Chapter 10
“Auntie Sophia, watch me!” Nancy launched herself from the garden bench with the reckless abandon of a five-year-old who had never met a surface she could not climb.
Her twin sister Rosie followed half a heartbeat later, both girls tumbling onto the grass in a tangle of white muslin and ribbons.
Sophia clapped her hands. “A fine effort, but not quite perfect.”
“Why not?” Nancy rolled onto her back, grass staining her dress.
“You forgot to bow at the end. A proper acrobat always bows.”
Both girls scrambled to their feet and executed elaborate curtsies that devolved into giggles. Sophia laughed with them, the sound light and unguarded in the warm afternoon air.
“You are going to spoil them beyond repair.” Alice settled onto the blanket beside Sophia, her eyes soft with affection as she watched her daughters race toward the rose bushes. “Thomas already complains that they expect theatrical accolades for every activity.”
“They should expect theatrical accolades.” Sophia plucked a blade of grass and twirled it between her fingers. “Life is far too serious without a little spectacle.”
Thomas appeared from the house, a tray of lemonade balanced in his hands. He set it down and folded himself onto the blanket with the contented sigh of a man who had long ago accepted chaos as his natural state.
“The girls have informed me we are having a circus after tea.” He poured three glasses. “I have been assigned the role of elephant.”
“A noble calling.” Sophia accepted her glass. “You have the ears for it.”
Thomas touched his ears with mock offense. Alice swatted his arm, and the three of them dissolved into the easy laughter of old friends.
Sophia watched the twins chase each other around the garden, their shrieks of delight echoing off the brick walls. Something ached in her chest. A longing she rarely allowed herself to feel.
“You are thinking about him.” Alice’s voice was quiet and meant for Sophia’s ears alone.
Sophia’s finger drifted to her lower lip, a habit she had never managed to break. She pressed lightly, thinking.
“About whom?”
“The Duke.” Alice raised an eyebrow. “You have that look. The one you get when you are trying very hard not to think about something.”
Sophia took a long drink of lemonade. “I was thinking about Oliver.”
“And his uncle?”
“His uncle is irrelevant.”
Alice snorted. “His uncle is many things, but irrelevant is not among them. I saw the way you looked at him at the Pembury musicale. And the way he looked at you.”
Heat crept up Sophia’s neck. She busied herself with straightening her skirts. “He looks at everyone that way. As if he were calculating their net worth and finding them wanting.”
“Not everyone.” Alice leaned closer. “Not you.”
Sophia opened her mouth to argue, but Nancy chose that moment to barrel into her lap, demanding to know if lions were bigger than elephants. The conversation shifted, the moment passed, and Sophia told herself she was grateful for the interruption.
She told herself many things these days.
Believing them was another matter entirely.
“Edward. Edward, please.”
Leonard stood at the entrance of Heatherwell House, a travel bag slung over his shoulder, his face pale in the lamplight. Rain streaked the windows behind him. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
“I cannot stay here. You know I cannot. Father will never accept her.”
Edward reached for his brother, but his hands passed through empty air. “Wait. Leonard, wait.”
“Tell me you understand.” Leonard’s eyes pleaded. “Tell me you do not hate me for leaving.”
“I could never hate you.” The words scraped from Edward’s throat. “But if you go, I cannot protect you. I cannot—”
The scene shifted. The entrance hall melted away, replaced by a muddy road.
A carriage lay overturned in a ditch, its wheels still spinning. Rain pounded the wreckage. And there, sprawled in the mud, unmoving, was Leonard.
“No.” Edward ran toward him, but the road stretched longer with each step. “Leonard!”
His brother’s eyes stared at the sky, empty and accusing.
You let me go.
Edward woke with a gasp.
His sheets were tangled around his legs, damp with sweat. His heart slammed against his ribs. The darkness of his bedchamber pressed in from all sides, thick and suffocating.
He threw off the covers and sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. The clock on the mantel showed half past two. The house lay silent around him, servants long asleep, Oliver tucked safely in the nursery two floors above.
Oliver. Leonard’s son. The boy with his father’s eyes and his mother’s stubborn chin.
The boy Edward was failing, just like he had failed Leonard.
He dressed in the dark, pulling on clothes by feel. His valet would be horrified by the result, but Edward did not care.
He needed to move. Needed to exhaust the guilt that clawed at his chest until he could breathe again. Needed to hit something.
He knew just where to go.
The streets of London lay quiet as he made his way toward the Crossed Keys. A few carriages rattled past, their occupants hidden behind drawn curtains. A watchman called the hour from a distant corner. The city slept, unaware of the ghosts that walked among them.
Grimsby raised an eyebrow when Edward pushed through the tavern’s back door.
“Your Grace. We were not expecting you tonight.”
“Find me an opponent.” Edward shed his coat and began rolling up his sleeves. “Anyone. I do not care.”
The landlord studied him for a moment, something like understanding flickering in his calculating eyes. Then he nodded and disappeared into the crowd.
Edward wrapped his hands and stepped into the makeshift ring. The man who faced him was large, scarred, and built like a brick wall. Perfect.
The first punch landed against Edward’s jaw, snapping his head to the side. Pain bloomed, sharp and clarifying. He welcomed it.
He welcomed all of it.
For the next hour, he fought. Took hits. Gave them back harder. Let the physical pain drown out the memories, the guilt, the image of his brother’s accusing eyes.
When it was over, he stood alone in the ring, chest heaving, knuckles split, blood dripping from a cut above his eye. His opponent had been carried off ten minutes ago. The crowd had dispersed, leaving only Grimsby and the lingering smell of sweat and sawdust.
“The orphanage?” Grimsby held out a cloth.
“As always.” Edward pressed the cloth to his brow.
He dressed and stepped into the night. Dawn had lightened the eastern sky, painting the rooftops in shades of gray and pink. The world looked softer in this light. Kinder.
Edward did not feel soft or kind. He felt hollowed out. Empty.
He thought of Oliver, waking soon in the nursery. Thought of the wariness in the boy’s eyes whenever Edward entered a room. Thought of how different things might be if he could find the words, bridge the distance, become the guardian his nephew deserved.
He thought, unbidden, of Lady Sophia.
The way she had laughed at Oliver’s roar.
The warmth of her fingers against his. The way her finger had pressed to her lip while she listened to Oliver’s story, drawing his attention to the soft curve of her mouth.
He had wondered what that mouth would taste like.
Whether her lips were as soft as they looked.
The challenge in her voice when she told him to prove he was capable of human connection.
Perhaps she could teach him. Perhaps, if he let her, she could show him how to reach his nephew. How to be the man Leonard would have wanted for his son.
Perhaps she could teach him other things, too. Things he had no business wanting. Things that had nothing to do with Oliver and everything to do with the way his pulse quickened whenever she entered a room.
He shook off the thought and walked home through the waking city.
Some lessons were too dangerous to learn.