Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
It had only been two days. Only two days of this strange arrangement with Sophie, wherein he hoped to coax her to care for him as he cared for her.
Except it was hard to remember it was only two days, when he felt as if he’d made no progress.
She was just as friendly and personable as ever, but not once in their time together—of which he’d tried to ensure was plentiful—had she shown even a spark of interest beyond friendship. Easy conversation, humorous recollections, general pleasantries.
He wanted more.
It was disheartening, but he was not about to give up.
Many times, he considered just informing her of his feelings, but she was trapped in their arrangement now, and he would rather maim himself than make her uncomfortable around him.
As he seemed to have done in his office.
Telling her she was beautiful? Becoming comfortable with touch?
He was still plagued with embarrassment over his attempts.
If she learned how he felt and did not return those feelings, he could alienate any opportunity of gaining her favor. No, for now, he would keep quiet.
Today, he’d walked her home again, and they’d separated to change for dinner.
His hands itched for his sketchbook that lay on his desk; it had been weeks since he’d taken the time to draw anything, and never before had he desired the outlet as he did now.
But there would be time for that in the future.
Time for the purposeless pursuit that he enjoyed but had no real use for.
Until then, he would remain the man he needed to be: capable, confident, and not needing to sketch out Sophie’s lips because he could not get them from his mind. Fool man.
He tied his cravat, and it came out too tight.
Were any of his friends having luck at finding wives?
He’d nearly fallen into this arrangement, and it felt rather like cheating.
Certainly, Ambrose with his confident plans or Tristan with his charm would be far more successful than Andrew.
And Rowan had a way with words that any woman must appreciate.
Cravat retied, he knocked his fist against his leg as he stepped from his room, avoiding looking at the door beside his own, where the staff had moved Sophie on their return.
Even Charles drew women in with his devil-may-care attitude.
The only one as poorly set up as himself had to be Leonard.
Andrew did not know that the discontented man would manage much by way of matrimony.
His lot in life was rather similar to Andrew’s—being a second son.
But he was a second son who had to act like a first, which might be worse.
“You seem lost in thought.”
He stopped, turning to Sophie’s voice. Her dress was one he’d not seen yet, a pale-yellow silk, wide at the shoulders and trim at the waist. Dash it, couldn’t he have found a less pretty wife? It might make convincing her to like him a little more possible.
“I apologize, I did not hear you leave your room.” Her room. That was now steps from his own, heaven help him.
“It is understandable. After all, I do glide with the grace of a cloud,” she said, her voice lofty, and her hands demonstrating in front of her.
His lips lifted as he waited for her to reach his side, then started down the corridor with her on his arm.
“This is where you agree that I am graceful and impressive,” she said in a whisper.
“Oh, I was not aware I needed to agree to something so widely known.”
Her laugh chimed through the hall. “I don’t remember you being such a flirt growing up, Andrew.”
“We were not married then.” He winked. At least she understood he was flirting. Charles had always told him he was dismal at it, but here she’d claimed it for what he intended, and without appearing disgusted either. Small wins.
She pressed her fingers into his arm. “We are not now, either.”
He covered her hand with his, leaning close. “Hush, London might hear you.”
“Do you host the city in your home often, then?”
“Only on Saturday evenings.”
Her teeth flashed as she shook her head in near-wonder. “I do not recall you being so witty either.”
“You paint a terrible picture of my youth. Not funny nor charming?”
“You know entirely what I mean.”
“Are you happy with your rooms?” he asked.
“Oh yes, they are more than I need.” She hesitated, her hand playing lightly with his coat sleeve and slowly driving him mad. “Do they belong to one of your brothers? I cannot imagine Geoffrey will be pleased to learn I’ve usurped his bedchamber, even for so short a time.”
“They were Edmund’s, so no need to fear retribution. You—we—will be long gone before he ever returns.”
“Yes. You to your bank, and I to my job.”
He nodded, thinking of the half-finished letter waiting in his room that asked his solicitor to pause the proceedings on his estate. But that was ludicrous. Sophie would think him mad in truth if he followed her to Durham.
They entered the drawing room together, and she released his arm as they reached the fireplace and settled there, side by side. The warmth of it made half his body alight, and its flames cast shadows across Sophie’s face.
