Chapter 29
“One more.”
Edward poured himself another measure of brandy and settled back into his chair. The study lay dark around him, lit only by the dying embers in the hearth and the single candle on his desk. The door stood open to the corridor beyond, allowing the sounds of the sleeping house to drift in.
He was not reading, not working, and not doing anything productive at all.
He was waiting.
The clock on the mantel marked the hour. Late. Too late for a duchess to be wandering the streets, even with a trusted driver. Too late for anything but trouble and scandal and the sort of danger that made his chest tight with worry.
He took a long swallow of brandy and told himself he was being ridiculous. Sophia had managed perfectly well before she became his wife. She had navigated the city alone, conducted her business in secret, and evaded discovery for three years. She did not need him hovering like an anxious nursemaid.
And yet here he sat, ears straining for the sound of the servants’ door.
The house settled around him. Floorboards creaked. The wind whispered against the windows. And then, finally, the soft click of a door opening at the back of the house.
Edward set down his glass and rose. He crossed to the study door and stepped into the corridor, his footsteps silent on the carpet.
Sophia emerged from the shadows near the servants’ staircase. She wore a dark cloak, the hood pulled up to obscure her face. When she saw him standing there, she halted, one hand flying to her chest.
She lowered her hood. Her hair had come loose from its pins, tendrils curling around her face. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold night air.
“You startled me.” She pressed her hand to her heart. “Why are you awake at this hour?”
“Paperwork.” The lie came easily. “I lost track of time.”
She studied him, her green eyes searching his face. He wondered what she saw there. Whether she could read the truth beneath the excuse.
“Did everything go well?” He kept his voice neutral. “At the office?”
Sophia nodded. “Yes. Mr. Colborne sends his regards.”
Silence stretched between them. The corridor felt too narrow, too intimate. Edward was acutely aware of the loose hair framing her face, the rise and fall of her breath, the way the candlelight from his study caught the green of her eyes.
“Well.” Sophia gathered her cloak around her. “Goodnight, Edward.”
“Goodnight.”
She moved past him toward the main staircase, her skirts whispering against the floor. He watched her go until she disappeared around the curve of the landing, until the sound of her footsteps faded into silence.
Only then did he return to his study, to his brandy, to the long hours before dawn.
Two nights later, Edward descended into the basement tavern with violence burning in his blood.
The crowd parted for him as he made his way to the ring. He shed his coat, rolled his sleeves, and wrapped his knuckles with practiced efficiency. His opponent tonight was a dockworker named Sullivan, a man built like a brick wall with fists to match.
Perfect.
The fight began, and Edward threw himself into it with a ferocity that surprised even him. He needed this. Needed the impact of bone against bone, the sharp clarity of pain, the primal satisfaction of a battle he could win.
Because he was losing every other battle in his life.
Sophia was everywhere. In his house, at his table, in his thoughts.
He saw her face when he closed his eyes at night.
Heard her voice in the quiet moments between meetings.
He remembered the way she had looked at him in her chambers, confused and hurt and so damnably beautiful that it had taken every ounce of his self-control to walk away.
He wanted her. Wanted her with an intensity that bordered on obsession. And he could not have her, because having her would mean admitting things he was not ready to admit.
Sullivan’s fist connected with his jaw. Edward staggered, tasted blood, and came back swinging.
The fight lasted longer than most. But in the end, Edward stood victorious, his chest heaving, his knuckles split and bleeding, his body aching in ways that almost drowned out the ache in his chest.
Almost.
“You fight like a man possessed.”
Hugo appeared at his elbow, pressing a drink into his hand. His fair hair was disheveled, his cravat loosened, his expression caught between amusement and concern.
“I fight like a man who needed to hit something.” Edward drained the glass in one swallow.
“Yes, I noticed.” Hugo guided him to a table in the corner, away from the crowd. “What I cannot fathom is why you are here, bloodying your knuckles in a basement tavern, when you have a beautiful wife waiting for you at home.”
Edward’s jaw tightened. “Watch your tongue.”
Hugo sighed. He signaled for another round of drinks and settled back in his chair.
“Edward. You married a woman who is intelligent, kind, and genuinely fond of your nephew. A woman who, from what I observed at your wedding, looks at you like you hung the moon. And instead of enjoying your good fortune, you are down here beating strangers senseless.” He spread his hands. “Explain this to me.”
“There is nothing to explain.” Edward wrapped a fresh bandage around his bleeding knuckles. “The marriage is an arrangement. Nothing more.”
“It could be more.” Hugo leaned forward. “It should be more. You are allowed to be happy, Edward. You are allowed to want things for yourself.”
“I do not need a lecture from you.” Edward pushed back from the table. “Not tonight.”
Hugo held up his hands in surrender. “Fine. Go home to your empty bed and your cold study. But ask yourself this. How long can you keep running from something that lives in your own house?”
Edward did not answer. He collected his coat and walked out into the night, Hugo’s words echoing in his ears.
The house was dark when he returned, the servants long since retired. Edward let himself in through the back entrance and made his way to the kitchen, intent on finding water to clean his wounds.
