Chapter 6
“Lady Sophia Readthorpe to see His Grace.” The butler’s announcement echoed through the marble entrance hall of Heatherwell House.
Sophia stood in the center of the grand space, clutching a small package wrapped in brown paper, her heart beating faster than she cared to admit. The townhouse was impressive in its restraint through clean lines, muted colors, and not a single ornament out of place.
Much like its master.
Footsteps sounded from above. She looked up to find the Duke of Heatherwell descending the staircase, his expression as welcoming as a closed door.
“Lady Sophia.” He reached the bottom step and offered a stiff bow. “You are punctual.”
“Shouldn’t I be?”
He did not answer. Instead, he turned and gestured toward the stairs. “This way.”
No offer of refreshment. No inquiry about her health or her journey. Not even the pretense of pleasantries. Sophia pressed her lips together and followed him up the staircase, her slippers silent on the polished wood.
“I have been considering potential matches for you,” she said to his back. “Lady Georgiana Huxley seemed receptive at the Bancroft party. If you were to call on her this week—”
“Today is about Oliver.” His voice cut through her words like a blade. “We can discuss my requirements another time.”
Sophia bit back a retort. She studied the rigid set of his shoulders, the controlled precision of his movements. Everything about this man was locked tight and guarded against intrusion. She wondered what it would take to see him unguarded. Then she wondered why she wondered such things at all.
They reached the second floor and turned down a corridor lined with portraits. Ancestors, she presumed. Men and women with the same strong jaw, the same cool blue eyes. The same air of command.
The Duke stopped before a door at the end of the hall.
“The schoolroom. Oliver is inside with his nursemaid.” He pushed the door open but did not enter. “You have one hour.”
Sophia stepped past him, acutely aware of how close they stood in the narrow doorway. She caught his scent. Sandalwood and something darker, something that made her pulse skip. She pushed the awareness away and entered the room.
“Sophia!”
Oliver launched himself from a small table in the center of the room, his face transformed by joy. He crashed into her skirts and wrapped his arms around her legs, squeezing with all his four-year-old strength.
“Master Oliver.” The nursemaid rose from her chair, her voice carrying a gentle rebuke. “Remember your manners.”
“Mind how you greet a lady.” The Duke’s voice came from the doorway, where he had stationed himself like a sentry.
“It is all right.” Sophia crouched down to Oliver’s level and returned his embrace. His small body trembled against hers. “I am happy to see you too, darling.”
Oliver pulled back, his face shining. “Come see what I made!” He grabbed her hand and tugged her toward the table. “Mrs. Palmer and I have been building a castle. It has a moat!”
Sophia allowed herself to be led. On the table sat an elaborate construction of wooden blocks, complete with a tower that listed precariously to one side.
Oliver pointed to each feature with pride, explaining the strategic importance of the moat and the secret tunnel he had built for escaping dragons.
“A secret tunnel.” Sophia settled into the small chair beside him. “How clever. Did you think of that yourself?”
“Papa told me about them.” Oliver’s voice softened. “He said real castles have them. For when the bad men come.”
Sophia’s chest tightened. She glanced toward the doorway. The Duke stood rigid, his face a mask, but something flickered in his eyes. Pain, perhaps. Or guilt.
“Your papa was very wise.” She smoothed Oliver’s hair. “I brought you something. Would you like to see?”
Oliver’s eyes went wide. “A present?”
She handed him the wrapped package. Before he could tear it open, the duke’s voice cut across the room.
“What is that?”
Sophia looked up. He had moved from the doorway, stepping into the room with his brow furrowed. “A small gift. Nothing extravagant.”
“Oliver does not need indulgence.” His jaw tightened. “Or bribery.”
Heat flashed through Sophia. She opened her mouth to respond, but Oliver had already torn away the paper.
“A book!” He held up the slim volume, his face radiant. Then recognition dawned, and his expression shifted to something deeper. Something that made Sophia’s heart ache. “Mama had a book like this. The same pictures on the front.”
He scrambled from his chair and ran to the shelves along the wall, returning moments later with another thin volume. He held them side by side, his small fingers tracing the matching spines.
“They go together.” His voice held wonder. “Like a set.”
“It is the second volume.” Sophia glanced at the duke, whose face had gone pale. “Your mama loved the first one. She read it to you when you were tiny. I thought you might like to have the rest of the story.”
At the mention of Jane, the Duke flinched. His gaze snapped to Oliver, watchful, as if braced for an outburst.
But Oliver only smiled. A real smile, bright and uncomplicated. “Mama would like that I have both.” He turned to Sophia, clutching the books to his chest. “Will you read to me? Please?”
“I would be honored.”
They settled at the small table, and Oliver pressed close to her side.
