Page 69 of His Enemy Duchess

Sophia chewed on her lower lip. “And he just… left you here?”

“Heavens, no. He visits as often as he can and ensures I am well taken care of.Idon’t go to the manor so that I don’t cause any upset with his mother—she has never liked me, as she believes I made him too soft, and I don’t want conflict. So, I stay here, as happy as I can be, awaiting my grandson’s visits.

“But that’s the kind of man Thomas is. I may have failed my son and had to watch him risk his life in foolish bouts of hatred, but I could never be more proud of my grandson. And now that I know you too, Sophia…”

Sophia realized that her cheeks were wet with tears as Rosamund reached out and wiped them with a finger.

“Even if you didn’t marry for love… I know you will end up finding each other. I know it in my heart—and, my dear, it has never been wrong before.”

Sophia lay awake in the guest bedchamber, not much soothed by the fragrant scent of lavender that drifted through the air. The events of the day were running rampant through her mind. Rosamund had just told her the story of a lifetime and one that if it was true…

That means all of this has been for nothing. All of the stories I have heard about duels of honor ending in death… All of those people died for… for nothing…

And then there was Rosamund’s unshakable belief that Sophia and Thomas could fall in love. The worst part was that Sophia couldn’t deny it. Not anymore. Knowing that the feud had started with love had changed every single thing she had learned about the Pratts. And most importantly,him.

How could Thomas possibly get closer to her, perhaps love her, when lies were ingrained in him?

While at Rosamund’s, she had ceased believing that his abandonment of her in the study was a cruel game. Instead, she had a feeling he had left her because he thought he should, because he thought he had stepped over an eighty-year-old boundary and could not bear the idea of being the Pratt who had.

The marriage was just to end the feud in a formal sense, but it couldn’t undo all those years of lies.

She sighed and rubbed her eyes. Sleep was not meant for her this night, it seemed, so she got up.

She hadn’t packed any books with her, but she didn’t have to. She knew Rosamund had her own collection of books, and Sophia was bound to start exploring them at some point. And there wasn’t a chance of Thomas interrupting her reading this time.

No temptations…

She wandered quietly through the house, as she could hear Rosamund snoring in her bedroom. It sounded funny to her more than anything else, and she wouldn’t dream of waking her up.

Before long, she was in the small reading room on the north side of the house. It was not as large and luxurious as the one back atHeathcote Manor, nor occupied by any scantily clad husbands, but it was a lot cozier. This one even had its own set of lanterns, so there was no need to skulk around like a thief at night.

She started running her eyes over the book titles and giving them a quick read. A lot of them were practical books about different household chores—mostly gardening, embroidering, and even some cooking. But something caught her eye due to its unusual color—a bright blue.

This has to be interesting.

She immediately rose on her tiptoes and pulled it down.

Huh… this is… odd.

The book did not have a title. Only a single embossed sigil on the front cover. She recognized it instantly, as she had to look at it every day when she walked out the door of the manor. It was the Pratt family sigil. Unmistakably so. Suspecting it might be a dull ledger or something—but still curious—she opened it, to be sure.

I met a man… His name is Edmund Kendall.

Sophia’s eyes widened in surprise as she realized what she was looking at. This wasn’t a business ledger or anything of the sort.

This was a diary.

Is this diary… whose I think it is?

She carefully carried the book to the reading table and focused the lantern light on it, her heart beating with fervor in her chest. She read, fast, faster than she had ever read before.

CHAPTER 25

Sophia devoured the book like a woman possessed, gasping and stifling tears, laughing and sighing, her heart leaping and breaking for a woman long dead, who had poured her emotions into those pages.

Eliza was a masterful writer, penning vivid descriptions and spilling all of her innermost thoughts onto the paper, sparing nothing.

Some things were almost too private, prompting Sophia to skim past them, and though she already knew how the story ended, it was like hearing it again for the first time, through the annals of decades.

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