Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Even with her ever-peculiar requests, the meeting with Mrs. Honora Gillingham was less an exercise in patience than Andrew’s unexpected one with Sophie.
What had she been thinking, going out alone with the weather precarious as it was?
She could have been lost, or worse. He’d seen how the water blanketed the windows of the bank and had felt how cold her hands had become from her time out there.
Blast, now he was thinking about her hands.
Why could he not get a firmer grip on these wretched emotions of his? She was married. Entirely unavailable to him. He could not have his heart leaping into his throat at a single touch to her hands.
And yet, again, he could not help but wonder at the stupidity of the situation.
Why was her husband not here caring for her?
Why was Andrew having to see to her well-being when she had a different deuced man who should be doing it for her?
She’d called him elusive. Andrew would use a far stronger term.
The meeting bled into one with the bank’s shareholders, which adjourned without much progress actually being made, and Andrew left without his usual making of the rounds of investors.
As his career aspirations included opening a bank of his own, these meetings with the lofty men who either ran or funded the bank were critical to his success, but he had a woman in his office.
And he very much believed she would slip out if he did not return directly.
Sophie had always done what she thought best; it might have been frustrating if she hadn’t been right in her assessments the vast majority of the time.
Which actually made it doubly frustrating, because she both went against advice often, and proved his—or others’ opinions—faulty.
He crossed the public room of the bank, entering his office and, to no one’s surprise, not finding Sophie.
“Devil take it,” he muttered, rubbing a hand across his mouth.
“My, Andrew, your language has flowered over the last few years.” She popped her head around the armchair, grinning.
Andrew’s heart leapt, once again, into his throat, but he took it firmly in hand and propelled it back where it belonged as he shook his head, crossing to her. She was curled up in the chair, even her legs tucked up beside her, a paper in hand.
Her unrepentant grin dissolved into a businesslike expression. “I hope you do not mind; I helped myself to your desk, but I grew too cold so returned here after a time.”
“I do not mind in the least. Let us get you home where you can become warm in earnest.” The word home slipped from his mouth without his thinking. It was home: his home. But something about referring to it as that to her made his neck grow hot.
“Just a moment,” she said, unfurling her legs and coming to a stand. “I think I have discovered the problem with your schedule.”
“I have too much to do?”
Her lips twitched. “Well, yes, there is that. Does everyone at this bank work like a madman as well?”
Andrew shook his head. “It is only I on the verge of being institutionalized. Not everyone has the same goals.”
“I should like to hear about these goals. But first, I think the main issue is that your time is not properly sectioned off. You should have a time for general meetings, a time to meet with clients, and a time to work on the necessary secretarial work for the bank, rather than having them mix haphazardly throughout the day. I imagine it is not always possible to consolidate these tasks, but your clerk should at least attempt to do so.” She came to stand beside him, lifting a paper up for his inspection.
His eyes rolled over the markings. She had copied his weekly schedule to the page, then made various notes with arrows, moving different items around.
“I also noted which meetings, by their summary, could be a letter rather than an in-person meeting, which would be better if you could manage that.” She pointed to three meetings throughout the week.
“And you appear to have couriers arriving throughout the day with notes and missives from clients and partners. I would designate a time for those deliveries—barring an emergency—so you are not constantly interrupted.”
He nodded, seeing her point.
“Also,” her eyes slid to his, her lips quirking. “If you bring your lunch, rather than have it delivered, I imagine that would cut back on a few unnecessary minutes at least.”
“Yes, taking care of near-drowned damsels regularly would cut into my work hours.”
She nodded solemnly. “Immensely.” Then, stepping away and gesturing at the paper, she added, “I cannot be certain without seeing it put into action, but I believe a day or two of these changes and you will begin to see upwards of several work hours a week being returned to you.”
Andrew’s eyes snapped to hers. “Truly?”
She nodded, her lips twisted up at an angle that said she was just as proud as he was.
“Would you like a job?”
A light laugh burst from her, bringing a smile to his face. “If this position with Mr. Whitcomb does not come to fruition, I may take you up on that.”
