Page 85

“What’s wrong with that desk right there?” Gabriel’s face altered at the sight of his beloved desk, polished to a rich amber sheen.

“Nothing at all, but it will be difficult for me to use with your arse in the chair.”

Gabriel peeled his eyes away from the stately desk with obvious reluctance. “I appreciate the thought, Oliver, but I would have found my own space to work until you find your … sea legs.”

Oliver scoffed at the terrible joke. “It’s my new desk, brother. Yours is over there, where it has always been, and where it will remain.” Oliver stroked the corner of the nautical monstrosity lovingly and smiled. “I might learn to muddle through being a duke on my own, but damn it all, I don’t want to. English law can dictate which of us legally holds the title, but I am hoping for more of a partnership. I’ll bicker in Parliament. You manage the estate and holdings. We make decisions together.”

Christopher watched Gabriel intently for any hint of a response, but his expression remained neutral.

“You don’t have to do this, Oliver. I’ll be all right, and so will you. I know it feels overwhelming now, but it will get easier.” The soft nostalgic melancholy on Gabriel’s face cleared away as if it had never been there at all, and an expression of empathy and single-minded determination took its place.

Oliver’s head tipped to the side. “So, let me see if I understand the future you’ve mapped out in that head of yours, brother. You remain on the estate, toiling away for, let’s say six months, teaching me everything I need to be a fair-to-middling peer of the realm. And then you … do what? Take your family and skulk off to one of your estates? Herd goats? Become a cheese monger? Visit once a year at Christmas?”

“He would be wasted on cheese,” Christopher said.

Oliver grinned in agreement with Christopher’s assessment, then carried on. “I’m not offering this arrangement because I’m scared to go it alone or because I feel sorry for you. I’m asking because I want you here with me.”

His eyes trailed down to his boots then back again to meet Gabriel’s steady gaze. “A year ago, I had no idea I even had a brother. Now, I’m only just discovering how you like your eggs in the morning and what things I can say to annoy you. I’m not ready to lose you to a field full of ruminants. I want to know you as I know my sister. I want to teach you how to harvest olives. I want to share my troubles and victories with you … and I want you to share yours with me.” Oliver sat on the corner of his desk, such that it was, and one of the handles broke away and toppled to the floor with a clang. “Perhaps your first bit of advice as my partner could be the direction of a knowledgeable carpenter.”

A smile split across Gabriel’s face, and he clapped his brother on the shoulder. “Violet will fix it. She’ll practically salivate at the prospect of getting her hands on this putrid stump.”

“It just wants for some beeswax. A touch of lemon oil⁠—”

“A spark from a flint,” Christopher added.

Twenty-Nine

After arriving at the conclusion that one of the maids must have taken pity on his poor neglected footwear and brought his boots down to be cleaned, Christopher set off in the direction of the boot room. Noting the muted sounds of shuffling from within, he paused, peeking through the partially open door.

Not a boot boy. Sofia.

Thanks to the silent pad of his stockinged feet and the relative position of the bench and table, Sofia remained unaware of Christopher’s approach. Leaning against the doorframe, he watched her work.

Sofia had her head bowed in concentration and her skirts rucked up, his filthy boot gripped between her knees. Her navy dress, normally unremarkable but for its tidiness, was mottled with dust, and a thick smear of mud was ground into the fabric from the heel of his boot.

Awestruck, he could not tear his gaze away from the countless indications of her exertion as she laboured. Laboured for him. Tendrils of her upswept hair had tumbled free, clinging to the sheen of sweat at the nape of her neck, and her delicate fingers trembled with effort as she worked the boot pick through every dip of his tread. While her wounded arm remained secured in a sling, mud had mashed beneath her nails and around the cuticles of her right hand.

Beside her, his left boot gleamed, the supple leather buffed to a shine worthy of any aristocratic foot.

“How did you know about the last steps? As I recall, you missed that part of the tutorial, trying to fall asleep on my shoulder instead.”

Sofia startled at his unexpected voice, then a blush bloomed across her skin as if she had been caught stealing his boots rather than cleaning them. He gave her a reassuring smile, then sat down beside her, lifting the finished product up to admire. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

Picking up a clean, damp cloth, he took her hand in his and began gently cleaning away the mud that had been pressed deep into the lines of her skin. A realisation washed over him then. She was speaking to him in his native tongue, caring for him to show her affection. She loves me.

“George explained how.” Her voice was tentative. As if she was aware her gift had tipped his world on its axis but wasn’t sure if he liked the altered view.

Up and down each finger and into the vulnerable spaces between, he bathed her skin with unhurried strokes. “I’m surprised he didn’t step in to do it himself.”

“He wanted to, but this was for me to do alone … for you.” She looked up from where she had been tracking the movement of his hands, and the emotion he saw in her eyes made his stomach flutter with pleasure.

“Because you wish to express your affection.”

“Yes.”

“And your regard.” He rubbed slow circles into the tender flesh of her palm.

“Si.”