Sophia awoke to a strange sensation of comfort. Everything about her was so extraordinarily warm and soft, and there was a delicious sweet smell that seemed to waft up and about her every time she moved.

She rolled onto her side, and experienced the feeling of sinking into a cloud. Everything indeed was so luxurious...

Her eyes flew open. This was not her bed, in her mousey little cottage in Stantreath. Her hands scrabbled for the edges of the bed clothes as she pushed the covers down to her waist and she sat up.

Oh, of course. She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead and attempted to force some of the fog from her mind. She wasn't in Stantreath, and hadn't been for several days. This morning, she was in Derbyshire, at Lord Haughton's country estate. She had eaten a wonderful dinner the night before, then sat and talked with Haughton's sister, Bess, for several hours.

She wondered that someone like Lord Haughton could have a sister of such a kind and charming disposition. But then she had to remind herself that David, the man who had compromised her sister and left her with a babe, could also be counted among their siblings. And when she dared to compare herself to her own sister, Lucy....

Well.

The cradle still sat in its place beside the bed, and inside, George began to stir into wakefulness. Sophia glanced at the windows, the sheer drapes suffused with a pale grey light. It must be early, she thought, and a moment later, the chiming of a clock, marking a quarter until six, confirmed her suspicions.

She threw back the covers the rest of the way and padded, barefoot, towards the chair beside the bed. She shrugged into her robe, tied the belt around her waist, and was thus clad when the first cry sounded from George's mouth.

She picked up the babe and held him against her chest, his fingers disappearing into his mouth as he rubbed his face into her shoulder. Despite her opulent surroundings, Sophia fell into as close an approximation to her usual morning routine as she could manage. While holding George on her hip, she sought through the wardrobe—sparsely filled, though it contained every article of clothing she owned—for a gown, and a chemise, and soon she had everything she would need gathered into a small pile on the end of the bed.

George was lowered to the floor while she tugged at the tie on her robe, but before she could slide the garment from her shoulders, a light knock sounded on the bedroom door.

"Yes?" she uttered, a second before a slight maid opened the door a few inches and popped her head through the gap.

"Oh, Ma'am! It was Mrs. Finchley sent me to tend to you this morning," the girl said in a great rush, a bit of a Scottish lilt underlying her words. "That is, if you be needing me?"

Sophia stood frozen in place, her hands still holding her robe closed as the young maid bobbed in the doorway. "Um, I've never... I mean, I should be fine on my own. Thank you."

The maid took a small, tentative step into the room. "My name's Gemma, Ma'am. And I could dress your hair for you, if you like. Mrs. Finchley says it's my talent, and I must admit, I've never seen hair as pretty and red as yours is, Ma'am."

Sophia experienced a moment of hesitation, while George batted and pulled at the frayed sash of her robe. "All right," she finally acquiesced. "Just allow me to get dressed, and then—"

"Well, let's have a look at your gown, then." Gemma bustled into the room, the door snapping neatly shut behind her as she strode briskly towards the bed. "Oh, this color doesn't suit you at all," she said, picking up the faded pink muslin that Sophia had taken out of the wardrobe only a few moments before.

Sophia had to admit, she felt a bit offended. The pink was one of her favorite gowns, which explained its washed-out color and the numerous repairs she'd made to its hems and seams over the years. But it had held up well, and despite the fact that it had actually been made for Lucy—who had declared it ghastly after one wearing and tossed it unceremoniously to the floor before kicking it beneath her bed—it fit her better than most of her other dresses.

"Ladies with of your complexion should never be seen in pink," Gemma declared, and with the gown over her arm, turned towards the wardrobe.

Left by the bed, Sophia raised a hand to her face. She thought of her fair skin, of the smattering of freckles that decorated the bridge of her nose and her cheeks. Her sister had used to taunt her for them. Lucy, who had been blessed with their mother's golden blond hair and creamy skin.

