Chapter 11
Sophia placed her fingers on Anthony’s sleeve and fought back a pang of guilt.
He hadn’t smiled, hadn’t tried to deflect her earlier jab, but his expression was sad.
Resigned. For a moment he seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders.
She tried to dredge up the familiar resentment to assuage her guilt.
He’d been the one who left—and then all those rumors floated back to London in his absence.
If he didn’t want people thinking he was a wastrel, then he ought not behave like one.
Still, something was off. They walked into the dining room, but he didn’t meet her gaze, didn’t try to engage her in even the lightest of exchanges.
It was the first time—probably ever—that he’d been quiet.
Truly quiet, the kind that went beyond companionable silence or a comfortable lull in conversation.
He had nothing to say, and it was disconcerting.
Guilt, then? His conscience catching up with him?
She tried to find satisfaction in it, but whatever the reason, it saddened her, and she didn’t like it.
“Did you see anything in Bombay to recommend it?” she finally asked once they were seated at the table.
He looked at her in some surprise but found his footing quickly enough. “Much, but as I mentioned earlier, it requires more time to explore. I expect the other guests will make an excursion into the city before long. Perhaps we might join them.”
She nodded, her throat suddenly tight. His face was so familiar, so dear.
She wanted to lay her palm against his cheek and place a kiss on his forehead.
Or maybe his lips. She swallowed back a sigh.
She didn’t know how to properly kiss a man, and he clearly wasn’t interested in pursuing such activity with a woman he viewed as his little sister, so that was that.
Sophia made a decision as the rest of the guests settled in and the first course was served.
No harm would come from reestablishing her former rapport with Anthony, and she needed to commit, if not for his feelings, then for the sake of her sanity.
Either she would be nice to him or she wouldn’t, and it was time to stop waffling from one to the other.
Although Anthony had shown mild signs of irritation the night before when she’d paid attention to Professor Gerald, she could reasonably attribute that to his protective feelings for her well-being, not unlike those that Jack might experience.
Since Anthony clearly wasn’t interested in a romantic relationship with her, she could prevent her feelings from developing along that vein, and they could hopefully enjoy the easy communion they’d had before.
“So. Tell me about these people.” She glanced at him as she picked up her soup spoon.
He met her gaze and her breath caught.
I can be his friend. I can be his friend without dreaming of more.
“What would you like to know? And about whom?”
She gestured toward the room at large. “Anything. About anyone. Come, Anthony, you’ve been here for more than a week. Surely you’ve observed some amusing things. This is what we do, n’est-ce pas?”
“Mais oui.” His lips quirked, and he raised a brow, casting a glance down the table. “Seated near the head of the table is Taj Darzi; you met him last night at the ball.”
“Ah, yes. Didn’t you say that his cousin, Prince Ekavir, is ill?”
“Very near death, as we understand it. He seeks to subject his wife to sati on his funeral pyre.”
Sophia paused and lowered her voice. “Cremate his body and her along with it?”
He nodded. “Most of the princely states have done away with the practice, if for no other reason than to keep peace with England. But there are those who still remain committed to the tradition. It can be a delicate balance. Lord Pilkington’s purpose as a Resident—and indeed the role of the Bombay Army itself—is to function as a support for local rulers and royalty, as this is a princely state. ”
“I was told this area is under the wing of the Bombay presidency.”
“It is. And although we recognize local princes, British might often rises to the fore and ‘support’ frequently becomes ‘control.’ Lord Pilkington, to his credit, seems to respect the Residency and his role in it. His relationship with Mr. Darzi and the prince is one of partnership. He seems to view Mr. Darzi as a man of integrity and optimism.” He lowered his voice.
“I often suspect Lady Pilkington to be the true diplomat of the pair, however. She seems to have an astute grasp of local politics. Lord Pilkington often seems a happy bystander.”
“And how do you know all of this?”
He winked at her. “Ah, my dear, I listen very, very attentively.”
She nearly sighed like a ridiculous debutante.