Sophia opened the new volume and read, letting Oliver turn the pages, letting him interrupt with questions and observations.
She pointed to the illustrations and asked him what he thought would happen next.
He responded with the boundless imagination of childhood, inventing plot twists and happy endings that bore no resemblance to the actual story.
She glanced up once, twice, three times. Each time, she found the Duke watching them. His expression had shifted from suspicion to something she could not name. Not warmth, exactly. But perhaps the absence of coldness.
When Oliver grew restless with the book, she let him lead her to his drawings. He spread them across the table with the pride of an artist presenting his masterwork—lopsided houses, stick-figure people, and a large yellow circle that he informed her was the sun.
“This one is Mama and Papa.” He pointed to two figures holding hands. “And this is me. And this is our house in the country.”
“It is beautiful.” Sophia’s voice caught. “Your mama would have loved it.”
“I know.” Oliver smiled, and for a moment, he looked so much like Leonard that Sophia had to look away.
“It’s time.”
The duke’s voice broke through the quiet intimacy. Sophia looked up to find him standing straighter, his jaw set.
“No!” Oliver’s face crumpled. “Sophia just got here. She can’t leave yet.”
“The hour has passed.” The Duke’s tone brooked no argument.
Sophia crouched before Oliver, taking his small hands in hers. “I will come again soon. I promise. And next time, we will draw together. Would you like that?”
Oliver sniffled. “You promise?”
“I promise.” She pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Now be good for Mrs. Palmer. And practice your letters.”
He hugged her one last time, fierce and clinging, before letting Mrs. Palmer guide him back to the table. Sophia rose and smoothed her skirts, composing herself. Then she turned to follow the duke out of the room.
The corridor stretched before them, silent save for their footsteps. Sophia walked beside him, intensely aware of the space between them. Close enough that her sleeve might brush his arm if she swayed. Close enough that she could feel the heat of his body through the layers of their clothing.
She kept her eyes forward. Her breath steady. Her thoughts carefully contained.
They descended the staircase side by side. His hand rested on the banister, broad and strong. She watched it, wondering what those fingers would feel like against her skin. The thought startled her, and she stumbled on the last step.
His hand shot out, catching her elbow. “Steady.”
The touch was brief, impersonal, and over in an instant. But Sophia felt it linger like a brand.
“Thank you.” She stepped away, putting distance between them.
The butler appeared, her cloak draped over his arm. The Duke cleared his throat.
“The visit went better than I expected.”
Sophia felt a flash of irritation. She swallowed it. “I am glad it met your standards, Your Grace.”
Something flickered across his face. Surprise, perhaps, at her sharp tone. But he said nothing. He bowed, stiff and formal.
She curtsied in return and allowed the butler to help her with her cloak.
As she stepped through the door into the pale morning light, she felt his gaze on her back. She did not turn. She did not acknowledge the strange flutter in her chest.
She simply walked away, carrying with her the memory of a little boy’s smile and the unsettling warmth of a duke’s hand on her arm.
Edward stood in the entrance hall long after the door closed behind her.
He could still feel the shape of her elbow in his palm.
The brief moment when her weight had shifted toward him, when instinct had overridden thought, and he had reached for her without permission from his rational mind.
He could still see the way her finger had pressed to her lower lip as she considered Oliver’s story, that unconscious gesture that drew his attention to her mouth in ways he did not care to examine.
He flexed his fingers and forced himself to move.
The visit had unsettled him in ways he refused to examine. He had expected Lady Sophia to spoil the boy. To undermine his authority. To fill Oliver’s head with sentiment and softness that would serve no purpose in the world he would one day inherit.
Instead, he had watched her crouch on the schoolroom floor, patient and attentive, letting a four-year-old child lead her through a story with no discernible plot.
He had watched Oliver’s face transform from grief-shadowed wariness to something approaching joy.
He had heard his brother’s name spoken aloud and braced himself for the inevitable storm, only to find Oliver smiling.
Smiling. At the mention of his dead family.
Edward climbed the stairs, his footsteps echoing in the empty corridor. He paused outside the schoolroom door, listening. Oliver’s voice drifted through the wood, chattering to Mrs. Palmer about the story Sophia had read, about the drawings they would make together next time.
Next time.
The boy had not spoken with such animation since arriving in London. Had not asked for anything beyond his mother and father, whom Edward could not give him. And now here he was, planning and hoping and looking forward to something.
Because of her.
She would return. She had promised Oliver—and from the warmth of her eyes and the stubborn set of her chin, Edward knew she would keep that promise. Which meant he would see her again. Stand beside her again. Feel the pull of her presence again.
He did not know whether that prospect filled him with dread or anticipation.
He suspected, with growing unease, that it might be both.