Chapter 21

Oliver clipped violently at the hedgerow, stripping away lopsided chunks and pausing only briefly to glower at Christopher upon his return to the cabin.

“Picturing my face in the shrubbery?” Christopher smirked and leaned against a tree.

“You were away for fifty-five minutes. I hope your ancient joints are feeling sufficiently limber.”

“Was it that long?”

Oliver answered with another glare.

“Lower your hackles. We were only talking.”

“Why are you blushing, then? I swear to God, Christopher, never play poker. You’re shit at lying.”

“All right, ninety-nine percent talking, one percent kissing.”

Oliver gave him a long, considering look, and Christopher could feel the imprint of Sofia’s fingers on his skin like a visible brand. Then Oliver grunted and returned to his plant massacre at a much slower pace. “The duchess insisted I come to the ball. That woman is tenacious.” His words were softened by a tight smile. “She’s sending over evening wear. I don’t think I even remember how to tie a neckcloth.”

“If only there was a reputable valet nearby.”

Another glare.

“You could use a haircut.”

“Absolutely not.”

“It’s long enough to pull back in a cue. This isn’t the sixteenth century, man, come on. Just a bit of tidying? Don’t worry, I’ll treat your precious locks with more respect than you just afforded that hedgerow.”

They turned in unison to stare at the victimised shrub, then Oliver chuckled with a shake of his head.

“Fine, but if I resemble that plant when you finish, I’ll use my rusty clippers to castrate you.”

Several hoursand ten times that number of threats from Oliver later, both men were dressed in formal wear.

“Stand still, I’m almost done.” Christopher attempted to straighten the cravat that Oliver had just anxiously tugged loose.

“I wish there was a mirror in this place,” Oliver grumbled for what must have been the fifth time.“It seems unfair that my first indication of your professional talents will be the expressions of strangers.”

“You look remarkable. Like a newly minted coin. And we can enter through the kitchens if you can’t take my word for it. There’s a mirror in Gabriel’s exercise room where you can see for yourself. It’s Gabriel’s appearance we should be concerned about. While he was kind enough to loan me out for the evening, that left him with Jeremy to play at valet. God only knows the state of Gabriel’s cravat.”

Oliver’s hand mussed through his shorter, more fashionable curls and shifted his weight again from one foot to the other.

“Is it the wine? It’s your first time around others who will imbibe,” Christopher said tentatively.

“It’s not the wine.”

“The people then?”

Oliver grunted.

“It’s mostly landed gentlemen and their wives. A few second sons and lesser titles who reside nearby. More than a few handfuls from the scientific community. Hamish will be there. If you recall, Violet made the guest list, and those in attendance will no doubt fall a far sight below the dowager’s standards. Luckily, Parliament is in session. If it weren’t, every viscount and earl within a two days’ ride would have clamoured for an invitation. Then again, that would have gotten us both off the hook for attendance…”

“Why isn’t the duke in London? He doesn’t seem the sort to shirk his duties.” This last was said with what sounded like reluctant regard.

“Indeed, he is not. And he has been as active as possible from a distance via correspondence, but his family was in no state for him to travel at the start of the session. How much do you know about the manner in which Violet and Gabriel were wed?”

Oliver shrugged. “Only that he was married before and this marriage was originally to be in name only.”

“Well, the latter was always a bit of wishful thinking on Gabriel’s part, I think. Feelings between the duke and duchess had already formed long before he swept in to save Zachariah from his grandfather, the Baron of Moorefield. Zach is actually Violet’s nephew. She and her late husband, Nathan, took Zachariah in when Zach’s father threatened to send him to an asylum as a very small lad. Even from a young age, it was apparent that he was unique, and his father wanted nothing to do with him. Last spring, that changed when the baron’s heir, Zachariah’s sire, died. The baron swept in and took Zach and the baron’s henchmen did a number on Violet for trying to protect the lad. It took her a week to recover from her injuries and, in that time, Zach suffered deeply under the guise of treatment.”

“So the duke married Violet to protect Zachariah?”

Christopher nodded. “Zachariah has come a long way since returning to the safety of his family, but every step was hard won. Understandably, the needs of the country became a lower priority than his son’s welfare.” Christopher smoothed a non-existent wrinkle from his embroidered waistcoat. “That’s enough history lessons for now or we will be more than fashionably late.”

Oliver had gone quiet, listening. He seemed to take a moment to shake himself from the story, then headed for the door.

