Page 15 of Coloring a Silent Earl’s Heart

Alexander stood before the mirror as Jenkins adjusted his evening attire, tugging the waistcoat to eliminate an imaginary wrinkle. The valet’s expression revealed nothing of his thoughts, yet Alexander sensed his disapproval of the evening’s proceedings.

The entire household seemed to share his sentiment—this dinner party, hastily arranged at his mother’s insistence, had disrupted Balfour Abbey’s peaceful routine. He turned around to face Jenkins.

“Her Ladyship requests your presence in the drawing room at half-past six,” Jenkins informed him, stepping back to examine his handiwork with professional scrutiny. “The first guests are expected to arrive by seven.”

Alexander nodded, unable to summon enthusiasm even for Jenkins’s benefit. The evening stretched before him like an elaborate form of torture—forced socialization with neighbors who would either avoid him entirely or speak with exaggerated care, as though his impaired hearing had somehow affected his intelligence as well.

Lady Aldeburgh had presented the dinner party as a necessary step in his recovery , though her true purpose could not have been more transparent.

Six eligible young ladies from neighboring estates had been invited, each one possessing impeccable bloodlines if not particularly scintillating personalities. His mother’s determination to see the Balfour line continued had apparently overcome her reluctance to display her damaged son before society.

A slight vibration in the floorboards alerted him to approaching footsteps moments before Gregory appeared in the doorway, resplendent in formal attire.

“Ready to face the inquisition?” his friend inquired with deliberately exaggerated cheer.

Alexander reached for his notebook with a resigned expression.

I begin to think Spanish prison camps offered more subtle forms of torment.

Gregory laughed, and despite himself, even Alexander smiled. “Come now, it’s merely dinner and conversation. And Lady Sinclair will be present, which surely that offers some consolation?”

The mention of Sophia brought a complicated mixture of anticipation and dread. As they continued to work together, a tentative understanding had formed between them—one Alexander valued more than he cared to admit. Now she would be subjected to his mother’s barely concealed disdain while watching him perform like an oddity for the local gentry.

Lady Sinclair has better uses for her time than witnessing my social humiliation , he wrote, though the thought of her presence did indeed provide the only bright prospect in an otherwise dismal evening.

“I somehow doubt she shares that assessment,” Gregory replied with pointed emphasis that Alexander chose to ignore. “In any case, we’d best proceed downstairs. Lady Aldeburgh values punctuality above all virtues save perhaps proper mourning attire.”

Alexander nodded, tucking his notebook and pencil into his pocket before following Gregory from the chamber. As they descended the grand staircase, his friend mentioned something about ‘reinforcements having arrived,’ but Alexander missed the specifics, his attention momentarily diverted by a painting he’d never properly noticed before—a pastoral scene rendered with surprising sensitivity for a work of its era.

The drawing room was ablaze with light, every candle in the crystal chandeliers burning as though to banish any hint of shadow. Lady Aldeburgh stood near the fireplace in mourning silk moderated only slightly for evening wear, her silver-streaked hair arranged in careful coils beneath a cap of Belgian lace.

Beside her, to Alexander’s surprise, stood Mrs. Peabody, the housekeeper, and Mrs. Potter, the cook, both appearing distinctly uncomfortable in such formal surroundings.

His mother’s gaze fastened upon him immediately, assessing his appearance with the critical eye of a general inspecting troops before battle. Whatever she found apparently satisfied minimum requirements, for she inclined her head slightly before turning her attention to the servants.

“You may proceed with final preparations,” she instructed. “Ensure the Madeira is properly decanted and remind Thomas that the fish course must be served from the left.”

As the servants withdrew, Lady Aldeburgh approached Alexander, her expression suggesting she was about to confront an unpleasant duty.

“The Misses Covington will be in attendance tonight,” she informed him, referring to the daughters of a neighboring baronet. “Their mother indicates that Georgiana has made remarkable progress with her watercolors. You might find conversation on artistic subjects less taxing than political matters.”

The suggestion—well-intentioned despite its condescending undertone—sparked an unexpected flash of irritation. Before his injury, Lady Aldeburgh had never presumed to direct his social interactions. Now she arranged them with the careful consideration one might give to managing a child’s playmates.

