Chapter Three
“I am no stranger to consequence,” Sophia said. “And although you cannot see the humour in it, it was, after all, just a bit of fun.”
“A bit of fun?” he repeated.
“Yes, and I do not see how it concerns you,” she added quickly, already stepping past him. “So if you will excuse—”
He moved with such precise timing that she found her path blocked before she had taken more than a step.
Her breath caught even as a flicker of irritation burned in her chest.
What does he want from me?
Sophia had known Tristan Mortimer, the Duke of Nightvale, for many years, and she was painfully aware that he was not a man who liked to anticipate problems and then step neatly into their path as though the world itself ought to arrange accordingly.
She had known him long enough to expect nothing less.
He had always been this way with her: controlled where she was not, measured where she refused to be, watching her with that quiet, infuriating certainty as though he had already decided exactly who she was—and found her lacking.
And somehow, he was always there, correcting her and intervening in matters that did not require his attention. While all the while not bothering to mask his plain disapproval of her, as though she were a problem to be managed.
“Get out of my way, Your Grace,” she said, her tone hard.
“No,” he said, his voice low and controlled in a way that felt far more dangerous than anger. “Not until I am certain that you are done with all of this nonsense.”
Sophia lifted her chin.
His gaze did not waver. “I wish for you to explain to me why you would ever agree to such a dare? Do you really have such little regard for yourself?”
Sophia’s pulse quickened. “I have given you as much of an explanation as I intend to, so if you will, please get out of my way.”
She stepped to the side, and he matched it.
“I am not required to account for myself to you,” she snapped.
“And yet,” he said evenly, “you will.”
“Oh, I see,” Sophia said, her temper flaring now. “You have appointed yourself my guardian this evening?”
“I have appointed myself nothing.”
“Then kindly cease behaving as though you have,” she retorted. “I am not your sister.”
She moved again, this time faster, slipping past him before he could intercept.
“I am leaving,” she said, not looking back.
Even without looking back, she could sense him following her.
Sophia pushed through the doors into the gardens, the cool night air striking her flushed skin like relief and accusation all at once. Gravel crunched beneath her slippers as she quickened her pace.
“Miss Sophia,” he called after her.
She ignored him.
“Stop.”
“I will not.”
“Sophia.”
She spun then, the name catching her mid-step. “Do not—” she began, breathing uneven, “do not follow me as though I am a misbehaving child.”
“Then do not behave like one.”
Her eyes flashed. “There it is.”
“There is what?”
“The judgment.” She laughed once, but there was no humour in it. “How efficient of you. You required only a moment to decide I had confirmed every expectation.”
His expression hardened. “You place yourself in compromising situations and expect—what? Applause?”
“I expect,” she shot back, “to be left alone.”
“You were not alone.”
“And that,” she said, stepping closer, “was precisely the point.”
Something flickered across his expression, but it was quick and unreadable.
“Why him?” he demanded.
Sophia blinked. “What?”
“That man,” Tristan said, sharper now. “Why him?”
The question caught her off guard.
“I do not see how that is relevant.”
“You will answer it.”
“You are insufferable.”
“And you are avoiding the question.”
Sophia exhaled sharply, turning away from him, her hands tightening around her fan. “Because he was there,” she said at last.
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only one you are entitled to,” she said. “And it is the truth.”
“It is not sufficient.”
“Nothing,” she said, spinning back toward him, “will ever be sufficient for you.”
His gaze locked onto hers. “Try me.”