Sophia.
He hadn’t heard her name spoken aloud in a long time.
The room stilled. The conversation abruptly halted. Even the fire seemed to pause, its gentle crackle suddenly louder.
Eliza looked down at her plate.
While she acknowledged the effect of her words, Lady Gillian did not flinch. “Sophia,” she said after a beat, “was everything a future Viscountess should be. Poised, well-connected, accomplished. That she chose otherwise ishermisfortune. Not yours.”
“Is that why you mention her?” Arthur asked quietly. “To remind me of what I failed to keep?” He pushed a piece of roasted duck across the porcelain, carefully, deliberately, as if it mattered. His appetite had deserted him. Matchmaking was one thing, but this level of cruelty felt like a step too far.
Gillian reached for her wine glass and took a delicate sip. “I only mention her because I thought you should be aware of her return. She arrived back from Florence with her husband earlier this week. I imagine they will be quite in demand. She is, after all, still remembered fondly in certain circles.”
Gillian set down her glass with an audible clink. “You ought to be aware of those who shape the conversation in this city. That includes old flames. And new distractions.”
He gave a single, clipped nod. “Noted.”
Gillian’s eyes were sharp. “I only thought you should be aware.”
It struck him hard.
Back in the city where he had once imagined—foolishly, so foolishly—that they would build a life together. The woman who had once looked at him with promise in her eyes, only to throw him aside for a title that outweighed his by a fraction.
He took another sip of wine. Then another. But the burn did nothing to dispel the heat building at the base of his throat.
“Thank you,” he said at last. “Your intelligence gathering is, as ever, impeccable, Mother.”
Arthur pushed back from the table.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he said. “I find I have little appetite for further nourishment… or to endure any more of this conversation.”
He walked out, his shoulders stiff, leaving Gillian in imperial silence and Eliza watching him go with quiet worry.
***
The club was quiet that evening, the kind of quiet peculiar to the more exclusive establishments of London. A low hum of conversation in polished corners, the rustle of newspapers, the occasional clink of crystal against wood. The scent of fine tobacco lingered in the air, and the fire crackled behind a marble hearth.
Arthur stood near the mantelpiece for a long moment, drink in hand, before lowering himself into one of the deep leather armchairs beside the hearth. He exhaled slowly, as though casting off the weight of the evening. The shadows around him deepened, softened by the firelight. For the first time all day, he allowed his posture to ease.
Moments later, James Fitzwilliam entered the room with his usual unbothered charm, shedding his coat and gloves with casual grace before sinking into the armchair opposite his friend.
“You look as though you’ve spent the evening in a storm,” James said, peering over the rim of his glass.
Arthur’s mouth lifted faintly. “Worse. I spent it with my mother.”
James offered a sympathetic grimace. “A fate I would not wish upon my worst enemy. Was it the usual barrage of matrimonial strategy, or has she expanded into managing your political career as well?”
“Matrimonial, as ever,” Arthur replied, swirling his brandy. “With the added dagger of informing me that Lady Sophia Carter has returned to town.”
James blinked. “Sophia?”
Arthur nodded once, his jaw tight. “Back from Florence. With her husband.”
There was a pause.
“I see,” James said carefully. “And you’re…?”
“Unsurprised. Unsettled. Unmoved. I haven’t decided yet.”
