Chapter 15 #2
He smiled, keeping stride with her as she pushed her hands through the sleeves. “Did you enjoy your first day?”
“I have missed the numbers. But I did not love having Mr. Whitcomb looking over my shoulder at every other moment.”
“He will soon see your worth. It is impossible not to.”
It had to be the warmth of the coat that caused the heat to bloom in her chest then.
The sky was far clearer when Sophie set off on foot the following day. Still, she eyed the few wispy clouds skeptically. She was fairly certain Andrew would berate her if she were to incur any untimely weather on her way to the bank.
Yet the chill was all that existed to deter her, so she was perfectly safe the entirety of the way.
He must have known she was arriving, because as she neared the doors, they opened, and there he stood, smiling at her and holding out a hand for the basket. She relinquished it and followed him back to his office.
“These sandwiches appear far more appetizing than the last,” he said with a grin as he unpacked the contents onto his desk.
“I asked your cook to add a bit less water this time.” She pulled off her gloves, twisting at the little ring on her left hand. She didn’t seem capable of leaving it be.
“Leave it to you to see to all the little details.” He winked.
She rested her hands on the chair across from him, a smile tugging at her cheeks. “I even ordered the weather into submission, you might have noticed.”
“Brilliant, you are.”
She tossed her head. “I am simply one not to disappoint.”
“I shall bear that in mind.”
“Best do.” She gave a decisive nod.
Rather than sitting on that side of his desk, he gestured to the chairs by the fire. “Shall we?”
She settled herself into one of the chairs, unable to keep from slipping off her shoes and tucking her feet beneath her.
He did not even blink at the show of indecorum.
It was relieving—she knew some things would have to change for a married woman, but she hoped he would not wish to alter her strange tendencies overmuch.
He handed her one of the sandwiches and bit into another just as a knock sounded at the door.
His brow wrinkled. “I asked that we not be disturbed during lunch, so this might be urgent. Excuse me.” He settled his food on a napkin and crossed to the door.
Sophie knew from experience that the armchair hid her from view of the office’s entrance, so she simply remained sequestered as she was, taking a small bite of her sandwich. It really was quite delicious, for such simple fare.
“Langford, the Eldridge account is out of balance, and Lord Eldridge is coming today.” The man’s voice was harried.
“I am aware. It is on my schedule to see to. Eldridge will not be here until four o’clock.”
“If you have a moment, I’d prefer to see this handled now.”
“In fact, I am busy at the moment.”
A pause. “You are eating lunch.”
“Yes. With my wife.” He said it with even composure, but shock froze Sophie in place at hearing her newest title.
The man guffawed. “You haven’t a wife.”
“I tend to keep my private affairs to myself, but when you choose to interrupt us—”
“Interrupt what? You are in here alone, man.”
Swallowing the bite she’d nearly choked on, Sophie set her food down, surreptitiously slipped on her shoes, and stood with an apologetic smile painting her face.
The man jolted. He was of a height with Andrew, but with at least a decade’s years on him, a rounded middle, and black hair peppered with gray. “By Jove, man. You have a wife.”
Sophie pinched her lips together but offered a shallow curtsy. “I certainly hope he does. Or else, I have a great deal of questions for him.”
The man was staring at her, eyes round. “My apologies, ma’am.”
“None needed. I know how busy Andrew is. I simply wished to steal him away for half an hour.”
“An hour, actually,” Andrew cut in. “The entire hour.” He turned back to his colleague. “You are welcome to return at noon to go over the account.”
Heat pooled in Sophie’s stomach, and a pleased smile crept onto her face, though she hadn’t a clue why it was there. Would she never regain control over her unwieldy body? When exactly had it decided to go rogue?
At some point, the man had shifted his attention back to Andrew, and he nodded. “I’ll return at noon then. Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Langford.” He dipped his head.
“And you as well, Mr…”
“Sturgeon,” Andrew supplied, coming to stand beside her. Feather-light, his fingers brushed her back as they splayed between her hips and ribs.