“Where is your mind right now?” She leaned over and tapped his wrist with the back of her hand. In an almost instinctual move, he flipped his own, grasping hers. Even with their gloves separating them, all of his awareness came to that small point of contact.
He stared down at their hands, seeing the place where his ring lay. “Sophie, are you disappointed that you are wasting your one and only marriage on me? A boring, charmless friend from your youth?”
“One and only?” she asked, as if placating a child. “You forget, this is my second. I have it on questionable authority that I was married five years ago.”
He shook his head, and she sobered, wrapping her hand atop his, making the action near-sisterly. He could have groaned. “Firstly, I just said you are both flirtatious and witty, so do not sell yourself so short. Secondly, I never planned to marry anyway.”
“Never?”
So subtly, he might not have noticed if he was not so very aware of that small space where they touched, she pulled both her hands from his, using them to gesticulate in the air instead.
“Who would want a wife with career aspirations of her own? Who wants one that could manage the estate business as well as he, but fails at hosting parties? Who wants one who would choose the library over the ballroom?”
“Me.”
Her face softened, and it told Andrew she thought he was now placating her. Then she shook her head, looking away, and he had the distinct impression she was not seeing the dining room, but rather some scene or thought he was not privy to. “Besides, my parents wish me to marry.”
“And so you do not?” he asked quietly.
“I wanted to prove to them I did not need to marry to impress. I could do so all on my own, without a man.” She lifted a slight shoulder, and when her eyes met his again, she could see apology there.
He’d gone and taken that option from her. To help her, of course, but still. “I am sorry.”
She shook her head. “Life has twists and turns. I do not hate this one.”
What magnanimous praise.
Spencer arrived, announcing their dinner, and Andrew led Sophie in on his arm. It felt like playacting, even in their own home.
Their relationship was not real, and Andrew was beginning to wonder if it ever could be.
The third day was no better than the first. In fact, it was worse. When he and Sophie had returned from church, she’d begged off nuncheon in favor of a cold compress and rest. So now he sat, alone, in his library.
“Mr. Langford, you have visitors.”
Andrew shot to his feet from the chair he’d situated himself in. Blast, not the Haverwicks? It was late, but Mrs. Haverwick had shown herself perfectly fine to visit outside usual calling hours before.
But before Andrew could ask, the door behind Spencer opened again, and a veritable flood of men entered.
Andrew sighed with relief, falling back to his seat. “It’s only you lot.”
“Oh no,” Tristan said, sprawling onto a chair himself. “Did you think it was your wife? Your marriage cannot be so terrible as that?”
Andrew looked around at his friends as they made themselves well at home. He hadn’t known they were all in town. “You have heard then?”
“Rosie told us,” Charles said, hooking his thumb at Ambrose.
Ambrose, in turn, shrugged. “William mentioned it.”
“Your brother knows?” Andrew asked.
“My brother knows everything,” he replied, straightening his already impeccable cravat.
“Congratulations are in order, my man!” Charles called. “Do you have port? Spencer!” Charles beat a path back to the door, reaching his head out. He must have found the butler because he called, “Good man, might we have some libation to wet our tongues?”
“Certainly, Mr. Shepherd, would cordial do?” came Spencer’s trite response.
“Bah, man! Port. At least bring us the Madeira.”
“As you wish, sir.”
Charles came back in, beaming, and took up a place on the arm of his twin brother’s—Tristan’s—chair.
Andrew rubbed his temple. He could not lie to his friends. Glancing at the now closed door, he lowered his voice. “It is not what you all think.”
“I think you took less than a week to find yourself a wife after Denby set that ridiculous wager back into effect,” Ambrose said, folding his arms. “I am rather impressed, myself. It has taken me nearly that long to craft my strategy.”
Andrew shook his head. “No. The thing is, well… I am not actually married.”
All five men fell silent. The door opened, and to the shock of all and the gratitude of Andrew, they remained in their voiceless state until after the footman had left the tray of brandy for them. Then it was Charles who spoke first, after pouring himself a drink.
“Then it is only a rumor?”
Andrew grimaced. “Not entirely. I am going to be married. And she… well, she is staying with me.”