The line of carriages stretched down the long gravel drive as enthusiastic guests ambled about, greeting familiar faces as they strolled inside. Oliver and Christopher slipped around through the kitchen entrance so Oliver could check his appearance before making their way to the ballroom. Scullery maids halted in their work with catcalls and whistles as the gentleman stepped inside.

“I’m sorry, sirs, you seem to have stumbled through the wrong entrance. The front door is for all the fancy toffs.” Mrs Simmons reached up to pat Christopher’s cheeks as she teased. “Well, let’s see then. Give us a little twirl, gents!” Christopher immediately complied, then all eyes shifted to Oliver, who stubbornly remained planted in place.

“I don’t twirl.”

“Do you like to eat?” Christopher asked.

Oliver heaved a sigh.

“When the cook asks you to twirl, you twirl.”

Oliver stomped in a circle, hands thrown out to the sides in the way of a petulant child.

“Oh, you are dashing, Mr Lioni. Especially that haircut. Those curls remind me of His Grace. But I suppose they would, considering the same man held the scissors.” Oliver tensed at the compliment.

Christopher chuckled. “Do you dislike His Grace so much that even a similar hair style offends you? Truly, you will have to get past your distaste for the aristocracy if you are to remain, Oliver. You rubbed along well enough with Her Grace and Lady Nora.”

Christopher paused then, cocked his head to the side, and really looked at Oliver. He had changed dramatically since arriving, but as Oliver’s near-constant companion, Christopher hadn’t really noticed how much until that moment. It was unique, this relationship they’d forged in a relatively short time, and it gave Christopher the odd sensation of having known the man forever.

Oliver’s fists clenched. “Let’s get this over with. Forget the mirror. I’m sure it’s good enough.”

“Thank you for the compliment, Mrs Simmons. We will see you ladies later.” Christopher lowered in an elegant bow that set off a rush of tittering, then headed towards the ballroom.

Hundreds of delicate ivory candles lit up the twin chandeliers that hung from the ceiling, casting the room in a dusky golden glow. Deep purple satin swept between the sleek marble pillars, and elegantly cascading blooms pinned into the fabric created a waterfall of scented petals. Violet and the staff had outdone themselves with the finishing touches.

Just through the open double doors that led out to the veranda, Violet was holding court in a cluster of gentlemen. Sofia stood beside her. He watched her gaze settle upon his, then she dipped into a slight curtsy, the long satin froth of her light blue gown caressing the parquet floor. He forced himself to blink when his eyes grew uncomfortably dry, then struggled further to keep his steps measured as he approached. She had tucked a white rose into her loosely upswept curls and left one errant strand whispering across her collarbone. The tip of the curl tumbled towards the voluptuous swell of her breasts.

“You are stunning. I can scarcely breathe at the sight of you.”

She beamed back at him. “I find I’m not up to the task of returning such an eloquent compliment, but… you’ll do.”

“No yellow in my wardrobe tonight, unfortunately. I’m afraid black is the only acceptable colour at these affairs. Your brother cleans up nicely. Did you see him?”

“I did not, but I think we should seek him out. I cannot imagine he is feeling very comfortable right now.”

“Indeed he is not. Rather surly this evening, actually.”

She searched the crowd, her smile faltering then disappearing entirely as she spotted her brother easily, his complexion standing out amongst all the fair-skinned faces.

Christopher leaned close to Sofia so as to be heard over the music and chatter. “Dance with him. Go on.”

Sofia squeezedChristopher’s arm in wordless gratitude, then stepped away and made her way to her brother. She wrapped both hands about his bicep. “Will you not ask me to dance, Oli?”

He gave a slow nod, his eyes shifting about the room. A waltz had begun, and Sofia was thankful for the relative privacy as they began the opening steps.

“Your hair. Good God. You’d look like his twin now but for your darker skin. What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking that your valet bullied me into a haircut and this was the result. Fuck, Sofia! I was already nervous enough about being here, and now I am dressed in the man’s clothes with my hair styled nearly identically to his. I’ve been hiding in the corner for the last forty minutes for fear someone might approach me from behind and mistake me for the goddamned duke!”

She reached up and touched a curl. “It really is uncanny. You even have a matching dimple, just there. Have you noticed?”

