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The cook appeared at Sofia’s elbow with a second helping of breakfast before she had finished the first one.

“I won’t be able to fasten my gown at the rate you’re feeding me, Mrs Simmons.”

“Good! It’ll be a happy day indeed when you’ve put enough meat on your bones to require a larger dress.” She cast a baleful glare towards the garment in question, then refilled Sofia’s cup of milk. “Christopher has the right idea courting you with biscuits. I wish men would have brought me biscuits. I’d take a nice shortbread over flowers any day.”

Sofia gave her a quizzical look.

“Oh my, I hope I haven’t ruined a surprise! Christopher was in early this morning. Spent an hour rustling through my old papers in search of a biscotti recipe that hadn’t been ‘ruined by the English.’ Asked to borrow my kitchens tomorrow night. Awful sweet of him.”

“Si. He is very kind,” Sofia said absently. She drank deeply from her glass, then dabbed her lips with a napkin to hide whatever expression might have crept onto her face.

Mrs Simmons continued after waiting expectantly for Sofia to say more. “I haven’t seen him so inside out over a girl since he was about fourteen.”

Bennet glared at the cook from his place at the end of the table. “Kindly allow Miss Lioni to eat in peace. Mr Keene’s attention should be fixed more firmly on his duty to His Grace, and you should know better than to encourage him, Mrs Simmons. Not that he needs much in the way of encouragement. He has never adhered to any standards I’ve set within the walls of this estate.” The last bit came out in a grumble.

“What nonsense, Bennet,” the cheerful cook replied. “There’s nothing at all wrong with a little courting. Maybe you’d be less of a curmudgeon if you took a moonlit stroll every once in a while. I’m available this evening should you need a companion.” She fluttered her eyelashes dramatically.

Heat rose up the back of Sofia's neck at the mention of a moonlit walk, and she stood to clean her plate in the washtub. She couldn’t help but smile when she noticed Bennet squirming in his chair.

“Oh, don’t worry about the dishes, dearie,” Mrs. Simmons began. “Actually, if you’re feeling helpful and have the time, you can fetch a few ingredients from the larder. Some of the girls weren’t feeling their best this morning so I’m a bit shorthanded.” She paused with the kind of grin reserved for interfering older ladies. “It’s just past His Grace’s exercise room, down the hall.”

Armed with a list and an empty burlap sack, Sofia managed to pass the open door of the exercise room without peeking, despite the intriguing noises from within. Her self-restraint withered on the return trip, however, and she paused at the sound of her name.

“How goes your wooing of the prickly Miss Lioni?” There was a brief silence, followed by a thud. “Ouch! Damn it that hurt, Keene.”

“Duck next time. And she is not prickly.” Sofia leaned back against the wall, ignoring the part of her brain that was shouting for her feet to keep walking. More shuffling sounds carried into the hallway.

“All right. Not prickly. So am I invited to your biscotti night?” the duke asked.

“You are not.”

“Come now, that’s hardly fair. I invited you to my birthday dinner at Violet’s house. Surely you wouldn’t deprive your oldest friend of the same opportunity. Have you kissed her yet?”

Another painful-sounding thud.

“Are you a duke or a fourth year at Eton?

“That all depends on which will get me an answer.” Northam let loose with an unducal chortle of laughter.

“I liked it better when it was your romantic failings we were discussing.”

A long bout of scuffling and increasingly heavy breathing followed, wherein conversation apparently became too challenging. Sofia was about to walk away when, abruptly, the sounds slowed again.

“Gabriel, what does, ‘E una pessima idea flirtare con te’ mean?”

“Did she say that? Hmm …”

“I swear, Northam, I will knock you flat on your aristocratic arse if you don’t cease making that face.”

A strangled laugh preceded louder shuffling. “All right! All right! Christ, you’re fast when you’re riled up and pining. It’s a bad idea to flirt with you.”

“Flirting? You have an odd notion of flirting. Generally, I lean more towards the batting of eyelashes. And you’re not my type,” Christopher responded.

“Not me, you muttonhead. I mean, that is the translation. ‘It’s a bad idea to flirt with you.’”

“Oh,” Keene said. The room fell into absolute silence for a moment.

“I assume that our resident non-prickly governess told you this? What do you plan to do about it?”