As she smiled at him, he became aware of just how close they were standing. Their shoulders were nearly touching, her face turned up to meet his gaze. His chest heated at her nearness, and he cleared his throat.
“This is brilliant,” he said, lifting the page and stepping away. “I shall do my best to implement it within the next few days.”
She nodded, a smile still on her face. For someone whose emotions so clearly promenaded across her expression, he could read nothing there but that same pride as before. Was she unaffected by their nearness?
What a deucedly stupid question to ask. Of course, she was unaffected. He had no clue if she’d held a candle for him when they were younger, as he had her. But now she was married and would have none of these conflicting emotions raging through her.
He should have none of these emotions. What had happened to his logical capabilities?
“Now that my work is done, I will comply with returning to your home,” she said. “But after seeing the state of your schedule, I cannot in good conscience allow you to accompany me. There are nigh on three hours left to the workday.”
“And I cannot allow you to return on your own, after what befell you here.”
“It is a short ride by gig, Andrew. I believe I shall survive.”
He only raised a brow. That very short trip had nearly drowned her on the way here.
“Besides,” he added, when she returned his expression with an identical one of her own, “I have a social engagement this evening—I cannot stay late, and the work I have can be done at home.” It was not a lie, precisely.
Social engagements could include an evening holed up in his friend, Rowan’s, house, which was exactly how he had spent the last several nights, only in Tristan and Charles’s company.
Besides, he wanted Rowan’s thoughts on this resurgence of their boyhood wager.
Hadn’t he been promised to some girl in their youth?
He likely was not dismayed in the least by Thomas’s wedding and his own prospects.
Finally, Sophie acquiesced, slipping on her coat and crossing to his desk to pick up the basket she’d brought.
It was still damp, leaving a wet circle in its wake.
She bared her teeth in a grimace before wiping at it with the sleeve of her coat, which also had not entirely dried. “Fustian,” she muttered.
“My, Sophie, your language has—what did you say? Flowered over the years.”
She grinned, her eyes glittering with humor.
Andrew chuckled, packing his portfolio with the accounts and files he would need to complete before tomorrow, then taking the basket from her hands, despite her complaints.
He gestured her from the room, and they entered the main hall of the bank. Theirs was only a moderately sized bank, but Andrew was proud of what Mr. Sternam had built. Andrew had worked here for five years now and been witness to the growth they’d experienced.
After securing them a hackney in the still drizzling afternoon gloom, Andrew assisted Sophie in, then settled himself across from her.
Even drenched though she had been, she was still beautiful.
Her dark hair was rather flattened by the rain, but the cold had brought an extra measure of pink to her cheeks and the tip of her nose.
As the carriage began to amble slowly through the midday traffic, hampered by the rain still steadily falling, Sophie met his eyes. “Thank you. I apologize for intruding on your day, but I am grateful to you for seeing me safely returned.”
“I would hardly be a gentleman if I had not.”
She cocked her head. “And you have always been the gentleman, even when you were teasing me mercilessly—”
“Excuse me, I do believe you did the greater part of the teasing growing up.”
She ignored the comment, though her lips looked suspiciously like they held back a smile. “As I said, you are ever the gentleman. That is a great part of why I sought refuge in your home that first night.”
His mirth dipped, and his responding smile was tight. He did not feel the gentleman. Not with this heat coursing through him at every look from her.
“I am glad you recalled the location. Your family only stayed a handful of times with us.”
She pressed her palms against the seat on either side of her. “Oh, I never forget numbers. Faces and names, often, but not numbers.”
He chuckled at that. She’d always had a penchant for sums and figures.
He recalled many a childhood vacation from school spent with her, requiring him to tell her all he’d learned, then allowing her to see how she could measure up.
She nearly always had, often beating him at the sums and exercises they did.
But when had she gone on to further her knowledge so immensely that she was now considered at the level accepted for the Whitcomb project?
“You always have had that skill—but I do recall your parents working hard to steer your talents in other directions.”