“Of course I’ve noticed. I’m not blind. We’ve also inherited the same mannerisms. I feel like I should tie my hands behind my back. The less time I share the same room with him, the better. Sofia—” He stumbled over his own feet then groaned. “You were right. Right about these people. Right about everything. I don’t want to hurt them, and I can’t stay. It’s only a matter of time before our similarities are noticed and remarked upon. I would be a terrible duke if the truth came out. What’s more, I don’t want to take this place from him. Did you know about Zachariah? The dukedom is the only thing keeping that boy safe. I cannot be responsible for destroying a child.” His eyes were liquid brown. Lost. “Sofi, what have I done?”

Sofia had never seen him so miserable. Ignoring her own gurgling frustration, she took a deep breath and attempted to enact some order over her thoughts. Before she could, he continued.

“I have to leave, Sofia, but you don’t. Christopher is a good man. He will take care of you.”

She was shaking her head, her tears blurring the room into indistinguishable colour. “No. I would never be able to see you again. I cannot…” A desperate noise escaped her lips and she was thankful for the clammer of music and chatter. “I’ll think of something, and if I can’t…” She hastily brushed away a tear. “If I can’t, then I’ll go with you.”

“No, Sofia. No.”

It was always going to end like this, and she had known it from the start. She couldn’t stay here and keep lying to Christopher, and she couldn’t send Oliver out in the world and never see him again. No matter how many lists she made, she couldn’t plot or plan another option when there wasn’t one.

“Just give me a little more time, and in the meantime, stay away from Northam Hall. Stay away from the duke.”

Oliver shook his head. “Time will not change my cheekbones Sofia, nor will it change the shade of my eyes and the slope of my nose. And Christopher, for one, is bound to notice. The longer I stay, the more I risk your future happiness here. I’ve bungled up enough, little flea. Let me at least do this one thing right.”

“No.”

“I love you, Sofia. And I will miss you every day, but I will be all right. I will find work in some other aristocrat’s gardens. Maybe that position in Cornwall. I won’t drink.” He lowered his voice, leaning close to Sofia’s ear. “I will make you proud, little sister.”

“A week. Give me one week to think this through.”

Oliver shook his head and there was such sadness in the motion.

All at once, there was too much around her. Too much disorganised noise and colour. Too much chaos. She couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t stand to be trapped in the rhythm and precise steps of a measured waltz while her emotions reeled in every direction.

“Three days. Please, Oli! Just three days.” Her whole body was trembling and she fought to keep her feet following the rhythmic count. Three days. One-two-three. One-two-three.

Oliver tightened his hold. “Three days, but it won’t change anything. And I will be a nervous wreck for every minute of it.”

Sofia felt her fight drain away, and with it, all her energy. Christopher watched them from beside a cluster of dowagers, his expression grim. The moment the song ended, he approached, taking her hand with a quick glance at Oliver, then leading her out the door to the terrace.

“What is it, Sofi?”

Sofia shook her head, unable to tell the truth and unwilling to lie. “I’m all right now.”

“You are not all right. If ‘all right’ is London, you are in the untamed Americas staring down a pack of those shifty creatures with the black face masks.”

“I believe they are called racoons, and they’re not aggressive. Nora wants one as a pet.” The jest felt hollow on her tongue, but she forced it out anyway, desperate to reclaim some sense of control.

“The name is wholly immaterial in this metaphor, Sofia. Will you tell me what’s troubling you?” When she still didn’t answer, he shook his head and shoved both hands through his hair, disrupting what must have been a fair amount of pomade and leaving him looking rather like a hedgehog.

She smiled despite the state of her heart. “The moment I saw the control you had enacted over your hair, I wanted to liberate it in exactly the same manner.” She reached up and mussed it further.

“Sofia…” His brow was furrowed, lips pressed into a rigid line.

She could see the frustration on his face, the certainty that he was being intentionally led away from the answers he sought. For a moment, she thought he might dig in his heels, but then he reached for her hand, raising the inside of her wrist to his mouth and grimacing as his lips met satin gloves instead of skin. “I’ve never in my life met such a stubborn creature. Is there anything I can do?” The softness in his voice soothed her prickling anxiety in a way nothing in her life ever had.

“You can entertain my brother, help to make the evening easier for him. You can dance with me. And at midnight, you can meet me in the billiards room and kiss me until I can think of nothing else.”

He nipped at the delicate glove. “I can manage that.”

They re-entered the ballroom and parted ways, Christopher to search the corners for Oliver, Sofia to find Violet, who was finishing a quadrille. Despite the duchess’s enthusiasm, she looked as if she was being propelled forward more by the music and the chattering guests than she was by her own energy.

