Chapter Twenty-Two
Bess helped Sophie prepare for bed, and the moment she left, Sophie crossed to the window.
Her arms snaked around her middle. Hookham’s had not been as successful a distraction as she had hoped.
Her mind was still a muddle, and she did not like it.
She was unused to floundering—had always known her next step, whether by choice or the dictation of others, and this sort of havey-cavey existence did not suit her.
A light tap on her door startled her from her ever-plummeting thoughts. Had Bess forgotten something?
“Come in,” she called.
Andrew appeared, slipping around the door that he’d opened the barest amount. As if he were a thief in the night.
Sophie was frozen to the spot. “Back in my rooms again, husband?” she asked, forcing her head to cock playfully. The humor behind her words was lacking. Now, she felt the quip hid a nervousness she’d not felt back in Weybridge.
A shadow of a grin appeared on his face as he moved to her. “I promise I am not making a habit of it. I wanted to speak with you, though.”
She nodded, not certain what exactly to say.
“Firstly, I wish to apologize for this afternoon. It was not fair of me to spring that on you without warning, and to forget myself in the ensuing conversation. I will not foist my presence on you in Durham if you don’t wish it.”
Drat, but that made her feel worse. He was all that was kind and solicitous; it was not his fault that she was such a mental mess at the moment.
“There is truly no need to apologize, Andrew.” She wanted to say more—to explain why she’d reacted the way she had, but she hadn’t fully deciphered it herself.
“Thank you,” he said with a smile. He backed to the bed, sitting at the foot of it. How was he so relaxed? She felt about to jump from her skin. “Secondly, I wish to invite you to the theater tomorrow, with my friend Ambrose Hartley.”
“Oh. Yes, of course, that sounds enjoyable.”
He nodded. “Good. Good.”
She glanced at the door. “Is that all?” It was highly unlike Andrew to cross the bounds of propriety for a mere conversation, especially one so seemingly unimportant as this one.
“Well, not entirely. Spencer informed me that the staff has been whispering belowstairs about… well, us.”
“Us?”
He nodded, grabbing the back of his neck.
“No one has seen me visit your rooms, and so naturally… Reliable though ours are, servants gossip and, well, now that I am here, it feels rather as if I’ve jumped the gun.
But I did not wish to give fodder for their beliefs, on the chance it might leave this home. ”
Sophie stared. He was here so that the servants would think they were married in truth? “Does that mean you need to stay for some time?”
His mouth pulled down. “I admit, I hadn’t thought of that. Likely not?”
“That sounds like a question.”
“It is.”
Surprised, laughter spilled from her lips, and she clamped her hand over her mouth.
A returning smile twitched at Andrew’s mouth.
“Well,” she said, tamping down her entertainment with great effort.
“Maybe we can play a card game? Did your brother keep anything here when he left?” She crossed to the armoire, in which her dresses now hung, but she knew a few mementos of Edmund’s still resided.
She pulled a face. “Only a chess set,” she said, turning back to Andrew.
His grin was broad now. “And here you are, with no patience.”
She pressed her lips together to hold back another laugh. “Perhaps I will just go to bed, and you can leave whenever you see fit.” She stepped to the bed, pulling back the blanket.
He sprang from its base with alacrity. “You are certain I cannot entice you with chess?”
She dropped the bedding, scrunching her nose at him. “Maybe. I truly detest it.”
“I will let you win.”
She sputtered, crossing her arms, the skin in her elbows pinching with how tight she held them. “Now we must play. I feel my honor has been called into question.”
“That was my intention, after all,” he said, retrieving the chessboard and box of pieces.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, hair bound in a braid over her shoulder. Burgundy dressing gown covering almost to her chin, yet still feeling beyond the pale.
It was all so outside the bounds of propriety. And yet… she wished him to stay. To spend more time with him.
He made her feel settled. That was why. He made her feel calm in the face of everything uncertain. He was an anchor in her stormy seas.
Except for her heart, pounding away absurdly, of course.
He dragged a small table from her bedside to the settee at the foot of the bed, then pulled her dressing table chair to the other side. She sat on the settee, he on the chair, and they set up their pieces in near silence.
“Do you need me to remind you how to play?” he asked, his tone anything but innocent, his blue eyes twinkling.
“I can play well enough, Andrew. I simply do not like it.”
He raised a brow, leaning a little closer. His voice was low and warm. “We will have to change that then.”
Oh heavens, that playful gleam in his eye would be her undoing.
And yet, somehow, he was correct. The game became nearly a dance.
A push and a pull. Him capturing several of her pieces, and her returning the favor.
Laughter and repressed exclamations. At one point, she did believe he threw one of her pawns across the room.
Likely because she’d flicked his rook into his chest.
“I shall take your queen, and then your king will be defenseless,” he teased, setting his bishop in her path.
“Do not underestimate me, Andrew.”
“I would not dream of it.” His smile was lopsided, and it sent her heart turning.
The bishop chased her queen around the board, one of his knights joining the fray. Until.
“Check,” she declared, having snuck her knight to his edge of the game.
His eyes twinkled as their gazes met over the board. A slow, confident grin spread across his face, knotting her stomach. “Checkmate.”
“What?” She scanned the game, then sank back in her seat. “Fustian, Andrew! You were meant to let me win!” There his rook sat. Blocking in her king.
“You would have been far angrier with me if I had.”
She scanned the board a last time, though she knew it was futile. How quickly he’d slipped behind her defenses, and her entirely unaware.
Was that a metaphor for her life? Because of a sudden, she did not think she could imagine a life without Andrew. As more than a friend. As a husband in truth.
Ludicrous. It had to be.
“Oh, gads, Soph, I have been in here far too long. I should let you rest.” He tucked away his watch and stood, packing up the pieces and board.
“Your staff will be satisfied?”
“They are likely all asleep now,” he admitted, pausing, the game pieces in his hands.
She nodded.
His eyes dropped to her hair. Then her lips.
Her lungs expanded, yet her chest felt tight.
“Goodnight, Soph,” he said, pulling his gaze from hers. “I hope you sleep well.”
Something in that look, which seemed to match the fire burning in the hearth, warmed her to her very core. And by the time any words came to her mouth, he was already gone.
Andrew’s heart would not slow.
With great effort, he had been able to think of it as any other room. Any other room, so long as he focused on the board. Not her hair. Her attire. Her everything.
He pushed both hands through his hair, drawing in a breath that made his chest hurt even more.
Blast it all, what was he playing at, going into her room like that?
It had nearly all been a lie. No, not true falsehoods—there was truth to each, but what did it matter if the servants talked a little?
What did it matter if he invited her to the theater tonight or in the morning?
Yes, he’d wanted to apologize, but that too could have waited.
In truth, he’d just wished to see her again.
She’d been so forlorn even after the library, and Charles’s recommendations had been ringing in his ears.
And with only that thin wall between them, and hearing her moving around in there…
he’d given into a very dangerous impulse.
Would he ever recover from seeing her with her hair in a loose plait over her shoulder, hands lifting the blanket from her bed?
No. He knew that for a fact.
Sleep would certainly be elusive. With long strides, he crossed to his desk and pulled out his sketchbook.