Free Jilting the Duke by Rachael Miles Page A

wish to hear about the companionability of the Wilmot marriage.
    â€œThen in the afternoon they would argue.”
    â€œArgue?” Aidan found himself more interested. “About what?”
    â€œWell, not an angry argue,” Ian clarified. “Papa always called it an intellectual disagreement. Mama would compare what he had written to the Latin and tell him how to make it better. Papa would quote something in Latin, and Mama would quote something back, until they found a new sentence they could agree on. Papa said Mama had the best mind of any man he knew.”
    Aidan knew Tom was right. Sophia’s agile intelligence had fascinated Aidan from the moment he’d found her translating Greek in her uncle’s garden. Her aunt’s opposition to her education had forced her to wrap her Greek dictionary in oilcloth and tuck it inside a lidded urn. But he shook off the memory. “Why do you like this one best?”
    â€œI like the hummingbird. Mama put it in the picture because I liked to feed them in the garden. Papa liked this one too. He always said it wasn’t fair that Mama could fix his work, but he could never fix hers. Her illustrations were always perfect. This is the only picture that Papa declared wasn’t perfect. So it was special.”
    Aidan looked back at the image, the strong lines, the delicate coloring. “Why isn’t it perfect?”
    â€œHummingbirds don’t feed on roses.” Ian’s tone hinted that he expected an adult to have a better knowledge of the feeding habits of hummingbirds. “Mama had to make a second one for Papa’s book, but that one wasn’t nearly so good.”
    â€œBecause it didn’t have a hummingbird?” Aidan speculated.
    â€œYes.”
    Aidan found the conversation strange—and strangely compelling. He’d learned more about Sophia and Tom’s relationship in a few minutes than he had in all his years of questioning tourists. He now knew to seek out and follow her advice. He was going to become indispensable to her, as necessary as light and water to her precious plants, then he would withdraw and leave her bereft. Missing his companionship as much as his touch. Abandoned, as he had been.
    Aidan turned from looking at the pictures in time to catch the boy wiping a tear on his sleeve, and he was moved to compassion. Whatever Aidan’s business with the mother, the boy deserved kindness. “Thank you for showing the pictures to me, Ian. Now, where are those soldiers?”
    Ian’s face brightened. He pointed to the far corner of the large room. There on a low table, toy soldiers stood on a thick green cloth. Tufts of fabric bunched up under the green created hills and valleys, and blue cloth cutouts set on top signified rivers and oceans.
    In the shape of his face, Ian looked far more like Sophia, but he resembled Tom in his mannerisms, the way that he tucked his head to the side when thinking or his way of looking into the distance when planning. Even his sighs were colored with Tom’s inflections, so that Aidan could easily forget the years and imagine himself with Tom once more, playing soldiers before either of them knew what losses soldiers face.
    But Ian’s ability to think strategically far surpassed Tom’s at the same age. Tom had hated to lose even a single soldier. He would work so hard to save each one that he would often find himself surrounded or otherwise lose the game. Ian knew he would sustain losses, but worked to minimize them.
    Aidan quickly realized that he wouldn’t be able to offer the game only half of his mind, lest he lose the battle and change the course of English history. Soon he was embroiled in a game of strategy with a sharp-minded boy. When Sophia came to the nursery to see if Aidan needed to be rescued, he was surprised to realize over an hour had passed.
    â€œOh, Mama, please, not yet.” Ian’s disappointment surprisingly mirrored