Jilting the Duke (6 page)

“No one would think ill of you if you wished to decline or to be guardian in name only.” She folded her hands primly in her lap. “I'm sure this must be an unwelcome, and unexpected, obligation.”

Aidan willed his expression to remain pleasantly inscrutable. “I was surprised. But, as you know, Tom and I grew up together. I've decided—in his memory—to fulfill his wishes toward his son. I'm not in town often, though I keep a house here. I will be traveling to my estate in a few weeks. I'd like to take the boy with me. I could return him to you before Michaelmas?”

Aidan saw the almost imperceptible stop in her breath. But she didn't refuse. Perhaps Aldine had misread Sophia's attachment to her child.

“Ian.” She spoke slowly. “His name is Ian.”

“Ian,” Aidan repeated. “I would like to meet him.”

“He's in the nursery with his tutor.”

Aidan offered her a smile, one he used at balls, pleasant without suggesting intimacy. “Should we call for him? Or surprise him in the nursery?”

“We should call for him.” She stood to pull the bell hanging from the side of the fireplace. “Before you decide to take Ian to your estate for the summer, it might be best to see if you two suit.”

He had gained little information thus far, except that Sophia's reserve was so engrained that many might believe it her natural manner. Seducing this remote Sophia would offer him little satisfaction. This Sophia wouldn't care if she lost her reputation. She was too far removed from society to feel its stings. But he was not deceived. He remembered the mischievous young woman who had once hidden a family of mice in a suit of armor to convince her cousins that the gallery was haunted. No, he would draw her out of her solitude, earn her trust, bring her back into society, make her care once more about living, then snatch it all away. He would make her regret Tom's death.

Dodsley arrived with such speed that the man was either curious or protective. As Sophia and Dodsley spoke at the door, Aidan wondered how much Sophia confided in her butler.

Turning back to Aidan, Sophia offered a polite smile. “Ian should be down presently. I mentioned he might meet a friend of his father's today, but I haven't explained the guardianship. I saw no reason to broach the subject if you preferred to withdraw.”

As she spoke, Aidan rose and stood before the portrait, positioning himself to watch her, unobserved, in the mirror. Was she only so controlled when she knew she was being watched? “I understand.... How old is Ian? Tom's letter didn't say.”

She looked at her hands. “Nine.”

“He's lived abroad his whole life,” Aidan prompted. “His transition to English society may be difficult.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, with irritation, or something else. “Naples was home to a large community of expatriates and British military. Our house was often full of English children as well as Italian. Tom insisted that Ian feel at home among strangers.”

“How is his Latin?” Aidan changed the topic, wishing to observe her responses to different topics.

“Quite advanced, and his Greek studies have already begun.” Her pride was clear in the lift of her jaw.

“That would place him in the fourth form.”

“I know, but he will be younger than the other boys in fourth form.” She paused. “And Harrow is not known for its tenderness.”

“Yet Harrow friendships will serve him a lifetime. He will lean on those relationships as he grows to manhood, chooses a wife, begins his own family. Had he been reared in England, I wouldn't think this so vital. Michaelmas term begins in September, so we have almost six weeks to introduce him to other boys already there.”

Her gray eyes widened.

“He already knows—I assume—Ophelia's Nathaniel and Malcolm's wife's boys. I can take care of the introductions to the other boys, if you will host an afternoon party.” Aidan turned to face her, expecting her agreement.

“Since our return, Malcolm's stepsons have not been much in London. And Nate is so boisterous that Ian often finds him overwhelming. Ian's like Tom in that way.”

“Then Toby and Jack will be more suited to his personality. They are both thoughtful boys, though mischievous.”

“Some boys remain with a tutor until Cambridge or Oxford, so I'd hoped to delay Harrow a little longer, to give Ian more time to adjust,” she objected mildly. Aidan was pleased to see distress in her eyes.

“You returned to England a year ago, am I right?”

“Yes. After Tom's funeral.”

Aidan raised an eyebrow.

“Tom was concerned that the Italian nationalists would make our situation dangerous,” she explained.