He pushed open the door and stopped.
Sophia sat at the kitchen table with a cup of tea cradled in her hands. She wore a dressing gown over her nightclothes, her hair loose around her shoulders. A single candle flickered before her, casting soft shadows across her face.
She looked up when he entered. Her eyes swept over him, taking in his rumpled clothes, his disheveled hair, and the bloodied bandages wrapped around his knuckles.
Her face paled. “What happened?” She rose from her chair. “Did someone attack you? Are you hurt?”
“No.” Edward tried to hide his hands behind his back. “It’s nothing. Go back to bed.”
But Sophia was already crossing the kitchen. She reached him before he could retreat, her fingers closing around his wrists and pulling his hands into the candlelight.
She examined his knuckles, her touch gentle despite the obvious concern on her face. The bandages were soaked through with blood, the skin beneath them torn and swelling.
“These need to be cleaned.” Her voice was quiet but firm. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”
“It is nothing.”
“Edward.” She looked up at him, her green eyes demanding honesty. “These are not the hands of a man who tripped in the street. What happened?”
He said nothing. His jaw tightened.
“You were near Mr. Colborne’s office.” She tilted her head, studying him. “The night we first met. You were coming from somewhere, and your knuckles were bruised then, too. I remember thinking it odd.”
Still, he remained silent, but something flickered in his expression. She was getting close.
“Edward, tell me. Please.”
He sighed. The fight drained out of him, leaving only weariness. “I box. At night. At a tavern near the docks.”
Sophia absorbed this. He watched the understanding dawn in her eyes, the pieces clicking into place.
“That is why you were near Mr. Colborne’s office.” Her voice was soft with realization. “The night we met. You had been boxing at that tavern.”
He nodded.
“It is not exactly seemly behavior for a duke.” He tried to keep his voice light. “Fighting with strangers in basement taverns.”
“No, it is not.” Sophia released his hands and crossed to the basin, wetting a cloth.
“Rather like how you worried about me wandering the streets alone at night. About the dangers I might encounter.” She returned to him and began unwrapping his bandages.
“And yet here you are, doing the same thing.”
“That is different.”
“Is it?” She raised an eyebrow.
He had no answer for that.
Sophia cleaned his wounds with careful hands, her touch sending sparks of sensation up his arms. They stood close, closer than they had been since that night in her chambers. He could smell the lavender in her hair and could see the faint freckles dusted across her nose.
“Why do you do it?” She did not look up from her work. “The boxing.”
Edward looked away. The kitchen felt too small, too intimate. The question cut too close to truths he did not want to examine.
“Does it help?” She pressed gently. “With the grief?”
His breath caught. He looked at her then, really looked, and found her watching him with an understanding that made his chest ache.
“There is no need to discuss my maudlin tendencies.” He tried to deflect. “I am sure you have better things to—”
“There are other ways to deal with grief.” Sophia cut him off, her voice gentle but insistent. “Connecting with loved ones. With Oliver.” She paused. “He still needs you, Edward. I may be his connection to his mother, but you are his connection to his father.”
Each word found its mark. Edward swallowed hard.
“It is not as easy as you make it sound.”
“Then let me help you.” She finished wrapping his knuckles and looked up at him. “For Oliver’s sake.”
Edward stared at her. The offer hung between them, simple and terrifying. She was not asking him to change overnight. She was offering to walk beside him while he tried.
“What would that entail?” His voice came out rougher than he intended.
“Spending more time with him.” Sophia held his gaze. “And being open to talking about Leonard. Sharing memories. Keeping his father alive for him.”
Edward blinked. “You called him Leonard.”
“That was his name.”
“You were that close? Close enough to address my brother by his Christian name?”
Sophia nodded. “He was Jane’s beloved husband, so he became my friend as well. We dined together. Laughed together. I was there when Jane told him she was expecting Oliver.”
“I didn’t know.” The words came out heavy with regret. He had known she matched them, but he had never considered that she had been part of their lives. Part of Leonard’s happiness. “I knew you introduced them, but I did not realize…”
“You never asked.”
The truth of it settled over him like a weight. He had been so focused on keeping his distance, on protecting himself from feeling too much, that he had failed to see what was right in front of him.
Sophia stood before him, close enough to touch, her eyes filled with a patience he did not deserve. She was offering him a lifeline. All he had to do was take it.
The moment stretched between them. He could feel the warmth radiating from her body, could see the faint pulse at the base of her throat. The urge to close the distance, to pull her against him, to lose himself in her, rose up so strongly that he had to step back.
“We can try.” His voice was hoarse. “Tomorrow.”
Sophia nodded. Something flickered in her eyes. Disappointment, perhaps. Or understanding.
“Tomorrow, then.” She gathered the soiled bandages and moved toward the basin. “Goodnight, Edward.”
“Goodnight.”
He watched her rinse her hands and slip out of the kitchen, her dressing gown trailing behind her.
The door swung shut, and he was alone with the guttering candle and the ache in his chest.