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“You wish for your son to befriend the … servants?” Sofia attempted to rein in her incredulity, but abandoned the attempt altogether when his bark of laughter indicated her complete failure to do so.

Sofia blinked. “Forgive me, but I don’t understand. I freely admit to my ignorance of the English aristocracy, but even within the noble families of the Peninsula, the son of a duke does not keep company with the boy who picks gravel from his horses’ hooves. It simply isn’t done.” Only after she had spoken did Sofia realise that it was, in fact, exactly what the duke had done when he’d befriended Christopher. She pressed her fingers to her cheeks to combat their growing warmth.

He paused his steps, an expression of patient understanding settling upon his features instead of the outrage she expected. Glancing down, he raised an eyebrow at a spindly red hen who pecked aggressively at his left boot. “I do not wish for my son to befriend servants, strictly speaking. I would like for him to have the confidence to judge a man’s character for himself and to learn the skills required to befriend those worthy of a place in his life, regardless of their station.”

The duke looked away and rubbed his fingertips across his brow. “It’s not only a desire for solitude that keeps Zach apart. Fear is an unreliable voice at best, a treacherous one at worst, and I’m afraid it’s all he hears. I cannot make the world accept him as he is, but while he is young and tucked safely under my wing, I’d like to teach him to question that fear. To learn the difference between choosing to be circumspect and simply running away to avoid any possibility of being hurt. With the opportunity to practice and experience success here at the estate, it is my hope that another voice will grow stronger in place of that fear. A voice that tells him that his unique qualities don’t make him less of a man. That he is brilliant and worthy of love.”

Despite the vehemence in his voice, Northam appeared relaxed as he spoke. He watched the chickens cluck and scratch around the ground at his feet. When he raised his gaze to hers, however, fierce paternal determination smouldered within those dark brown eyes. Sofia thought of her own father’s eyes, how they flickered briefly and dispassionately in her direction. At no point in her childhood had Sofia received even a fraction of the extraordinary devotion that burned bright in Northam’s eyes.

“English law prevents both Zachariah and Nora from inheriting all that I have as a duke, but they will always have all that I can give them as a man. Zach needs friends. Genuine friends. If that friendship is found in the stables or the kitchens, that’s perfectly acceptable to me. After all, I found my dearest friend amongst the servants of Northam Hall, a fact my mother still finds abhorrent.” He smirked and some of the worry lines smoothed from his brow.

Sofia nodded and spoke past the coarse dryness that had coated her throat. “An organised game and a picnic perhaps? Invite the servants he is most comfortable with along with the boys you mentioned.”

“An excellent idea, Miss Lioni. What games did you play as a child? Perhaps we can make it a celebration of the Tuscan culture.”

Sofia’s lips switched with a smile. “I played with my brother and his friends. Not one of our games was appropriate for aristocratic Englishmen, and certainly not for their daughters.”

“Come now, Miss Lioni. I’m not so high in the instep as all that. I’ve been known to remove my cravat out of doors from time to time.” He indicated to his bare neck, scandalous indeed by aristocratic English standards. “I helped build that ridiculous goat loft.” He waved in the general direction of the goat paddock. “And I repaired the duchess’s fence when a tree fell upon it shortly before we wed.” Sofia raised sceptical eyes to his. He maintained her gaze for several seconds before chucking and shifting his attention to his boots. “Admittedly, I had the assistance of some two dozen servants for that particular task, but it was a very large oak tree and I more than pulled my weight. I’ve still got the calluses to prove it.”

“I am certain you were paramount in the undertaking.”

“Don’t think I don’t know when I am being mocked, Miss Lioni.”

She grinned and they resumed their walk.

“Truly though, Your Grace. I suffered a broken finger and permanently scarred both elbows from our childhood games. My brother, Oliver, dislocated his arm in a game of calcio storico fiorentino, and it wasn’t even a particularly rowdy match. It’s played with a ball and two teams try to carry it to the opposing team’s goal. There are very few rules pertaining to violence in calcio storico. Punching, kicking, biting, hair grabbing, and head butting are all not only permissible, but encouraged.”

Northam grimaced. “Alight, I concede. You Tuscans are made of tougher stuff than my English brethren.”

Sofia had been so distracted by their easy conversation that she had lost track of her surroundings until they circled back in view of the kitchen doors.

“Perhaps an infant’s version of the game,” she offered. “Our bambini piccoli sometimes play where control of the ball changes with a tap on the shoulder rather than a maul upon the ground.”

The duke nodded his approval. “Thank you for the stroll, Miss Lioni. We’ll talk more about the picnic sometime next week.” He bowed then and turned back in the direction of the stables.

Sofia had seen her brother three times since arriving at Northam Hall. Each time she had arrived without the previous duke’s documents, and each time his mood had worsened and their interactions had become more combative. Sofia had cajoled and lectured, shared endearing stories about the children, and encouraged him to accept a position with Annie’s brother, who was employed as a master gardener in Cornwall. All to convince him that there were better options than blackmail. But he had given no indication of relenting despite Sofi’s mounting distress.

What she had not done, but what she should have done from the start, was flatly refuse to help him. At times her silence had been altruistic, driven by her certainty that if she drew a line in the sand, Oliver would simply discard Sofia as a resource and obtain a sample of the old duke's writing through other, faster means. But there were other times when Oliver’s intoxicated bluster felt threatening, and she had walked away feeling like the worst sort of coward.

She was finished allowing herself to be bullied. Today, Sofia would use the only leverage she had … herself.

Oliver could have his revenge or his sister, not both. Sofia bit her quivering lower lip, desperate to silence the voice in her head that was bellowing the truth she couldn’t bear to acknowledge. He won’t think I am worth the five thousand pounds he plans to steal. And then she would be alone. Again. Even if she stood her ground with Oliver and somehow managed to pluck his claws from the Anson’s flesh, she would still have to leave this place. Remaining meant living a lie, because some betrayals were too much to forgive. There was no scenario which allowed for her to keep this life, to hold tight to a happy ending for herself. But maybe she could win one for the Ansons. For Christopher.

It had become increasingly difficult to think of him by any other name. She knew he had long since ceased thinking of her as ‘Miss Lioni.’ Would he still think of her as Sofia after she was gone?

A musty decay permeated the air of the hunting box when Sofia arrived and peaked her head in the door. The sour smell clung to the back of her throat. The moment Sofia realised Oliver was not to be found indoors, she hurried to leave and circled around the back.

At the crash of broken glass, her steps slowed, the muscles in her abdomen clenching in recognition of a danger her heart refused to heed.

“Oli? Is that you?”

“Who the fuck else would it be, Sof?” His slurred Italian echoed through the otherwise vacant woods.

“You're drunk. Where did you even get that bottle? You haven’t any money.”

“Same place I’ve gotten every other bottle—friends in town. I wouldn’t spend all day drinking if you’d find those papers instead of playing governess.”

“I’m not playing governess. I am their governess. Can we sit down and talk about this?” Even as she said the words, she could see the futility of them. He could hardly stand and was every bit as belligerent as the last time she had come.