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“Wait, I suppose.” Sofia could hear the smile in Christopher’s voice. “Wait until she decides it is a good idea to flirt with me.”

That was quite enough loitering. Lifting the burlap sack, Sofia turned to carry on down the hall, only then noticing that the door had eased open several extra inches in the time she had been standing there eavesdropping like a child.

“Enough for today, I think. I promised Zachariah a visit to see Hamish, and you’ll have no success charming your Italian smelling like a mountain goat. Go practice those valet skills on yourself. I’ll manage on my own.”

Before she could consider scampering back to the larder, the large frame of the Duke of Northam, clad only in trousers and a loose-fitting shirt, filled the doorway. He carried his topcoat, cravat, and waistcoat folded neatly over one arm. Quickly pulling the door closed behind him, he concealed both Sofia and her fiery blush from Christopher’s view. Northam’s face was blank as he stood stock still taking in her guilty expression with serious brown eyes. The longest moment in the history of moments passed between them. He was going to turn her out without a character, and rightfully so.

She would have expected to feel some relief at accidentally foiling her brother’s plans. Instead, her thoughts were suddenly crowded with prickling disappointment. Disappointment at the thought of never again seeing Nora’s gleeful expression as she poured over scientific journals. Disappointment that she’d never again observe Zach’s preternatural concentration as he sketched when he was meant to be solving for X. Her heart sank further into despair as she acknowledged the most overwhelming loss of all… Disappointment that she’d never again look into eyes the colour of mud puddles. Her shoulders slumped.

“Keene!” the duke called out without breaking his unblinking assessment of Sofia. “Would you mind taking a moment to inspect the ropes on the hanging bag before you leave? It was creaking more than usual and I fear it’s beginning to fray.” Turning, he closed the door again and cut his eyes towards the kitchens. Sofia scooped up the cumbersome bag of food and hurried down the hallway, following the imposing aristocrat, who radiated authority even in his shirtsleeves.

Sofia had to double the speed of her steps across the polished oak floors to maintain his pace. With a muttered oath, she stumbled, the burlap sack bouncing against her calf, then nearly lost her footing entirely. The duke halted mid-stride, glanced at the unwieldy sack, and promptly reached to relieve her of its weight.

“This is intended for the kitchens, yes?” He set off again down the narrow hall, but she noticed he had obligingly shortened his stride.

“Si, but I can carry that, Your Grace.” He did not respond.

Work did not cease as the duke entered the kitchens, but several servants nodded their greetings, which he returned.

“I found your wayward assistant and, I assume, the ingredients for my lunch.” Laying the sack on the table, he offered a perfectly charming smile to Mrs Simmons, who bustled about in her usual manner.

“Thank you, Your Grace.” She lifted onto her tippy toes, attempting to retrieve a saucepan from the highest shelf, but Northam reached it first, passing it to the cook with the hint of a smile. Plucking a lemon from a pile of ingredients, he brought it to his nose. “Would it be too much to hope that this is an indication there will be lemon tarts in my future?”

“Well, if it wasn’t already the plan for those lemons before, you know very well it’s the plan now. I’ve never been able to deny that handsome face,” the cook responded. Then she patted the tousled curls on his head as if he was a lad of six. The duke stooped to accept her friendly pat and then turned back to Sofia. She had meant to skulk away, but the soft scene between the pair of them had temporarily caused her feet to forget their plan.

“Miss Lioni. Walk with me, if you please.” Sliding into his deep burgundy waistcoat and slightly wrinkled topcoat, he stuffed his cravat in his pocket and set off towards the servant’s entrance.

Nine

Out the door and along the winding path of azaleas, plump with pink blossoms, Sofia followed Northam wordlessly. He only broke his stride to avoid colliding with a cluster of chickens accosting him in the hope of obtaining an afternoon snack. One limped slightly behind, slower than the others. Pausing, Northam peered down at the sad, gimpy fellow. “Caesar, I’m glad to see your leg improving, old chap. You gave my duchess quite a scare, and that I will not tolerate.” Halting abruptly in his terse lecture, he righted his posture.

“You know, before Violet there was absolutely no chance at all I would have lectured the poultry.” He sighed and shook his head, lips tipped up in a rueful smile.

