A connecting door. Carved mahogany with a brass handle, leading to the chambers beyond.
Edward’s chambers.
Tonight, that door would open. Tonight, her husband would come to her, and she would fulfill the duties expected of a wife.The duties Jane had whispered about, half-giggling and half-serious, so many years ago.
Three days ago, she had been Lady Sophia Readthorpe, spinster matchmaker, carrying her family’s secrets alone. Now she was the Duchess of Heatherwell, mistress of this grand house, wife to a man who had married her out of obligation and practicality.
She thought of the way Edward had looked at her in the church. The awe in his eyes. The briefness of his kiss. The way he had barely spoken to her all day, as though she were a stranger he did not know how to address.
Perhaps she was.
Sophia lay back against the pillows and stared at the canopy above her head. The silence of the room pressed in around her, broken only by the distant sounds of the household going about its business.
She was safe now. Her family was safe. Drakeston could never touch them again.
No matter what came next, this moment was enough.
CHAPTER 26
“The soup is very good.”
Edward winced at his own words.
Of all the things he could have said to open a conversation with his new wife, a commentary on the soup ranked somewhere between discussing the weather and remarking on the quality of the silverware.
Sophia glanced up from her bowl. “Yes. It is.”
Silence descended once more.
The dining room stretched between them, vast and formal, the long table designed for entertaining dozens reduced to an intimate setting for three. Candles flickered in silver holders. The fire crackled in the hearth. And Edward sat at the head of the table, acutely aware of every clink of cutlery, every rustle of fabric, every breath that passed between them.
Sophia occupied the seat to his right. She wore a gown of deep amethyst that made her eyes luminous in the candlelight. Her hair was pinned up, exposing the graceful curve of her neck. She was beautiful, composed, and utterly unreachable.
He had to say something. Ask about her day. Inquire whether her chambers were comfortable. Make some attempt at conversation that did not involve the temperature of the soup.
His mind went blank.
“I painted a horse today!” Oliver’s voice shattered the silence.
He sat across from Sophia, his feet swinging beneath his chair, his napkin already sporting a suspicious stain.
Sophia turned to him with visible relief. “Did you? What color was it?”
“Purple.” Oliver beamed. “And blue. And a little bit of green. Mrs. Palmer said horses are not purple, but I told her that my horse can be whatever color I want.”
“An excellent point.” Sophia’s smile warmed her entire face. “Imagination should never be limited by convention.”
“What is convention?”
“Rules that other people make up.”
Oliver rubbed his chin as he considered this. “I do not like rules.”
“Few people do.” Sophia’s eyes flickered to Edward. “But sometimes they serve a purpose.”
Edward cleared his throat. He had to contribute. Had to participate in this conversation happening in his own dining room. But Oliver was already chattering on, describing his painting in elaborate detail, and Sophia was listening with genuine interest, and somehow it seemed easier to let them carry the evening without his interference.
“And then I drew Thunder,” Oliver continued, waving his spoon for emphasis. “But Thunder is brown, so I used the brown paint. Mrs. Palmer said that was very sensible.”
