Page 24

She wished she could excise that visit from her memory. Drunk on a dangerous mixture of alcohol and desperation, he had ranted about family loyalty … a concept he had not exhibited in years. Sofia had lost her temper, and, unencumbered by the caution of sobriety, Oliver’s response had been brutal. Though he used only words, they had lashed out at every vulnerable place in her heart.

Sofia sighed. “I love you. You know I do, but⁠—”

With two massive, shockingly steady steps, Oliver pressed into her space, close enough that she could feel his breath wafting across the top of her head. Retreating backwards a step, she stumbled over a tree root, catching herself against the corner of the cabin and scraping her forearm.

“But what, Sofia?” He sneered, arms akimbo. “But you care more about the filthy family that destroyed my life than you care about your own brother? Or maybe your loyalty lies with that valet you’re so cosy with.” He spat on the ground at her feet. “Really Sofi, you couldn’t do any better than to become a servant’s whore?”

She flinched, unable to reconcile the teasing, adventurous boy of her childhood with the volatile man before her. Oliver had rarely been so much as cavalier with her fragile, young feelings. And cruel was something he had never been. Until now.

Their gazes locked, his nostrils flaring with every breath. “I thought you were on my side Sofia, but what a disappointment you’ve turned out to be. At least for once I can be grateful we don’t share the same blood. It’s bad enough having a bigamist for a father without having a traitorous coward as a sister.”

Like a burst of icy water through her veins, his vicious words tore through Sofia.

Her lips parted, but no words would come, only a series of sharp, whimpering gasps. Tears flooded Oliver’s eyes, then plummeted down his cheeks as a stricken look overtook him. He reached for her but she leapt to the side. His fingers clamped around her wrist only briefly as he lost his balance with her abrupt retreat.

“Get your hands off me.” Sofia took one step backwards, then another, the sob she refused to release burning inside of her chest. Like a wounded animal, she turned and ran, not slowing her pace until Oliver’s pleas for her to return melted away into the whipping wind and spattering rain of a fast-approaching summer storm.

Thunder rumbled in a long, menacing growl when Sofia finally paused to catch her breath. Another mile and she would be home. Not home. Northam Hall. She would hide away in her bedchamber and pray the night was long enough and her sleep deep enough that, by morning, some of the sting from Oliver’s words would have faded and the lonely hole at the centre of her chest wouldn’t feel so vast.

It was late enough that the kitchens would be quiet, and there would be few witnesses to the sadness Sofia knew she could not hide. Christopher would be there, lingering in the hope that their paths would cross. The thought of his concerned gaze didn’t make her uneasy, though it probably should. Even if she could tell him nothing of her problems, his presence, knowing he cared, would lessen her grief. Sofia tore through the overgrown bridal path, her skirts heavily laden with mud and slapping against her calves as she moved with a renewed sense of purpose.

Ten

When she stumbled through the kitchen door, Mrs Simmons met her with a length of towelling, clucking over her shivering body. Christopher followed just behind.

“You're bleeding, Sofia.” Frowning at the scratches on her arm and the bruise blooming over her wrist, he tipped up the soft side of her forearm for his examination. “Whatever were you doing outside in this weather?”

She watched the lines on his forehead furrow as he patted the wound with the corner of the towelling.

“It’s just a scratch. I was out for a walk and didn’t notice the storm until it was too late. I’m all right, truly.” She did feel markedly better in his presence.

“No, you're not. You’re white as a sheet and soaked through. Change your clothes and get in your bed. Annie will bring tea to your room,” Christopher said.

Annie nodded from her seat at the table and Mrs Simmons moved away to put the kettle on. Christopher’s hand settled on Sofia’s arm beneath the towel, tracing a soothing caress across her icy skin.

Her fingers unfurled from their tightly clenched fists. She didn’t want to be alone.

She didn't want Oliver, nor the wretched weather, nor anything else that had gone horribly wrong in the past hour, to intrude upon her world here. She needed this. Needed him. “I’ll change into dry clothes then return. It’s plenty warm in the kitchens.”

Christopher glanced towards the table, where boots were lined up in a tidy row, then back to Sofia. “I’m afraid I won't be very entertaining company tonight. I’ve fallen rather behind on the maintenance of Gabriel's boots. It wouldn’t speak very well of my competence if I allowed His Grace to stride about the estate in scuffed footwear.”

Sofia pinned him with an incredulous look. “Certainly you aren't under the misapprehension that he’s kept you around all these years for your services as a valet.”

His lips curled into a smile. “Perhaps not. But I do have my professional pride.”

Grasping both ends of the towel, Christopher bundled her tighter, pinning her arms firmly in place beneath the thick cloth. Sliding his hands to her biceps, he rubbed briskly, as one might dry a scruffy dog. She felt ridiculous … and loved.

A soft laugh bubbled up from her chest and he paused to watch her, his expression full of delight.

“Very ungrateful, Miss Lioni, to laugh at my attempts when I am bestowing my very best services as a valet. You’ll be buffed clean and dry in no time.” She laughed again, allowing herself to be shaken about by his enthusiastic care. “Are you comparing me to a boot, Mr Keene?”

Releasing her arms, he tucked a soggy curl behind her ear. “The prettiest one I’ve ever polished. Now go before you catch your death. When you come back, I’ll have tea waiting and you can pretend to be fascinated by my ability to wield a boot pick.”

Nearly everyone had retired to their beds by the time Sofia returned, dry but still shivering from the cold that seemed to have settled in her bones. Christopher was seated at one of the long tables, boots spanning half the length of the bench beside him. Glass bottles and tin canisters were spread out amongst brushes and metal picks of varying shapes. He turned with his customary dimpled grin and stood, wrapping a thick woollen blanket about her shoulders.

“Aren’t there two boot boys employed at the estate?” Sofia settled on the bench beside Christopher, picked up a soft horsehair brush, and ran the ticklish bristles across her palm.

“Yes, but they see to the footwear of the footmen and maids. I prefer to clean and maintain Gabriel’s wardrobe myself.” Exchanging the soft brush for a courser one, Christopher picked up one boot from the line and began methodically removing loose debris. The majority of the mud fell into a metal bucket on the floor. “It’s more than just a matter of assuring the job is done properly. There is something special about providing a service for someone you care about.” He ran his index finger across the soft leather. “The older I get, the narrower the gap grows between the time I wake up and the moment I fall asleep. When I choose to spend that time in service to another, with every thought in my mind and every muscle in my body intent upon that task, it is a declaration of my affection and regard.” He flipped the boot around in his hands, examining the tread and seams for damage, then picked up a metal pick, eyes narrowed as he slid the pointed tip between each tread. “Will you tell me where you were today?”