Page 32

Those words, more than any others Oliver had said, shifted Christopher’s perception of the situation. On nearly every occasion that the topic of Sofia’s brother had arisen, longing had been written across her face. No matter Christopher’s personal opinion of the lout, he would do whatever he could to erase Sofia’s sadness … even if that meant hiring Oliver Lioni.

“Your father was a botanist,” Christopher began. Oliver remained silent. “We lost one of our head gardeners at the start of the summer. Are you interested in work? It would keep you close to Sofia.” Every warning bell in Christopher’s mind chimed in unison at the thought of bringing this man into their home permanently. He ignored them all, picturing instead Sofia’s peace knowing that Oliver would remain safe and under her thumb.

Oliver had gone silent, his gaze fixed on the window beyond Christopher’s shoulder.

Christopher carded both hands through his hair. “It’s late and you have quite a bit of recovering to do before choices must be made. Think on it. Talk with Sofia. The offer stands for as long as you want it.”

“Why?”

Christopher didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Because she is Sofia to me and, misguided or not, she loves you.” Christopher rang for a pair of footmen who must have been lingering outside the door given the speed with which they arrived. “Assist Mr Lioni to his room, if you would. I will let Miss Lioni know where to find her brother.”

Sofia arrived in the library to find Violet sitting cross-legged on the plush Turkish carpet, her chin resting in one hand as she shuffled several pieces of a shattered dinner plate. A snifter of some unknown amber liquid sat untouched beside her on the floor.

Violet looked up and smiled. “I saw Dr Higgins on his way out. He said Oliver’s wound closed up well and that he will return tomorrow to check on him. You’re looking much better. Also, I recommend not partaking in whatever this is.” She waved vaguely toward the liquor. “It tastes like old shoes and burns like lava all the way to your toes.”

Sofia sat down beside the duchess and lifted the discarded glass, her eyes trailing the rich amber liquid as she gave it an experimental swirl.

“Centripetal force,” Violet said, watching the smooth glide of the alcohol. “A stunning example of Newton’s third law. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Everything in balance with its matching pair. Beautiful.” Violet’s gaze had gone almost wistful in her recitation.

“Indeed. A full glass of water could spin above your head without losing a drop so long as the speed of the glass was greater than the force of the gravity.” Sofia paused, saluting Violet with the drink before swallowing three massive gulps.

Her eyes went wide, and her throat and ears burned as she forced the liquid down.

Violet continued on as if Sofia was not twelve inches away and perishing from toxic poisoning. “It would be an excellent experiment for the children’s study of natural sciences.”

An amalgamation of laughter and coughing sputtered up from Sofia’s chest. The release of emotion felt good. She heaved a steadying breath and took another gulp. This time, her drink slid down with greater ease. “What are you doing with the dinner plate? Do you not have countless more in the matched set to replace the broken one?” Sofia asked.

“Oh, I don’t give a whit for the plate, I just enjoy the challenge of reassembling it. I’m not even sure what happened to this one or how it ended up here.” Reaching for a tiny vial of glue, Violet carefully brushed a line across the edge and brought two of the pieces back together. Her tongue slipped the side of her mouth as she concentrated, looking as little like a duchess as a person possibly could. “Do you wish to talk about it? About your brother?”

Sofia wrinkled her nose, then washed her feelings down along with the remaining liquid in her glass. “Assolutamente no. May I refill this?”

“Of course. Although, I can’t say exactly what it was. I added a bit from all four bottles.” Her lips tipped up in a mischievous smile. “It seemed more adventurous than just drinking the one.”

Sofia crossed to the sideboard and poured her own mixture—a trickle of the mahogany, a splash of the amber, a drizzle of something caramel coloured. She topped it off with a liberal bit of the wheat-coloured drink. Her glass refilled, she settled again beside the duchess. This time, her experimental sip flooded her with a tingling softness, like the stroke of a feather down the length of her spine. “Your duke. He loves you quite soundly. I didn’t think English aristocratic men were capable of such emotion … or men in general, if I’m to be honest. Not in the way he adores you.”

The duchess blushed prettily. “Gabriel is capable of nothing less. I wasn’t expecting to find the sort of emotion that rearranges your insides, but here I sit, completely reconstructed with him at the centre of my heart. He loved Emma … loves her still. But there seems to be an abundance of space for all of us in that heart of his.”

Sofia found two slivers of the plate and matched them together with more glue. “This plate will never be the same, you know,” Sofia said.

“No, it will not. No matter how careful I am with the glue, it always comes together a little bit bumpy. It’s changed forever when pieces never meant to be separated are ripped asunder. But that doesn’t mean it’s not worth repairing.”

Sofia cut her an incredulous look. “I see we are speaking of my brother in dinner plate analogies.”

“Perhaps.” Violet shrugged one shoulder, then gesticulated. “No, not that one. Try this.” Violet passed over another shard, and they worked in companionable silence until the sound of throat-clearing shattered their mutual concentration.

“Ladies, I hope I’m not interrupting.” Northam leaned over his desk searching for something, then lifted a quill and began to write. “Miss Lioni, I’m told your brother will be situated in the east wing. First room on the left. Mrs Janewood has arranged for the housemaids to check on him throughout the remainder of the night and again tomorrow, so he will be well cared for. I instructed them to wake you if he becomes febrile. I assumed that would be your preference, but if not, I will⁠—”

“No. Grazie. That is exactly as I would wish.” She looked down at the jagged shard of porcelain in her hand, unable to meet the duke’s sympathetic gaze. “I am so sorry, Your Grace. I am ashamed to have brought this into your home.” His soft footsteps neared and then he was beside her, lowered to his haunches, watching her with those unfathomable brown eyes.

“La vergogna appartiene solo a tuo fratello.” Soft words in her native tongue. And then he smiled at her. The austere lines of his face smoothed into an expression that held only tenderness and understanding. Again, this man brought on a desire to weep like she had not experienced in years. The shame belongs only to your brother. His words, and the forgiveness they encompassed, reduced her thoughts to mush. Or possibly the alcohol had taken away her will to think. Either way, she was grateful for the relative silence in her head.

He stood and returned to the desk. “My duchess and I will retire, as Christopher will be climbing the stairs any moment, I predict, and it is late.” He paused. “That is, if you’re amenable, my love?” Northam turned to Violet, who gazed upon her unfinished project with noticeable ambivalence.

“But the maids will—” Violet fell silent when Northam presented her with a piece of parchment scrawled with his elegant script:

Violet’s pile of important rubbish. Do not disturb by order of the Duke of Northam.

Stooping to assess the shattered plate, he gingerly placed the decree upon the porcelain pile and extended a hand to help his duchess rise, his expression brimming with affection.