Coloring a Silent Earl’s Heart (Preview)

Prologue,

London, 1812

Alexander Balfour, the Earl of Aldeburgh, gazed upon the miniature portrait cradled in his palms, while rain pelted against the drawing room windows of his London townhouse. Diana’s painted visage—its delicate brushstrokes capturing her rosebud lips and fair complexion—had been his sole comfort during the darkest nights on the battlefield. How many times had he pressed it to his heart beneath his uniform as cannons roared and men fell around him? How proud had he been of the beautiful woman who would be his wife? How had he boasted of her beauty, her delicate softness?

 A deep frown settled between his brows as he looked at it. His fingers moved with deliberate care across the gilded frame, as though the small oval might shatter beneath his touch—much as his former life had.

Alexander sensed rather than heard the drawing room door open. The subtle change in air pressure and the flicker of candlelight alerted him to a new presence, but he maintained his focus on Diana’s portrait. 

His mother’s silhouette passed into his peripheral vision, her rigid posture and steel-grey gown perfectly matched to her temperament. His mother had never been an affectionate woman, but her coldness since his return had been unmatched. Behind her followed another figure—one whose presence caused Alexander ‘s chest to constrict as his heart raced with emotion.

Gregory Camden. His oldest friend. His brother in spirit if not blood.

Alexander remained motionless, studying Diana’s face while watching his mother’s mouth from the corner of his eye. He had learned to read lips with remarkable proficiency, though he took care not to reveal this skill to Lady Aldeburgh. Knowledge, however limited, remained his sole advantage in their silent war of attrition.

“He has been thus for hours.“ He could make out his mother’s words, each syllable formed with utter disdain. “Gazing upon that portrait as though it might speak to him when he refuses to speak himself.”

Gregory’s expression shifted, and Alexander recognized the familiar tightening of his jaw that had presaged many a schoolboy brawl at Eton. Some things, it seemed, war had not changed. Alexander almost smiled.

Almost.

“The physicians claim his hearing is damaged,” his mother continued, her hands clasped before her like a general surveying a disappointing battalion. “Though they believe his voice remains intact, he chooses silence—whether from stubborn pride or self-pity, I cannot say. The Earl of Aldeburgh, reduced to communicating with crude notes like a common schoolboy. His father would be mortified to see the title worn by such an… invalid.”

The word struck Alexander like a physical blow to the chest, though he permitted no change in his expression. Invalid. His mother’s favorite designation for him since his return—so much more elegant than “cripple” yet no less damning. How quickly the hero had become the burden.

Gregory stepped forward, and though Alexander could not hear his response, he witnessed the tension in his friend’s shoulders. The loyalty warming his face contrasted sharply with his mother’s frigidity. 

Their lips moved in further conversation that Alexander deliberately chose not to follow. Instead, he studied the familiar contours of Diana’s face, wondering if her voice remained as musical as he remembered. Why had she stopped returning his letters in his final months of deployment? At the time, he had attributed the silence to the chaotic nature of war, the unreliability of military post. Later, as he lay in the hospital tent hovering between life and death, he had clung to thoughts of reunion, of her joy upon discovering that reports of his demise had been premature.

Yet no joyful reunion had materialized upon his return to English shores. She had not rushed to his bedside during his convalescence. His letters, laboriously written during painful recovery, had gone unanswered. Still, hope had persisted in the small, foolish corner of his heart that remained untouched by war’s brutality.

His ruminating fractured as Gregory moved into his direct line of sight, becoming impossible to ignore without obvious rudeness. Alexander reluctantly lifted his gaze to meet his friend’s, recognizing the determination in the set of his shoulders. Gregory’s eyes flicked momentarily to Diana’s portrait, then back to Alexander ‘s face, and a stiff smile appeared on his friend’s face. One speaking far more than words could, though Alexander chose not to listen to the inaudible reality.