“Ah, a wise man. But if you returned last summer, then Ian has already had ample time to adjust.” Aidan paused, wanting to see if she would lie to keep the boy with her. “If the problem is inadequate funds to cover his expenses, I will be happy to pay. As I am his guardian, that would only be reasonable.”

“No, it's not that.” She spoke deliberately. “Aldine can confirm that we have adequate funds. I have the accounts here if you wish to inspect them.” She gestured to a cabinet behind the desk. “Ian has already lost so much this year—his father, his home—that I hoped to avoid separating him from his remaining parent.”

“Boys are resilient. And summers and holidays are more than adequate time for a boy to be with family.”

She grew quiet and stared into the distance, her body completely still except for the movement of her chest as she breathed. It was easy to see why Aldine thought her a kind of living statue. But Aldine was wrong; there were signs of the woman behind the mask, just subtle ones. The tightening of a muscle in her hand or her jaw, the darkening of her eyes. Perhaps one had to have known her in her youth to notice the signs. Had this been some other woman Aidan had met on a diplomatic mission, he would have wondered what created such control. But he found that he lacked curiosity about what sorrows she had suffered since they had parted. No, the passionate Sophia he had loved would have stood against him with every fiber of her being. Was this a ploy? Did she believe she could circumvent him by appearing to accept his will?

At that moment, the door opened. A boy, tall for his age but thin, walked into the library. Aidan was struck by how much Ian looked like Tom: the same dark hair, the same serious eyes, the same pensive look.

Immediately, Sophia's demeanor became expressive, and Aidan saw for himself the transformation Aldine had described. Her dark eyes, before so restrained, smiled. Rising, she held her hands out to the boy and drew him against her in a quick hug. “I mentioned that the Duke of Forster would be visiting us today.”

The pair turned to him, Ian at Sophia's side, her arm resting across his shoulders.

Before Sophia could offer formal introductions, Aidan stepped into the space between them and offered Ian his hand. “I'm pleased to meet you, Ian. Your father and I grew up together. I counted him as my closest friend.” Aidan wanted to see if his assessment was accurate, or if the boy would shrink from the introduction.

But Ian stepped from Sophia's side without hesitation. Taking Aidan's hand, Ian met his gaze. “I'm happy to meet you, your grace; my father often told me stories about you.”

Aidan was right: Ian was self-possessed, even able to speak of his father with affection but not visible grief.

“My father asked me”—Ian reached into his pocket and withdrew a small, carved wooden soldier—“to give you this when we met.”

The soldier was the banner-bearer from a set of soldiers Aidan's father had given him. Aidan took the soldier carefully from the child's hand.

“My father said that he won it from you, but that I should return it.” Ian watched Aidan turn the small figure over in his hand. “He said you would understand.”

“Yes, Ian, I do understand.” Aidan was once more in the tower of his childhood home, a room that he, his brothers, and Tom had claimed for their games. From the height of the tower, they had imagined themselves knights of the realm, protecting the land from invaders. Many afternoons they had enacted battles from history, using the set of soldiers from which the banner-bearer came. Benjamin on his university holidays had spent hours with his five younger brothers, reading from Malory or other medieval romances.

Aidan found Tom reaching across the years to him. The banner-bearer had always been Tom's favorite. Tom insisted he was the greatest hero because he entered the battle first and encouraged the others to remember their cause. Tom had been an idealist even then, believing that causes mattered. In contrast, Aidan had always known—perhaps because Aaron had been stronger and more cruel than his younger brothers—that the battle often went not to the strongest or the most faithful but to the most strategic.

“The paint was chipping off, but Father and I repainted it there.” Ian pointed to the bottom of the banner. “And here.” Ian pointed to the bearer's cloak.

Aidan turned the figure over once more. “You did a fine job with the repairs; they are barely visible.” He handed the figure back to Ian. “The banner-bearer would like to remain with his troops.”

Ian smiled, gratefully. “Thank you, sir; I have another, but this one is my favorite. Would you like to see my other soldiers? None are as good as he is, but I have them set up to fight the Battle of Hastings. He leads the Saxons. I'll show you how to tell which are Saxons and which are Normans.”

“Ian, I'm not sure that the Duke has time.” Sophia tried to intervene.

