Chapter 8
After supper, one of the gardeners approached Sofia in the kitchen with a bouquet of flowers for her room, stuttering through an explanation of having cut too many.
“I believe you may have an admirer,” Christopher said, approaching her from behind and angling his body close to smell a partially opened rose. The muscles of his chest brushed her shoulder as he leaned in, and even after he eased away her nerves tingled at the contact.
“Nonsense. He’s just being friendly.”
Christopher stepped away to retrieve a vase then filled it with water. “You seem surprised at that… the friendliness, I mean.” He slid the bouquet from her loose fingers. “May I?” Turning his attention to the flowers, he arranged, then rearranged, cocking his head to the side and shuffling the blooms. Apparently satisfied with his work, he asked, “Is it England that you expected to be unwelcoming, or just the people of this estate?”
Sofia hesitated, unwilling to admit that she’d imagined villains behind these stately walls. “I’m not sure what I was expecting. Something colder and more rigid, I suppose. Certainly not singing scullery maids and a duchess who nurtures wounded chickens with the same care she bestows upon her children. Or a valet who refers to the duke by his Christian name. Everyone has been so… kind.”
He nodded. “I saw the duke’s naked behind more times than I care to count when we swam in the river as boys, long before I was asked to tie his cravat. Referring to the man by his title in private seems excessive. But I admit, Northam Hall hasn’t always been such a jolly place. We are in a celebratory cycle of sorts. How do I explain this?” He removed one rose to trim the stem, then added it back to the vase. “Gabriel genuinely cares for his servants, and, in return, we are unwavering in our devotion. We’re invested in his welfare and his happiness. Myself in particular, as our relationship goes well beyond that of a servant and his master. Everyone at the estate mourned alongside him with the death of his late wife, Emma. It was hard watching him after.”
Christopher stroked along the petals of a yellow rose, then separated it from the rest of the bouquet. Raising the bloom to his nose, he inhaled, his thick eyelashes fluttering closed. “Those were difficult years. I honestly did not expect him to ever fall in love again. At times, I worried he would never again smile without effort or look to the sunrise of a new day with anything other than grim determination to endure it.”
Snapping the stem an inch away from the bud, he held it out to her. “For your hair, Sofia. Just here.” Before Sofia had time to react, his fingers swept over the spot he’d pointed to, tucking back a curl that was attempting to flee its pins. His touch was gone as quickly as it had arrived, but her memory seemed to wrap around the sensation, refusing to let it go. Her eyes snapped to meet his. They were crinkled at the corners, smiling even though his lips were not. “You should always have flowers in your hair, Miss Lioni.” Again, he extended his hand, the innocent offering tucked between thumb and index finger. It was a cheerful yellow. He was a cheerful yellow. Bright and impossible to ignore, beaming with such enthusiasm that she could not escape his brilliance even through closed eyelids.
She took the bloom, holding it awkwardly in her fingers as she passed it from one hand to the other. His eyes tracked the movement hungrily, and the awareness and sensuality humming between them left her breathless. Then he blinked several times and squared his shoulders, continuing as though the interlude had not taken place.
“The manor and its servants have shifted and transformed to reflect our new duchess. Emma was…” He paused, his features softening at the memory. “Emma was elegant, classically refined. She embraced the duties of the title with pride and excellence, and was a matched pair with Gabriel’s bone-deep commitment to the needs of the title. They loved one another deeply. But Violet”—satisfaction and joy sparked in his expression—“Violet taught Gabriel’s heart how to beat again, invigorating every gardener and scullery maid right alongside him.” He took a step closer and bowed his head. “Come. It is a fine evening, Sofia. Will you walk with me?”
She hesitated, her heart pattering its encouragement in her chest. “It is late.”
“Just a quick turn about the garden. I love the kaleidoscope of colourful roses bathed in starlight.” He leaned closer then, as if imparting a great secret. “But I am a little afraid of the dark, so I seldom indulge in late night strolls to bask in their glory.” He smiled. “I trust that you will keep my confidence.”
Stepping closer still, he slid the yellow bloom from where it hung lax between her fingers and tucked it behind his own ear. “If you’re not going to wear it, I will. It seems a shame to waste,” he said, a crooked smile on his face. He wiggled his winged arm, lowering his voice. “I’d have a walk with my friend, if you please.”
With the flower drooping from behind his ear, he looked comical and dear. Safe.
“A short one.” Sofia slipped her fingers onto the crook of his arm, drawing a quick breath when he immediately moved to cover her hand with his. They set off at a leisurely pace, out the kitchen door and into the dominion of chirping crickets and twinkling stars.
