“I have given your safety a great deal of thought.” He held her gaze. “The rest followed naturally.”
Sophia’s expression softened. “Very well. I accept your conditions.”
She rose from her chair. Edward rose as well, propriety demanding the gesture.
“Thank you.” She paused at the door, her hand on the frame. “For understanding. For allowing me this.”
“You are my wife.” The words came out rougher than he intended. “You may have anything you wish.”
Something shifted in her eyes. A shadow passed across her face, and Edward could sense she wanted to say something, but it all vanished within a second.
“Good day, Your Grace.”
She left before he could respond.
Edward sank back into his chair and stared at the empty doorway, her absence colder than a winter chill.
“You are a married woman now, and yet here you are, skulking through my office like a common criminal.”
Mr. Colborne rose from behind his cluttered desk, his weathered face creased with a smile. The cramped room above the tailor’s shop felt achingly familiar, the smell of ink and parchment wrapping around Sophia like a well-worn shawl.
“I prefer to think of it as maintaining professional discretion.” Sophia crossed to her usual chair and settled into it. “The Duchess of Heatherwell cannot be seen entering a matchmaker’s office. It would cause a scandal.”
“More of a scandal than if they discovered the duchess was the matchmaker?”
“Considerably more, I should think.”
Mr. Colborne chuckled. He rummaged through the papers on his desk and produced a small package wrapped in brown paper.
“A wedding gift.” He pressed it into her hands. “Nothing extravagant. But I thought you might appreciate it.”
Sophia unwrapped the paper to reveal a leather-bound journal, its pages blank and waiting. The cover was embossed with delicate flowers, the craftsmanship exquisite.
“For your thoughts.” Mr. Colborne settled back into his chair. “Every woman should have a place to record her own story. Especially one whose story has taken such unexpected turns.”
Sophia ran her fingers over the smooth leather. Her throat tightened. “It is beautiful. Thank you.”
“I would have given it to you at the wedding.” His voice gentled. “But I thought it best to stay away. People might have wonderedwhy a disreputable old solicitor was attending a ducal wedding. They might have started asking questions.”
“You were protecting my secret.”
“As I always have.” He smiled. “Now. Shall we discuss business? The Hartington-Cavendish match has progressed splendidly. Lord Hartington sent a rather effusive letter of thanks. And there are three new inquiries waiting for your attention.”
They worked through the evening, reviewing correspondence, discussing potential matches, and debating the merits of various candidates. It felt good to lose herself in the familiar rhythms of her work. To be Lady Fairhart again, competent and purposeful, instead of the confused duchess who wandered the halls of Heatherwell House, wondering what her husband truly wanted from her.
But Mr. Colborne knew her too well.
“You are not yourself tonight.” He set down his pen and regarded her with kind eyes. “Your mind is elsewhere. Has been, I suspect, since you arrived.”
Sophia stared at the letter in her hands. The words blurred before her eyes.
“It’s nothing.”
“It is clearly something.” Mr. Colborne leaned back in his chair. “You forget, Your Grace, that I have known you for three years. I can tell when you are troubled.”
Sophia set down the letter. She did not know how to explain. Did not know how to put words to the tangled mess of emotions that had plagued her since her wedding night.
“My marriage… it is not what I expected.” The words emerged slowly, carefully. “It was born of necessity, not affection. And I find myself uncertain how to navigate it.”
