When he returned to his townhouse that evening, a letter awaited him on the desk in his study.
He recognized the hand at once.
Sophia.
For the first time in days, something in him eased completely.
He let out a short breath — almost a laugh.
"As though she knew," he murmured.
He had only just written.
And here, as if in answer to the effort, was her reply already waiting.
He broke the seal and unfolded the pages.
Sophia's letter was fuller than usual.
She wrote of the estate, the lingering cold, the weather beginning at last to soften toward spring. She wrote of her studies and of the endless preparations expected of her as she grew nearer the age at which she would eventually debut.
She wrote of the Duchess — Mama, in the private language of Sophia's heart even if not always on the page — and of household routines, of Arthur's latest absurdity, of Fredrick's latest theory, of Maxim's occasional letters home from boarding school.
Then the tone shifted.
She wrote that she missed Papa and wished the war would end.
That she hoped very much he would return before another Christmas.
That the Duchess spoke bravely but sometimes, when she thought herself unobserved, looked toward the windows in a way Sophia did not like.
Laurence read that passage twice, slower the second time.
Then, at the end, came the part that altered his mood entirely.
She apologized.
Not in dramatic language, but earnestly.
She was sorry, she said, for having kept a secret from him and for not saying goodbye properly when he left after Christmas. She called him her favorite — which, though softened by affectionate humor, landed with more warmth than she perhaps understood — and wrote that the earrings were beautiful, and that she had worn them and thought them more elegant than anything she owned.
Then, with the innocence and audacity only Sophia seemed capable of uniting, she asked whether he might still allow her to send letters to Florian.
She called it one joy she had when he was away.
Laurence stared at that line for a long moment.
Not happy.
Certainly not.
Yet Maxim's voice returned again.
It is only letters and gifts.
He folded the page back against his thumb and drew a measured breath.
Very well.
If letters made her happy, letters she could have.
He would not become a tyrant in his own mind merely because he disliked the direction of her attachment.
He had no right to that.
Not yet.
Perhaps not ever.
So he set aside the irritation and kept the letter.
Sophia, meanwhile, received Laurence's reply and was so startled by its length that she laughed aloud before she had even reached the second page.
This, she thought with delight, was no proper "Laurence letter" at all.
It was too long.
Too descriptive.
Too human.
She read the passage about the frozen rowing channel and dissolved into fresh laughter, immediately picturing Laurence and his companions attempting to mimic river dignity in some echoing indoor hall.
In her imagination, all the men looked graceless except Florian, who, she decided, was almost certainly the only one among them capable of appearing elegant even while sweating and straining.
She read the story of the sleeping student and the thrown board eraser and laughed harder still.
Arthur would absolutely become that sort of boy in time.
The line about Papa on the battlefield quieted her again.
She touched it once with her fingertips before reading on.
And the tulip bulbs delighted her.
She carried them herself to the conservatory and began at once to plan where they should be planted once the soil was ready.
That very evening she wrote back.
She thanked Laurence effusively for writing so much. She told him that his letter had made her laugh more than any in recent memory and that he must continue in exactly the same manner, for she could not bear to return to his old dreadful style of three lines and abrupt farewell.
She told him she hoped he was well.
That the tulips would be planted carefully.
That she wished very much to hear more of his university life.
And because she could not help herself, she added that she imagined all the men in the indoor rowing hall looked ridiculous.
By mid-spring the cold had softened considerably.
April came damp and green, bringing with it the first real sense that the year had turned.
At the gentleman's club one evening, Laurence sat with Florian and several others in a room hazed slightly by cigar smoke and softened by lamplight. The mood was looser than in winter. Talk turned easily from politics to horse breeding to examinations and then, inevitably, to the future.
"One year left," one of the young men remarked with a dramatic sigh. "Then freedom dies."
"Freedom," another replied, "is merely exchanged for land, obligation, and a wife one has met three times."
There was general laughter.
"You say that now," said a third. "Wait until your mother begins selecting candidates."
The conversation shifted, as it always seemed to, toward marriage.
Toward inheritance.
Toward who among them had anyone in mind.
Laurence listened with measured indifference until one of the men turned directly toward him.
"And you, De Montfort? Any lady hidden away in your thoughts?"
Laurence dismissed it with a slight shake of the head.