This was how it had been between them. The easy familiarity, the humor—only before he might have also trailed a fingertip lightly along the back of her arm.
Discreetly, of course. And not during dinner.
It would have been at the side of a ballroom while conversing with mutual associates, or perhaps trying to catch her attention in a drawing room over a hand of cards.
She felt warm at the memory and fought the urge to fan herself with her napkin.
Thoughts, impressions, conversations suddenly tripped through her mind as would tumblers in a lock.
And suddenly, the pieces all lined up neatly and clicked into place.
She narrowed her eyes, knit her brows in a frown, and looked at him surreptitiously from the side, her head tilted as she thought.
And thought. And remembered. So many little things, flirtatious things, loving gestures, whispers about nothing of consequence but meant for her ears alone . . .
Older brother, my giddy aunt.
Unless he was indeed a very sick man, there was no possibility that he had ever viewed her as he would a sister. She knew it as well as she knew her own name, and the realization quite took her breath away. But truly, she’d known it all along.
Why, then?
Why had he run? Had he been afraid? She knew he’d never felt enough affection for any woman in the past to warrant a proposal of marriage, and he’d never needed to hunt for a bride to fill the family coffers.
Had his close association with her engendered emotions that were unfamiliar and unsettling?
Had he fled because he viewed her as anything but a sibling?
Sophia pursed her lips and tapped her spoon lightly against the bowl. He turned his head and caught her scrutiny.
“What are you thinking in that clever brain of yours?” he murmured, his expression guarded.
The corner of her mouth lifted in a smile. “I am thinking I have been quite vexed with you for leaving London.”
He swallowed, the guard slipping. “I . . . Sophia . . .” He cleared his throat. “We can discuss the matter later this evening, perhaps? I . . . It’s as I told you in my letter—”
“Oh, I am well aware of what you said in your letter.”
He blinked, and the mask was back in place as though it had never faltered. “Splendid!” he declared with a smile. “Nothing more to discuss at all, then.” He gave her elbow a friendly nudge.
She narrowed her eyes. What would he do next?
Slap her on the back and call her a good old chap?
Invite her to Tattersalls to peruse horseflesh?
This would never do. He would admit to her, like an adult, why he had run away from England.
She may not like the truth; it may, in fact, put her in a mind to dismiss him permanently.
A woman could hardly depend on a fulfilling relationship if the man grew frightened of it and left on a whim with no warning whatsoever.
But if he couldn’t find the courage on his own to explain himself, she would play his game and beat him at it.
One way or another, she would have her answers.
Once equipped with them, she could then make an informed decision.
Feeling strangely empowered for the first time in a long time, she elbowed him back and winked. “Nothing to discuss at all,” she echoed. “And I suppose I forgive you for leaving in the midst of the Season when there were so many people still to analyze.”
He blinked again. “You do?”
“I do. A true friend finds it in her heart to forgive all but the grossest of insults. Besides which, it really is past time I search in earnest for a husband. Now that we are together again, you can advise me. Jack is too busy these days. Put him in the same room with Ivy and Catherine and he’s utterly useless.
” She fought the urge to slap Anthony’s back and give him a huge, affable grin—camaraderie between friends, after all—but there was no sense in overplaying her hand.
She glanced at his face, satisfied to see his mouth momentarily slacken before he recovered himself.
“Help you find a husband?”
“Yes.” She nodded and continued eating her Korma Kashmiri, which was chicken in a sweet and creamy curry sauce with pineapple and cashews, a dish she was finding particularly to her liking.
“When I failed to settle on a suitor for whom I felt even a modicum of affection, I had quite resigned myself to searching elsewhere. The Fleet seemed an excellent option. And, of course you know how tiresome London can be.” It was an effort to speak with sincerity, to avoid ruining her performance by sounding trite or forced.
Anthony was not stupid, and his ability to read people was exceptional.
He would know if she were putting on a show.
And a show it was. The last thing she wanted was for Anthony Blake to find her someone else to marry. Whether or not he felt the same remained to be seen, but before they left India, she would know.