Chapter Twenty-Five
Andrew had hoped to shirk his duties that day and spend it in Sophie’s company as much as possible, but his schedule would not allow it, especially when he needed to be gone the next day.
At times, he felt she was beginning to care for him, but at other times, she seemed so despondent.
Was it because of him? Or her work? He was beginning to detest Mr. Whitcomb, despite never having met him.
The woman before him these last few days was not his Sophie.
More often than not, her smile was replaced by a frown, her sparkling eyes by a faraway look.
He would follow her to Durham even if only to ensure she smiled.
Between clients, he pulled out the half-finished letter to his solicitor, requesting the man pause the process of letting the home.
For a week now, he was meant to sign the contract sent over, but he could not bring himself to do it.
Was it really his dream to own an estate, or was that just an arbitrary goal he’d set himself?
A way to prove his worth was as high as a firstborn son’s.
The pride that had filled him at renting his own estate was nothing compared to the desire to care for Sophie.
He’d known it was likely, had honestly never really stopped, but it was clear now more than anything: he was in love with her.
His goals of getting ahead in life and making a name for himself were overshadowed by his new goal: gaining her affection and living a true marriage with her.
And he did not feel a jot of regret as he finished the letter and had it posted. Except in that he could not untangle himself from the bank today to get back to Sophie’s side.
Even with her ideas for streamlining his work, nothing could fix the mess that faced him.
A meeting with the board, several high-profile clients, and deadlines for the accounting of many projects approaching kept him busy even through lunch.
He’d hoped Sophie would still come for lunch, but she did not, and it was for the best anyhow.
He needed the time to ensure he did not arrive late at home for the party.
He even hired a hackney for the short trip to hasten his movements.
“Spencer, is Mrs. Langford at home?” Andrew asked as he entered the home. Calling her that never ceased to amaze him, and tomorrow it would be true.
“Yes, sir. She is preparing for the evening in her rooms.”
“Will you have the carriage brought round?”
“Yes, sir.”
Andrew thanked him, taking off his hat and gloves and striding up the stairs to do just the same as Soph. A glance at his pocket watch informed him he was rather short on time. They needed to leave in the next quarter hour if they were to arrive at the Whitcomb’s on time.
The door beside his own opened as he was steps from it.
“Oh, good,” Sophie said, stepping out in a rustle of silk, “you’ve arrived.”
He could only stare.
The gown was a deep blue silk, the sleeves were a gauzy material, and silver thread on the skirt glinted in the waning sunlight. And her midnight hair, swept up as it was with tendrils falling tastefully around her face, showed off her slim neck to perfection.
Gads.
Gads.
“Is my hair out of place?” she asked. “Bess offered to help me with it, and it is a bit more ornate than I am used to.”
He pressed his eyes closed for a breath. “No. No, you are perfect.” He smiled at her.
She returned it and, seemingly on impulse, spun in a circle. “I admit, though I do not care overmuch for social events, it is rather fun to dress up on occasion.”
He needed to find another such occasion, and soon.
“I need a few minutes to change, then I will meet you in the drawing room.” He opened the door, but something in her expression held him back. In the moment he’d begun to turn, her excitement had faded… leaving a nervous demeanor in its absence. “Is everything well?”
She lifted a single shoulder, shrugging off his question. “Yes, of course.”
He didn’t believe it for a minute. “It is not too late to cry off. I’m not even dressed.”
“Oh, but I am, and what a waste of your maid’s ministrations.”
He allowed his eyes to trail down her again. Purely to refresh his memory. “She did do a fantastic job… I’ll take you somewhere else. I am certain there is some other event we can discover this evening.”
Half her mouth tipped down. “No, I have to attend. I need all the time I can get to convince Mr. Whitcomb that I deserve a spot in this project. I am simply fighting off a fit of the blue devils that I even need to.” She looked to the ceiling, fisting her hands on her hips.
“Drat, but I hate how that man makes me feel. As if I am fresh from the schoolroom.”
Her voice began to crack, and in that moment, Andrew heard the telltale signs of footsteps on the servants’ stairs. He glanced around; Sophie would not wish to be found teary in front of one of the staff.
