Lady Sophia would have had an opinion about the composition. Would have debated whether the artist had captured the true spirit of the landscape or merely its surface beauty. Would have challenged him to see beyond the obvious.
He pushed the thought aside.
“It is well executed,” he managed.
“Do you travel much, Your Grace?” Miss Stanton tilted her head. “I imagine a man of your position has seen much of the world.”
“Some. Mostly for business.”
“Business.” She nodded. “My father is the same. Always working. But he says that a man who does not work is a man who does not live. I admire dedication.”
She was saying all the right things. Agreeable. Pleasant. Interested in his opinions without challenging them. The perfect candidate for a duchess. The perfect mother for Oliver.
“Do you have a favorite painter, Your Grace?” Miss Stanton turned to him with genuine curiosity. “I confess I am partial to the landscapes. There is something soothing about them, don’t you think? A reminder that beauty exists beyond the confines of ballrooms and drawing rooms.”
“I haven’t given it much thought.”
“Then we must remedy that.” She smiled and gestured toward a nearby seascape. “Come. Let me show you one of my favorites. The way the artist has captured the light on the water is extraordinary.”
Edward allowed himself to be led. Miss Stanton spoke with animation about color and composition, her enthusiasm genuine, and her knowledge impressive. She would make an excellent conversationalist at dinner parties. Would charm his business partners and navigate social obligations with ease.
Across the room, Lady Sophia laughed at something Lady Guildthorpe said. The sound carried over the murmur of the crowd, light and unguarded, and Edward’s chest constricted.
She never laughed like that with him. She argued. She challenged. She looked at him with those sharp green eyes and saw straight through every defense he had built.
Miss Stanton was still talking. Something about her father’s shipping interests, the expansion into trade with the East Indies, and prospects for the coming year. Edward nodded and kept his gaze fixed on the Lake District painting.
He did not look at Lady Sophia again.
He did not need to. Her presence burned at the edge of his awareness like a flame he could not extinguish.
Water ran red in the basin.
Edward held his right hand under the stream from the kitchen pump, watching the blood swirl and fade. His knuckles throbbed. The skin had split across two of them, raw and angry in the lamplight.
He had fought three men tonight. Had thrown himself into the ring with a ferocity that made even Grimsby raise an eyebrow. Had pounded flesh and bone until his arms ached and his lungs burned, and his mind, for one blessed moment, went blank.
It had not lasted.
The moment he stepped out of the ring, she was there again. Green eyes. Sharp tongue. The taste of her lips, the softness of her hair, the way she had gasped when he deepened the kiss.
He could not escape her. He could not fight his way free, and could not exhaust himself into forgetting.
He had tried. God knew he had tried. He had courted Miss Stanton with diligence, had attended exhibitions and soirees, and dinner parties. Had done everything a man seeking a wife was supposed to do.
Even so, every night, he found himself here. Bleeding. Bruised. Thinking of her.
Edward dried his hand on a cloth and climbed the servants’ stairs to his study. The house lay dark and silent around him; the staff long since retired. He found bandages in his desk drawer and wound the linen around his knuckles with practiced efficiency.
Lady Sophia would have scolded him for this. Would have demanded to know why a duke felt the need to brawl in basement taverns like a common dockworker. Would have looked at him with that mixture of exasperation and something softer that made his chest ache.
He tied off the bandage and flexed his fingers. The pain grounded him. It reminded him that he was flesh and blood, not the marble statue the ton believed him to be.
He extinguished the lamp and made his way toward his chambers. The corridor stretched dark and quiet, moonlight filtering through the windows at intervals. He passed the nursery wing, his footsteps soft on the carpet.
A door creaked behind him.
Edward turned. Oliver stood in the doorway of his room, small and pale in his nightshirt, rubbing his eyes with one fist.