Instead, he glanced toward his mother, who watched their silent exchange with thinly veiled impatience. Gregory followed his gaze, and something passed between the two that resulted in Lady Aldeburgh departing with unusual acquiescence, the door closing firmly behind her rustling skirts.

The sudden absence of his mother’s cutting presence altered the atmosphere of the room like the clearing of storm clouds. Gregory approached with the careful deliberation one might use when nearing a wounded animal. He retrieved a small leather-bound notebook from his waistcoat pocket—the universal accessory of those who attempted communication with Alexander these days.

But Gregory did not immediately write. Instead, he settled into the adjacent chair with uncharacteristic hesitation. His gaze travelled the length of Alexander ‘s form, perhaps cataloguing the changes wrought by war.

Alexander ‘s fingers tightened imperceptibly around Diana’s portrait. Whatever news Gregory carried; it concerned her. Of that, he was certain. He closed his eyes, refusing to listen. Choosing to live in his own fool’s paradise a little longer. As long as he could.

When he opened his eyes, Gregory was gone. 

A piece of paper lay in front of him, and he picked it up reluctantly, staring at the scribbled words in his friend’s familiar handwriting. 

I’ll see you at tonight’s dinner party.

***

The dinner party was one he had tried to refuse. His mother, however, had insisted. “To reintroduce you to society,” she had informed Alexander via a tersely written note, though he suspected her true purpose was to parade him before her intimate circle like some exotic curiosity. Six guests gathered in the dining room, where footmen moved with silent efficiency beneath crystal chandeliers that cast prismatic reflections across the polished mahogany table.

Alexander ‘s valet had dressed him with painstaking attention to current fashion. Yet for all the careful tailoring, Alexander felt like an impostor in his own skin, a counterfeit nobleman occupying the place that rightfully belonged to the carefree young earl who had departed for war with visions of glory dancing in his head.

That man had died somewhere in the Spanish countryside, his dreams reduced to ash alongside the village of Arroyo del Puerco.

Seated to his right, Lady Mayweather, a widow of impeccable lineage and formidable conversational skills, directed a stream of pleasantries toward him. Alexander watched her painted lips move, forming words he could not hear and did not care to attempt to make out, questions he had no desire to answer. Her eyes darted occasionally to his ears, as though his impairment might be visible if she looked closely enough.

Gregory occupied the chair to his left, a strategic placement that allowed him to serve as intermediary between Alexander and the rest of the gathering. A role his friend performed with admirable dedication, though Alexander responded to his written inquiries with increasing brevity as the evening progressed.

Lady Mayweather inquires after your health; Gregory wrote in the small notebook that had become their primary means of communication, sliding it towards Alexander tactfully.

Alexander glanced at the widow, whose expression suggested her inquiry arose more from morbid curiosity than genuine concern. He took the proffered pencil and scrawled a single word in reply: Fine.

Gregory’s mouth tightened at the corner, a subtle indication of his frustration. He had always been the more diplomatic of the two, even in their youth, smoothing Alexander ‘s occasional social blunders with effortless charm. Now that charm worked overtime as he relayed Alexander ‘s curt response with embellishments designed to satisfy Lady Mayweather’s inquisitiveness without revealing Alexander ‘s indifference.

Across the table, Lord Spencer engaged his mother in animated conversation about the upcoming Season, punctuating his observations with theatrical gestures that sent his quizzing glass swinging wildly from its golden chain. His mother’s eyes remained cold, turning even harder whenever they landed upon him.

The first course arrived with elegant precision, aromatic steam rising from silver tureens of turtle soup. Alexander watched the guests exclaim over the presentation; their appreciation evident in their expressions even as their words remained locked beyond his comprehension. The sight of food turned his stomach, his appetite deserting him as it so often did after his return.

