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Christopher stretched his legs under the table. When he pulled them back, his calf pressed against hers, his foot covering the top of her boot. His stockinged foot.

Cheeks tinged ruddy, he gave her a wry smile. “It hardly counts as an embrace. It’s only my toes.”

Releasing a slow sigh, she tipped her head to rest against his shoulder. “Where are your boots?”

“Last in line over there. I’ll never get to them tonight, but I would gladly accept a lifetime of disgraceful footwear for an evening with you.”

She turned her face into his shoulder, tucking her smile into his softly scented topcoat. There was no one in the world like this man. No heart more open and vulnerable, no person more selfless. She thought of Christopher and his muddy boots, perpetually at the end of the line because he was too busy providing for others. And she wondered, did anyone labour for him? Who placed his boots before all others? Protected his heart above all others? Oh, how she wished it could be her. With the warmth of the cosy blanket and Christopher's body pressed against hers, her eyelids began to droop. “I should retire before I fall asleep on your shoulder.”

“But my shoulder likes you there. And it receives so few opportunities to feel useful.” Even as he said it, he helped her to her feet.

Mrs Simmons, who had been doing her best to appear unobtrusive at the very furthest end of the kitchen, peaked out from behind an open cupboard door. Raising an eyebrow at the cook's blatant interest, Christopher gave Sofia a wry smile, then bowed over her hand. “I will say goodnight to you here and see you tomorrow around eight, if not before. Thank you for your help. I’ve never passed such pleasant hours at work. And thank you for another hour of your friendship.”

Unwrapping the blanket, she placed it in Christopher’s hands. He immediately tucked it close to his chest like a treasured possession. “Pleasant dreams,” she said before returning to her room.

Crawling into bed, her thoughts simmering in a sleepy blur, Christopher’s words from weeks before wriggled to the forefront of her mind. I want you to look for me to complain to when nothing’s gone right in your day.

He had become that person for her.

Drenched by rain, depleted mind, body, and soul, she had been running towards Christopher as much as she had been fleeing from Oliver. Foolish, foolish heart.

Christopher checked his appearance one last time, adjusting his cravat. He had tied three other more ostentatious arrangements before settling on the simple barrel knot. Smoothing his palms against the soft material of his butter-yellow waistcoat, he turned and headed for the kitchens.

Sofia had not yet arrived, and the room was notably quieter than usual. Too quiet, in fact, with only a pair of stableboys playing checkers in the corner and Jeremy lingering over their shoulders, offering up advice. Mrs Simmons was drying the last of the pots from dinner. She paused, wiping her hands on her apron. “Don’t you look dashing, Christopher. It’ll be a shame to see that striking yellow waistcoat covered in flour.” She crossed the room to where a tattered recipe book was laid out, thumbing through the pages for the one he had marked with a slip of paper. The slide of the parchment raked across his already overstretched nerves.

For weeks, he had reined in his enthusiasm, allowing Sofia to adjust to her new life and to become comfortable with him. With each passing day, however, their banter leaned more towards flirtation, and the temptation to touch her, to coax her into sharing more of herself and her past, burned more urgently through his veins. When she had willingly opened up to him the preceding evening and rested her head against his shoulder, he could scarcely keep his hands steady for the firecrackers detonating inside him.

The muted creaking of the door brought his head and Mrs Simmons’s swivelling towards Sofia, who paused under their matched gazes. He watched the bodice of her dress rise and fall with one deep breath before she crossed the room to join them. “Good evening, Mrs Simmons, Mr Keene.”

“Good evening, dearie. Well, I’ll be off to bed. Touch of the gout flaring up tonight and I’m needing to rest my feet. Christopher Keene”—she levelled him with a wilting stare—“do not burn my kitchen to the ground.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but her retreat was decidedly spry for a woman whose feet needed a rest. Despite their checkers-playing chaperones in the corner, the quiet of the kitchens loomed thick with anticipation. Few moments so far had found them quite so secluded. The thought of hours alone with Sofia stirred an unmistakable interest through every inch of Christopher’s body.

“Gout indeed. That woman’s feet are as sound as Gabriel’s prized gelding’s,” Christopher groused.

“It is unusually vacant tonight.” Sofia’s posture was rigid, and she worried her lower lip between her teeth. In short, she appeared to be considering flight. Christopher bludgeoned his disappointment into silence. He was not a lad, and he would not stomp his foot in agitation when the butterfly he longed to touch flit away at the last second. He would be patient and wait for her to land.

Christopher feigned nonchalance, looking around as if he’d only just noticed that the room, normally bubbling with commotion, was quite empty. “No doubt our interfering cook threatened the entire staff with starvation should they not find more urgent matters to attend to. And if I had to guess, I would say that her plan to leave us entirely alone was thwarted by the second most interfering person on this estate—Gabriel.” He nodded to Jeremy and the boys in the corner. “The only real question is whether he sent those three jackanapes to spy for him or if they’re here to ensure that I remain on my best behaviour.”

Christopher leaned casually against the wall. “A complete waste of his resources really, because what could be more innocent than two friends baking in the kitchen?” He winked, trying to lighten the mood. “Speaking of baking, I hope you’re better at this than I am. The few times I’ve tried, everything came out raw in the centre and charred to a crisp on the outside.” He could hear himself rambling but couldn’t seem to stop.

Her shoulders moved in a silent chuckle, curls obscuring her expression as she shook her head. “Somehow, no matter how often you do that, it still takes me by surprise.” She moved towards a pile of almonds and a knife that was waiting on the table. She will stay then. Good. He forced his stiff shoulders to relax.

Following, Christopher peered over her shoulder. “Do what, exactly?”

“Most men of my acquaintance go out of their way to tell me everything they’re good at. It’s as if they think a poor opinion of them could be flipped upside down by discovering that they’re above-average horsemen and know all six verses of ‘God Save the King.’”

He moved to the basin and washed his hands, ignoring the primal twisting in his gut that came at the thought of Sofia having acquaintances with other men. “Well, that’s just silly. No one knows all six verses to ‘God Save the King.’”

She shot him a bemused look. “But you announce your flaws, line them up in plain sight like soldiers marching into battle.” Sofia picked up an almond, turning it between her finger and thumb. “I can’t decide if you are the most confident man in the world or you’re trying to distract me from some unforgivable character flaw that makes your poorly baked biscuits inconsequential.”

He allowed her words to roll around in his mind, dried his hands, and then strolled closer. “You think I have cavalry waiting to ambush you?” Christopher considered her concern for another moment, then stole an almond, darting past Sofia’s swatting hand. He popped the almond into his mouth and chewed for longer than a single almond required. “Are those the only two choices I have or can I suggest a third?”

The corner of her mouth hitched up. “All right. Let’s hear it then.”

She picked up the knife and began slicing the almonds, her brow furrowed with the same intense care she offered to every task. But occasionally, her eyes stole away in his direction.

Christopher drew in a breath and tried not to consider that his next statement might ruin the friendship he’d so carefully nurtured. “I’m forthcoming because I don’t think it will matter to you if I make up the third verse to ‘God Save the King’ or bake inedible biscuits. None of that would matter if you like me the way that I like you.”