Chapter Twenty-Three
Sophie did not sleep well. She’d dreamt of Mr. Whitcomb firing her in front of half the project team, of her parents parading eligible bachelors in front of her, of a chess rook that morphed into Andrew, who kissed her cheek, the spot bursting into flame and engulfing her.
Fustian, but it was odd. She’d never been one to remember her dreams, but these—these felt branded to her mind and were making it difficult to stay focused on the play unfolding on the gilt stage before her. Instead of the actors, she kept seeing the players at work in her own life’s drama.
And as the romantic leads? She and Andrew. Which was absurd. She was marrying the man, not falling in love with him.
Why did that feel like a falsehood?
“Are you well? We need not stay. Ambrose is clearly happy without us.”
Sophie’s eyes jerked open. She’d pressed them closed, her subconscious likely wishing it could block out her feelings as easily as she blocked out her view of the stage below.
Mr. Hartley was indeed entertained. He was in conversation with a young woman that Andrew had told Sophie was one of the man’s candidates for marriage. Evidently, there were several.
When she apparently took too long to respond, Andrew drew close again, his arm brushing hers. “I myself am often bored with the theater. Not nearly enough math equations to complete. Downright monotonous.”
Her mouth quirked up. “It is rather tedious.”
“And Shakespeare?” He shuddered.
“Do not let anyone else hear you bemoan the genius. You may be cast out of polite society.”
“One of my friends, Rowan Ashworth, would agree with them. I hope I can trust you to keep my secret.”
“Always.”
He smiled down on her, and for the briefest of moments, his gaze flicked to her mouth.
Attraction bloomed in her. Not love, certainly.
But definite attraction. Was it possible that he might feel it as well?
Could this renewal of their friendship have sparked something more for him? And how could she know?
As the curtain drew open on the second act, he remained close, his arm grazing hers whenever he shifted, his knee just inches from her own.
She became rather fixated on that. On measuring the distance and cataloging each moment they touched.
Was there a methodical way of learning if he cared for her?
The risk of continuing on as they were was too great if not.
So, she did her best to keep emotion out of it—ignoring the flares of heat in her chest and stomach each time they touched.
Seven times, so far. And thrice, he looked over at her in the first quarter hour, to share a smile, comment, or reaction over the play.
Was that high? It seemed low. She studied Ambrose Hartley and the woman he’d escorted to the theater tonight—Miss Chambers—noting how often he interacted with her.
He did not sit as close, but he certainly looked at her more.
The results were inconclusive. Mathematics was failing her for the first time in her life.
“You seem as if you are dissecting the play, rather than watching it. What is on your mind?”
Sophie colored.
“Well, now you must tell me.”
She lightly cleared her throat. “If you must know,” she whispered, “I was trying to determine if your Mr. Hartley is enamored with Miss Chambers. How does one tell, do you think?”
Andrew’s mouth turned down in thought as he glanced over at the couple. After maybe thirty seconds, he said, “No, he is not.”
Her brows flew up. “You can tell that after so short a time observing them? How?”
The crowd grew hushed with a tense moment on stage, and Andrew lifted his arm, putting it across the back of her seat and leaning even closer.
Her skin hummed with awareness as his decidedly masculine scent engulfed her.
“His comments to her are base and surface-level: ‘this actor is impressive,’ ‘the set is evocative,’ nothing more, and not for lack of effort on her part. He does not make an attempt to be close to her in the least, and his eyes do not linger when he watches her.”
A great gasp spread through the crowd, but Sophie had no desire to watch the stage for the reason behind it. She was caught by Andrew’s words and the way he watched her as he delivered them.
If math was to be consulted, his description of a man enamored equaled exactly what she’d perceived in him. But half an hour was no proper sampling. She needed more. Yet she could not think straight with his eyes on hers and his arm grazing the back of her neck.
“Hmm,” she said. “But perhaps Mr. Hartley does not show his affection in that way.”
“I have known him for years. I can read his emotions quite plainly.”
“Can you read mine?” The question slipped from her lips before consulting her mind. Did she want him to answer that?
His eyes flicked between both of hers, and her heart beat rapidly in anticipation. “At times, you are easy to read as the newspaper, Sophie. Other times… I am a man at sea.”
“The newspaper? Oh dear, perhaps I ought to hold my emotions more closely.”
“Please do not. I enjoy the flight of feelings across your expression. Like now.”
“Now?” She swallowed. Drat, did he know how his presence affected her? How humiliating.
Except he was not drawing away from her. If he could read her affection for him, he was not put off by it.
Logically, that was a positive indication.
“Yes,” he murmured as the crowd applauded around them. “Right now, you are uncertain. But about what?”
“You,” she breathed. Great. Her mouth had evidently determined it no longer needed her mind’s involvement.
His brow wrinkled. “Why, Sophie?”
She bit her lip. What to say? How to say it?
“I can see you both enjoyed the performance immensely,” Mr. Hartley said from behind them.
Both Andrew and Sophie turned in tandem to see the couple standing near the door of their box. The woman on Mr. Hartley’s arm giggled at her suitor’s quip.
“I cannot help it if my wife is more riveting than the actors,” Andrew said, standing in a smooth motion and offering his hand to Sophie.
She took it, anticipating the thrill of contact, but still set off balance by it. Andrew tugged her close, tucking her arm in his.
Mr. Hartley and his guest led the way into the crowded theater halls, toward the door. “Might we escort you home?” he asked over his shoulder.
“No, we—” Andrew stopped, and Sophie saw why. Rain poured in torrential rivers from the sky. “Yes, actually, I should think we would appreciate your accompaniment home, thank you for planning ahead.”
