The Firstborn

Chapter Twenty-Three

"I did knock," he said, by way of apology, though his dark eyebrows were raised in amusement at the scene before him.

And what a scene it must be to him, Sophia realized, as a flush of color warmed her cheeks. Rolling about on the floor, her hair falling out of its simple twist, and her skirt...

She yanked at the hem, which had worked its way up to her knees during her game with George. "I am sorry," she muttered, her gaze fixed firmly on anything that wasn't Haughton's face as she attempted to surreptitiously fix one of her stockings that had worked itself free of its garter. "I didn't mean to... I didn't realize you had knocked. I didn't hear..." Her hands fluttered uselessly, her fingers glancing over her sleeves, her bodice, any and every other part of her gown that might have twisted itself around.

"Please, Sophia. Don't apologize." His voice was nearer, she realized. He was nearer. "Never before have I interrupted a more beautiful scene."

Her gaze flicked up towards his face. The amusement was gone from his expression, replaced by... what, she could not tell. She swallowed, hard, and raised a hand to her hair. Too many strands had already fallen out of their pins, and there was nothing to be done unless she started over from scratch. "Your brother..." she began. It was the first thing she could think of to say, and the best subject to divert him from his enigmatic expressions and the husky timbre to his voice. She was not sure she knew what to do with him if he wasn't going to be cold and distant with her.

"He is gone," Haughton assured her, and held out a hand to help her to her feet when she began to stand up on her own. "I sent him away with Winston. I'll deal with him later, when I'm not so angry that violence seems like a sensible solution."

She hesitated for a moment, then slipped her hand into his. His fingers were warm, or hers were cool, she could not tell. There were callouses on the pads of his fingertips, on his palms, and she wondered what work or hobby it took to put them there. His thumb slid over the tops of her knuckles, then the back of her hand, before he touched the inside of her wrist. An accidental touch, she assumed. But there was that mysterious expression again. Thinking back, she recalled him looking at her in a similar manner once or twice during her stay at Denton Castle, but at the time she had been too wrapped up in her own dislike of him to consider what thoughts might lie behind that expression.

At their feet, George continued to tumble about, knocking over soldiers and blocks indiscriminately before setting them up again. Haughton did not release her hand, but led her over to one of the chairs near the window.

"I have spoken with my solicitor," he began, and settled himself in the chair adjacent to her own. "She's accepted the sum of five thousand pounds in exchange for giving full care of her son over to you. What she does with it, whether she buys her house and fills it with servants, or spends it all on befeathered hats is entirely up to her."

Sophia gazed at him in astonishment for several seconds. "Five thousand? How...? I can never repay so much. You should not have—"

He held up his hand. "He is my nephew as well, remember?"

She nodded, then swallowed over the rapidly forming lump in her throat. There would be tears soon, if she was not careful. "So she did not show any interest in raising George? In seeing him again?"

Haughton hesitated. Unfortunately, that was all the reply she needed. "Perhaps... perhaps she will settle down when she is older, when she has matured." She could hope, though Haughton's younger brother was several years Lucy's senior and was not exactly proof that a few additional years were enough to bring wisdom. "Much older," she added, and cleared her throat of the tremble that might have been either the beginning of a laugh or a sob.