“No, Sophia.” Aidan used her name without thinking, her name on his lips feeling like a caress. “I have time.” Aidan turned to Ian. “I'd be pleased to review the troops with you, Commander.”

Chapter Seven

Sophia watched helplessly as Ian led Aidan from the room, neither looking back. Spent, she sat on the couch, leaning into its curved side.

When Aidan had first entered the library, he'd seemed so real that the colors in the room faded around him. Tom, all kindness and bland manners, had never walked with such vitality, not even when well. The chill that had settled in her bones years ago had lessened as Aidan drew near to her, and the kiss he'd breathed onto the back of her hand had made a place below her stomach tighten with expectation. She should have expected to react to the physical contact strongly, she reassured herself; no one but Ian and Tom's sisters had touched her since her return. But even so, for an instant she had wished Aidan would fold her in his arms and reassure her that Tom's plan hadn't been misguided.

However, when Aidan had released her hand, she saw nothing in his face to encourage such confidences. If anything, the line of his jaw had become more severe over the years, reminding her of his older brother Aaron. She braced herself for harsh recrimination or even cold hatred. But he offered neither. His every sentence conveyed distance and a disinterested practicality.

Just as Ophelia had predicted, Aidan treated her with a civil solicitude, an appropriate manner for discussing business with the widow of an old friend or, apparently, for meeting with a former lover. It was as if they had never kissed, never held one another in their arms, never made promises . . . never loved. It was as if she meant nothing to him.

Unbidden, she remembered her first glimpse of him, young and laughing with his friends. She had suppressed the memory for years. But now, having seen no trace of their passion and no hint of the laughing, charming boy he'd been, she let herself remember.

It had been sunny, the first pleasantly warm day. She'd walked with some of her Elliot cousins to the local village fair. With a small allowance from her uncle, she had already bought rosemary soap from the Misses Bornfield, spinsters who lived near the pond at the edge of town, and some ribbon for her hair. At the end of the booths, a crowd cheered the morris dancers.

She'd noticed Tom first. Tall and thin, he watched the dancers over the heads of those in front of him. Someone hidden by the crowd had called his name, and he'd responded with a call and a waved arm. His wavy dark hair fell over his eyes, only to be pushed away by elegant hands. She'd noticed him because he was a stranger and handsome.

Then, Aidan came into view, eclipsing Tom. She had been struck by Aidan's beauty, broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips, thick black hair, and deep eyes. The two were clearly relations, perhaps even brothers, but something in the vitality of the one overshadowed the other. Tom, enamored with the rural dances, hadn't noticed her watching, but Aidan saw her immediately.

He'd winked, and followed that wink with a slow, confident assessment of her dress and person. Sophia had lived too many years with her cousins to allow any attempt to embarrass her, so she had waited for his eyes to return to hers, then she'd mimicked his assessing gaze until he laughed aloud.

When the crowd shifted, she'd soon wished she had been less daring. Tom and Aidan's third companion, Charles Culvert, was the son of a neighboring landowner. Seeing her, Charles waved, then made his way to her side, his companions in tow, to make introductions. Aidan had pretended they had already been introduced—another dare she couldn't ignore, and she'd gone along with the charade. In the company of her cousins, they had spent the rest of the afternoon together, and the next afternoon, and the next, until the beginning of Michaelmas term, when the whole group left for school. But Tom and Aidan had returned again at the next holiday, and the next, and soon, she'd come to expect seeing them at the end of every term.

Sophia and Aidan's hadn't been a proper courtship. He hadn't met her in her uncle's drawing room or conversed with her aunt while Sophia embroidered demurely. No, with her cousins as chaperones, she had met him in the fields for long walks or in the orchard with the fruit trees in bloom. She'd fallen in love with him while throwing rocks in her uncle's pond and watching the fish dart among the rushes. He had listened to her ideas and argued with her as if she were one of his friends from Harrow or Cambridge. He had made her feel valued and confident.