He reached for his notebook, prepared to assert his capability to conduct his own affairs, when the drawing room door opened to admit Sophia and her lady’s maid. The words died unwritten as Alexander took in her appearance with undisguised appreciation.

She looked beautiful, and his heart jumped at the sight.

“Lady Sinclair,” his mother acknowledged with the barest inclination of her head. “I trust you are still comfortable here.”

“Most comfortable, Lady Aldeburgh,” Sophia replied, curtseying with perfect grace despite the subtle slight in his mother’s greeting. “Balfour Abbey’s hospitality remains beyond reproach.”

Something in her expression suggested Sophia understood precisely the distinction Lady Aldeburgh had attempted to establish. The observation pleased Alexander immensely, his mood lifting despite the ordeal that awaited him.

Before further pleasantries could be exchanged, Jenkins appeared to announce the arrival of Sir William and Lady Covington, along with their daughters. The evening had commenced, and Alexander steeled himself for hours of social navigation with only his notebook and Gregory’s occasional assistance to guide him through the complexities of conversation.

By the time dinner was announced, ten guests had joined the residents of Balfour Abbey, neighboring gentry of varying ranks and backgrounds, each one carefully selected by Lady Aldeburgh for maximum social advantage with minimum risk of impropriety.

Alexander found himself seated at the head of the table as protocol demanded, with Miss Georgiana Covington positioned to his right and elderly Lady Townsend to his left—the latter presumably chosen for her tendency toward monologues that required minimal attention.

From his position, Alexander could observe Sophia placed near the table’s opposite end between a portly clergyman and Gregory’s younger cousin, her bearing suggesting neither discomfort nor pleasure at her assigned company. She responded to their conversation with composed politeness, her occasional glances toward Alexander betraying awareness of his predicament.

Miss Covington, a pale young woman with fashionably arranged curls, had apparently been thoroughly briefed on Alexander’s condition. She spoke with exaggerated clarity, her mouth forming words with such deliberate precision that any attempt at natural conversation became impossible.

Her artistic interests, touted by Lady Aldeburgh as common ground, proved limited to decorative accomplishments taught by an expensive governess with more regard for technique than creativity.

“I find watercolors so very soothing,” she pronounced during the fish course, her expression suggesting she expected profound agreement. “Though I confess landscapes present difficulties. One can never quite capture the proper perspective of mountains, can one?”

Alexander nodded politely, though his thoughts drifted to Sophia’s masterful rendering of Balfour’s coastal views, where perspective seemed to emerge naturally from her brush with neither effort nor affectation. The comparison was perhaps unfair to Miss Covington, who had been given no reason to develop genuine talent beyond the requirements of genteel accomplishment.

As the meal progressed through multiple courses, Alexander found himself increasingly isolated despite being surrounded by people. Lady Townsend had launched into a detailed account of her late husband’s parliamentary career, requiring no contribution beyond occasional nods of acknowledgment. Miss Covington, perhaps sensing his distraction, had turned her attention to the gentleman on her other side.

Though he maintained the appearance of social engagement, Alexander’s gaze returned repeatedly to Sophia, whose animated conversation with Gregory’s cousin suggested topics of genuine interest.

Once, their eyes met across the table, and she offered a small, private smile that conveyed perfect understanding of his situation. The simple acknowledgment heartened him beyond reason—here was one person who saw his discomfort without pitying it.

When the ladies withdrew after dessert, leaving the gentlemen to their port, Alexander found temporary relief from the strain of forced socialization.

Gregory positioned himself nearby, effectively shielding him from well-meaning but awkward attempts at inclusion while maintaining the appearance of normal social intercourse. The respite proved short-lived, however, as Lady Aldeburgh’s plans for the evening’s entertainment soon became apparent.

Upon rejoining the ladies in the drawing room, they discovered the furniture had been rearranged to accommodate parlor games. A small table near the fireplace held folded papers for charades, while card tables had been set up in the adjacent morning room for those preferring more sedate pastimes.

“I thought perhaps some light entertainment might prove agreeable,” Lady Aldeburgh announced with the air of one conferring an unexpected treat. “Charades for the younger members of our party, and whist for those who prefer it.”

