“Lady Sophia.” He bowed, formal and stiff, but his voice held a warmth that had not been there before. “Thank you. For today. For everything.”
She curtsied. “You are welcome, Your Grace.”
Their eyes held for a moment longer than propriety allowed. Then Edward turned and lifted Oliver into his arms. The boy went willingly, too tired to protest, his head already drooping against his uncle’s shoulder.
Sophia watched them walk toward the waiting carriage. Watched Edward adjust his grip to keep Oliver secure. And watched him murmur something that made the boy smile sleepily against his coat.
Her mother appeared at her elbow. “They make quite a picture.”
“Mama.”
“I am merely observing.” Lady Brimsey’s voice held a knowing lilt. “The duke seems different today. Softer. And you seem different when you are with him.”
“I am helping him find a wife.” Sophia kept her gaze on the retreating figures. “That’s all.”
“If you say so, darling.”
The carriage pulled away. Edward did not look back, but Oliver twisted in his arms and waved, Thunder the horse clutched in his small fist.
Sophia waved in return, her heart full of something she refused to name.
A house party. She had agreed to spend a week watching Edward court Miss Stanton. Watching him choose a bride. Watching him build a family that would not include her.
She was a fool.
But as she turned toward her own carriage, her mother’s arm linked through hers, she could not bring herself to regret it.
Not yet.
CHAPTER 20
“You look as though you are awaiting a tornado rather than greeting guests,” Hugo stood at Edward’s elbow, impeccable in his afternoon coat, his smile carrying that brand of amusement he reserved for Edward’s discomfort.
“I am greeting guests.” Edward adjusted his cravat for the fourth time. The entrance hall of Heatherwell Hall stretched behind him, polished marble and ancestral portraits watching his every move. “This is my greeting face.”
“That is not a greeting face. That is the face of a man who has discovered his valet has pressed his shirts incorrectly.” Hugo glanced down at Oliver, who stood between them in his best coat, fidgeting with his buttons. “At least the young lord looks presentable.”
Oliver tugged at his collar. “It itches.”
“Bear it with dignity.” Edward placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “We must make a good impression on our guests.”
“Why?”
“Because that is what hosts do.”
“But why do we have to have guests?” Oliver’s face scrunched with the particular logic of a four-year-old. “I liked it better when it was just us.”
Edward did not have an answer for that. He agreed with the sentiment.
Mrs. Palmer hovered near the staircase, ready to whisk Oliver away should he grow too restless. The first carriages had been spotted coming up the drive ten minutes ago, and Edward’s stomach had knotted itself into something resembling a sailor’s rope.
He had never hosted a house party. Had avoided them for the entirety of his adult life, preferring the controlled environment of London events where one could escape to one’s own home at the end of the evening. Now he had invited a dozen people to live under his roof for an entire weekend, and the prospect made him want to retreat to the boxing ring and never emerge.
“Remember,” Hugo murmured, “smile. Make pleasant conversation. Do not discuss architecture unless directly asked.”
“I am aware of how to conduct myself.”
“Are you? Because your current expression suggests you are calculating the quickest route to the stables.”