"I have time. My father still lives and remains in good health. There is no immediate urgency."
Which was true, and more importantly useful.
The attention passed from him quickly enough.
Then someone turned to Florian.
"And you, Erskine? Come now — do not pretend you have not thought on it. You are your house's only heir."
Florian, who had been lifting his glass, paused.
A faint flush rose at once to his face.
Laurence noticed it immediately.
Florian cleared his throat.
"I have thought on it."
"Ah!" came the delighted chorus. "There is a lady."
Florian shifted in visible discomfort.
"There is… someone I have considered but she has not made her debut yet."
Laurence's whole body went still.
He kept his face perfectly neutral.
But his mind sharpened instantly.
Only son.
Older parents.
And the lady has not made yet debut yet.
Everything aligned too neatly.
Sophia.
The thought struck with such force that for a moment the room itself seemed to recede.
He saw, in rapid succession, the handkerchief, the letters, the white hides.
He imagined Sophia taken north.
Into cold harsher than she had ever known.
Into another house.
Away.
Something almost violent rose within him.
He kept his hand still around the stem of his glass only by force of will.
One of the others laughed.
"Well? Who is she? We must know whom to avoid ruining."
Florian looked thoroughly cornered now.
He flushed more deeply and gave a small, embarrassed laugh.
"I am acquainted with her brother."
Laurence's mind was gone. He thought of every vile name and word under the sun that he could possibly ever call Florian.
How dare Florian even think of Sophia, a girl aged ten as a potential bride.
Laurence barely contained himself, reading to strike Florian down where he sat.
"Her name is Elise Valois." Florian said at last.
The effect on Laurence was immediate and almost physical.
Elise.
Not Sophia.
Relief moved through him so swiftly it felt like a thaw after prolonged frost.
Around the table the others began making appreciative noises.
"Elise Valois? Sebastian's sister? The one that graduated last year?"
"The same." Florian nodded sheepishly.
"She is quite a beauty, I hear." said one of the boys.
Florian looked half-pleased and half-mortified by the attention.
"Yes. I first became acquainted with her family through Sebastian. He was above me by two years. Three winters ago I visited their estate for a hunt. Elise was there — fourteen then, I think. She has since turned seventeen and will make her debut next year."
"And you mean to wait?"
Florian's expression softened.
"I think so. She seems… bright. Gentle. Sensible. Sebastian has indicated more than once that he would be pleased with such a connection." Florian rubbed the back of his head, feeling a bit embarrassed to share such private thoughts.
There was more teasing, more laughter, more questions.
Laurence, however, had stopped hearing most of it.
His thoughts had cooled entirely now.
Elise Valois.
A suitable match.
Sensible.
Northern.
No relation to Sophia whatsoever.
The relief was so complete it bordered on euphoria.
The others continued tormenting Florian with cheerful cruelty until Laurence finally rose.
"I have matters to attend to," he said.
Florian seized on the excuse at once.
"I shall go as well."
In truth, Laurence could see he simply wished to escape further interrogation.
They left together and stepped out into the cool spring night, waiting near the curb for their respective carriages.
For a moment they stood in companionable silence.
Then Laurence said, with more warmth than he had shown Florian in some time, "I am pleased to hear you have chosen so sensible a match."
Florian blinked.
Laurence continued.
"If the matter proceeds, you would have my full blessing. And a very grand wedding gift."
Florian looked momentarily stunned by both the sudden approval and the scale of it.
"That is… generous," he managed. "Though perhaps premature. I have not proposed. She may yet reject me."
Laurence gave a quiet scoff and, to Florian's visible surprise, clasped a hand briefly against his shoulder.
"She would be no wiser to let a man such as yourself go."
Florian, caught between embarrassment and gratitude, laughed awkwardly.
"You are unexpectedly encouraging tonight."
"My carriage has arrived," Laurence said, stepping away as the horses drew near. "Good evening."
"Good evening."
Florian still looked a little dazed as Laurence climbed into the carriage.
But Laurence himself was in an excellent humor.
As the carriage rolled away toward his townhouse, the night no longer felt strained or threatening.
For the first time in months, the thought of Florian inspired neither suspicion nor anger.
Only relief.
And he returned to his townhouse, for once, a happy man.