Chapter 28
“Will the Duchess be joining you for breakfast, Your Grace?”
Edward glanced up from his newspaper. Hartley stood in the doorway of the breakfast room, his expression carefully neutral.
“I believe Her Grace prefers to take breakfast in her chambers.”
It was not a lie. Sophia had taken breakfast in her chambers every morning since their wedding. Whether by preference or by design, Edward could not say. He only knew that the arrangement suited them both.
Distance. Safety. The careful choreography of two people learning to share a house without sharing a life.
He buried himself in his work. Ledgers and correspondence filled his mornings.
Meetings with solicitors and business partners consumed his afternoons.
He took his meals at odd hours, timing them to avoid the dining room when Sophia might appear.
He walked the corridors with one ear attuned to the sound of her footsteps, ready to turn down a different passage should their paths threaten to cross.
It was exhausting. It was necessary.
Because every time he saw her, he remembered the firelight dancing across her skin. The way her robe had parted to reveal the thin nightgown beneath. The words he had spoken, raw and unguarded, confessing desires he had never meant to voice.
He could not face her. Not yet. Not until he had mastered himself again.
But the house conspired against him.
He emerged from his study one afternoon and found her in the corridor, her hand on the banister, frozen mid-step.
Their eyes met. She wore a simple day dress of pale blue, modest and proper, yet his traitorous mind conjured the image of her in that thin nightgown, the fabric clinging to curves he had no right to notice and the firelight rendering it nearly translucent.
He remembered the way she had reached for the sash, prepared to offer herself to him, and how every fiber of his being had screamed at him to accept.
He swallowed hard.
“Your Grace.” She inclined her head.
“Your Grace.” He returned the gesture.
They stepped around each other like dancers who had forgotten the steps, bodies angling to avoid contact, gazes sliding away. She continued up the stairs.
He continued down the corridor. And did not look back.
The next day, he entered the library to find her curled in the window seat, a book in her lap. She looked up. He looked away. He murmured an apology for disturbing her and retreated, leaving behind the volume he had come to retrieve.
The day after that, they reached the same doorway at the same moment.
He gestured for her to proceed. She gestured for him to proceed.
They stood in absurd stalemate until Oliver came barreling down the corridor and broke the spell, demanding that Sophia come see the frog he had discovered in the garden.
Dinners were the worst.
They sat at opposite ends of the long table, Oliver between them, a buffer and a bridge.
The boy chattered endlessly, filling the silence with stories of his adventures, his paintings, his elaborate plans for the frog’s new habitat.
Sophia responded with warmth and patience.
Edward responded when addressed, his answers brief, his eyes fixed on his plate.
He could feel her watching him sometimes. Could feel the weight of her gaze across the candlelit table.
He never looked up. Never met her eyes. Because if he did, he would see the question there, the confusion, the hurt he had caused with his confession and his retreat.
And he had no answers to give her.
On the fourth day, she came to his study.
Edward heard the knock and assumed it was Hartley with correspondence. He called out permission to enter without looking up from his ledger.
“I hope I am not disturbing you.”
His pen stilled. He raised his head to find Sophia standing just inside the doorway, her hands clasped before her, her expression composed but uncertain.
“Not at all.” He set down his pen and rose. “Please. Sit.”
She crossed to the chair before his desk and lowered herself into it. The afternoon light caught the auburn threads in her hair, the green of her eyes. Edward gripped the edge of his desk and reminded himself to breathe.
“There is something I wish to discuss with you.” Her voice was steady, though her fingers twisted in her lap. “About my work. As Lady Fairhart.”
Edward waited.
“Despite everything that has happened, I would like to continue.” She met his gaze. “The matchmaking. The correspondence. All of it.”
“You do not need the money.” The words came out before he could soften them. “Whatever you require, I can provide.”
“I know.” Sophia’s chin lifted. “But I could give the earnings to my family. My mother. My sister.”
“I can provide for them as well. They are my family now. You needn’t worry about their income.”
“Yes.” Something flickered in her eyes. “But this is mine, Edward. Lady Fairhart is something I built. Something that belongs to me, even if it was born from necessity. It is the one thing in my life that is truly my own.”
He heard the edge beneath her words. The quiet assertion of independence in a world that had stripped her of so much. She had married him out of desperation, had traded her freedom for her family’s safety. And now she was asking to keep this one piece of herself intact.
How could he refuse her?
“Very well.” He settled back into his chair. “You may continue your work as Lady Fairhart.”
Relief washed across her features. “Thank you.”
“But there are conditions.” He held up a hand. “You will use my driver whenever you travel to meet your associate. I will not have you wandering the streets alone at night. Not after what happened with Drakeston.”
Sophia frowned. “A ducal carriage coming and going at odd hours will rouse suspicion. People will talk.”
“My driver will use a hackney.” Edward had already considered this. “He will collect you in an unmarked carriage, deposit you near your destination, and wait to bring you home. He can help you enter the house through the servants’ entrance, undetected.”
She studied him for a long moment. “You have given this a great deal of thought.”
“I have given your safety a great deal of thought.” He held her gaze. “The rest followed naturally.”