But she had never been given much of an opportunity to fret over her appearance before now. When their parents had died, Sophia had quickly taken over as head of the household, a household that had suddenly been demoted from a fine townhouse on the main street of Stantreath to a leaking cottage on its borders. And then Lucy had gone and gotten herself into trouble, and Sophia had found herself caring less and less whether or not she'd even bothered to brush her hair properly before pinning it up on the top of her head.

"Now this is a lovely one," Gemma said, and pulled out a gown of pale yellow. There were some aged stains around the hem, if one bothered to look closely, and a small hole in the sleeve that Sophia hadn't had time to mend yet, but it would do, she thought. Which was about as much as could be said of anything in her wardrobe. "I'll fix the hole," the girl went on, her keen eyes immediately narrowing in on the tiny faults peppered around the edges of the gown. "While you do your washing up. Oh, but would you like me to take the little babe down to the kitchen for his breakfast?" She knelt down on the rug and began to make faces at George, who squealed and tried to smack the poor girl in the face.

"I wouldn't want anyone to go to any trouble," Sophia said. To be honest, she was feeling a bit reluctant to let George out of her sight, though an evening spent in Bess's company had made her previous fears that Lord Haughton would attempt to take the child away from her, and from under her very nose, seem a bit silly.

"Oh, it's no trouble at all, Ma'am," Gemma assured her, before giving George a little tickle under his arm. "I'm sure Cook has something perfect for a growing boy his age. I can just pop him downstairs and then come back to help you with your toilette."

Gemma was so eager, and George seemed to have already taken such a liking to her...

"Yes, of course."

Gemma grinned and swept George up from the floor as easily as if she'd been caring for babies for her entire life. "He's such a sweet one," she said, and nuzzled his ear. "I've three little brothers at home, and if any of them were half as good as this one, I don't think I'd have been so quick to take up work away from home! Now, I'll be just a minute," she said, and carried a smiling George out of the bedroom.

Sophia stood where she had been for the last several minutes, between the bed and the wardrobe. She picked up the yellow gown, a simple cotton thing, one of the last gowns to be made for her before her parents' deaths, and their sudden inability to find it within their annual budget for such fripperies and new gowns and gloves and lace-trimmed bonnets.

All things that belonged to a world of which they were no longer a part.

She had never bothered to admit it to herself, but Sophia knew, even before Lucy's indiscretion, that she would never marry. Her concern had been Lucy, and when her sister had then given birth and quickly handed over the responsibilities of raising a child, her attention had shifted towards George. He would always be in her care, in one way or another, until he was grown. And by that point, the combination of her age and her lack of fortune would make her completely ineligible as a choice for a wife.

A memory of Josiah Fenton's proposal flitted into her mind, but she quickly brushed it away. She would never have accepted him, even if a dozen of the arguments against it—her care of George, having the Reverend Fenton as a father-in-law, the town's opinion of her, to name a few—had not existed. She did not love Josiah Fenton, nor did she even care for him beyond his place as a common acquaintance in her life. She could not marry someone she did not care for, or respect, or esteem. And she certainly could not marry someone she did not love.

By the time Gemma returned, Sophia had washed her face and other parts of her body, and begun to brush out her hair. The girl immediately set to work on mending the hole in the pale yellow gown, and even began tacking on a small bit of lace from her workbox around the cuffs and the neckline.

"It's just a bit scrap leftover from one of Mrs. Finchley's gowns," the girl assured her when Sophia began to protest. "She'll give us some of her tidbits and things, and even let us have the pick of her gowns when she no longer wants them."

Sophia changed into her stockings and chemise, and Gemma helped her with her stays, though Sophia had undertaken the task for long enough on her own that the assistance was not absolutely necessary. Then she helped pull the gown over her head, and turned Sophia towards the bevel glass as she fastened the buttons along her upper back.

"Now, see? That's a lovely color against your skin," Gemma said, while fluffing the bits of lace added to the garment. "It does such a wondrous thing to your eyes."

