Chapter 26
“The soup is very good.”
Edward winced at his own words.
Of all the things he could have said to open a conversation with his new wife, a commentary on the soup ranked somewhere between discussing the weather and remarking on the quality of the silverware.
Sophia glanced up from her bowl. “Yes. It is.”
Silence descended once more.
The dining room stretched between them, vast and formal, the long table designed for entertaining dozens reduced to an intimate setting for three.
Candles flickered in silver holders. The fire crackled in the hearth.
And Edward sat at the head of the table, acutely aware of every clink of cutlery, every rustle of fabric, every breath that passed between them.
Sophia occupied the seat to his right. She wore a gown of deep amethyst that made her eyes luminous in the candlelight. Her hair was pinned up, exposing the graceful curve of her neck. She was beautiful, composed, and utterly unreachable.
He had to say something. Ask about her day. Inquire whether her chambers were comfortable. Make some attempt at conversation that did not involve the temperature of the soup.
His mind went blank.
“I painted a horse today!” Oliver’s voice shattered the silence.
He sat across from Sophia, his feet swinging beneath his chair, his napkin already sporting a suspicious stain.
Sophia turned to him with visible relief. “Did you? What color was it?”
“Purple.” Oliver beamed. “And blue. And a little bit of green. Mrs. Palmer said horses are not purple, but I told her that my horse can be whatever color I want.”
“An excellent point.” Sophia’s smile warmed her entire face. “Imagination should never be limited by convention.”
“What is convention?”
“Rules that other people make up.”
Oliver rubbed his chin as he considered this. “I do not like rules.”
“Few people do.” Sophia’s eyes flickered to Edward. “But sometimes they serve a purpose.”
Edward cleared his throat. He had to contribute.
Had to participate in this conversation happening in his own dining room.
But Oliver was already chattering on, describing his painting in elaborate detail, and Sophia was listening with genuine interest, and somehow it seemed easier to let them carry the evening without his interference.
“And then I drew Thunder,” Oliver continued, waving his spoon for emphasis. “But Thunder is brown, so I used the brown paint. Mrs. Palmer said that was very sensible.”
“It sounds like you had a productive afternoon.”
“I did.” Oliver nodded with satisfaction. “Will you paint with me tomorrow, Sophia? You promised, remember. After tea.”
“I remember. And yes, I would love to paint with you tomorrow.”
Oliver turned to Edward, his blue eyes bright. “Uncle Edward, do you want to paint too?”
Edward blinked. The question caught him off guard. “I… I am not certain I would be any good at it.”
“That is all right.” Oliver shrugged. “Sophia says art is not about being good. It is about expressing yourself.”
Edward glanced at Sophia. A faint flush colored her cheeks.
“She is right,” he found himself saying. “Perhaps I will join you. If I’m not occupied with other matters.”
Oliver’s face split into a grin. “You can paint a purple horse, too!”
The remainder of dinner passed more easily. Oliver dominated the conversation, regaling them with tales of his adventures in the nursery, his opinions on which biscuits were superior, and a lengthy explanation of why Sir Reginald the beetle deserved his own portrait.
Sophia, for her part, responded to each topic with patience and interest. Edward contributed when he could, although his offerings felt clumsy compared to Sophia’s easy warmth.
When the final course had been cleared, Mrs. Palmer appeared in the doorway.
“Master Oliver, it is time for bed.”
Oliver’s face fell. “Already?”
“It is past your bedtime. Come along.”
Oliver slid from his chair and crossed to Sophia. Without hesitation, he threw his arms around her waist and squeezed.
“Goodnight, Sophia. I’m glad you’re here.”
Something flickered across Sophia’s face. She wrapped her arms around the boy and held him close. “Goodnight, Oliver. I’m glad I’m here, too.”
Oliver released her and turned to Edward. He did not approach. Did not open his arms. He simply stood at a distance, his hands clasped before him.
“Goodnight, Uncle Edward.”
The formality of it struck Edward like a blow. The boy embraced Sophia without thought, without hesitation. But with Edward, he maintained the same careful distance that had always existed between them.
Sophia’s voice broke the silence. “Perhaps you might give your uncle a hug as well?”
Oliver’s brow furrowed. “Uncle Edward does not hug.”
The words were simple. Matter of fact. The observation of a child who had learned through experience that certain doors remained closed to him.
Edward opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. The boy was right. He did not hug. Had not hugged anyone in years. Had not known how to bridge the distance between himself and this child who looked so much like Leonard, who reminded him with every glance of everything he had lost.
Sophia tilted her head. “Perhaps you could teach him.”
Oliver considered this. His eyes moved from Sophia to Edward and back again. “I cannot reach him. He is too tall.”