A footman appeared at his shoulder, ladling soup into his bowl with practiced ease. Alexander grimaced as he looked at the opulence that surrounded them, the rich aroma that wafted from the soup. It was so different from what he had become used to; so different from the acrid smell of gunpowder and burning thatch, a woman’s desperate cries as she clutched a small child to her breast, flames licking at the edges of her skirts…

His hand jerked involuntarily, sending his spoon clattering against fine porcelain. The sound—inaudible to him but evident in the startled expressions around the table—drew every eye. Six faces turned toward him with varying degrees of sympathy and discomfort.

Gregory’s hand appeared on his forearm, a steady pressure that anchored him to the present. Alexander drew a careful breath, forcing his features into a mask of composure as he retrieved his spoon with deliberate precision. The moment passed, conversation resuming as the guests carefully redirected their attention elsewhere.

Yet the damage was done. The memory, once summoned, refused to retreat, playing behind his eyes with merciless clarity. The woman’s face, contorted in terror. The child’s bewildered expression. His own desperate lunge forward, arms outstretched to reach them as the building’s timbers groaned overhead…

Gregory’s pencil tapped against the notebook, reclaiming his attention.

Are you well? he had written, concern evident in the pressure of his script.

Alexander managed a curt nod, though perspiration beaded his forehead despite the dining room’s comfortable temperature. He found himself counting the courses that remained before he might escape these well-meaning strangers with their pitying glances.

The dowager countess’ gaze fell upon him with the weight of perpetual disappointment. She had borne his father’s death with stoic dignity, maintaining their family’s position through strategic social alignments and careful financial management. His own return had shattered her expectations of noble sacrifice. After all, as he was now, he was damaged, diminished and disappointingly alive

An heir who could not—or would not—speak. A titled gentleman reduced to written communication, showing weakness that was not appropriate to his class. A bloodline in peril of extinction.

By the time the final course arrived, Alexander ‘s collar felt constricting, his cravat a noose around his throat. He reached for his wine glass with fingers that threatened to tremble, willing the evening to conclude before his control fractured completely.

When at last the ladies withdrew, leaving the gentlemen to their port and cigars, Alexander breathed his first full breath in hours. Lord Spencer and the other two male guests engaged in what appeared to be a spirited debate about horse racing, Gregory contributing occasionally while Alexander sat in blessed peace, no longer required to maintain the exhausting pretense of social engagement.

After an appropriate interval, Gregory leaned closer, the notebook in hand. Alexander ‘s eyes darted to the page and relief washed over him as he read the words. 

Shall we withdraw to the smoking room? More privacy there.

He nodded at once and stood—Gregory speaking for both of them with the practiced ease of long friendship as he made an excuse—and retreated to the wood-paneled sanctuary where crystal decanters awaited on a silver tray.

The smoking room had been his father’s domain, permeated still with the ghost of his preferred Turkish tobacco despite months of absence. Heavy leather chairs flanked the fireplace, where flames danced against polished andirons. Alexander moved to the decanter, pouring generous measures of brandy into two glasses.

Gregory accepted the offered drink with a nod of thanks, though his expression had grown grave in the transition from dining room to private sanctuary. He paced before the fire, uncharacteristic restlessness betraying his unease.

Alexander watched him from beneath lowered brows, and his hand moved to rest on Diana’s portrait where it rested in his waistcoat pocket. He had transferred it there before dinner, unwilling to leave it in his bedchamber even for the brief hours of the gathering. An irrational compulsion, perhaps, but one he could not deny.

At length, Gregory halted his pacing and turned to face Alexander directly. The flames cast his features in sharp relief, highlighting the determination in his jaw even as shadows concealed his eyes. He reached into his coat and withdrew a folded newspaper, holding it for a moment as though the paper itself might burn his fingers.

Something cold and leaden settled in Alexander ‘s stomach at the sight. He remained motionless, brandy untouched, as Gregory unfolded the paper with careful movements and extended it toward him.