Sophia tried not to let the compliments go to her head as she took her seat and allowed Gemma to make a second pass over her hair with the brush.

"There's quite a curl to your hair," Gemma pronounced as she began performing a fantastic amount of twists and braids to catch up all of Sophia's long, thick locks. "I'm surprised you've not thought of wearing it short. I heard from Mrs. Finchley herself that it's quite the thing in London."

Sophia didn't feel inclined to point out that she had scarce knowledge of what and was not currently popular in London fashions. And so she sat still and silent as the maid pinned everything into place, foregoing the usual plain bun that had been Sophia's only morning hairstyle for the past... Oh, goodness. She'd already begun to lose count of the years.

When Gemma had finished, Sophia sat for a moment and admired the girl's handiwork. It was nothing elaborate, only a few fine braids around her head, finishing with the ends of her hair pinned into place where her simple bun usually took up residence. The maid was correct in her observation that her hair possessed quite a bit of curl, those soft red locks curling and twisting from beneath the yellow ribbon she'd tied around them.

"You're like a fresh spring flower, Ma'am." Gemma stepped back, pleased with the contribution she'd made to Sophia's toilette. "Like them daffodils that bloom all down along the river. Lovely things, they are."

Sophia wasn't sure she'd go as far as to compare herself to a bit of blooming plant life, but she would at least admit to not looking as drab as usual. Though everything in the house still outshone her, at least she no longer felt like someone who resided at a level beneath the servants.

"Well, then." She smoothed the front of her gown with hands that threatened to twitch. "Is the rest of the household already awake?"

"Oh, no, Ma'am. Mrs. Finchley will be sleeping for a while yet, and as for Lord Haughton, he's not terribly strict about the sort of hours he keeps. Some days, he's in his study from sunrise to sundown, bent over his desk with work. But I'll occasionally see him go off for a ride, first thing before the grass is even dried."

"I see," Sophia muttered, while hoping this would be one of the days Lord Haughton chose to bury himself in his work. "Thank you, Gemma. I believe I'll go down and check on George, and make sure he's not creating too much work for anyone."

"I wouldn't worry about him, Ma'am," Gemma assured her as she began picking up the various odds and ends that had been scattered around the bed and the dressing table. "I think the cook about lost her heart to him the moment she laid eyes on him. Said she was going to bake up a special batch of apple dumplings and cream, just for him. And don't worry about him being in the way. The men were in from the stables, finishing up their breakfast, and one of them was already fixing to make a little plaything for him out of some leather and bits of wood."

"Oh, I see." Sophia said, her hands leaving her dress to hang loose at her sides. "I guess there's nothing left for me but to get my own breakfast."

"It's already been laid in the dining room." Gemma looked up from putting the last pieces back in her workbox and smiled cheerfully. "Now, is there anything else you'll be needing, Ma'am?"

Sophia shook her head. "Thank you, but... No, I cannot think of anything else."

The two of them left the room together, Gemma walking towards the back of the house, where the servants' corridors no doubt were, and Sophia towards the front of the house and the main staircase. The hall, she noticed, was suffused with a soft glow of morning sunlight shining through the many tall windows. In the warmer light, she glanced down at her gown, at her work-worn hands, at the toes of her slippers that peeked out from beneath her hem with every step.

She wondered why she should suddenly care so much about her dress, and how Lord Haughton and his sister perceived her. But, of course, she knew the answer. If her dress was shabby, if her hair was unkempt and anything about her appearance less than pristine, she knew it may count against her as an appropriate guardian for George. Illegitimate he may be, but he was still related to them by blood, and as a consequence, they may not find her, or her damp, drafty cottage as good enough for their nephew, the son of their overly coddled and petted brother.

At the bottom of the stairs, a footman stepped forward and directed her towards the dining room. She thanked him, proceeded towards the door, and went inside.

