Chapter 20
“You look as though you are awaiting a tornado rather than greeting guests,” Hugo stood at Edward’s elbow, impeccable in his afternoon coat, his smile carrying that brand of amusement he reserved for Edward’s discomfort.
“I am greeting guests.” Edward adjusted his cravat for the fourth time. The entrance hall of Heatherwell Hall stretched behind him, polished marble and ancestral portraits watching his every move. “This is my greeting face.”
“That is not a greeting face. That is the face of a man who has discovered his valet has pressed his shirts incorrectly.” Hugo glanced down at Oliver, who stood between them in his best coat, fidgeting with his buttons. “At least the young lord looks presentable.”
Oliver tugged at his collar. “It itches.”
“Bear it with dignity.” Edward placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “We must make a good impression on our guests.”
“Why?”
“Because that is what hosts do.”
“But why do we have to have guests?” Oliver’s face scrunched with the particular logic of a four-year-old. “I liked it better when it was just us.”
Edward did not have an answer for that. He agreed with the sentiment.
Mrs. Palmer hovered near the staircase, ready to whisk Oliver away should he grow too restless. The first carriages had been spotted coming up the drive ten minutes ago, and Edward’s stomach had knotted itself into something resembling a sailor’s rope.
He had never hosted a house party. Had avoided them for the entirety of his adult life, preferring the controlled environment of London events where one could escape to one’s own home at the end of the evening.
Now he had invited a dozen people to live under his roof for an entire weekend, and the prospect made him want to retreat to the boxing ring and never emerge.
“Remember,” Hugo murmured, “smile. Make pleasant conversation. Do not discuss architecture unless directly asked.”
“I am aware of how to conduct myself.”
“Are you? Because your current expression suggests you are calculating the quickest route to the stables.”
The front doors swung open. Hartley, who had traveled ahead to prepare the house, announced the first arrivals with his usual gravity.
“Lady Brimsey and Lady Sophia Readthorpe.”
Edward’s chest tightened. He watched Sophia enter the hall, her traveling dress, a soft shade of green that brought out the color of her eyes, her bonnet framing her face in a way that made his mouth go dry.
Lady Brimsey walked beside her, elegant and warm, her smile genuine as she took in the hall’s grandeur.
Oliver made a small noise beside him. Edward felt the boy strain forward, his whole body vibrating with the urge to run.
“Mind your manners.” Edward tightened his grip on Oliver’s shoulder. “We have guests now. You must behave like a young gentleman.”
Oliver stilled. He looked up at Edward with those solemn blue eyes, and for a moment, Edward saw Leonard in them so clearly that it stole his breath.
“Yes, Uncle Edward.”
Sophia approached with her mother. Edward bowed. Lady Brimsey curtsied. And then Oliver stepped forward with the gravity of a diplomat presenting credentials to a foreign court.
He swept into the most elaborate bow Edward had ever witnessed from a child, one leg extended, one arm flourished behind his back, his chin tucked to his chest with exaggerated formality. He held the pose for a full three seconds before rising.
“Welcome to Heatherwell Hall, Lady Sophia.” His voice rang with rehearsed solemnity. “We are most honored by your presence.”
Sophia’s composure cracked. A laugh burst from her, bright and unguarded, her hand flying to her mouth. Her eyes danced with delight as she looked from Oliver to Edward and back again.
“Why, thank you, Master Oliver.” She sank into an equally elaborate curtsy. “I am most honored to be received with such distinction.”
Oliver’s solemn mask dissolved into a grin. “Did I do it right? Uncle Edward taught me.”
Edward felt heat creep up his neck as Sophia’s gaze found his. “You did it perfectly,” she said, still smiling. “Your uncle is an excellent teacher.”
Something warm unfurled in Edward’s chest. He pushed it aside and turned to greet Lady Brimsey with proper formality.
More carriages arrived in quick succession.
Lord and Lady Renwick arrived, followed closely by Mr. and Mrs. Stanton and their daughter, Amelia.
The Stantons emerged with the practiced ease of people accustomed to country visits.
Edward greeted them with what he hoped passed for warmth, though Miss Stanton’s bright smile and eager conversation made him feel as though he were performing a role in a play he had not rehearsed.
“What a magnificent estate, Your Grace.” Miss Stanton gazed around the entrance hall with appreciative eyes. “The proportions are exquisite. One can see the hand of a master architect.”
