Edward didn’t answer. The real reason stood across the room in a pale-yellow gown, laughing at something her companion had said.
Miss Amelia Stanton.
One of the names Lady Sophia had suggested at the garden party weeks ago. Before the museum. Before the ball. Before the balcony.
Before the kiss that had ruined his sleep and his appetite and his capacity for rational thought.
He had been avoiding Lady Sophia for days. He had manufactured urgent business whenever she was scheduled to visit Oliver. He had left the house at dawn and returned after dark, ensuring their paths would not cross. It was cowardly, and he knew it, but the alternative was facing her and pretending that kiss had not altered something inside him.
He was not prepared to do that.
What he was prepared to do was focus on his original goal. Find a bride. Secure a mother for Oliver. Move forward with his life as if green eyes and sharp wit and kiss-swollen lips did not haunt his every waking moment.
Miss Stanton seemed as good a prospect as any.
Her father was a shipping magnate, not a peer, but rumors abounded that a baronetcy was forthcoming in recognition of his contributions to the Crown’s naval interests. The ton whispered about it constantly. A duke marrying the daughter of a mere merchant would raise eyebrows, but a duke marrying the daughter of a soon-to-be baronet with a fortune rivaling most earldoms was merely unconventional.
“Excuse me.” He set down his wineglass and straightened his coat. “I have someone to speak with.”
Hugo followed his gaze and grinned. “Ah. The heiress. Shipping fortune, if I recall. Not a bad choice, though I hear she has opinions about literature.”
“What is wrong with opinions about literature?”
“Nothing, if you enjoy being quoted poetry at breakfast.” Hugo clapped him on the shoulder. “Godspeed, my friend. Try not to discuss architecture.”
Edward crossed the room, navigating the clusters of guests with the grim determination of a general advancing on enemy territory. Miss Stanton looked up as he approached, her smile brightening.
“Your Grace.” She curtsied. “What a pleasure.”
“Miss Stanton.” He bowed. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“Not at all. Lady Whitmore and I were just discussing the new exhibition at the Royal Academy.” Miss Stanton gestured to her companion, a plump woman with kind eyes. “Have you seen it, Your Grace?”
Edward had not. He had no interest in art exhibitions. But Lady Sophia would have had an opinion. Lady Sophia would have debated the merits of each painting with passion and wit, would have challenged his assumptions and made him see things differently.
He pushed the thought aside.
“I have not had the opportunity.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “Perhaps you might tell me about it.”
Miss Stanton launched into an enthusiastic description of landscapes and portraits and something involving a shipwreck that sounded rather dramatic. Edward nodded at the appropriate times. He made sounds of interest. He kept his expression engaged and attentive.
But his mind wandered to a moonlit balcony.
The way Lady Sophia had gasped when he kissed her. The softness of her lips. The way her fingers had tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, urging him on. The small sound she made when he deepened the kiss, a sound that had echoed in his dreams every night since.
“…do you not agree, Your Grace?”
Edward blinked. Miss Stanton watched him expectantly.
“Absolutely.” He did not know what he was agreeing to.
“Wonderful.” Her smile widened. “So few gentlemen appreciate the emotional depth of Turner’s work. Most dismiss it as mere spectacle.”
“Spectacle has its place.” Edward grasped at the thread of conversation. “But true art should provoke feeling.”
Miss Stanton’s eyes lit up. “Exactly! That is precisely what I was saying to Lady Whitmore. Art should move us. Should challenge us. Should make us see the world differently.”
Lady Sophia made him see the world differently. Lady Sophia challenged him at every turn, refused to accept his icy demeanor, and saw through his defenses to something underneath. Lady Sophia had looked at him on that balcony as if he were a man worth kissing, worth wanting, worth more than duty and obligation.