The section had been neatly clipped from a larger page, its borders precise as though cut with a surgeon’s blade. Alexander’s gaze fell upon the column of announcements, scanning mechanically until he found the paragraph Gregory had marked with a thin line of ink.

The engagement is announced between Lord William Radcliffe, second son of Lord Radcliffe of Staffordshire, and Miss Diana Anderton, only daughter of…

The words blurred before his eyes, individual letters losing meaning as they swam across the page. A curious numbness spread through Alexander’s limbs, his fingertips tingling as though struck by frost despite the room’s warmth.

Diana. His Diana. Betrothed to another while he lay near death in a field hospital, her portrait pressed to his heart like a talisman against mortality.

The miniature seemed to burn against his chest now, a brand rather than a blessing. With fingers grown suddenly clumsy, he withdrew it from his waistcoat, staring at the painted features that had sustained him through countless horrors.

Had she always possessed that calculation in her gaze, that coldness about the mouth? Had his memory gilded her image during their separation, transforming a pretty but unremarkable young woman into an angel of mercy?

The portrait slipped from his nerveless fingers, striking the hardwood floor with a crack that he felt rather than heard. The glass shattered, a spiderweb of fractures distorting Diana’s perfect features into a grotesque approximation of beauty.

Alexander stared at the broken miniature, emotion tugging at his lips. The war had taken his hearing, his voice, his future—yet somehow, this betrayal cut deeper than Spanish steel or French lead.

Gregory’s hand came to rest upon his shoulder, a wordless offer of support. Alexander remained frozen, transfixed by the ruined portrait at his feet. The woman who had abandoned him. The love that had never been as steadfast as his own.

When he finally raised his eyes to meet Gregory’s concerned gaze, something within Alexander had calcified—grief transforming to bitter resolve. He would not allow himself to be undone by this final betrayal. He had survived cannon fire and field hospitals, fever and despair. He would survive Diana Anderton’s betrayal as well.

The brandy glass shattered against the fireplace, amber liquid hissing as it met hungry flames. In the violent gesture, Alexander felt something break free within his chest—not healing, not yet, but the first terrible, necessary step toward it.

Gregory watched him with solemn understanding, making no move to retrieve the fallen portrait or comment on the broken glass. Some wounds required witness rather than words, and in that moment of shared silence, their friendship—forged in boyhood and tempered by war—proved stronger than any romance.

The portrait remained where it had fallen, Diana’s fractured visage a testament to dreams that had died on Spanish soil, leaving only the stark reality of a future Alexander had never envisioned: solitary, silent, and stripped of illusions.

 

Chapter One

The April rain lashed against the windows of Sinclair Manor with a fury that almost matched Sophia Sinclair’s own turbulent thoughts. Standing in what remained of the drawing room—a chamber once resplendent with Brussels carpets and gilt-framed landscapes—she took inventory of her diminished circumstances with the cold precision of a merchant tallying losses after a shipwreck.

“Milady.” Abigail ‘s soft Scottish lilt pierced the gloom as she entered with a meagre tea tray. “I’ve brought ye something warm. You’ve not eaten since yesterday.”

Sophia turned from the window, summoning a smile that belied the hollow ache beneath her ribs. “That is kind of you, Abigail . Though I fear we must soon accustom ourselves to simpler fare, if we are to have any fare at all.”

The young maid set the tray upon a small rosewood table—one of the few elegant pieces not yet seized by creditors—and straightened with the quiet dignity that had endeared her to Sophia these past three years. Where other servants had fled at the first whisper of financial ruin, Abigail had remained steadfast, her loyalty unwavering despite wages now more promised than paid.

“I’ll not be leaving ye, milady,” Abigail declared, as though reading the melancholy direction of her mistress’s thoughts. “Not when you need me most.”

“Need you I certainly do,” Sophia admitted, accepting the offered cup with hands that betrayed only the slightest tremor. “Though I cannot imagine what I have done to deserve such devotion.”