“Thank you. The east wing was designed by—”
Hugo cleared his throat.
“That is to say,” Edward corrected, “we are pleased you find it agreeable. I trust your journey was comfortable?”
The stream of arrivals continued. Viscount and Viscountess Guildthorpe, Alice embracing Sophia the moment propriety allowed, Thomas shaking Edward’s hand with genuine warmth.
Lord Collingsworth and his new wife, the former Lady Kirby, whose match had been one of Lady Fairhart’s triumphs. Sir Edmund Blackwell, a business associate Edward tolerated, and his wife, Lady Blackwell, who had a reputation for sharp observation and sharper gossip.
And then the Marquess of Drakeston.
Edward had invited him at Hugo’s suggestion, a political necessity given their overlapping interests in a proposed railway venture. The man was influential, well-connected, and precisely the sort of guest one needed at a gathering meant to establish social standing.
He was also, Edward noted, watching Sophia with an intensity that made something cold settle in his gut.
Drakeston crossed the hall with the languid confidence of a man who knew his own worth. Silver hair swept back from a hawkish face. Pale eyes that assessed and calculated. A smile that never quite reached beyond his lips.
“Your Grace.” He bowed to Edward. “How gracious of you to include me in your little gathering.”
“Lord Drakeston. Welcome to Heatherwell Hall.”
Drakeston’s gaze slid past Edward to where Sophia stood with her mother. Something flickered across his face, there and gone. “Lady Sophia. Lady Brimsey. What a pleasant surprise to find you here.”
Edward watched Sophia’s reaction. Her spine straightened. Her smile froze into something brittle. Her mother’s hand found her elbow in a gesture that looked like support.
“Lord Drakeston.” Sophia’s voice emerged cool, controlled. “We didn’t expect to see you in the country.”
“Life is full of unexpected pleasures.” Drakeston smiled, and Edward felt the temperature in the hall drop several degrees. “I look forward to becoming better acquainted over the weekend.”
He moved on to greet other guests, but Edward’s attention remained fixed on Sophia. The color had drained from her cheeks. Her hands, clasped before her, trembled almost imperceptibly.
What was Drakeston to her? What history lay between them that could produce such a reaction?
Edward filed the observation away for later examination and returned to his duties as host.
Dinner that evening tested the limits of Edward’s patience.
The long table glittered with crystal and silver, candles casting warm light across the assembled guests. Conversation flowed around him, punctuated by laughter and the clink of glasses, while Edward sat at the head of the table and wondered how soon he could reasonably escape.
Miss Stanton occupied the place of honor to his right, her conversation pleasant and informed. She spoke of music and literature, of her charitable work with foundling hospitals, of her hopes for the coming season. Edward listened and responded and felt nothing beyond mild appreciation.
Sophia sat halfway down the table, between Lord Collingsworth and Lord Guildthorpe.
Edward caught himself watching her more often than propriety allowed, noting the way she drew others into conversation, the way she listened with genuine interest, the way her laugh carried across the room and made something in his chest constrict.
He forced his attention back to Miss Stanton.
“Your nephew seems to be settling in well,” Miss Stanton said.
“Oliver is adjusting well.” Edward took a sip of wine. “He has had difficulties, as one might expect given his circumstances, but he improves each day.”
“Children are resilient.” Miss Stanton nodded with confidence. “A firm hand and clear expectations work wonders. My mother always said that discipline shapes character.”
Edward thought of Oliver’s elaborate bow, of the way his face had lit up when Sophia laughed. Discipline had not produced that joy. Something else entirely had.
“Indeed,” he said, and changed the subject.
Further down the table, Sir Edmund Blackwell’s voice rose above the general murmur. “Another engagement announced just last week. Lord Hartington and Miss Cavendish. Rumor has it Lady Fairhart arranged the match.”
Edward’s attention sharpened. He saw Sophia go still with her fork suspended halfway to her mouth.
“Lady Fairhart.” Sir Edmund snorted into his wine. “What a ridiculous business. A shadowy matchmaker pulling strings behind the scenes and manipulating the marriages of her betters. If you ask me, the whole thing is utterly preposterous.”
“I rather think it romantic,” Lady Collingsworth offered. “She helped my husband and me find each other. I will be eternally grateful.”
