“The orphanage?” Grimsby held out a cloth.
“As always.” Edward pressed the cloth to his brow.
He dressed and stepped into the night. Dawn had lightened the eastern sky, painting the rooftops in shades of gray and pink. The world looked softer in this light. Kinder.
Edward did not feel soft or kind. He felt hollowed out. Empty.
He thought of Oliver, waking soon in the nursery. Thought of the wariness in the boy’s eyes whenever Edward entered a room. Thought of how different things might be if he could find the words, bridge the distance, become the guardian his nephew deserved.
He thought, unbidden, of Lady Sophia.
The way she had laughed at Oliver’s roar. The warmth of her fingers against his. The way her finger had pressed to her lip while she listened to Oliver’s story, drawing his attention to the soft curve of her mouth. He had wondered what that mouth would taste like. Whether her lips were as soft as they looked.
The challenge in her voice when she told him to prove he was capable of human connection.
Perhaps she could teach him. Perhaps, if he let her, she could show him how to reach his nephew. How to be the man Leonard would have wanted for his son.
Perhaps she could teach him other things, too. Things he had no business wanting. Things that had nothing to do with Oliver and everything to do with the way his pulse quickened whenever she entered a room.
He shook off the thought and walked home through the waking city.
Some lessons were too dangerous to learn.
CHAPTER 11
“You look beautiful, darling.”
Sophia’s mother adjusted the ribbon at her waist, her fingers gentle but her eyes sad. They stood in Sophia’s bedchamber, the evening light casting long shadows across the worn carpet. The gown Sophia wore was three seasons old, its once-vibrant green now faded at the seams, its lace trim repaired in places only a close eye would notice.
“I wish I could buy you something new.” Lady Brimsey’s voice caught. “A girl your age should have pretty things. New ribbons. Fresh flowers for her hair. Instead, every spare coin goes to that man.”
“Mama.” Sophia took her mother’s hands. “Our safety matters more than silk and lace. I would wear this gown a hundred more times if it meant keeping you from harm.”
Her mother’s eyes glistened. She cupped Sophia’s face, her touch feather light. “You grew up far too quickly, my love. Carrying burdens no daughter should bear.”
“I carry them gladly.” Sophia pressed a kiss to her mother’s palm. “Now come. Alice and Thomas will wonder where we are.”
The Countess of Thornhill’s ball was the event of the season, or so the gossip columns proclaimed. Every candle in the grand ballroom blazed with light. Crystal chandeliers threw rainbows across the ceiling. The cream of London society swirled in their finest silks and satins, diamonds glittering at throats and wrists.
Sophia felt distinctly underdressed.
“There you are!” Alice swept toward them, radiant in pale pink, Thomas trailing behind with the tolerant expression of a man who had learned to navigate his wife’s enthusiasms. “We were worrying.”
“Carriage traffic on the bridge.” Sophia embraced her friend. “You look lovely.”
“And you look like you need champagne.” Alice linked their arms and steered her toward the refreshment table. “Thomas, fetch Lady Brimsey a glass of ratafia and introduce her to the Dowager Countess of Wyndham. She was asking after mutual acquaintances.”
Thomas obeyed with a bow, guiding Sophia’s mother toward a cluster of silver-haired ladies near the windows. Sophia watched them go, tension easing from her shoulders. Her mother seemed steadier tonight. The shadows under her eyes had faded somewhat.
“Stop worrying.” Alice pressed a glass of champagne into her hand. “She is safe. You are safe. And tonight, we are going to enjoy ourselves.”
Sophia took a sip and let the bubbles fizz on her tongue. Across the ballroom, the orchestra was tuning their instruments. Couples began drifting toward the dance floor in anticipation of the first set.
A ripple of excitement passed through the crowd. Heads turned toward the entrance.
The Duke of Heatherwell had arrived.
He stood at the top of the stairs, tall and broad in evening black, his golden hair gleaming in the candlelight. Beside him, the Duke of Thornwaite surveyed the room with the lazy confidence of a man who knew himself to be handsome. But it was Heatherwell who commanded attention. Heatherwell, whose presence made the air feel charged, electric.