“You treated me as a person when others saw only a wee servant,” Abigail replied simply, smoothing her already impeccable apron. “And you taught me my letters when no one else thought a maid should know how to read. Such kindnesses are not forgotten, milady.”

Warmth bloomed in Sophia’s chest at the girl’s words—a momentary respite from the chill that had settled there since her husband’s untimely passing. Six months a widow, and still the reality of Gilbert’s death struck her anew at unexpected moments. Not that theirs had been a love match; convenience and mutual respect had formed the foundation of their brief union. Yet his absence had left her unmoored in a society that valued women primarily as extensions of their male relations.

“We still have each other,” Sophia said, more to herself than to Abigail . “And I still have my wits, my health, and my paintbrushes. Many have rebuilt fortunes with less.”

“That’s the spirit, milady,” Abigail encouraged, her youthful face brightening. “And you paint like an angel. Surely there are those who would pay handsomely for your talent.”

Sophia sipped her tea, allowing the familiar ritual to calm her frayed nerves. “Perhaps. Though I fear it will take more than a few charming watercolors to satisfy Lord Shropshire’s demands.”

The mere utterance of the man’s name sent a shiver of distaste through her slender frame. Silas Fletcher, Earl of Shropshire, had emerged from the shadows of Gilbert’s past like a vengeful specter, brandishing promissory notes signed in moments of desperate folly across gaming tables in London and Brussels.

“Two thousand pounds,” Sophia murmured, the sum still as shocking as when she’d first learned of it. “Gilbert must have been mad with desperation to wager such an amount.”

“Or deep in his cups,” Abigail added with uncharacteristic bitterness. “Begging yer pardon, milady, but the late master had no head for spirits, nor cards neither.”

“No,” Sophia agreed softly. “No, he had not.”

Gilbert Sinclair had possessed a kind heart and gentle manner but the same yielding nature that made him an amiable husband had rendered him fatally susceptible to vice. Their marriage had been brief and childless, leaving Sophia without even the security of an heir to safeguard some portion of the estate.

The rain intensified, drumming against the roof with increasing urgency. Sophia moved to the hearth where a modest fire struggled against the damp chill that had invaded the old manor house. Most rooms now stood empty, their furnishings sold to satisfy the more reasonable creditors. The few servants who had not already sought positions elsewhere had been dismissed with only the references Sophia could provide, leaving herself and loyal Abigail to rattle about the echoing corridors.

“I’ve finished organizing your painting supplies, milady,” Abigail reported, gathering the tea things with practiced efficiency. “Everything is packed as you requested. Though I confess I don’t quite understand why we’re leaving for the countryside estate when it’s in even worse repair than this one.”

“Because each day we remain here costs more than we can afford,” Sophia explained, her green eyes reflecting the dancing flames. “The country house is smaller, more manageable, and crucially, much further from Lord Shropshire’s regular haunts. Distance may not deter him indefinitely, but it shall buy us precious time.”

Abigail nodded, though her expression betrayed lingering concern. “And you truly believe we can raise two thousand pounds through your painting?”

“Not immediately, no,” Sophia admitted. “But I’ve written to several acquaintances in Devon and London. Surely among them, someone must know of a respectable position for a lady of reduced circumstances but considerable artistic education.”

The very thought of seeking employment would have scandalized her mother, whose rigid adherence to propriety had shaped Sophia’s girlhood. A gentleman’s daughter, subsequently a gentleman’s wife, did not soil her hands with trade. Yet necessity had a remarkable way of sweeping aside such niceties. Better to work with dignity than to surrender to Shropshire’s increasingly improper suggestions.

“You’ve a gift that few possess, milady,” Abigail asserted with fierce conviction. “Why, I remember how Lady Harrington herself declared your portrait of her daughter the finest likeness she’d ever seen.”

Sophia smiled at the memory. “Let us hope her ladyship’s praise translates to practical recommendations. I shall need more than compliments if we are to survive.”