But today, his nonchalance had made clear that she had been no more than a youthful indulgence, long ago set aside. He had moved on, to war and whatever missions he had done there, to a role in parliament, to managing his estates . . . to a life not influenced by love for her. Certainly he had broken off all communication with Tom, never answering any letters until even Tom ceased to write. But was that the result of anger—or simply of time and distance?

In Italy, she had known men—and women—who could cover a well of hatred with a polite façade. She didn't know if Aidan had grown into a man capable of such dissimulation. But would the cost of believing Aidan sincere and finding him deceptive be greater or less than the cost of mistrusting him at every step? No, she had spent a decade fearing how he might respond when they met again and had been wrong in all her predictions. She would not spend the rest of Ian's youth suspecting Aidan—until Aidan gave her cause.

Sophia weighed the decision carefully. If Ian were not involved, she might force the discussion. But Ian's well-being was her only concern. Yes, she would follow Aidan's lead. If he chose to ignore their failed love, then she would ignore it as well. She already had years of practice pretending disinterest in news of Aidan; now she could simply pretend disinterest in Aidan himself.

* * *

As Aidan accompanied Ian to the nursery, the boy offered a short tour of the house and its inhabitants. Ian pointed out a study, a morning room, and a door under the stairwell that concealed the servants' stairway, leading down to the kitchen, the household offices, and Dodsley's and Cook's rooms.

As they ascended the stairs to the first-floor landing, Ian indicated the general arrangements of the rooms: a music room, the gallery, the drawing rooms. The second floor was devoted solely to bedrooms, family to the left and guests to the right. Most conveniently, Ian indicated Sophia's bedroom. “Mama's room is there at the end.” Ian waved his hand toward it. On the third floor were the nursery and the staff rooms.

Ian had Tom's talent for knowing all the household secrets: Dodsley loved opera and would sometimes play the piano and sing robustly in the music room (“with Mama's permission, of course”). Cook was disappointed at not finding pistachios in London for any reasonable price because without them she was no longer able to make her famous lemon cake. His tutor Mr. Grange (who “smells of pickles”—Ian wrinkled his nose) pined after a squire's daughter, but hadn't the money to offer for her. Their lame cat Artemisia (“Papa named her for a plant”) liked to lie in the sun on the balcony outside his mother's bedroom and pretend to catch birds, so Sophia left the door unlatched and open. Ian's stories were useful and charming, though Aidan was certain Sophia would not have approved of her son's easy confidences.

Ian was so delighted to escort him to the nursery that Aidan felt a twinge of conscience. He had accepted Ian's offer for reasons other than a desire to get to know his ward better. Certainly the boy's resemblance to Tom was too great for Aidan to refuse the boy's request. But he also needed some time, having met Sophia, to plan his next move. Ian's invitation gave him that time. It also allowed him to escape from the gaze of the ever-vigilant Dodsley and wander the house unimpeded. Aidan imagined that he would play soldier for a quarter hour or so, then begin his investigations. If he happened to run into a suspicious servant, he would simply claim to be lost.

The nursery was painted, not the typical drab whitewash, but a pleasing terracotta that spoke of Ian's Italian childhood. The walls were hung with botanical drawings. Aidan knew the most common—pansies, violets, roses, columbines—but others were more exotic.

“Mama painted them,” Ian offered proudly. “I get them when she's finished. I like that one best.” Ian pointed to an image labeled
“Rosa chinensis.”

Aidan knew it from his mother's garden, the
Mutabilis
rose, with buds and flowers from yellow to salmon to red. He noticed the clarity of the line, the purity of the colors, the delicacy of the touch. From her early promise, Sophia had developed into an artist of sensitivity and skill.

“Finished?” Aidan prompted.

“Mama drew the illustrations for Papa's botany books. After the engravers return the illustrations, I can have the ones I want. Papa gave me this one special before he died.”

“They are quite lovely.” Aidan had attributed the easel in the library to an interest suitable to women of her class. Clearly it was far more important. Perhaps an interest in Sophia's art would offer a way past her reserve? He stepped closer to examine the images.

“She and Papa would sit in the loggia. In the morning he would translate and write, and she would draw the plants he was writing about.”

“Really?” Aidan focused on Sophia's drawings. He didn't wish to hear about the companionability of the Wilmot marriage.