The waiting was becoming intolerable. If he was going to sack her, she wished he would get it done. “Your Grace, I understand my behaviour was completely unacceptable. I did not intend to intrude on your private—” The duke held up a hand to stop her, his expression solemn.

“If you are under the impression that I am dragging you out of doors to chastise you, Miss Lioni, you are mistaken. It’s quite clear that you were hoodwinked by my cook, who intended for you to stumble upon a tasty morsel of conversation. Or more likely, she intended for you to catch my valet in a state of dishabille. Mrs Simmons wasn’t blessed with children of her own, so dabbling in the personal lives of others brings her no shortage of delight.”

He was smiling widely now, and the sight was nearly as disconcerting as his frown. “I only wished for a private moment to ensure you have everything you require here to be comfortable. To be happy.” He reached down and picked up Caesar, who glared indignantly for a moment before relaxing into the duke’s careful hold. “I’m afraid I’ve been rather busy of late, but that’s no excuse for my failure to meet with you earlier. Just as I care about this blasted rooster because he matters to my family, I care about your contentment. You matter to the people I love.” He rubbed a knuckle against Caesar’s cheek, and the rooster leaned into the scratch like an entitled hound.

Her happiness was being compared to that of a chicken’s. She should be offended. And yet, watching his solicitous care of the poultry, she felt an odd sort of gratitude to be the focus of his unorthodox concern.

He seemed not to notice as Sofia all but liquified into a puddle of unwelcome tenderness. Feelings inundated her at every turn these days. Gratitude, affection, fulfilment, amusement … hope. She felt them all, and it was like a full-scale invasion. After years of the interminable rotation of disappointment and fear, she found the ever-increasing diversity of her feelings difficult to navigate.

“I’m not sure what serendipitous gift from the universe caused you to land in our apple orchard, Miss Lioni, but I for one am very glad you are here teaching my children. They look forward to their lessons and seem more content in life than they have ever been. That is, at least in part, thanks to you. Since you have not yet been blessed with children of your own, you will have to trust me when I tell you how truly rare it is for all your children to be happy at the same time.”

Sofia rubbed her knuckles into her sternum, attempting to ease the tightness in her chest. Guilt seeped into her heart as if the muscle was made of cheesecloth. Like his wife and children, this man was considerate and kind. The truth of it burned away at her insides. She wanted to break down before him and confess her treachery, to apologise while sobbing onto his expensive boots. She loathed crying. Tears did nothing to wash away sins or loss. Instead, like the salt of the sea, they eroded you, making you vulnerable to a world that wounded indiscriminately. No, Sofia would not cry. She swallowed past the thickness in her throat and met Northam’s eyes. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

Her words were as unsteady as her determination to remain detached had proven to be. She’d become detached all right. Detached from all of Oliver’s devious scheming, and growing more affectionately tethered every day to those she was meant to be blackmailing. The Sofia who had arrived at Northam Hall had melted like sugar beneath the immutable warmth of these people. Suddenly, even the best-case scenario of their plan didn’t feel good enough … and the worst was beyond consideration.

Brow pinched with concern, Northam opened his mouth, then closed it again. He seemed to be torn between comforting her and pretending not to see her distress. Sofia blinked rapidly to combat the tears burning at the backs of her eyes and drew her shoulders back.

Gingerly setting the rooster back on its feet, the duke stepped closer. “It’s a sometimes-inconvenient consequence of having been married for well over half my life that I have a difficult time seeing a distraught woman without attempting to make it right. Bear in mind, Miss Lioni, that I am a duke. There is very little not within my power to make right.”

There was a heart-wrenching half-truth to his words. You can make nearly everything right. Everything but this. She shook her head. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

Northam studied her for another moment before offering his arm. “Very well. I’ll not press you for more. Over the years, I’ve learned the wisdom of that as well.”

They resumed their walk. “I wonder if you might help me with a problem instead. Zachariah, I am certain you have noticed, is … introspective. He has difficulty finding his place among peers, and with strangers he retreats entirely. Though he’s quite taken with you, I think.” He gifted her with a brief, winning smile, and it was easy to see why the sun rose and set upon this man for the residents of Northam Hall. “There is a young boot boy, Phillip, who is nearly Zach’s age. I have seen them exchange a few words from time to time, and I wonder if it might help Zachariah’s confidence if he were to form some relationships with others his age on the estate. Boys I know to be gentle in nature.”