The mantel clock chimed three, its elegant voice incongruously genteel amid their reduced circumstances. Sophia straightened her shoulders, drawing strength from the simple action. The daughter of Baron Talbot would not be defeated by misfortune, however dire. She had weathered her mother’s early death, her father’s subsequent neglect, and a marriage entered with clear-eyed pragmatism rather than romantic illusion.

She would weather this storm as well, even as the waters rose ever higher around her.

The sharp report of the door knocker shattered the momentary peace, its commanding rhythm unmistakable even from the drawing room. Sophia and Abigail exchanged a glance of mutual dread.

“It’s him again,” Abigail whispered, her freckled face paling. “That’s his knock, sure as I’m standing here.”

“Perhaps if we remain quiet, he will assume the house empty,” Sophia suggested, though she harbored little hope of such a fortunate outcome. Lord Shropshire was not a man easily discouraged, particularly when pursuit of his desires coincided with his financial interests.

The knocking ceased abruptly, replaced by a more ominous sound—the groan of the front door opening unbidden. Heavy footsteps echoed through the entrance hall, accompanied by the distinctive tap of a walking stick against marble.

“I’ll go and send him away, milady,” Abigail declared with more courage than caution, setting down the tea tray and squaring her slender shoulders.

“Abigail, wait—”

But the maid had already slipped from the room, her chin raised in defiance that belied her eighteen years. Sophia followed swiftly, heart hammering against her ribs as she entered the hall in time to witness Abigail ‘s confrontation with their unwelcome visitor.

“The mistress isn’t receiving callers today, my lord,” Abigail stated firmly, positioning her slight frame before the drawing room door. “If you’d be so kind as to leave your card—”

“Stand aside, girl,” Lord Shropshire commanded, his imposing figure swaying slightly as he loomed over the maid. Even at this distance, Sophia could detect the sour reek of spirits emanating from him. “I’ve business with your mistress that won’t wait for the niceties of calling hours.”

Silas Fletcher cut an impressive figure despite his evident intoxication—tall and broad-shouldered, with the military bearing that had served him well on the battlefield and in London’s drawing rooms. Dark hair swept back from a high forehead, and his features might have been handsome were they not marred by the perpetual sneer that twisted his mouth. His scarlet regimentals, adorned with the medals that proclaimed his valor, seemed calculated to remind all who encountered him of his heroic service to king and country.

“My lord,” Sophia stepped forward, unwilling to allow Abigail to bear the brunt of his displeasure. “This is most irregular. Gentlemen do not force their way into ladies’ homes, regardless of any business between them.”

Shropshire’s gaze swept over her with insolent appraisal, lingering on the modest swell of her bosom beneath her morning dress . The familiar scrutiny made her skin crawl, though she maintained the serene countenance that had become her armor in society.

“Ah, the lovely widow emerges,” he drawled, executing a mocking bow that sent him teetering precariously before he righted himself with the aid of his walking stick. “Forgive the intrusion, Lady Sinclair, but when one’s letters go unanswered, one must resort to direct methods.”

“I have answered your correspondence, my lord,” Sophia countered coolly. “I explained that while I acknowledge my late husband’s debt to you, I require time to arrange payment.”

“Time,” he spat the word as though it offended him. “Time is a luxury afforded to those who possess either wealth or youth and beauty sufficient to barter for patience. You, my dear Lady Sinclair, are fortunate to retain the latter two in abundance.”

Abigail stiffened beside Sophia, her indignation palpable. “Sir! You forget yourself!”

“Abigail,” Sophia cautioned quietly, placing a restraining hand on the girl’s arm. “Lord Shropshire is just leaving. Aren’t you, my lord?”

Instead of retreating, Shropshire advanced further into the hall, his walking stick tapping an ominous cadence against the floor. The medals on his chest clinked softly with each step, reminders of the esteem in which society held him despite his personal defects.