Gooseflesh erupted there, but she held onto her composure with a vice-like grip. “Mr. Sturgeon,” she demurred, with a nod of her own. “I appreciate you allowing me to borrow my… husband.”
She thought Andrew’s hand tensed against her back, but a moment later, it was as soft as before. Mr. Sturgeon let himself out, then several breaths later, Andrew’s hand departed as well. It left a strange awareness there, even when it was gone.
“Well, that should do it.”
She looked her surprise at him.
He retreated to his desk and leaned against it, eyes steady on her.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Sturgeon is worse than Mrs. Haverwick. He will inform the rest of the staff that I am married, and soon it will be a well-known fact, without anyone knowing exactly when the marriage occurred.”
“Mrs. Haverwick!” Sophie declared, a snag in their plan jumping out at her.
His face registered both confusion then dismay as her meaning hit him. “Her party. We will need to fake our marriage there.”
“But I told my parents I would not reveal their lie. Our relationship will not stand up against Mrs. Haverwick’s questioning; she would wonder why my mother and father did not announce the marriage was to you.
She will know you are not titled, as Mother said my husband was.
We would have to tell her that my parents falsified a marriage, and then all of our town will know, and that could very well make it back to Mr. Whitcomb, or worse, our families, before the marriage truly takes place. ”
Andrew gripped his desk as his eyes unfocused in thought. “We will have to turn down the invitation, then.”
Sophie’s spirits sank. She did not wish to hurt friends with this endeavor. She was meant to be fixing the lie her parents had created, not creating her own. But she could not see a way around it, so she nodded. “You are right, I am sure.”
“I will send a letter round. I suppose you will need to as well, if we are meant to be two entities, not one, in this circumstance.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.”
“But let us not worry about that now.” He pushed from the desk. “I am, after all, meant to be enjoying lunch with my wife.”
“You mean strategizing our faux marriage is not enjoyable?”
He stopped just in front of her, a hair closer than was generally comfortable, and yet she did not feel uncomfortable in the least. Her chin ticked up to keep his gaze, her eyebrow lifted. “I think I shall engage in my faux marriage instead.”
“Exactly how do you mean to do that?” Sophie barely recognized the breathy tone in which her voice exhibited itself.
Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his hand, brushing a curl behind her ear, his fingers lingering where her jaw met her neck. “We ought to become familiar with touch, yes? If we are meant to convince others we have been married for years.”
“Y–yes.” Her heart hammered uselessly in her chest. It was a struggle to pull in breath.
His knuckles dragged along her jaw to her chin, then both hands trailed across her shoulders and down her arms to take her hands in his. She was frozen beneath his touch, but her skin felt like fire. His thumb adjusted the ring on her finger.
“You are beautiful, Soph,” he said, the words quiet. His eyes seemed to be watching for something, but that made no amount of sense.
Nothing made any sense.
“How kind of you to notice.” The words bubbled up from her, essentially pointless, but needed to fill the space of response where suddenly she felt a lack.
His fingers squeezed hers, then released, but his eyes remained focused on her. Intent. “I mean it.”
She swallowed. “Thank you.”
His gaze narrowed as if probing for more, but her mind was a muddled mess. What was she meant to do or say here? He said he meant it, but he’d also just paraded her as his faux wife—and she knew very well his reasons for entering into this bargain: practical, pragmatic reasons.
He found, or did not, whatever he’d been seeking, and stepped back, adjusting his waistcoat. “We had best get you fed before sending you off to Mr. Whitcomb.” His tone was tight.
With a bit more room to breathe, she collected her thoughts, returning to her chair, though her steps felt sluggish. “You make it sound as if I’m for the lion’s den.”
He shrugged a little, settling back into his chair. “It is rather fitting, though, isn’t it?”
And with her laugh, normalcy returned; they spent half an hour in companionable conversation, until Andrew insisted she allow him to walk her to Whitcomb’s, where he informed her he would return to collect her at five o’clock.
She traversed the stairs to the home, somehow feeling both out of sorts and entirely comfortable. It was a strange dichotomy, indeed.