In a moment of dubiously good intent, he slipped a hand about her waist and tugged her into his open door, closing it behind him. Her body arched into his with the action, her stomach pressed against him, and the weight of her back on his arm.
Her eyes popped open. “What—”
“Someone was coming. I did not wish them to interrupt our conversation.” They were only a step into his chambers, but the intimacy seemed to envelop them.
Flashes of the night they’d played chess in her room assaulted him.
At least this time, it was not so late, and they were both properly attired.
He released her, stepping back. “Sophie, I have said it before, but you do not need to prove anything to this man. He sounds like an insufferable coxcomb, and doubtless your intellect already exceeds his.”
She straightened her dress. “It does not, though; I am failing miserably, and I hardly know why. It is not as if the work is even difficult.” The tears he’d heard evidence of in her voice now began to gather in her eyes, but she blinked them back.
“I know why,” Andrew bit out. “Because he is treating you horribly.”
Hands flexed, she shook her head and slipped past him further into his room, seemingly without direction, just needing to move. “No, he—” She froze, stepping toward his desk—her movements decidedly with direction now. “Andrew, do you draw?”
His heart leapt into his throat. He knew which drawings were out.
“Only a little.” He strode to her, but it was too late. She was already at the desk, lifting the rough sketch lying there. The sketch of her. “It is a pointless endeavor, but my mother taught me,” he said, as if words could distract her from what she held.
He couldn’t see her face—wasn’t certain he wanted to. But she paused. A long pause. “Is this me?”
“It says a great deal about my skill that you cannot tell.”
“Oh no… I can—except… this is not a particularly just rendering. It looks more like Elizabeth, perhaps. With Cecilia’s nose.” Her head tilted. “But those are my eyes. It is… it is too pretty.”
“It is no such thing. If anything, it does not do you justice.”
She finally looked up, and to his shock, she seemed almost embarrassed. “You are too kind, but I have always known I do not measure up to my sisters. I recall being fifteen and having my mother bemoaning that very fact to our portrait artist. He seemed to agree.”
“Blast, Soph, sometimes I detest your parents.”
She pressed her lips together. “Me too,” she whispered.
He would have happily allowed the conversation to move from his artwork to her parents, but he couldn’t.
He leveled his look at her, as if the more intense a stare, the more likely she would be to believe it.
“You are every bit as beautiful and more than your sisters. You’re the most beautiful woman I know. ”
She ducked her head, and he held his breath. Surely she must know now—must be aware of how greatly he cared for her. Every pencil stroke on that paper fairly screamed his love.
She tapped the paper with her thumb. “Well, I suppose I must believe you, as accomplished an artist as you are. I cannot believe I did not know you possessed this talent—it must be years in the making.”
He nodded, though she couldn’t see. “My mother was an artist, and she taught all of us. My brothers did not enjoy it and begged her to let them off when we were still young. I know it is not a useful talent, but I—”
“Not useful? You could outshine the art professor at the Seminary for certain, besides being simply beautiful.”
“Well, not particularly utilitarian then, which is what I need in this life.”
She studied him, and he shifted his weight. “Not every purpose is readily apparent. I would argue your art has immense purpose. Did you enjoy your mother’s?”
Andrew shrugged, itching to take the picture back and hide it away. “Of course.”
She nodded, as if expecting this. “Exactly.” A noise out the window drew her attention, and she started. “Oh no, we are going to be late.”
“I will change quickly.”
She nodded. “I will meet you downstairs. But I would like to see more of your work when I can.”
He rushed through his ministrations, and less than a quarter of an hour later, Andrew escorted Sophie into the carriage and climbed in after her.
“Have you ever considered doing anything with your art?” she asked.
He grimaced; he’d hoped the interim had taken those pictures from her mind. “No. I'm unsure what I would do. It is just a little hobby.”
She hooked her thumb back toward the disappearing townhouse. “That didn’t look like a hobby. You enjoy it?”
He tapped his knuckle against his knee. “Yes,” he admitted. “But I cannot see any worth to it.”
Her jaw slackened. “Andrew, you amaze me.”
“Thank you?”
“It was not a compliment.” She scrunched her nose at him. “For someone so wonderful at praising my abilities, you sure are horrible to your own. I am not simply speaking as a woman who cares for you—you are incredible. If you wished it, you could do wonderful things with your art.”