“Romantic nonsense.” Sir Edmund waved a dismissive hand.
“Marriage is a matter of practicality. Bloodlines. Property. Alliances. This Lady Fairhart meddles in affairs she has no business touching. And we don’t even know who she is.
For all we know, she could be some merchant’s widow with delusions of grandeur. ”
Sophia’s knuckles whitened around her fork. Edward watched her struggle to maintain composure, then watched her open her mouth to speak.
“Lady Fairhart,” Edward cut in, his voice carrying down the table, “has facilitated more successful matches in the past three years than any hostess in London. Her recommendations have united families who might never have found each other through conventional means. Whatever her methods, her results speak for themselves.”
Silence fell over the table. Sir Edmund’s face reddened.
“I meant no offense, Your Grace. Merely expressing an opinion.”
“Opinions are best expressed when informed by facts.” Edward returned to his meal, effectively ending the discussion.
He did not look at Sophia. He didn’t need to. He could feel her gaze on him, warm and wondering.
After dinner, the guests gathered in the drawing room while Edward orchestrated a brief introduction between Miss Stanton and Oliver.
Mrs. Palmer had brought the boy down from the nursery at Edward’s request. Oliver stood beside his uncle, scrubbed clean and dressed in fresh clothes, his wooden horse Thunder clutched in one hand.
“Miss Stanton, may I present my nephew, Master Oliver.” Edward placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Oliver, this is Miss Stanton. She is a friend of mine.”
Miss Stanton smiled down at Oliver with practiced warmth. “What a handsome young man. How do you do, Master Oliver?”
Oliver performed his bow, though with less flourish than he had shown Sophia. “How do you do, Miss Stanton?”
“What a lovely horse.” Miss Stanton gestured at Thunder. “Does he have a name?”
“Thunder.” Oliver held up the carved figure. “Uncle Edward bought him for me at the fair. Sophia helped me name him.”
Miss Stanton’s smile flickered at the familiar use of Sophia’s name. “How nice. Do you enjoy playing with horses?”
“I like all animals.” Oliver’s voice gained enthusiasm. “I want a dog, but Uncle Edward says not yet. Sophia says I have to prove I can take care of Thunder first. She says someday is a very long time from now, but I think if I am very good, someday might come sooner.”
Miss Stanton’s expression tightened almost imperceptibly. “Lady Sophia seems to have many opinions about your upbringing.”
“Sophia is my friend.” Oliver said it simply, as though stating an obvious truth. “She reads me stories and teaches me to paint and tells me about my mama. She knew my mama, you know. They were best friends.”
“How lovely.” Miss Stanton’s tone had cooled. She glanced at Edward. “Children form such strong attachments.”
Edward watched her watching Oliver. Her smile remained in place, but something about it had changed.
It was the smile of someone performing a duty rather than experiencing genuine pleasure.
The smile of someone counting the minutes until she could politely withdraw.
He should know. He wore that same smile at every social function he attended.
He thought of the spring fair. Of Sophia crouching to Oliver’s level, laughing at his stories, teaching him to blow bubbles. Of the way Oliver had clung to her when they parted, declaring it the best day ever.
Miss Stanton was polite. Pleasant. Perfectly appropriate.
Yet…
She was not Sophia.
The thought rose unbidden and unwelcome. Edward pushed it aside. He was here to make a practical choice, not to indulge in comparisons that could only lead to complications.
“Oliver,” he said, “it is time for bed. Say goodnight to our guests.”
Oliver performed his rounds obediently, saving Sophia for last. He hugged her tight, whispered something in her ear that made her smile, and allowed Mrs. Palmer to lead him away.
Edward watched Sophia watch the boy disappear up the stairs. The tenderness in her expression made his chest ache.
He turned back to Miss Stanton and found her studying him with calculating eyes.
“She is quite attached to him,” Miss Stanton observed. “Lady Sophia.”
“She knew his mother.” Edward kept his voice neutral. “It is natural that she would take an interest.”
“Natural.” Miss Stanton smiled again, that polished, perfect smile. “Of course.”
The evening continued. Conversations flowed. Music played. Guests laughed, mingled, and performed the elaborate dance of social interaction.
And Edward stood in the center of it all, watching Sophia from across the room, wondering when exactly finding a suitable bride had become so impossibly complicated.