Edward copied the gesture. It felt foreign. Vulnerable. Ridiculous.
Oliver stepped into the embrace.
His small body pressed against Edward’s chest. His arms wrapped around Edward’s neck. He smelled of soap and biscuitsand something uniquely his own, warm and alive and present in a way that made Edward’s throat close.
Warmth spread through him. It started in his chest and radiated outward, filling spaces he had not known were empty. He brought his arms up and wrapped them around the boy, stiff and uncertain, holding him for a moment before releasing him.
Oliver pulled back, his face bright. “See? It is not hard.”
Edward cleared his throat. “No. I suppose it is not.”
“We can practice again tomorrow.” Oliver patted Edward’s shoulder with the gravity of a tutor assessing a student’s progress. “You’ll get better.”
He scampered off to Mrs. Palmer, who watched the scene with suspiciously bright eyes. She curtsied to Edward and Sophia before leading her charge from the room.
Edward rose to his feet. Sophia stood as well, her hands folded before her. The silence that had plagued them earlier returned, but it felt different now. Softer. Less fraught.
“That was well done.” Her voice was quiet. “He has wanted that for a long time, I think.”
Edward did not know how to respond. He nodded, the motion jerky and uncertain.
Sophia smoothed her skirts. “I should retire as well. It has been a long day.”
“Of course.” Edward inclined his head. “Goodnight, Sophia.”
She hesitated for just a moment, as though she might say something more. Then she curtsied and withdrew, her gown trailing behind her as she disappeared into the corridor.
Edward stood alone in the dining room, surrounded by empty chairs and cooling candles.
The study offered no refuge.
Edward sat in his leather chair, a glass of brandy untouched on the desk before him. The fire had burned low, casting long shadows across the walls. The house settled around him, quiet and still.
He could still feel Oliver’s arms around his neck. Still smell soap and biscuits. Still hear the boy’s matter-of-fact assessment.
Uncle Edward does not hug.
How had he let it come to this? How had he allowed the distance between himself and Leonard’s son to grow so vast that the child believed affection was simply not possible?
His father’s voice echoed in his memory. Sentiment is weakness. A duke does not indulge in displays of emotion. You will learn to master yourself, or you will be mastered by your feelings.
He had learned. God help him, he had learned too well.
But Oliver was not his father. Oliver was a child who had lost everything, who needed love and warmth and the simple assurance that he was wanted. And Edward had withheld all of it, hiding behind duty and propriety and the fear of feeling too much.
Sophia had seen it. Had pushed him to do better. Had created the moment that allowed Oliver to teach him something he should have known all along.
Sophia.
His thoughts drifted to her without permission. The way she had looked at dinner, candlelight dancing across her features. To the graceful curve of her neck. To the warmth in her voice when she spoke to Oliver, the patience and affection that came so naturally to her.
He imagined her now, in her chambers, preparing for bed. Her hair would be unpinned, cascading over her shoulders in soft waves. Her gown would be replaced by something lighter, something that hinted at the curves beneath. Her skin would glow in the firelight, warm and inviting.
Edward closed his eyes. His blood heated at the images his mind conjured, unbidden and unwelcome. He wanted her. Wanted her with an intensity that startled him, that made his hands curl into fists against his thighs.
He shook his head, forcing the thoughts away.
She was his wife. By law, by vow, she belonged to him. He could go to her tonight. Could claim the rights that society granted him. No one would question it. No one would blame him.