Mr. Hartley tucked away a smile, nodding and going to see after his carriage, bringing his young woman with him.
They would likely be waiting some time before his driver made it to the front of the queue.
Bodies jostled about them, but Andrew turned to her still, his hands cupping the backs of her elbows.
“Sophie, do you not want me to come with you to Durham?”
“I…” She glanced around, but not a single person seemed to care about their personal conversation.
“I would like you with me, yes.” It was the truth.
But it was also a lie. Because she could not stand the pain of seeing him daily, knowing her work suffered from the extent of her unrequited feelings.
Because she did have feelings for Andrew, that much was clear. Logically, at least. Logically, she had illogical feelings for him.
Wonderful.
“Sophie—”
“Mr. Langford? Oh! I did think that was you—and dear Sophia!”
They turned with identical expressions of horror to face Mrs. Haverwick.
Andrew recovered first. “Mrs. Haverwick, I was so unhappy to miss your party. Is Miss Haverwick with you?”
The woman looked around the veritable crush of people. “She is here somewhere. The Viscount of Modley invited us, you know. Invited her. She is making quite the splash this Season.”
“I am unsurprised in the least,” Andrew offered graciously.
“Yes, yes, of course. But I was surprised.” Her eye took on a mischievous glint, and Sophie’s stomach twisted. “To learn from my dear friend Mrs. Whitcomb, that our Sophia married a Langford.” She looked between them. “A Langford,” she repeated.
Sophie was frozen, her mind not keeping pace with the turn of the conversation. But Andrew, ever collected, said, with a smile, “We had hoped to tell you the good news when last we spoke, but you were obliged to leave so quickly.”
Mrs. Haverwick tsked good-naturedly at him, her voice raised over the tumult. “But it is true then?”
Andrew nodded, placing his hand on the back of Sophie’s gown. Her back arced almost imperceptibly into his palm, and she couldn’t have stopped the reaction if she’d tried. “We were married some years ago.”
The woman clapped her hands together. “That is wonderful! Why was there no announcement? Why did the marriage not occur in Weybridge?” Mrs. Haverwick saw an acquaintance and waved, but immediately returned her attention to the couple.
“At the time, Sophie was studying with the illustrious Mr. Grenton in Bristol, you know,” Andrew began.
“Yes, yes of course,” the woman said, though it was clear she hadn’t a clue who Andrew spoke of.
“Her studies could not wait, and my position in London was in jeopardy if I did not return forthwith. We chose to be married quickly, so we could at least have our vows between us when we went our respective ways.”
Mrs. Haverwick gasped, clutching her chest as if they were the Shakespearean couple torn apart by family machinations. “Then you were separated?”
Andrew nodded. “For a time, yes.” He left it at that, keeping the conversation vague.
“I can hardly believe it! But what a happy affair, and with you two together at last. It is like a veritable fairytale—I must tell Eleanor. And you must come visit. Soon. I shall send a note round for dinner, and this time, you must attend!”
“Oh, but we—” Sophie began, but the woman was already gone, melding into the crowd. She swung wide eyes on Andrew. “You were rather brilliant. Coming up with all of that.”
“We had discussed most of it already.” He cupped Sophie’s elbow. “To own the truth, Soph, I—I rather wish the story were true.”
“The carriage is here, but we must make haste,” Mr. Hartley cut in, no woman on his arm, and his gaze out the door.
Sophie glanced up at Andrew. His jaw worked, but he nodded. “Let us go,” he said. They would have to finish the conversation later. He would have to explain himself later.
If that did not heat her through to her toes…
The rain was like a waterfall, and despite one of Mr. Hartley’s footmen offering an oiled umbrella, the hem of her dress was soaked through by the time she sat in the carriage. Andrew sat beside her, and Mr. Hartley followed behind after shouting directions up to his driver.
Miss Chambers picked at the lace on her skirt, dismay coloring her face. “Oh gracious, my dress is surely ruined.”
“I do not know, I imagine the flounces can be resurrected,” Sophie offered.
“No, it is hopeless.” Her expression suddenly lightened. “But there is a dress pattern I have been dying for, and now Mama will have to procure it for me.”
Sophie leaned back in her seat. “Ah, yes, a silver lining.”
Miss Chambers beamed, then turned to Mr. Hartley to wax enthusiastically on the performance.
The back of Andrew’s hand grazed hers where it lay upon her skirt. “And your dress?” he asked. “Will it need replacing as well?”
“Just laundering, I believe. Though I am sorry to put your staff out.”
“We should procure you a permanent maid. You should not have to handle the logistics of that all while in Durham.”
“Yes. I planned to engage one when… when I arrived.”
But would he be coming with her? There were a great many moving parts, many pieces to the puzzle. She could not fathom how they would all fit together in the end.
He nodded, glancing at the couple across from them. His voice was low, the back of his hand still against hers. “We are meant to return to Weybridge tomorrow, but if this continues through the night…”
The rain attacked the carriage roof with vigor, but the noise was nearly drowned by the sudden pounding in her ears.
Tomorrow? Yes. Yes, it had been one week, though it had flown by with her hardly realizing.
And there was no going back now, not with Mrs. Haverwick aware of their so-called marriage.
Even if she did not get the position, she had captured Andrew well and truly. He could not escape.
Her eyes suddenly burned at that, and she tilted her head in case tears followed. “If we need to delay a day for the roads to improve, we can.” She hoped for a delay. She’d not intended to fall for her faux husband, and now she needed to reevaluate how to approach the future.
His touch, light and tentative, brushed her wrist. “Sophie,” he said in an undertone.
She held back a shiver and forced a smile, though he couldn’t see it. “All will be well, I am sure.”