Miss Lioni’s brother, not some nefarious footpad.”
“He smells like a nefarious footpad,” Gabriel grumbled.
She crossed to ring for a servant, which turned out to be unnecessary when Sofia returned accompanied by Mrs Janewood. They were carrying water and bandages. Sofia resumed her place at the end of the table, her hands bracketing Oliver’s head, her thumbs caressing the greasy hair at his temple. Christopher watched her lips move silently in what looked to be prayer. Despite her obvious shock, she did not crumble. If anything, she appeared to have donned an extra layer of armour somewhere between the housekeeper’s parlour and the kitchen. She was preparing for the worst, he realised. He wanted to wrap his arms around her, but his hands were smeared with blood, so instead he replaced the bandage he held with a clean one and did his best to keep the bastard alive for her sake. When he glanced up again, Violet was beside Sofia. Naturally, Vi had paid no mind to Gabriel’s halfhearted dictate.
“It looks as if the bleeding has slowed,” Christopher said. He studied Oliver to keep his questions to Sofia at bay. He appeared older than Christopher and Gabriel’s thirty-seven years, but lifestyle could age a man. His clothes were of poor quality, little more than rags really, and the tread was nearly gone from his boots. His mass of curly hair was likely identical to his sister’s if hers had not been pinned into submission, but his complexion was darker, not the olive of the Italians. He was large, over twenty-one stone Christopher guessed. All at once, that twenty-one stone began to thrash, eyes fierce and frantic. Keene dived to still him before the bleeding could start again.
“Be still. You’re safe. Your sister is beside you. My name is Christopher Keene and you are at Northam Hall.” Glazed eyes darted to each person present, lingering on Gabriel for a long moment before finding his sister’s face and softening. “Piccola pulce.” He reached for her, and though he groaned, he did not stop until he caught her hand in his. “Perdonami per le cose ho detto. Non intendevo loro. Non intendevo?—”
“Riposa ora. Tutto andra bene.” Sofia kissed his knuckles.
A knock sounded at the door a moment before Doctor Higgins entered the room. His purposeful stride did not slow as he greeted Gabriel with a nod. “Your Grace, who do we have here?”
“Oliver Lioni, my governess’s brother. Arrived in this state some thirty minutes ago.”
The doctor slid his glasses up his hooked nose and addressed his next question to his patient. “Knife wound?”
Oliver nodded, then gasped as Dr Higgins pressed the tissue surrounding the wound with methodical fingers.
“You’re lucky, son. It doesn’t appear to have severed any major blood vessels or organs. An inch to the right and you never would have made it to the property line. I’ll have to clean it and stitch it up. It’s filthy, but the edges are smooth. It’s going to hurt like the devil and you’ll likely develop a fever that will make you wish you were dead.”
Gabriel turned to his wife. “Vi, why don’t you take Miss Lioni for a cup of tea or, better yet, a snifter of brandy?”
Sofia gripped Oliver’s hand with both of hers, her fingers blanched white from the pressure she exerted. She shook her head in a stilted little jerk. Violet raised a hand to her shoulder but Christopher’s feet were already moving, his arms opening to reach for her. She flinched, sucking in a quick breath of air. “No, Christopher. If you touch me, I will cry and I cannot… cannot…” She heaved in two more choppy breaths. “Cry.” Quick, jarring tremors had overtaken her slight body, but still she held herself stiff and apart, her eyes beseeching. Christopher stood rooted in place.
“Sofia.”
“No,” she said again. Her arms came up around herself and he watched the muscles in her throat move as she swallowed. “No. I will go with Her Grace. A brandy would be… si.”
Turning, she all but ran from the room. Violet paused long enough to lay a hand on Gabriel’s wrist, a brief look passing between them before she followed Sofia at a walk.
Sofia swept around the corner,pressed her palms and forehead against the cool wall, and tried to combat the nausea roiling through her stomach. Knowing Her Grace would be just a few moments behind her, Sofia straightened her spine… only to discover the bloody hand print smeared across the delicate cream wallpaper. She tried to wipe the blood away with her sleeve, but it only seemed to grind deeper into the wall.
A gentle touch landed on her shoulder, stilling her frantic movement.
“Never mind that,” the duchess said. “May I call you Sofia?” Her soft, lyrical voice was more suitable to a drawing room tea than the current drama. “And I would very much like it if you would call me Violet. Considering that your brother is currently bleeding in my kitchens, it seems absurd to stumble over unnecessary titles.” Violet made a frustrated sound. “And I have said the entirely incorrect thing again. It’s a problem of mine.”
Sofia shook her head. “No, I much prefer honesty. And I would like it if you called me Sofia.”
“Excellent. I will have a bath drawn for you, and then, when you are feeling more the thing, we’ll have a glass of brandy. I’ve never actually had brandy but this seems like an excellent excuse. Or scotch. Gabriel prefers scotch. Come to the study when you’re ready.”
A short while later, as she sank into the steaming bath, Sofia attempted to wash away her anxiety alongside the evidence of Oliver’s close call with death. Too many emotions were closing in on her and she had no way to escape them. She was as distraught by the thought of having Oliver close to Northam Hall as she was at the prospect of losing him again. If he died, she didn’t know how she would survive on the memory of what he had become. She heard the contempt in his voice even now, searing away at the memories she had long safeguarded in her heart. Memories that had sustained her through the days when Oliver had become difficult to love.
Sofia didn’t want to be angry with him tonight, so she tried to think only of the sweet boy he had been. Oliver, sewing tiny, uneven stitches with clumsy hands, reattaching the leg of her favourite doll. Oliver, dancing every song with her the night Antonio De Luca had called her a clumsy cow to a crowd of his friends. She had shrunk into the shadows that night, but Oliver had found her, ruffled her hair, and told her she belonged in the light. Always in the light.
Now he had become her darkness.
But perhaps she had played a part in making him so. This broken man was not her Oliver. He was a monster created from tankards of ale. Ale that he used to wash away the injustice of his birth and to fill the void of unfulfilled revenge. But regardless of his recent plummet into disgrace, he had been her only source of loyalty and affection for many years.
In a way, Oliver was right. She had chosen Christopher and the Ansons, and rightfully so. When the lines of this duplicitous battle were drawn, theirs was the side of her conscience. She had allowed Oliver to wither away into this shell of a man because the alternative was to betray herself.
Sofia did not know how she would make it through tonight. She shut her eyes, sinking further into the water, and there was Christopher’s steady gaze behind her closed lids. Her muscles tightened at the memory of him reaching to comfort her. The lure of safety he offered when everything felt so out of control had been almost too much to bear.