Sophia’s expression softened. “Very well. I accept your conditions.”
She rose from her chair. Edward rose as well, propriety demanding the gesture.
“Thank you.” She paused at the door, her hand on the frame. “For understanding. For allowing me this.”
“You are my wife.” The words came out rougher than he intended. “You may have anything you wish.”
Something shifted in her eyes. A shadow passed across her face, and Edward could sense she wanted to say something, but it all vanished within a second.
“Good day, Your Grace.”
She left before he could respond.
Edward sank back into his chair and stared at the empty doorway, her absence colder than a winter chill.
“You are a married woman now, and yet here you are, skulking through my office like a common criminal.”
Mr. Colborne rose from behind his cluttered desk, his weathered face creased with a smile. The cramped room above the tailor’s shop felt achingly familiar, the smell of ink and parchment wrapping around Sophia like a well-worn shawl.
“I prefer to think of it as maintaining professional discretion.” Sophia crossed to her usual chair and settled into it. “The Duchess of Heatherwell cannot be seen entering a matchmaker’s office. It would cause a scandal.”
“More of a scandal than if they discovered the duchess was the matchmaker?”
“Considerably more, I should think.”
Mr. Colborne chuckled. He rummaged through the papers on his desk and produced a small package wrapped in brown paper.
“A wedding gift.” He pressed it into her hands. “Nothing extravagant. But I thought you might appreciate it.”
Sophia unwrapped the paper to reveal a leather-bound journal, its pages blank and waiting. The cover was embossed with delicate flowers, the craftsmanship exquisite.
“For your thoughts.” Mr. Colborne settled back into his chair. “Every woman should have a place to record her own story. Especially one whose story has taken such unexpected turns.”
Sophia ran her fingers over the smooth leather. Her throat tightened. “It is beautiful. Thank you.”
“I would have given it to you at the wedding.” His voice gentled. “But I thought it best to stay away. People might have wondered why a disreputable old solicitor was attending a ducal wedding. They might have started asking questions.”
“You were protecting my secret.”
“As I always have.” He smiled. “Now. Shall we discuss business? The Hartington-Cavendish match has progressed splendidly. Lord Hartington sent a rather effusive letter of thanks. And there are three new inquiries waiting for your attention.”
They worked through the evening, reviewing correspondence, discussing potential matches, and debating the merits of various candidates.
It felt good to lose herself in the familiar rhythms of her work.
To be Lady Fairhart again, competent and purposeful, instead of the confused duchess who wandered the halls of Heatherwell House, wondering what her husband truly wanted from her.
But Mr. Colborne knew her too well.
“You are not yourself tonight.” He set down his pen and regarded her with kind eyes. “Your mind is elsewhere. Has been, I suspect, since you arrived.”
Sophia stared at the letter in her hands. The words blurred before her eyes.
“It’s nothing.”
“It is clearly something.” Mr. Colborne leaned back in his chair. “You forget, Your Grace, that I have known you for three years. I can tell when you are troubled.”
Sophia set down the letter. She did not know how to explain. Did not know how to put words to the tangled mess of emotions that had plagued her since her wedding night.
“My marriage… it is not what I expected.” The words emerged slowly, carefully. “It was born of necessity, not affection. And I find myself uncertain how to navigate it.”
Mr. Colborne nodded. He did not press for details, did not ask questions she could not answer. He simply waited, patient and attentive.
“There are moments when I think…” She hesitated. “When I believe there could be something more between us. Something real. But then he retreats, and I am left wondering if I imagined it all.”
“Ah.” Mr. Colborne steepled his fingers. “The dance of two people who want more than they are willing to admit.”
Sophia looked up. “You speak as though you have experience with such things.”
“I was married once.” His eyes grew distant. “A long time ago. To a woman who drove me half mad with frustration before she finally allowed me to love her.”
“What happened?”
“She died.” The words were simple, worn smooth by years of grief. “But before she did, she taught me that the things most worth having rarely come easily. That trust must be earned, not demanded. That some people need time to learn how to open their hearts.”
Sophia absorbed this. “And if time is not enough?”
“Then you must decide whether to keep waiting or to take the risk of reaching for what you want.” Mr. Colborne smiled gently. “But in my experience, the ones who build walls the highest are often the ones who most need someone to climb over them.”
Sophia thought of Edward. Of his confession in her chambers, raw and vulnerable. Of the way he had pulled back, fleeing from the very connection he claimed to desire.
He had built his walls high indeed. But she had seen the cracks. Had glimpsed the man beneath the armor.
Perhaps it was time to start climbing.
“Thank you.” She reached across the desk and squeezed Mr. Colborne’s hand. “For the gift. For the advice. For everything.”
“It is what I am here for.” He patted her hand with fatherly affection. “Now go home to that husband of yours. And remember, the best matches are not the ones that come easily. They are the ones worth fighting for.”
Sophia gathered her things and slipped out into the night. The hackney waited in the shadows, the duke’s driver standing ready to escort her home.
Home. To Heatherwell House. To Edward.
She climbed into the carriage and leaned back against the seat, Mr. Colborne’s words echoing in her mind.
The ones who build walls the highest are often the ones who most need someone to climb over them.