Christopher turned them into the gardens and asked nothing of her. Not her words. Not her attention. He just became a part of the atmosphere, a gentle, encouraging presence, like lavender when you cannot sleep.
“You have a knack for putting people at ease, Mr Keene. It’s extremely vexing.”
He grinned. “A habit of my childhood, I think. It’s what others required of me.” Sofia waited for him to expound on the statement, but he did not do so immediately. Instead, he fell as silent as the blooms that surrounded them. Then his fingers tightened over hers and his steps slowed. Her heart beat raced.
Finally, he spoke. “Gabriel’s life was complicated. His parents’ expectations were rigid. They cared only for the duke he would become and not at all for the boy he was—a boy both desperately lonely and intensely determined to please parents who would never be more than vaguely satisfied. In everything he did, he strove to be the best. But with me, he didn’t have to be anything but Gabriel.” She looked up, but his gaze remained forward as he guided her gently through a series of turns.
“And my sister, Sarah…” He exhaled a long breath. “She had… spells. Periods of sadness that even she did not understand. Sarah was always a contemplative child, worrying about things that a little girl ought not to, but I could almost always coax a laugh out of her, even when she was crying. When I could not, when nothing would stop her tears”—she watched as his Adam’s apple bobbed with a swallow—“well, then I sat quietly with her. I held her hand until whatever melancholy gripped her loosened its hold on her soul. Then she would be all right for a while. When I was a boy, I used to think that if I kept her comfortable enough, happy enough…” He shook his head, then rubbed the fingers of his free hand across his forehead. “Little boys think they should be able to protect their sisters from everything. But what weapon does a ten-year-old boy have against his sister’s own mind?”
Christopher’s vulnerability, the emotion unchecked in his expression, caused something to loosen in Sofia’s chest. She could easily envision the boy who made it his life’s work to provide care for those around him. The boy who would protect his loved ones from the rain, waving away the impending storm clouds until his own arms were exhausted from the strain.
The man walking beside her now still had that same generous spirit, ready and willing to exhaust his arms on her behalf. She didn’t want to know that about him. Didn’t want to wonder whose arms grew exhausted on his behalf. She didn’t want to see the emotion he had placed on display for her, but there was such bravery in his offering that she could not look away. Her hand covered his, and before she could stop herself, she offered her own confession. “Not all older brothers try to protect their sisters. Some brothers simply walk away when life gets especially hard, no matter how much their sisters love them.”
Christopher slowed his steps to a stop and turned to her. “I’ve scarcely known you for a sennight, and still, I cannot imagine a world where anyone would willingly walk away from you. I am glad that you are my friend today, Sofia.”
She was thankful for the noise of the overzealous crickets, certain that nothing short of their shrill chorus could drown out the clatter of her pounding heart. Christopher deftly removed the rosebud from behind his ear and nestled it into her curls, his fingers sliding down the angle of her jaw to cup her chin between his thumb and index finger. He gently tilted her face from side to side, admiring his work. “It looks far prettier on you than me.” Dropping his hand to his side, he turned to continue at their ambling pace.
Falling into step beside him, she peeked up from beneath lowered lashes. “I’m not sure about that, Mr Keene. You look rather fetching in yellow.” She had meant it as a jest, as a way to shake free of the tingling anticipation that had settled over them, but it came out rather more like?—
“Are you flirting with me, Miss Lioni?”
“E una pessima idea flirtare con te,” Sofia whispered on a breath.
“It’s unsporting to answer in a language I do not speak.” He paused, frowning in thought. “It feels like flirting. My heart certainly sped up when you called me fetching.” He pressed his hand to his chest as though he could measure its beats. “I’ll no doubt turn my wardrobe inside out in search of a yellow waistcoat in the morning, and if you should compare my eyes to a summer storm, I’m afraid I may lose my head altogether and start spouting poetry.”
“Ridicolo. Your eyes look nothing like a summer storm.” She slid her hand back into the crook of his arm, losing the battle to keep an amused smile from her lips.
“What then, like the dense fog that covers the hills at dawn? Soft grey dove feathers? Flickers of stardust?” Keene asked, his voice lowering to an intimate murmur.
“Continue with this insanity and I shall compare them to puddles of mud!” She laughed then and something that had been pulled taut for too many years loosened by degrees.
“I rather wish you would. I love mud puddles. My poor mama couldn’t keep me out of them. I ruined my best pair of Sunday breeches once as a lad and she took away my dessert for a week. Longest week of my life.” He shivered dramatically.