The suggestion met with polite enthusiasm from the guests, though Alexander noted Sophia’s carefully neutral expression as the company divided itself according to preference. The younger ladies gravitated predictably toward charades, while several of the gentlemen, including Sir William Covington and the local magistrate, retired to the morning room for cards.

Alexander found himself caught in an awkward predicament. His impairment made charades particularly challenging—he could not hear the whispered consultations or subtle verbal clues that facilitated the game. Yet retreating to the card room meant abandoning Sophia to his mother’s sphere of influence, where she would undoubtedly face subtle slights throughout the remainder of the evening.

The decision was made for him when Sophia approached, her expression conveying determination beneath social pleasantry.

“Would you consider partnering for charades, Lord Aldeburgh?” she asked, her direct gaze suggesting purposes beyond mere game-playing. “I find I perform best with a partner who observes carefully.”

Alexander hesitated only briefly before nodding, her offer representing unexpected salvation from social awkwardness. They shared a loaded glance—one that showed him that Sophia too, saw the absurdity of playing charades, the game his life had become.

Gregory, observing this development with evident approval, immediately suggested they form teams of two persons each, with himself and Miss Covington comprising the second pair, and the remaining young ladies joining forces as the third.

As they arranged themselves around the drawing room, Alexander found himself both apprehensive and curiously exhilarated. The prospect of public performance normally repelled him, yet partnering with Sophia offered a strange confidence he could not entirely explain.

His mother watched these arrangements with evident disapproval, though social constraints prevented direct intervention. She seated herself slightly removed from the players, her posture suggesting she observed rather than participated in the evening’s frivolity.

The game commenced with Miss Covington’s team selecting the first word. Her performance proved predictably conventional—elaborate gestures toward her own attire indicating “gown” or “dress,” followed by pointed reference to the mantel clock suggesting “time.” Gregory’s contribution involved an enthusiastic if inelegant mimicry of casting a fishing line, apparently intended to represent “line.”

“Deadline,” guessed Sophia after brief consideration, her quick comprehension eliciting surprised approval from their opponents.

When their turn arrived, Alexander found himself unexpectedly absorbed in the challenge. Without verbal communication, he and Sophia relied entirely on physical expression and the understanding that had developed during their portrait sessions.

Her gestures proved remarkably effective, while his own contributions seemed instinctively attuned to her thought processes. Of course, that made the game of charades far simpler for the pair of them.

What began as a mere social obligation transformed into genuine pleasure. They guessed each other’s clues with an accuracy that increasingly astonished the other participants, their success based not on conventional signals but on a deeper recognition of how each approached problems.

By the game’s third round, Alexander found himself rather enjoying the activity, Sophia’s evident delight in their partnership banishing his usual self-consciousness. Even Lady Aldeburgh’s rigid countenance had softened marginally in the face of her son’s unexpected animation.

The respite from social strain ended abruptly with the appearance of a new figure in the drawing room doorway. Alexander’s attention, momentarily fixed on Sophia’s graceful rendering of “ocean,” shifted as he registered Gregory’s sudden tension. Standing in the entrance, observing the proceedings with undisguised disdain, was a tall gentleman in formal attire, a dour expression on his pointed face.

Recognition dawned immediately—Lord Shropshire, the arrogant man from the Hound and Hare whose dismissive assessment had awakened Alexander’s dormant pride.

More significant than Shropshire’s unexpected appearance, however, was Sophia’s reaction to it. Though she maintained outward composure, Alexander detected immediate distress in the subtle stiffening of her shoulders, the almost imperceptible paling of her cheeks. Her eyes, previously warm with shared amusement, now held awareness that bordered on fear.

As the final round of charades concluded with their team’s predictable victory, Alexander observed Sophia’s movements with increasing concern. She excused herself to retrieve refreshment from the side table, her usual grace momentarily constrained by evident tension.

Shropshire, who had been conversing with the magistrate near the card room entrance, detached himself from that conversation with predatory smoothness. He intercepted Sophia at the refreshment table, positioning himself to block her return to the main gathering.

Though Alexander could not hear their exchange, the visual evidence spoke volumes. Shropshire’s posture—leaning slightly forward, invading her personal space—conveyed aggression thinly disguised as social interaction. Sophia’s response, a nearly imperceptible withdrawal that dignity prevented from becoming actual retreat, suggested she found his proximity threatening.