Edward’s chest tightened. Before he could think better of it, he pushed back his chair and crouched down, bringing himself to Oliver’s level. His pride protested, but he stayed where he was, his arms loose at his sides, waiting.
Oliver approached him with the caution of a child testing uncertain ground. He stopped a foot away, studying Edward’s face.
“You have to open your arms,” Oliver instructed. “Like this.” He demonstrated, spreading his small arms wide.
Edward copied the gesture. It felt foreign. Vulnerable. Ridiculous.
Oliver stepped into the embrace.
His small body pressed against Edward’s chest. His arms wrapped around Edward’s neck. He smelled of soap and biscuits and something uniquely his own, warm and alive and present in a way that made Edward’s throat close.
Warmth spread through him. It started in his chest and radiated outward, filling spaces he had not known were empty. He brought his arms up and wrapped them around the boy, stiff and uncertain, holding him for a moment before releasing him.
Oliver pulled back, his face bright. “See? It is not hard.”
Edward cleared his throat. “No. I suppose it is not.”
“We can practice again tomorrow.” Oliver patted Edward’s shoulder with the gravity of a tutor assessing a student’s progress. “You’ll get better.”
He scampered off to Mrs. Palmer, who watched the scene with suspiciously bright eyes. She curtsied to Edward and Sophia before leading her charge from the room.
Edward rose to his feet. Sophia stood as well, her hands folded before her. The silence that had plagued them earlier returned, but it felt different now. Softer. Less fraught.
“That was well done.” Her voice was quiet. “He has wanted that for a long time, I think.”
Edward did not know how to respond. He nodded, the motion jerky and uncertain.
Sophia smoothed her skirts. “I should retire as well. It has been a long day.”
“Of course.” Edward inclined his head. “Goodnight, Sophia.”
She hesitated for just a moment, as though she might say something more. Then she curtsied and withdrew, her gown trailing behind her as she disappeared into the corridor.
Edward stood alone in the dining room, surrounded by empty chairs and cooling candles.
The study offered no refuge.
Edward sat in his leather chair, a glass of brandy untouched on the desk before him. The fire had burned low, casting long shadows across the walls. The house settled around him, quiet and still.
He could still feel Oliver’s arms around his neck. Still smell soap and biscuits. Still hear the boy’s matter-of-fact assessment.
Uncle Edward does not hug.
How had he let it come to this? How had he allowed the distance between himself and Leonard’s son to grow so vast that the child believed affection was simply not possible?
His father’s voice echoed in his memory. Sentiment is weakness. A duke does not indulge in displays of emotion. You will learn to master yourself, or you will be mastered by your feelings.
He had learned. God help him, he had learned too well.
But Oliver was not his father. Oliver was a child who had lost everything, who needed love and warmth and the simple assurance that he was wanted. And Edward had withheld all of it, hiding behind duty and propriety and the fear of feeling too much.
Sophia had seen it. Had pushed him to do better. Had created the moment that allowed Oliver to teach him something he should have known all along.
Sophia.
His thoughts drifted to her without permission. The way she had looked at dinner, candlelight dancing across her features. To the graceful curve of her neck. To the warmth in her voice when she spoke to Oliver, the patience and affection that came so naturally to her.
He imagined her now, in her chambers, preparing for bed. Her hair would be unpinned, cascading over her shoulders in soft waves. Her gown would be replaced by something lighter, something that hinted at the curves beneath. Her skin would glow in the firelight, warm and inviting.
Edward closed his eyes. His blood heated at the images his mind conjured, unbidden and unwelcome. He wanted her. Wanted her with an intensity that startled him, that made his hands curl into fists against his thighs.
He shook his head, forcing the thoughts away.
She was his wife. By law, by vow, she belonged to him. He could go to her tonight. Could claim the rights that society granted him. No one would question it. No one would blame him.
But he remembered the relief on her face when she had escaped to her chambers earlier. The careful distance she maintained whenever they were alone. The way she looked at him sometimes, as though trying to puzzle out a stranger.
He would not force himself on her. He would not take what was not freely given. Whatever happened between them would happen because she chose it, not because obligation demanded it.
Edward reached for his brandy and took a long swallow. The liquor burned down his throat, doing nothing to cool the heat in his blood.
Patience. He had told himself he could be patient. That he would wait for trust, for connection, for something real to grow between them.
He had not expected how difficult waiting would be.
The clock on the mantel chimed the hour. Somewhere above him, his wife prepared for sleep in chambers that connected to his own through a single door. A door he would not open. Not tonight. Perhaps not for many nights to come.
No matter how much he wished it.
Edward drained his glass and stared into the dying fire.