Turning the final corner of the garden, Christopher stopped walking. His hand moved to cover hers where it rested atop his sleeve, and then he eased their hands together down his forearm until her hand was cradled between both of his. Warmth seeped into her skin as Christopher’s fingers moved across her palm. He watched their path, across the shallow lines, up and down the length of her fingers, lingering on the little calluses. His touch was light and his movements were slow, giving her every opportunity to pull away. And she might have perhaps, had her thoughts not slowed to match his deliberate pace. He looked up at her then.
“The interesting thing about compliments is that who gives them matters far more than their eloquence. When you compare my eyes to mud puddles, all my heart hears is that you’ve been looking into my eyes.”
Even in the hazy light of the waxing moon, the wash of colour on his cheeks was visible. Still, he did not look away.
“I will say goodnight to you now, Sofia. But would you meet me Monday evening in the kitchens? Around eight, perhaps?”
She nodded, and it wasn’t until his body relaxed that Sofia realised how perfectly still he’d been as he had waited for her answer. She wasn’t sure he had even taken a breath.
“Good.” He bowed over her hand. “Thank you for protecting me from the dark, Miss Lioni. Until tomorrow then.”
The cook appearedat Sofia’s elbow with a second helping of breakfast before she had finished the first one.
“I won’t be able to fasten my gown at the rate you’re feeding me, Mrs Simmons.”
“Good! It’ll be a happy day indeed when you’ve put enough meat on your bones to require a larger dress.” She cast a baleful glare towards the garment in question, then refilled Sofia’s cup of milk. “Christopher has the right idea courting you with biscuits. I wish men would have brought me biscuits. I’d take a nice shortbread over flowers any day.”
Sofia gave her a quizzical look.
“Oh my, I hope I haven’t ruined a surprise! Christopher was in early this morning. Spent an hour rustling through my old papers in search of a biscotti recipe that hadn’t been ‘ruined by the English.’ Asked to borrow my kitchens tomorrow night. Awful sweet of him.”
“Si. He is very kind,” Sofia said absently. She drank deeply from her glass, then dabbed her lips with a napkin to hide whatever expression might have crept onto her face.
Mrs Simmons continued after waiting expectantly for Sofia to say more. “I haven’t seen him so inside out over a girl since he was about fourteen.”
Bennet glared at the cook from his place at the end of the table. “Kindly allow Miss Lioni to eat in peace. Mr Keene’s attention should be fixed more firmly on his duty to His Grace, and you should know better than to encourage him, Mrs Simmons. Not that he needs much in the way of encouragement. He has never adhered to any standards I’ve set within the walls of this estate.” The last bit came out in a grumble.
“What nonsense, Bennet,” the cheerful cook replied. “There’s nothing at all wrong with a little courting. Maybe you’d be less of a curmudgeon if you took a moonlit stroll every once in a while. I’m available this evening should you need a companion.” She fluttered her eyelashes dramatically.
Heat rose up the back of Sofia”s neck at the mention of a moonlit walk, and she stood to clean her plate in the washtub. She couldn’t help but smile when she noticed Bennet squirming in his chair.
“Oh, don’t worry about the dishes, dearie,” Mrs. Simmons began. “Actually, if you’re feeling helpful and have the time, you can fetch a few ingredients from the larder. Some of the girls weren’t feeling their best this morning so I’m a bit shorthanded.” She paused with the kind of grin reserved for interfering older ladies. “It’s just past His Grace’s exercise room, down the hall.”
Armed with a list and an empty burlap sack, Sofia managed to pass the open door of the exercise room without peeking, despite the intriguing noises from within. Her self-restraint withered on the return trip, however, and she paused at the sound of her name.
“How goes your wooing of the prickly Miss Lioni?” There was a brief silence, followed by a thud. “Ouch! Damn it that hurt, Keene.”
“Duck next time. And she is not prickly.” Sofia leaned back against the wall, ignoring the part of her brain that was shouting for her feet to keep walking. More shuffling sounds carried into the hallway.
“All right. Not prickly. So am I invited to your biscotti night?” the duke asked.
“You are not.”
“Come now, that’s hardly fair. I invited you to my birthday dinner at Violet’s house. Surely you wouldn’t deprive your oldest friend of the same opportunity. Have you kissed her yet?”
Another painful-sounding thud.
“Are you a duke or a fourth year at Eton?
“That all depends on which will get me an answer.” Northam let loose with an unducal chortle of laughter.