The conversation progressed with increasing tension evident in Sophia’s bearing. When Shropshire reached to grasp her wrist in what appeared to casual observers as merely an emphatic gesture, Alexander saw her flinch.

The sight propelled him across the room with purposeful strides, years of military command momentarily overriding social hesitation. Gregory, sensing his friend’s intent, followed closely behind, his expression suggesting a similar assessment of the situation’s impropriety. Shropshire’s entire face turned cold as he turned to face Gregory.

“Lord Shropshire,” Gregory addressed the taller man with deliberate civility that barely concealed underlying steel. “I believe Lady Aldeburgh was hoping to make your acquaintance this evening.”

Shropshire’s grip on Sophia’s wrist slackened but did not release entirely. He turned toward the interruption with poorly concealed irritation.

“Camden,” he acknowledged curtly. “And Lord Aldeburgh himself. I was just renewing my acquaintance with Lady Sinclair. We have certain... unfinished business.”

The slight emphasis on those final words, combined with the increased pressure Alexander observed on Sophia’s captive wrist, confirmed his assessment—Shropshire represented not merely social unpleasantness but actual threat.

Without conscious thought, Alexander moved forward, positioning himself deliberately between Sophia and her tormentor. The action required Shropshire to either release her or create an obvious scene. After a moment’s hesitation, he chose the former, though his expression suggested the concession merely postponed rather than resolved their confrontation.

It was quite evident even from a distance that the conversation in the drawing room had stilled, the assembled company suddenly aware that some drama beyond parlor games had entered their midst. Lady Aldeburgh, ever vigilant against social impropriety, approached with regal displeasure etched across her features.

“Lady Sinclair,” she addressed Sophia with pointed emphasis that ignored both her son and Shropshire. “Perhaps you might assist Miss Covington with the music selection.”

The transparent attempt to remove Sophia from the situation carried unmistakable subtext—Lady Aldeburgh considered her the cause rather than a victim of the disruption. Alexander felt anger kindle in his chest, his mouth opening instinctively to speak when the futility of the attempt struck him anew.

The drawing room contained too many people speaking at once, their movements and conversations creating visual chaos that made lip-reading nearly impossible. Fragments of dialogue reached him—Lady Townsend’s attempt to redirect attention toward the upcoming assembly, Miss Covington’s nervous inquiry about musical selections—but coherent understanding eluded him just when he most needed it.

As Lady Aldeburgh escorted Sophia firmly toward the pianoforte, Alexander found himself caught in the hell of his condition—aware of the threat but unable to effectively intervene, capable of physical action but denied the verbal tools to shape its reception.

The struggle must have shown in his expression, for Gregory placed a steadying hand on his arm, lips forming careful words: “I’ll stay with Lady Sinclair. Address Shropshire.”

The simple directive crystallized Alexander’s scattered thoughts. Whatever connection existed between Sophia and Shropshire, whatever threat the man represented, required immediate investigation. Turning back to the military officer with deliberate precision, Alexander reached for his notebook, intent on demanding an explanation for his behavior toward Sophia.

Before he could complete the action, Shropshire offered a mocking bow, his lips forming words Alexander caught only partially: “...more hospitable circumstances... proper appreciation of Lady Sinclair’s... situation.”

With that cryptic statement, he turned toward the card room, effectively removing himself from confrontation while maintaining the appearance of social propriety. Alexander watched him go, frustration burning in his throat like bitter Spanish wine, the words he could not speak aloud building pressure that found no release.

Across the room, Sophia stood beside Lady Aldeburgh, her posture perfect yet somehow diminished, as though some essential vitality had been temporarily extinguished. Their eyes met briefly across the intervening space—a moment of connection that conveyed volumes despite its brevity.

Whatever threat Shropshire represented clearly extended beyond ordinary social unpleasantness. Alexander resolved in that moment that he would discover its nature, regardless of his mother’s disapproval or society’s constraints.

For the first time since Spain, something beyond his own suffering had kindled genuine determination. The emotion, though uncomfortable in its intensity, felt strangely like returning to life after prolonged dormancy.