“Are you well, Violet? Can I get you some refreshments?”

Violet shook her head. “Gabriel has been drowning me in lemonade between every dance. I think he knows, Sofia.”

“Of course he knows. Anyone who makes an occupation of watching his wife as closely as Gabriel does couldn’t possibly miss the changes in you. I am fairly certain even the boot boy suspects something at this point.” The duchess appeared very much like she might come apart completely, so Sofia took her arm and began leading her around the room.

“Slow breaths. Everything will be all right.” Sofia looked up to find Christopher and Oliver speaking near the door to the retiring room. Both looked significantly more at ease, and Sofia felt more of her own anxiety trickle away. Everything would be all right. She would find a way to make it so.

Violet’s attention shifted towards the main entrance and the grand staircase that lay beyond. “I hope Zach is managing. I checked on him an hour ago and he had barricaded the door of his art studio with heavy furniture. I could only open it a crack, but he spoke to me… if single syllables and grunts can be considered a form of communication.”

“Nora will see to him,” Sofia reassured.

“I worry that the ball and picnic so close to one another will be too much at once.” She sighed, tearing her attention away from the doorway and back to Sofia. “Parenting is exhausting, but not in any way I could have anticipated before my children arrived. When Zach came to us, I felt like a carrot that had been freshly peeled of its skin. Soft and sensitive, raw and defenceless. The environment felt shockingly unfamiliar, but the only element that had changed was me.”

Violet shook her head, then twined a loose tendril of hair around her finger. “I kept waiting for my heart to settle again in its place, but it never happened. The world doesn’t feel as simple or safe as it once did, and the number of easy solutions to their problems only seems to shrink as the children grow.”

Violet’s restless hand dropped to her side, as if it felt too heavy with the weight of her worries. “And that was all before Nora. The most ridiculous things keep me awake at night. Nightmares where Nora shows up to make her curtsy to the queen dressed in a pair of trousers or runs away sobbing from her first ball because she’s being mocked for thanking a footman for refilling her ratafia. I am proud of the person I am, but what if all my deficiencies reflect back in Nora”s mirror?”

“You are a remarkable mama, Violet. I know because mine was anything but. Whatever Nora sees in the mirror when she is grown will fill her with pride because you, Emma, and Gabriel have given her the freedom to choose for herself what that person will look like.”

Violet reached for Sofia’s hand and squeezed it in her own, her gaze trailing towards her husband. Gabriel had stopped his conversation to watch her, aware of her even through the chaos of the room. “Now I will bring another child into this world, and I will have to be the brave one, Sofia. I fear every ounce of Gabriel’s courage has been exhausted in loving us.”

Still, Gabriel and Violet watched one another, the duke’s gaze soft and assessing. And then, as if he could tolerate the distance between them no longer, he crossed to her, the guests parting wordlessly before him.

“Your Grace.” He bowed deeply. “Would you waltz with me?”

Violet giggled. “This is a Scottish reel, Gabriel.”

“Is it?” He looked meaningfully toward the quartet, who halted mid-reel, much to the confusion of his guests, and struck the first notes of the Sussex Waltz.

“What a flagrant abuse of power.” Violet laughed again.

His expression shifted, changing into one of boyish mischief, and Sofia could see Oliver there in the duke’s thick lowered lashes and his sheepish grin. Thankfully, Violet was too distracted by her husband to take note of Sofia’s widening eyes. Gabriel led Violet into the dance, and other couples followed after they took a moment to admire the pair.

Christopher fell in beside her. “Your brother has retired for the evening. He seemed well enough when he departed. Would a waltz be an appropriate reward for my achievements?”

“I suppose it would be wicked of me to deny you after all your efforts to put Oliver at ease.”

“Very wicked.” His eyes slid suggestively down the satin-clad curves of her body then returned to her face. His expression virtually crackled with lust.

He took her hand then and led her to the outskirts of the dance floor. Sofia relaxed into the evening now that her brother was out of sight. As she followed Christopher’s lead, she buried her worries beneath the soft sweep of her gown, the magical melody of the violins, and the promise of effervescent glasses of frosty champagne.

Despite being a country ball, the merriment gave no indication of winding down even as midnight approached, but at ten minutes to the hour, Sofia slipped unnoticed out the doors and down the stairs towards the billiards room. Christopher had already arrived. He turned to her as she closed the door and flipped the lock with a click.

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