Chapter 21
“You have sent my ball into the rose bushes. Again.” Thomas stood over the offending shrubbery, his mallet dangling from one hand, his expression caught between outrage and amusement.
Beside him, Alice pressed her hand to her mouth, her shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.
“The rules of Pall Mall do not forbid strategic placement.” Hugo examined his fingernails with exaggerated innocence. “I merely positioned my ball to maximum advantage.”
“You knocked mine fifteen feet off course!”
“Fourteen, at most.”
Sophia watched the exchange from her position near the starting wicket, her own mallet resting against her shoulder. The afternoon sun warmed her face, and the sprawling lawns of Heatherwell Hall stretched green and inviting around them. It should have been pleasant. It should have been relaxing.
Instead, she tracked Edward’s progress across the course, watching him guide Miss Stanton through the finer points of her swing.
His hand hovered near her elbow. His head bent close to hers as he murmured instructions.
Miss Stanton laughed at something he said, tilting her face up toward him with practiced coquetry.
Sophia looked away. Her chest ached with something she refused to name.
“Your turn, Lady Sophia.”
She startled. Lord Collingsworth gestured toward the course, his new wife beaming beside him.
“Of course.” Sophia stepped forward and lined up her shot. She drew back the mallet and swung with more force than necessary. The ball sailed through the wicket and rolled to a stop mere inches from Hugo’s.
“Excellent shot.” Hugo raised an eyebrow. “Though I suspect you were aiming for something other than the wicket.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Of course not.” His knowing smile made her want to knock his ball into the rose bushes as well.
The game continued. Sophia played well enough to avoid embarrassment, poorly enough to avoid attention.
She laughed at Thomas’s increasingly dramatic complaints about Hugo’s tactics.
She complimented Lady Collingsworth on a clever shot.
She kept her gaze fixed anywhere but on Edward and Miss Stanton.
She failed.
Every time she looked up, her eyes found him.
Found the way the sunlight caught the gold in his hair.
Found the way his coat stretched across his shoulders as he swung his mallet.
Found the careful distance he maintained from her, as though they were strangers rather than two people who had kissed on a moonlit balcony.
“Lady Sophia.”
The voice slithered down her spine like cold water. Sophia turned to find Lord Drakeston at her elbow, his pale eyes fixed on her face with an intensity that made her skin crawl.
“Lord Drakeston.” She kept her voice neutral. “Are you enjoying the game?”
“I find myself more interested in the players than in the game itself.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You seem distracted, my lady. I hope nothing troubles you.”
“Nothing at all.”
“How fortunate.” His smile revealed too many teeth. “I would hate for your stay here to be anything less than comfortable. You and your dear mother have such a delicate situation, after all. One never knows when circumstances might shift.”
The threat landed like a stone in her stomach. Sophia gripped her mallet tighter.
“Our circumstances are none of your concern, my lord.”
“Are they not?” Drakeston’s eyes glittered. “I rather think they are. But we can discuss that later. For now, enjoy your game.”
He drifted away, leaving Sophia trembling with suppressed fury. She watched him approach a cluster of gentlemen, watched him laugh and charm and perform the role of gracious guest, and felt the familiar weight of helplessness settle over her shoulders.
Alice appeared at her side. “What did he want?”
“Nothing.” Sophia forced a smile. “Just making conversation.”
Alice’s eyes narrowed, but she did not press. “It’s your turn again, and Thomas has sworn vengeance on Hugo. I fear bloodshed is imminent.”
Sophia allowed herself to be led back to the game. She played. She smiled. She pretended.
Just as she had always done.
Tea that afternoon gathered the ladies in the drawing room while the gentlemen retreated to the billiard room. Sophia settled into a chair near the window, grateful for the respite from Drakeston’s lurking presence.
Lady Blackwell held court near the fireplace, her sharp eyes missing nothing. “Did you hear about the Carmichael engagement? Another match made by Lady Fairhart, or so they say.”
“Lady Fairhart seems to be everywhere these days.” Lady Collingsworth accepted a cup from the footman. “My niece wrote to her just last month, seeking guidance.”
“And did she receive a response?”
“A most thoughtful one. Lady Fairhart suggested she attend the lecture series at the Royal Institution. Something about broadening one’s circle of acquaintance.” Lady Collingsworth smiled. “My niece met a very eligible baronet there last week.”
Sophia sipped her tea and stayed silent. The irony of hearing her own advice praised while sitting in the drawing room of a man she had agreed to help find a wife was not lost on her.
“I think it’s terribly romantic.” Mrs. Stanton sighed. “A mysterious benefactress helping lonely hearts find their match. Like something from a novel.”
“Romantic or not, she certainly knows her business.” Lady Blackwell’s gaze swept the room. “However, I wonder if she might turn her talents to some of the ladies present. Heaven knows some could use the help.”
Her eyes lingered on Sophia just long enough to make her meaning clear.
“Indeed.” Miss Stanton set down her cup with a delicate clink. “It must be difficult, Lady Sophia, watching so many of your contemporaries marry while you remain unattached. How many seasons has it been now?”
The room went quiet. Sophia felt the weight of every gaze, the subtle shift as the other ladies waited for her response.
“Seven.” She met Miss Stanton’s eyes without flinching. “But I have found that quality matters more than speed in such matters. Some matches made in haste unravel just as quickly.”
Miss Stanton’s smile hardened. “How philosophical.”