She had expected to find the room empty. And indeed it was, for the most part. A sideboard, set against one wall, held all manner of silver-domed platters and dishes, and she could smell the rashers of bacon and ham, the scrambled eggs and toast, her mouth watering instinctively as she paused to take another deep breath. But her attention was quickly diverted from the food when she noticed Lord Haughton already seated at the table, a cup of coffee set before him and a copy of The Times shielding most of his upper body from view.

Another step forward into the room, and he must have been alerted to her presence. One corner of the paper drifted down, and then he pushed his chair back and rose immediately to his feet. A stiff bow, and his bright gaze seemed to fix on her with a most alarming intensity.

"Mrs. Brixton," he said, his voice more gruff than normal. Or perhaps that was simply her imagination and her nerves playing tricks on her. "Good morning."

She paused before walking towards the sideboard and all of its most delicious-smelling offerings. "Good morning, my lord," she returned the greeting with a small nod of her own.

The niceties done away with, she returned to procuring her breakfast while he remained standing by his chair, his newspaper still clutched and folded in his hand. She noticed he was not all in black and white today, his coat rather a dark shade of blue, contrasting nicely with the buff shade of his breeches.

He continued to watch her as she picked up a plate and lifted the lid from the first platter. As if to make up for his earlier hesitation upon her entering the room, he dropped his paper on the table and walked up beside her, his hand extended, palm upturned as he offered to take her plate from her.

"Allow me," he said. "Please."

She drew in a breath. To protest, she knew, would be nothing short of petty. And so she passed the plate into his keeping, and calmly and succinctly told him which items to add to her plate as he moved down the length of the sideboard.

"Thank you," she said when he had finished. She meant to take the plate from him, but he insisted on returning with her to the table, setting down her plate and pulling out her chair for her.

She was incredibly hungry, she realized. Picking up her knife and fork, she plunged into the meal without worrying about making any attempts at conversation with the man across from her. Indeed, Lord Haughton had no difficulty returning to his own seat and resuming his perusal of the newspaper, acting for all as if she were not even in the same room as him.

A few minutes passed however, and she began to feel a prickling around the vicinity of her collarbone. She looked up from her now half-finished breakfast, and noticed his gaze upon her, only his eyes and the bridge of his nose visible above the fold of his newspaper.

"I'm sorry if I intruded on your privacy," she said, and toyed with a bit of potato on her plate. "One of the maids informed that breakfast had already been laid. If I had known you were the only one down here..."

His mouth twitched. Was he fighting the urge to smile or to frown? Considering what she knew of him, no doubt it must be the latter. "If I had wanted privacy, I would've remained in my room and ordered my meal to be brought up to me." He gave his paper another shake, though his attention did not return to it. "You are a guest in this house, Mrs. Brixton. I would not wish for you to feel unwelcome at any time."

She said nothing to this, but popped her bite of potatoes into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully for longer than was necessary.

"And why, may I ask, am I a guest in this home?" She set down her utensils and dabbed carefully at the corners of her mouth.

Lord Haughton's gaze found her again, only this time, he folded his newspaper in half, then again, and tossed it onto the table before him. "I beg your pardon?"

Sophia drew herself up in her chair. She was alone, with Lord Haughton. When she would have another chance to speak with him in private, she did not know. The last thing she was going to do was waste such a golden opportunity.

"The last we saw of each other, in Stantreath, we did not part on anything even closely resembling equitable terms. Then, nothing for weeks. Until I receive a letter, containing both an apology and an invitation to come here, with George, to stay in your home for an unspecified amount of time." She kept her voice low, calm, as if they were discussing nothing more than the state of the weather outdoors. But all of the tension that had begun to build inside of her since arriving at Denton Castle—No, she must trace it even further back, to the moment Lord Haughton had entered her home and offended her so terribly, was beginning to rise to the surface. She paused to take another breath, and allowed herself a moment to smooth the tremble of both nerves and anger from her voice.