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Violet all but leapt to her feet, worry over her unfinished project extinguished by his thoughtful gesture and the clear promise of more enjoyable activities. It was enough to make Sofia blush and look away.

“Good night, Violet. Thank you, again, Your Grace,” Sofia murmured.

He paused in the doorway. “If you are to call my wife Violet, then you must call me Gabriel. Or Northam at the very least, should you prefer it. Pleasant dreams.”

With their departure, the room felt large and quiet, leaving space for all the feelings temporarily swept away by the warm whisper of alcohol and her charming company. She took another swallow of her drink, relishing the fire it kindled inside of her.

When she lowered the glass, she found Christopher watching her from the doorway, his fingers still resting on the handle. Concern and wariness were evident on his face, unnatural expressions for a perpetually cheerful man. Her stomach tumbled with the queer sensation of witnessing all the feelings she was attempting to conceal play out in the lines and angles of his face. His solemn grey eyes held hers as she stood and took a step in his direction. His hand sliding away from the still open door, he crossed to her, pausing momentarily at a polite distance before breaching that invisible barrier with two large steps.

“What do you need?” His hand rose to her cheek, his fingers hesitant against her skin. “I will leave you to your solitude if you ask it of me, but”—he paused, eyebrows furrowing—“I do not want to leave you Sofia, not looking as you do now.”

“And how is it that I look?” She sounded small and lost even to her own ears.

“Like the last leaf on an autumn oak, clinging to the branches all alone despite the inevitability of winter, a victim of its own resilience.” His thumb grazed lightly across her cheek. “Tell me I do not have to abandon you to your troubles. That you will let me be your friend.” He paused, and she watched him swallow.

Sofia could feel her muscles unfurling, her fortitude crumbling. She swayed with a bone-deep desire for more of the comfort that the simple stroke of his thumb imparted on her wary soul. Her heart thrashed in her chest, trapped in a cage forged of her own deceit. Unable to suffer another moment of his gentle, pleading eyes, she closed her own and pressed her cheek into his hand, absorbing the warmth of his palm against her face.

“Sofia, I fear you will break my heart in two.”

The truth of his words bit into her. She did not want to hurt this man. Yet she knew she would if she didn’t remove Oliver from this house. And still, even at her angriest, she could not turn her brother away to bleed out in the front garden. It was like possessing a finite quantity of water for two plants—giving water to one meant turning her back on the other, though doing so would make it wither. Even as determined as she was to stop Oliver, keeping his secret, choosing to conceal the threat that his very existence held to this family, was a poisonous deceit. Remaining silent was a choice, and looking into this man’s eyes, she could not pretend otherwise … but telling him the truth would be every bit as horrific.

Christopher sighed and threw his head back to stare at the ceiling. “What aren’t you telling me Sofia?” His voice remained soft despite the obvious thread of frustration. She hated that she had put it there.

The temptation to unburden herself was overwhelming, but she could not. And so she did the only thing she could think to do to stop his questions—she pressed her lips to his.

Thirteen

Christopher sucked in a breath at the featherlight touch of her mouth against his lower lip. If lust was a strategy in warfare, Sofia had led the ambush. There was no question she had kissed him to silence his line of questions, so for several stunned seconds his conscience battled for higher ground with the desire coursing through his body. Then her fingers slipped to his nape, grazing the fine hairs on his neck. He let out a guttural moan before soundly taking her mouth with his.

Despite wanting Sofia from the moment he first saw her—and his increasingly provocative fantasies—there was never a question in Christopher’s mind that their courtship would require time and patience. And so Christopher had tried to adjust his ambitions accordingly. He anticipated moonlit strolls and intimate smiles that warmed gradually, like the soft sigh of winter into spring. In his mind, the first touch of their lips would be a mere kindling of feelings, without haste or urgency.

