“I get those sometimes.” Oliver nodded slowly. “Big feelings that make my chest hurt.”
“I know, darling.” Sophia squeezed his hand. “I get them, too.”
They returned to their painting. Oliver filled his paper with flowers and sunshine, a bright garden that existed only in memory. Sophia painted beside him, adding details he suggested, letting him guide the creation of a world where his parents still lived, and his heart remained unbroken.
When the hour ended, Oliver clung to her as always, extracting promises of another visit, another painting session, another story about his mama. Sophia hugged him tight and whispered reassurances into his hair, feeling the familiar ache of loving a child she could not keep.
She left Heatherwell House with Oliver’s painting tucked carefully into her reticule and a heaviness in her chest that had nothing to do with the absent duke.
Nothing at all.
“Auntie Sophia! Auntie Sophia! Look what we made!”
Nancy and Rosie descended upon her the moment she entered the parlor, their small hands brandishing paper crowns decorated with an alarming quantity of paste and feathers.
“We are princesses!” Nancy thrust a crown toward her. “This one is for you. Now you can be a princess too.”
“I’m honored.” Sophia accepted the crown and placed it solemnly on her head. Several feathers drifted to the floor. “How do I look?”
“Beautiful!” Rosie clapped her hands. “Now we need to find you a prince.”
Alice coughed into her hand. Sophia felt heat creep up her neck.
“Princes are overrated,” she said. “I would rather have a dragon.”
The twins gasped with delight and immediately began debating what color dragon would be most suitable. Thomas appeared in the doorway with his own paper crown perched at a rakish angle.
“Ladies.” He bowed with exaggerated formality. “The royal menagerie requires inspection. Who will accompany me to ensure the stuffed animals are properly fed?”
“Me! Me!” The twins abandoned their dragon discussion and raced toward their father, who scooped them up with practiced ease.
He caught Alice’s eye over their heads and nodded almost imperceptibly. Then he carried the girls out of the parlor, their excited chatter fading as they disappeared down the corridor.
Alice patted the cushion beside her. “Sit. You look like you have not slept in days.”
Sophia sank onto the settee and removed the paper crown, setting it carefully on the table. “I haven’t. Not properly.”
“Tell me.” Alice took her hand. “Whatever it is, I can see it eating at you.”
The words caught in Sophia’s throat. She had come here intending to confide, had rehearsed the confession a dozen times on the carriage ride. But now, faced with Alice’s gentle concern, the truth felt too large, too dangerous to speak aloud.
“The Duke of Heatherwell kissed me.”
Alice went still. Her grip tightened on Sophia’s hand. “When?”
“At the ball. On a balcony.” Sophia stared at her lap. “We were hiding from some ladies who might have discovered us alone together, and then we were not hiding anymore, and then he was kissing me, and I was kissing him back, and it was…”
She trailed off. There were no words sufficient to describe what it had been.
“And then?” Alice prompted.
“And then he apologized.” The bitterness in her own voice surprised her. “He said he shouldn’t have done it, and I agreed. We called it a mistake.”
“Was it?”
Sophia looked up. Alice’s eyes held no judgment, only curiosity and the steady warmth of long friendship.
“I don’t know.” The admission scraped from somewhere deep. “It should have been. He is impossible. Rigid. Cold. He barks at a grieving child and lectures museum visitors about ancient architecture. He has no idea how to connect with Oliver, and he refuses to even speak of Leonard and Jane.”