“I find myself increasingly disinclined to leave empty-handed,” he remarked, his gaze roving the depleted entrance hall where bare patches on the wall marked the absence of once-treasured paintings. “Though I see little of value remaining in this mausoleum. Sinclair truly left you nothing but debts, didn’t he?”

The casual cruelty of his observation stung, though Sophia refused to grant him the satisfaction of a visible reaction. “My financial circumstances are not a subject for discussion, my lord. Now, if you would be so good as to depart, I—”

“Two thousand pounds, Lady Sinclair,” he interrupted, his voice dropping to a silken murmur that was somehow more menacing than a shout. “A substantial sum, to be sure, but one that need not be paid in coin alone.”

His meaning could not have been plainer had he spelled it out in the crudest terms. Heat flooded Sophia’s cheeks—not the becoming blush of maiden modesty, but the burning flush of outrage.

“You insult me, sir,” she stated, each word precise as the strike of a small hammer. “And you dishonor both your rank and my late husband’s memory with such implications.”

Shropshire laughed; the sound devoid of genuine mirth. “Your husband thought nothing of wagering such a sum against me, madam. I merely offer an alternative method of settlement that might prove… mutually satisfying.”

“Get out,” Abigail burst forth, Scottish temper overriding deference to rank. “Before I summon the constable!”

“With what servants, little maid?” Shropshire taunted, his gaze flicking dismissively to Abigail . “I passed no footmen in the drive, no stable boys at the mews. You are alone here, save for your mistress—a fact not unknown in the village, I assure you.”

The subtle threat within his observation chilled Sophia’s blood. They were indeed vulnerable, two women alone in a house too large to secure properly, too isolated for immediate assistance should the need arise.

“Nevertheless, you will leave now,” Sophia commanded, drawing herself up to her full height. “Whatever claim you hold against my husband’s estate, it grants you no license to violate the sanctity of my home or my person.”

Something dangerous flickered in Shropshire’s eyes—a momentary glimpse of the brutality that likely served him well on the battlefield but had no place in civilized society. For a breath, Sophia feared he might disregard all propriety and seize her then and there.

Instead, he withdrew a silver flask from inside his coat and took a long pull, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand in a gesture that revealed the coarseness beneath his lordly title.

“You have one month, Lady Sinclair,” he announced, returning the flask to his pocket. “One month to produce the sum owed, after which I shall be forced to pursue more… vigorous methods of collection.”

“The courts…” Sophia began, but his harsh laugh cut her short.

“The courts will most certainly favor a man of my standing, foolish girl. Your husband’s signature on those promissory notes is incontestable. And should you flee…” his gaze swept meaningfully over her figure once more, “I assure you, I shall find you. England is not so large that a woman of your… distinctive charms can disappear without trace.”

With that parting threat, he executed another mocking bow and strode toward the door, pausing on the threshold to deliver a final barb. “A month, Lady Sinclair. Consider my alternative offer in the interim. You might find it the more palatable option, in the end.” The door slammed behind him with such force that dust sifted from the neglected chandelier overhead. Sophia released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, her composure finally fracturing as she sagged against the nearest wall.

“Of all the vile, despicable—” Abigail sputtered, trembling with indignation. “To suggest that you—that a lady such as yourself would—”

“Peace, Abigail,” Sophia murmured, though her own hands shook as she smoothed her skirts. “Lord Shropshire’s behavior, while reprehensible, is hardly surprising. Men of his ilk have long viewed women of reduced circumstances as legitimate prey.”

“He ought to be horsewhipped,” Abigail declared, her brogue thickening with emotion. “War hero or not, no gentleman speaks to a lady so!”

“Which merely confirms what I have long suspected—that Lord Shropshire, despite his title and medals, is no gentleman at all.” Sophia straightened, determination replacing fear as the initial shock of the encounter receded. “His visit only confirms the wisdom of our planned departure. We must accelerate our preparations.”