“I liked it better when it was your romantic failings we were discussing.”
A long bout of scuffling and increasingly heavy breathing followed, wherein conversation apparently became too challenging. Sofia was about to walk away when, abruptly, the sounds slowed again.
“Gabriel, what does, ‘E una pessima idea flirtare con te’ mean?”
“Did she say that? Hmm…”
“I swear, Northam, I will knock you flat on your aristocratic arse if you don’t cease making that face.”
A strangled laugh preceded louder shuffling. “All right! All right! Christ, you’re fast when you’re riled up and pining. It’s a bad idea to flirt with you.”
“Flirting? You have an odd notion of flirting. Generally, I lean more towards the batting of eyelashes. And you’re not my type,” Christopher responded.
“Not me, you muttonhead. I mean, that is the translation. ‘It’s a bad idea to flirt with you.’”
“Oh,” Keene said. The room fell into absolute silence for a moment.
“I assume that our resident non-prickly governess told you this? What do you plan to do about it?”
“Wait, I suppose.” Sofia could hear the smile in Christopher’s voice. “Wait until she decides it is a good idea to flirt with me.”
That was quite enough loitering. Lifting the burlap sack, Sofia turned to carry on down the hall, only then noticing that the door had eased open several extra inches in the time she had been standing there eavesdropping like a child.
“Enough for today, I think. I promised Zachariah a visit to see Hamish, and you’ll have no success charming your Italian smelling like a mountain goat. Go practice those valet skills on yourself. I’ll manage on my own.”
Before she could consider scampering back to the larder, the large frame of the Duke of Northam, clad only in trousers and a loose-fitting shirt, filled the doorway. He carried his topcoat, cravat, and waistcoat folded neatly over one arm. Quickly pulling the door closed behind him, he concealed both Sofia and her fiery blush from Christopher’s view. Northam’s face was blank as he stood stock still taking in her guilty expression with serious brown eyes. The longest moment in the history of moments passed between them. He was going to turn her out without a character, and rightfully so.
She would have expected to feel some relief at accidentally foiling her brother’s plans. Instead, her thoughts were suddenly crowded with prickling disappointment. Disappointment at the thought of never again seeing Nora’s gleeful expression as she poured over scientific journals. Disappointment that she’d never again observe Zach’s preternatural concentration as he sketched when he was meant to be solving for X. Her heart sank further into despair as she acknowledged the most overwhelming loss of all… Disappointment that she’d never again look into eyes the colour of mud puddles. Her shoulders slumped.
“Keene!” the duke called out without breaking his unblinking assessment of Sofia. “Would you mind taking a moment to inspect the ropes on the hanging bag before you leave? It was creaking more than usual and I fear it’s beginning to fray.” Turning, he closed the door again and cut his eyes towards the kitchens. Sofia scooped up the cumbersome bag of food and hurried down the hallway, following the imposing aristocrat, who radiated authority even in his shirtsleeves.
Sofia had to double the speed of her steps across the polished oak floors to maintain his pace. With a muttered oath, she stumbled, the burlap sack bouncing against her calf, then nearly lost her footing entirely. The duke halted mid-stride, glanced at the unwieldy sack, and promptly reached to relieve her of its weight.
“This is intended for the kitchens, yes?” He set off again down the narrow hall, but she noticed he had obligingly shortened his stride.
“Si, but I can carry that, Your Grace.” He did not respond.
Work did not cease as the duke entered the kitchens, but several servants nodded their greetings, which he returned.
“I found your wayward assistant and, I assume, the ingredients for my lunch.” Laying the sack on the table, he offered a perfectly charming smile to Mrs Simmons, who bustled about in her usual manner.
“Thank you, Your Grace.” She lifted onto her tippy toes, attempting to retrieve a saucepan from the highest shelf, but Northam reached it first, passing it to the cook with the hint of a smile. Plucking a lemon from a pile of ingredients, he brought it to his nose. “Would it be too much to hope that this is an indication there will be lemon tarts in my future?”
“Well, if it wasn’t already the plan for those lemons before, you know very well it’s the plan now. I’ve never been able to deny that handsome face,” the cook responded. Then she patted the tousled curls on his head as if he was a lad of six. The duke stooped to accept her friendly pat and then turned back to Sofia. She had meant to skulk away, but the soft scene between the pair of them had temporarily caused her feet to forget their plan.
“Miss Lioni. Walk with me, if you please.” Sliding into his deep burgundy waistcoat and slightly wrinkled topcoat, he stuffed his cravat in his pocket and set off towards the servant’s entrance.