“Sophia has always been wise beyond her years.” Alice’s voice cut through the tension. “Now, Lady Blackwell, you must tell us about your gardens. I hear your roses won a prize at the county fair.”
The conversation shifted. Sophia caught Alice’s eye and mouthed a silent thank you. Alice responded with a barely perceptible nod.
When tea concluded, Sophia excused herself with murmured apologies about needing air. She slipped from the drawing room and wandered the halls of Heatherwell Hall, her footsteps echoing against marble floors.
She found herself in the portrait gallery without quite meaning to arrive there.
Generations of Grays stared down from gilded frames, their faces stern and proud. Sophia walked the length of the gallery, studying each portrait, searching for traces of Edward in the features of his ancestors.
A small figure stood at the far end, motionless before a large canvas.
“Oliver?”
The boy turned. His eyes glistened with unshed tears.
Sophia crossed the distance between them and crouched to his level. “What is it, darling? What has upset you?”
Oliver pointed at the painting. Two young men stood side by side, dressed in hunting clothes, their poses formal, but their expressions warm. One had Edward’s sharp jaw and serious eyes. The other had a softer face, a gentler smile.
“That’s my papa.” Oliver’s voice wobbled. “And Uncle Edward. They were young.”
Sophia studied the portrait. Leonard and Edward, captured in a moment before grief and duty and estrangement had carved a vast distance between them.
They looked happy. They looked like brothers who loved each other.
“They were.” She wrapped an arm around Oliver’s shoulders. “Your papa was very handsome. You look just like him.”
“I miss him.” The tears spilled over now, tracking down Oliver’s cheeks. “I miss Mama, too. I don’t want to forget what they looked like.”
“You won’t forget.” Sophia pulled him close, letting him bury his face against her shoulder. “This portrait will help you remember. And I will help you remember. Whenever you want to talk about them, I will be here.”
Oliver clung to her, his small body shaking with sobs. Sophia held him and stroked his hair and let him grieve, her own heart breaking for this child who had lost so much.
“Master Oliver?” Mrs. Palmer’s voice echoed from the gallery entrance. “There you are. I have been searching everywhere.”
Oliver pulled back, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. Sophia smoothed his hair and pressed a kiss to his forehead.
“Go with Mrs. Palmer,” she said softly. “We will talk more later. I promise.”
He nodded and trudged toward his nursemaid with his shoulders slumped. Mrs. Palmer shot Sophia a grateful look before leading him away.
Sophia remained in the gallery, her gaze drifting from portrait to portrait. She paused before a massive canvas near the center of the wall. A man in formal dress glared down at her, his jaw set, his eyes cold. The brass plaque beneath read: William Gray, Fifth Duke of Heatherwell.
Edward’s father. The man who had disowned Leonard for marrying Jane. The man whose rigid expectations had driven one son away and shaped the other into a fortress of control and duty.
Sophia studied those hard eyes and wondered if this was the reason Edward struggled to show affection. If growing up beneath that gaze had taught him that love was weakness, that emotion was danger, that the only safe path lay in rigid self-control.
She continued down the gallery, searching. Dukes and duchesses, sons and daughters, generations of Grays preserved in oil and canvas. But nowhere did she find what she sought.
There was no portrait of Edward’s mother.
She found her own mother in the small sitting room adjoining her bedchamber, embroidering by the window.
“Mama?” Sophia settled into the chair beside her. “May I ask you something?”
Lady Brimsey set aside her needlework. “Of course, darling.”
“The portrait gallery. I noticed there is no painting of the late duke’s wife. Edward’s mother. Do you know why?”
Her mother’s expression shifted, growing careful. “That is an old story. And a sad one.”
“Tell me?”
Lady Brimsey was quiet for a moment. “The Duchess of Heatherwell went missing many years ago. When His Grace was perhaps ten or eleven, I assume. She simply vanished one night. No note, no explanation.”
Sophia’s breath caught. “Vanished?”
“The ton searched for weeks. There were rumors, of course. There always are.” Her mother picked up her embroidery again, her fingers moving in familiar patterns.
“Some said she drowned herself in the lake. Others whispered she ran away with a lover. A musician, some claimed. Or a painter. The stories varied depending on who told them.”
“And the Duke?”
“He never spoke of her again and had anyone who did so punished.” Lady Brimsey’s voice softened. “The ton eventually declared her dead, but no body was ever found, to my knowledge.”
Sophia stared at her hands. She thought of Edward as a boy, losing his mother without warning, forbidden even to speak of her. Thought of the cold portrait of his father, those hard eyes that tolerated no weakness. Thought of the man Edward had become, locked behind walls of duty and control.
No wonder he struggled to connect with Oliver. No wonder he kept everyone at arm’s length. He had learned early that love meant loss, that attachment meant pain.
“How terrible,” she whispered. “For everyone.”
“Yes.” Her mother reached over and squeezed her hand. “It was. And I suspect it still is, for those who remember.”
Sophia sat with her mother as the afternoon light faded, her mind churning with questions she could not ask and answers she was uncertain she wanted to find.
Somewhere in this house, Edward was entertaining guests, playing the role of gracious host, courting a woman who spoke of discipline and duty. Somewhere, Oliver clutched his wooden horse and mourned parents he would never see again.
And somewhere, in a gallery stripped of her image, a duchess had been erased from memory, leaving only silence behind.