Chapter 16 #2
Leonard’s eyebrows climbed to his hairline, and the rest of the men wore similar expressions.
Andrew rushed to explain, standing as he did, as if a bit of movement would make it easier.
“It is Sophie Renard, you know.” Nods met his declaration.
They all knew Sophie. Had seen his crude sketches of her at school and heard his boyish dreams of marrying her.
A part of him felt a twinge of pride to now tell his friends he had managed those dreams…
But then he remembered how wholly uninterested in a true marriage Sophie was.
“But she is married, is she not?” Leonard asked.
Andrew shook his head. “No. No, that was a rumor.” He made short work of the explanation, and at the end, Charles offered a low whistle, his legs swinging out from his spot on the arm of a chair.
“She needs a husband, and I need a wife, but we must wait until Saturday to return to Weybridge to marry with the license I’ve obtained. Until then… it is only a farce.”
“It sounds like torture,” Rowan remarked. “With how greatly you care for her. To… well, to live as man and wife but not truly?”
Heat suffused Andrew’s neck. “But she does not feel the same. To her, this is only a business arrangement. She will leave at the end of next week for her job.” Saying it out loud pained him. It was so soon.
“Blast, man,” someone remarked. Andrew was pacing away and did not see the face, but it sounded rather like Tristan.
He spun. “I am attempting to fix that, you understand. I am trying to court her.”
Ambrose nodded. “The theater then? Opera?”
“No. No, she does not like—that is—” The door opened again, cutting Andrew off. Rather than Spencer returned, it was Sophie. They all came to their feet in one.
Or nearly in one, Charles was a bit late.
Her gaze took in the six men, eyes popping. “Oh. I do apologize.” Her stare landed on Andrew.
He crossed to her. “Do not be sorry. Are you feeling better?”
She nodded. “Yes, much. I had thought to grab a book to accompany my no-longer-pounding head.”
But instead of looking at the shelves lining the room, she stared again at his friends.
He turned, including them with a sweep of his hand.
“This ragtag lot is nearly the entirety of my school friends.” He pointed them each out with a finger, naming them in turn.
“Charles and Tristan Shepherd, Rowan Ashworth, Ambrose Hartley, and Leonard Stanton. Only Thomas Denby is absent.”
She bobbed a little curtsy. “How do you do?”
A smattering of responses came from his friends, but she turned questioning eyes on him. He thought he knew her silent query. “They know.”
Her shoulders sagged. “Oh, good, I do hate the lying. School friends? I used to be quite jealous of you all, you know,” she said to the men, stepping from Andrew. “Taking my one and only friend from my side for the majority of the year.”
“Have no fear,” Rowan assured her. “We were a poor substitute for you, and he let us know it.”
Sophie’s smile grew, and she turned it on Andrew.
“It is true,” he admitted. “I far prefer your company to theirs. In fact, I believe they were just leaving.”
A few of his friends laughed, and Leonard even stepped to the door, but Sophie put up a hand. “No, no, of course they should stay. Have you all had something to eat?” Her eyes landed on the port. “Oh, it seems you have moved to something rather stronger.”
“We were celebrating our marriage,” Andrew offered, and his expression must be just sheepish enough that the men would mock him for it later.
“As you should,” she said decisively. “Though I cannot see why you would celebrate, it is one step closer to losing the wager for the rest of you, is it not?”
At least half his friends barked surprised laughter.
“She is right, Andrew,” Charles said, piercing him with a look. “This is no celebration for the rest of us. We should be upset with you, not happy on your behalf.”
Andrew shook his head, chuckling, and Tristan stepped forward, grasping Sophie’s hand in his own. “If it is not yet settled, any one of us would be happy to take Andrew’s place, you know,” he said with a bow over her fingers.
Sophie’s laughter rang through the room, but Andrew glared daggers at his friend. Tristan ignored him entirely.
“That is a very gracious offer, Mr… Shepherd, was it? But I find I am quite content with my choice,” she said, glancing back at Andrew.
Some of the tightness in his chest lessened with that declaration.
“All the better,” Tristan said, releasing her hand. “He is a far better man than I.”
“I am sure you are wonderful, Mr. Shepherd. Oh, drat, now you’ve all made me blush. I think I shall just find my book and leave you to the celebrations.”
“I will help you,” Andrew said. “You lot just try not to cause any mayhem for a moment,” he directed to his friends. Charles saluted, falling back into his chair. The rest followed suit, taking up their seats as Andrew and Sophie crossed to the shelves.
“Anything you are looking for in particular?” he asked, eyes on hers while hers were on the tomes in front of them.
“Yes. I was… oh, and there it is.” She grasped the book that was, unsurprisingly, on mathematics, from a shelf just above their eye level. She spun to face him, a smile lifting her lips. “I will leave you men to it.”
“Take me with you?” he begged.
She shook her head solemnly. “I am afraid you must face your friends on your own.” Her smile turned into a grin as she nearly skipped around him, addressing her final comment to the group. “Do not get my husband too foxed, please.”
A sea of affirmative responses met her request, and with that wide grin still on her face, she danced from the room.
Andrew watched her go.
“Lovesick puppy,” Charles murmured. He’d stood; he never could stay still.
Andrew groaned. The man definitely had the right of it.
“So, you’re courting her,” Ambrose said, crossing his legs. “Good. What are you doing?”
Andrew stretched his fingers. “I walk her home from work. I took her to church today. We hope to have lunch every day. And dinner, of course.”
The men stared at him, waiting for more.
Andrew lifted his hands. “I can’t very well write her poetry.”
“Why not?” Rowan asked. Trust the Shakespearean to think he should.
“For one, I am no good at it. For another, that is not the nature of our relationship. I have to be careful—I do not want to make her uncomfortable in what should be her own home.”
The men nodded.
“You make a fair point,” Rowan said.
“The devil he does,” Tristan said. “Flirt with the woman. Take her to the theater. A ball. Ices—”
“In this weather?” Charles cut in. Tristan gave him a withering glare.
Andrew ignored the sibling squabble that might erupt, pressing fingers to his forehead.
“But that is what I was saying. She does not care for those things. I mean, yes, maybe she would enjoy the theater or a ball every now and again, but her true interest lies in mathematics. In books and lectures.”
“Then take her to a museum.”
“A lending library.”
“A bookseller.”
“The Royal Institute."
“The Mathematical Society hosts lectures,” Ambrose noted.
Andrew wished he had a notebook. He sat, trying to catalogue it all into his mind.
“Whatever you do,” Tristan said, “you must show her the effort you are putting forth. Lunch and dinner when you already live together? She will think nothing of those. You must break the mold.”
“I told her she was beautiful. Once.”
“She is,” Charles said drily. “All you did was state a fact.”
Andrew nodded along. “Yes. Yes. You are exactly right.”
“I generally am,” Charles responded, pulling a laugh from Andrew.
“I like her,” Leonard said, his tone sincere, no trace of the usual glower in his countenance. “You’ve always spoken of her in high regard, and it is clear your interest was never misplaced.”
“Yes,” Charles agreed. “Do not screw it up, Langford.”