Instead, it felt like the first and last, all tangled together. Desperation pounded through his veins, and with it, the frantic need to convey all his emotions at once. Amidst the slide of their lips and their great heaving breaths, Christopher tried to absorb her touch into his skin. It was too much and not enough and he craved so much more. Cradling her face between his hands, he captured her lower lip, tasting with a gentle pull. When her fingers loosened their hold beneath his mangled cravat, he wondered if he had gone too far. But then her hands burrowed into his hair as she stretched on tiptoe to offer more of her mouth to him.

Somewhere in the cavernous sludgy depths of his mind, there must be a voice of reason. He knew he had one, as it often piped up at the most inopportune moments. Naturally, now, when he bloody well needed it the most, it seemed to have wandered off like a child at the market after a stray cat. The voice that remained was rioting to take whatever she would give him without the slightest consideration of her motives. Motives that felt suddenly very abstract and unimportant when compared to the pleasure that was gathering inside of him at the sensation of her nails raking through his hair.

Sofia opened against his mouth, pausing only for an instant at the rough slide of his tongue across hers before seizing control once again. With every teasing flick or gentle nip—elements of kissing he’d guess were new to her—she divested control only for a moment of guidance before enthusiastically applying her lessons to his body.

He was being quite thoroughly kissed. Plundered. And all at once, he was besieged by the instinct to slow things down. To soothe the rough carnality of her ruthless pursuit. His better angels had arrived, tardy but uncompromising. Sofia didn’t want this. She was upset and kissing was preferable to talking. Goddamn it.

Her hands travelled down his back, kneading into his waistcoat and the tense muscles beneath.

“Sofia,” he murmured against her mouth, trying to create a sliver of space between them. She ignored him, pressing deeper into his embrace, fitting her soft curves snugly against the length of him. Christopher drew in a breath at the sudden contact and all but growled her name a second time.

“Sofia, slow down. I’m not going anywhere. I won’t ask you any que—” She took his mouth again, the rhythmic caress of her tongue tangling up all his honourable intentions. Then, Christ above, her hand was on his backside.

“I offered him a job,” he blurted between kisses. “He doesn’t have to leave. I will help him. Sofia,” he moaned as her thigh grazed his cock. “Sofia, stop. Damn it all, I want to talk with you.” In one swift movement, he spun them around, pinning her back against the wall with his body, her wrists trapped gently within his hands. In a haze of lust and frustration, his eyes cut to hers … and he immediately released her. “Christ! Tell me I didn’t hurt you. Are you well?’ Too late, he remembered the bruise around her wrist.

“You didn’t hurt me.” Silent tears were coursing down her face.

At his bewildered expression, her hand lifted to her cheek, whimpering at the feel of the wetness beneath her fingers. She shook her head as if to deny their existance, her eyes darting to the door.

“Good God, it’s not the pox, sweetheart. You don’t have to hide your tears as if they’re contagious. You’re upset. Everyone cries.” He tucked a curl behind her ear, ruefully noting the abundance of chestnut spirals he had accidentally liberated. “The contagious bit may be correct, come to think of it. My tear ducts have always been oddly competitive. Last week, one of the scullery maids was having a difficult day and wound up sobbing on my shoulder over a broken serving dish. Damned if I didn’t find myself fighting the urge to turn into a watering pot right alongside her. A few tears and a handful of biscuits later, we both felt more the thing. Maybe you just need a good cry, love. There’s no shame in it.”

He urged her stiff body closer, his palm cupping her nape then sliding down to caress her back in a slow circular rhythm, but her arms remained limp at her sides. He chuckled into her hair. “There’s no use in being stubborn now. You know perfectly well that a good cuddle is exactly what you need.” She didn’t reply, but Sofia’s muscles gradually began to relax until, at last, she fell heavy and reassuring into his arms. “There. That’s not so bad, is it? You don’t have to think about your brother or tomorrow or anything else. Just rest your cheek on my shoulder and let me hold you.” She let out a contented sigh, and Christopher wanted to capture the sound and press it into the pages of a book like a favourite flower.

Outside, it began to rain, the soft patter against the window panes lending to the sense that it was just the two of them, together.

“I want him to stay, but he cannot.” Her voice was muffled against his chest. Christopher ran his hands up and down her arms, relishing the novelty of that small, intimate touch.