Sophia observed it solemnly for a long moment, then gave a bright, flashing smile. “I love it. May I have it in my bedroom?”
“You may have it wherever you like.” Without thinking, Isadora leaned forward and kissed the crown of Sophia’s head. Knowingthey had each other, no matter what else they would face with Nicholas, made it both easier and harder to bear.
But for the little girl, she would do anything.
The next time Isadora saw Nicholas was later that evening, when he had finally returned from wherever he had gone, dressed back into his ordinary clothes—a white-tailored shirt and caramel beeches. She encountered him on the stairs as she climbed her way back to bed, having left her room in nothing but a nightgown to fetch some water. He also carried a candle, rolling his sleeve up to reveal a large reddened mark on his arm.
A bruise.
Sometimes he would come back hurt. Sophia’s words came rushing into her mind, and she could not contain herself any longer.
If this were merely a matter between husband and wife, perhaps she could have borne it, but this involved Sophia, and she would not allow him to sit back and ruin his relationship with his daughter.
Sophia did not deserve to be wondering where her father disappeared off to, and why he seemed so angry or sad. Worse, whether it was because of her, too. She deserved to know she was loved and that her father would be there for her no matter what.
Isadora had never experienced that sort of security—or not for long—and she would not let this precious girl endure the same childhood she had, unwanted and unloved and always wondering why she had never been good enough for those around her to stay.
He jumped as she approached, and she might have laughed if she had not been so angry. If she had not known better, she might have presumed him to be some guilty child who had been caught pilfering from the kitchens in the after hours.
His eyes narrowed at the sight of her expression. “Don’t ask.”
“Ought I not ask after my husband when he comes home injured?”
“This?This is barely an injury.” He rolled his shirt sleeves down and continued on his way up the stairs. “There are more important things to worry about, let me assure you.”
“Such as your daughter wondering why you are scarcely ever home for her?” she demanded icily.
He froze mid-step, and she pushed her advantage.
“Did you not think your daughter would notice the way you leave the house at every given opportunity? Or did you simply think she wouldn’t care? Because I have been there, and I assure you now, shedoesnotice, and shedoescare, and as she gets older,she will not merely let it slide because you pretend it doesn’t happen.”
Slowly, he turned to face her, frosty eyes gleaming in the dark. “And you are an expert on this, then?”
“I was a child once. As were you. Do you not remember what it was like?Ido.” She raised her cheek, meeting his eyes though her heart pounded recklessly in her chest. She had never stood up to anyone the way she stood up to Nicholas, but even as he scared her, something about his demeanor gave her courage. “I will not have you hurting her, Nicholas.”
He advanced, taking her elbow and tugging her into the nearest room—her bedchamber. “Don’t speak to me that way.”
“You married me so Sophia would have a mother figure—well,here I am. Who else will stand up for her? She has a nursemaid and a tutor and rooms full of luxuries to entertain half the children in York for an entire year, and now even a stepmother. But where is her father?”
Although his grip was gentle, his eyes were winter cold. “Don’t you dare question my love for my daughter.”
“Isthatwhat you think love is? Playthings and hired companions, poured into the hollow your absence is leaving behind?”
He dragged her closer, near enough that his breath stirred the loose strands at her temple. “I would cut off my own limbs to see her happy, Miss Fairbourne,” he growled.
“And she asked for a mother—to seeyouhappy.”
His grip faltered.
“You are losing her.” Her voice cracked, and she fought to keep her composure. “And if it were just me, then I never had any of you to begin with, but Sophia is your daughter and she loves you. And you love her—I’ve seen it shining out of you both. So please.” She reached up, finding the spot on his arm where the bruise bloomed violet beneath his sleeves and ghosting her fingers there. “Please. Stop whatever it is you’re doing.”
His chest heaved beneath her hand. “You think you have no part of me? You—” The muscles in his jaw flexed, and he exhaled harshly. “You have no idea what you’re asking.”
“I’m asking for Sophia.”
“No,” he muttered, his gaze dropping to her mouth.
Her breath froze, and she was reminded irrevocably of the moment by his bedside when he had looked at her with the same famished longing that twisted her stomach sweetly and lit slow fires along her veins. He made her wonder things she had never before thought, such as what his mouth might feel like againsther skin, or what his tongue might taste like if she met it with hers.
