“Everything.” The word emerged broken. “My marriage. My husband. Everything I thought we were building together.” She pressed her fingers to her eyes. “He pushed me away. After weeks of happiness, of thinking that perhaps we could have something real, he decided that caring for me was too great a risk.”
Mr. Colborne was silent. He rose and crossed to the small cabinet in the corner, returning with two glasses and a bottle of brandy. He poured a measure into each glass and pressed one into her hands.
“Drink.” He settled back into his chair. “And then tell me everything.”
So, she did. The words poured out of her, a torrent of grief and confusion and hurt. Oliver getting lost. Edward’s guilt. The argument in the study. The cold distance that had descended between them, turning their home into a battlefield of silence.
When she finished, Mr. Colborne sipped his brandy and regarded her with thoughtful eyes.
“He sounds like a man at war with himself.”
“He is.” Sophia stared into her glass. “He has been fighting that war his entire life. His father taught him that love was weakness, that caring for someone would only lead to pain. And now he is so afraid of becoming his father that he is doing exactly what his father would have done.”
“And what do you want?” Mr. Colborne asked.
Sophia looked up. “What do you mean?”
“You have told me what he has done. What he fears. What he believes.” Mr. Colborne leaned forward. “But what do you want? What are you willing to fight for?”
The question settled over her. She thought of Edward’s face when he had confessed his desire, his fears, his hope. She thought of the way he had held her, looked at her, and made her feel like she was the center of his world.
She thought of walking away. Of accepting the cold distance he had created. Of spending the rest of her life as a stranger in her own marriage.
“I want him.” The words emerged certain. “I want the man I married. The man who learned to open his heart, even when it terrified him. I want to fight for us, even if he has given up.”
Mr. Colborne smiled. “Then fight.” He reached across and patted her hand. “Go home. Tell him what you told me. Force him to face what he is throwing away.” His eyes twinkled. “You are amatchmaker, my lady. You have spent years bringing stubborn people together despite themselves. Surely you can manage your own husband.”
Sophia laughed, and the sound was watery but real. “I suppose I can try.”
“Trying is all any of us can do.” Mr. Colborne rose and helped her to her feet. “Now go. And do not come back until you have sorted this out.”
Sophia embraced him, a brief, fierce hug that made him chuckle with surprise. Then she gathered her cloak and slipped out into the night, her heart lighter than it had been in days.
She would fight. She would make Edward see what they could have, what they had already built, what they stood to lose. She would not let fear win.
The street was dark, the hour somewhere between midnight and dawn. The hackney waited at the corner, the driver a silhouette against the dim glow of a distant streetlamp. Sophia hurried toward it, her boots clicking on the cobblestones.
A shortcut through the alley would be faster. She turned into the narrow passage; her cloak pulled tight against the chill.
She collided with a solid form emerging from the shadows.
Sophia stumbled back, her heart lurching. “Forgive me, I did not see?—”
The words died in her throat.
Drakeston stepped into the faint light, his face pale and gaunt, his eyes glittering with something that made her blood run cold.
“Lady Sophia.” His smile curled like a blade. “Or should I say, Your Grace. What a pleasant surprise.”
Sophia’s heart hammered against her ribs. She turned to flee, but Drakeston moved faster, blocking the mouth of the alley. His body filled the narrow space, cutting off her escape.
“Leave me alone.” She fought to keep her voice steady. “My driver is waiting. If I do not return?—”
“Your driver is half asleep on his box.” Drakeston advanced a step. “And we both know you will not scream.”
“I will.” She lifted her chin. “I will scream, and people will come, and?—”
“And the papers tomorrow will write about what the Duchess of Heatherwell was doing in the alleys at this hour.” His smile widened. “Visiting a solicitor’s office in the middle of the night. Dressed like a common woman trying to avoid notice.” He tilted his head. “What would the ton make of that, I wonder?”
