But the truth sat heavily in her stomach like a stone.
She had not wanted it to be a mistake. She had wanted him to kiss her again. She had wanted him to say that the kiss meant something, that she meant something, that the fire between them was more than proximity and danger and the thrill of almost being caught.
Foolish. Reckless. Dangerous.
She was supposed to find him a wife. A proper duchess. A mother for Oliver. Not to entangle herself in feelings that could only lead to heartbreak.
Sophia pushed off the wall and smoothed her skirts. She would bury this. Lock it away in the same dark corner where she kept her fears about Drakeston and her grief over Jane and all the other things she could not afford to feel.
She was Lady Fairhart. She matched other people’s hearts, not her own.
And the Duke of Heatherwell would never know how thoroughly he had undone her with a single kiss.
“Christ, man. Are you trying to kill him or court him?”
Hugo’s voice cut through the roar of the crowd as Edward drove his fist into his opponent’s jaw. The man crumpled to the sawdust, unconscious before he hit the ground.
Edward stood over him, chest heaving, knuckles split and bleeding. The rage still burned in his veins, unsatisfied, demanding more. He wanted another opponent. Another fight. Another excuse to stop thinking about green eyes and kiss-swollen lips and the soft sound she made when he deepened the kiss.
Grimsby signaled the end of the match. The crowd dispersed, muttering about the duke’s foul temper, collecting their winnings or cursing their losses. Edward unwrapped his hands and let the bloodied strips of linen fall to the floor.
“You know what to do with it.” He nodded at Grimsby and climbed out of the ring.
Hugo waited at a corner table, two glasses of whiskey already poured. He slid one across as Edward dropped into the opposite chair.
“You look like death warmed over.” Hugo raised his glass. “Cheers.”
Edward drained his whiskey in one swallow. The burn did nothing to dull the memories.
“Another?” Hugo waved at Grimsby for the bottle.
“No.” Edward stared at the empty glass. “Yes.”
Hugo poured. His eyes glittered with the curiosity that always preceded an interrogation. “I have not seen you fight like that since the night your father died. What demon has crawled under your skin?”
“Nothing.”
“Liar.” Hugo leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Is it the boy? Has something happened with Oliver?”
Edward shook his head. Oliver was the same as ever. Wary. Distant. Lighting up only when Lady Sophia entered the room.
Lady Sophia. Even her name sent heat curling through his belly.
“The ball, then.” Hugo’s voice sharpened. “Something happened at the ball. I saw you disappear after the first set, and when you returned, you looked like a man who had either committed murder or received terrible news.”
Edward looked away. The cellar felt too warm, too close. The smell of sweat and sawdust clogged his throat.
“Edward.” Hugo leaned forward. “Tell me.”
The silence stretched between them. Edward turned his glass in his hands, watching the amber liquid catch the lamplight.
He shouldn’t say anything. He should bury this like he buried everything else. But Hugo had known him since boyhood, had seen him at his worst, and had never once judged or betrayed a confidence.
“I kissed her.”
Hugo went still. “Kissed who?”
“Lady Sophia.”