“Then in the afternoon they would argue.”

“Argue?” Aidan found himself more interested. “About what?”

“Well, not an angry argue,” Ian clarified. “Papa always called it an intellectual disagreement. Mama would compare what he had written to the Latin and tell him how to make it better. Papa would quote something in Latin, and Mama would quote something back, until they found a new sentence they could agree on. Papa said Mama had the best mind of any man he knew.”

Aidan knew Tom was right. Sophia's agile intelligence had fascinated Aidan from the moment he'd found her translating Greek in her uncle's garden. Her aunt's opposition to her education had forced her to wrap her Greek dictionary in oilcloth and tuck it inside a lidded urn. But he shook off the memory. “Why do you like this one best?”

“I like the hummingbird. Mama put it in the picture because I liked to feed them in the garden. Papa liked this one too. He always said it wasn't fair that Mama could fix his work, but he could never fix hers. Her illustrations were always perfect. This is the only picture that Papa declared wasn't perfect. So it was special.”

Aidan looked back at the image, the strong lines, the delicate coloring. “Why isn't it perfect?”

“Hummingbirds don't feed on roses.” Ian's tone hinted that he expected an adult to have a better knowledge of the feeding habits of hummingbirds. “Mama had to make a second one for Papa's book, but that one wasn't nearly so good.”

“Because it didn't have a hummingbird?” Aidan speculated.

“Yes.”

Aidan found the conversation strange—and strangely compelling. He'd learned more about Sophia and Tom's relationship in a few minutes than he had in all his years of questioning tourists. He now knew to seek out and follow her advice. He was going to become indispensable to her, as necessary as light and water to her precious plants, then he would withdraw and leave her bereft. Missing his companionship as much as his touch. Abandoned, as he had been.

Aidan turned from looking at the pictures in time to catch the boy wiping a tear on his sleeve, and he was moved to compassion. Whatever Aidan's business with the mother, the boy deserved kindness. “Thank you for showing the pictures to me, Ian. Now, where are those soldiers?”

Ian's face brightened. He pointed to the far corner of the large room. There on a low table, toy soldiers stood on a thick green cloth. Tufts of fabric bunched up under the green created hills and valleys, and blue cloth cutouts set on top signified rivers and oceans.

In the shape of his face, Ian looked far more like Sophia, but he resembled Tom in his mannerisms, the way that he tucked his head to the side when thinking or his way of looking into the distance when planning. Even his sighs were colored with Tom's inflections, so that Aidan could easily forget the years and imagine himself with Tom once more, playing soldiers before either of them knew what losses soldiers face.

But Ian's ability to think strategically far surpassed Tom's at the same age. Tom had hated to lose even a single soldier. He would work so hard to save each one that he would often find himself surrounded or otherwise lose the game. Ian knew he would sustain losses, but worked to minimize them.

Aidan quickly realized that he wouldn't be able to offer the game only half of his mind, lest he lose the battle and change the course of English history. Soon he was embroiled in a game of strategy with a sharp-minded boy. When Sophia came to the nursery to see if Aidan needed to be rescued, he was surprised to realize over an hour had passed.

“Oh, Mama, please, not yet.” Ian's disappointment surprisingly mirrored Aidan's own.

“If you would like, Ian, I could come by tomorrow, and we can enact another battle.” Aidan spoke without thinking.

Joyful, Ian turned his face up to his mother. “Would that be acceptable, Mama?”

Aidan nodded his willingness, and Sophia, seeing his acknowledgment, smiled broadly at Ian. “Of course it's acceptable. His grace will send us a note letting us know when to expect him.”

Aidan stood and offered Ian his hand. “Excellent battle, Commander; we meet on the battlefield tomorrow.”

* * *

On the way back to the main floor, Aidan stopped on the landing in front of the large Palladian windows to look out over the garden. “I believe we still have much to discuss.”

Sophia felt her knees weaken, but her hand on the stair railing steadied her. So, he had not forgotten their past, but only delayed broaching the subject. She felt the pressure of her heart heavy in her chest. The silence extended between them for several moments, but she ignored the growing quiet, waiting until she could speak deliberately.