Hugo held up his hands in surrender. “Fine. Go home to your empty bed and your cold study. But ask yourself this. How long can you keep running from something that lives in your own house?”
Edward did not answer. He collected his coat and walked out into the night, Hugo’s words echoing in his ears.
The house was dark when he returned, the servants long since retired. Edward let himself in through the back entrance andmade his way to the kitchen, intent on finding water to clean his wounds.
He pushed open the door and stopped.
Sophia sat at the kitchen table with a cup of tea cradled in her hands. She wore a dressing gown over her nightclothes, her hair loose around her shoulders. A single candle flickered before her, casting soft shadows across her face.
She looked up when he entered. Her eyes swept over him, taking in his rumpled clothes, his disheveled hair, and the bloodied bandages wrapped around his knuckles.
Her face paled. “What happened?” She rose from her chair. “Did someone attack you? Are you hurt?”
“No.” Edward tried to hide his hands behind his back. “It’s nothing. Go back to bed.”
But Sophia was already crossing the kitchen. She reached him before he could retreat, her fingers closing around his wrists and pulling his hands into the candlelight.
She examined his knuckles, her touch gentle despite the obvious concern on her face. The bandages were soaked through with blood, the skin beneath them torn and swelling.
“These need to be cleaned.” Her voice was quiet but firm. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”
“It is nothing.”
“Edward.” She looked up at him, her green eyes demanding honesty. “These are not the hands of a man who tripped in the street. What happened?”
He said nothing. His jaw tightened.
“You were near Mr. Colborne’s office.” She tilted her head, studying him. “The night we first met. You were coming from somewhere, and your knuckles were bruised then, too. I remember thinking it odd.”
Still, he remained silent, but something flickered in his expression. She was getting close.
“Edward, tell me. Please.”
He sighed. The fight drained out of him, leaving only weariness. “I box. At night. At a tavern near the docks.”
Sophia absorbed this. He watched the understanding dawn in her eyes, the pieces clicking into place.
“That is why you were near Mr. Colborne’s office.” Her voice was soft with realization. “The night we met. You had been boxing at that tavern.”
He nodded.
“It is not exactly seemly behavior for a duke.” He tried to keep his voice light. “Fighting with strangers in basement taverns.”
“No, it is not.” Sophia released his hands and crossed to the basin, wetting a cloth. “Rather like how you worried about me wandering the streets alone at night. About the dangers I might encounter.” She returned to him and began unwrapping his bandages. “And yet here you are, doing the same thing.”
“That is different.”
“Is it?” She raised an eyebrow.
He had no answer for that.
Sophia cleaned his wounds with careful hands, her touch sending sparks of sensation up his arms. They stood close, closer than they had been since that night in her chambers. He could smell the lavender in her hair and could see the faint freckles dusted across her nose.
“Why do you do it?” She did not look up from her work. “The boxing.”
Edward looked away. The kitchen felt too small, too intimate. The question cut too close to truths he did not want to examine.
“Does it help?” She pressed gently. “With the grief?”
