Chapter Six #2
Did she? Henry thought of Sophia at dinner—the way she’d listened to him speak of Eleanor, the sympathy in her gaze, the trust she’d shown in sharing her own assault. The connection that flickered between them. A connection they were both denying? Or was it only his imagination?
“We barely know each other,” Henry said. “Yet somehow I feel as if we do.”
“They say that is how it is when one finds their soulmate,” Davies said.
Henry shot him a look. “When did you become such a romantic?”
“I’m a practical man. And practically speaking, you could do far worse than Miss Ashford. She’s kind, intelligent, devoted to Miss Amelia.” Davies paused. “And quite beautiful, isn’t she?”
“That’s hardly relevant.”
“Isn’t it? You’re about to spend your life married to her. Beauty may not be everything, but it certainly doesn’t hurt.”
Henry turned back to the window rather than answer.
Yes, Sophia was beautiful. He’d noticed from the beginning—kept it locked away where it couldn’t cause trouble.
But lately, ignoring it had become nearly impossible.
The shine of her fair hair. The curve of her neck.
The brilliant smile and flush of her cheeks.
The carriage jolted over a rut.
Davies steadied himself. “It is not outlandish to imagine your feelings developing into something deeper than convenience. Into love. For both of you.”
Henry studied him. “She will not fall in love with me. I’m certain of it.”
“I disagree.” Davies’s voice softened. “You both deserve more than mere convenience.”
“What I deserve is irrelevant.”
“Is it?”
The carriage rolled through the village. They passed the church where, in four days’ time, Henry would stand beside Sophia Ashford and recite vows before God and her family.
Four days.
“I promised Miss Ashford a marriage in name only,” Henry said. “Separate chambers. No expectations beyond raising Amelia and upholding appearances. She seemed relieved.”
“Is that what you want, my lord? An empty bed for the rest of your days? With your lovely bride on the other side of a wall you built yourself?”
Henry met his gaze. “I loved Eleanor. That part of my heart died with her six years ago. Sophia deserves more than a widower who cannot love again. I can offer her security, protection, a home—not love. Never love.”
Davies studied him for several moments. “And if she wanted more?”
“She doesn’t.”
“Are you absolutely certain?”
Henry looked away. They had agreed to the plan.
She had seemed quite devoted to it all. Yet, again, he had felt a spark light between them.
Different than he had felt for Eleanor. She had been fragile, in need of protection, which had tugged at his heart whereas Sophia was his equal.
She was strong. Stronger than him. Being with her made him feel calmer, more optimistic.
The carriage slowed, turning up a tree-lined drive toward Bishop Thornton’s residence—a substantial stone house with mullioned windows and a neat, orderly garden.
“We’re here, my lord,” John called.
Henry straightened his coat, steeling himself. He would be convincing. He would tell the bishop he’d fallen desperately in love with Sophia Ashford, discovered she was a duke’s sister, and now wished to marry her before London claimed her.
A story close enough to truth to sound believable. And far enough from it to make him feel like a fraud.
*
Bishop Thornton received him in a book-lined study that smelled of pipe tobacco and old leather.
The bishop was a rotund man in his sixties with keen gray eyes and a manner that suggested he’d heard every possible excuse for haste, scandal, and irregular behavior in his four decades of service to the Church.
“Lord Montrose.” The bishop gestured to a chair. “Please, sit. I understand you wish to obtain a common license?”
“I do, Your Grace.” Henry settled into the chair, grateful for years of practice maintaining his composure. “I wish to marry Miss Sophia Ashford as soon as arrangements can be made.”
“Miss Ashford.” The bishop steepled his fingers. “And the reason for such haste?”
Here it was. The moment where Henry had to sell the lie.
“Miss Ashford has been governess to my niece for the past two years. I’m ashamed to admit I barely knew her beyond her excellent care of the child.
” He paused, letting what he hoped was appropriate emotion color his voice.
“However, recently, her brother, the Duke of Ashford, has summoned her to London for a Season. The prospect of losing her made me realize I’d been blind to my own feelings.
I love her, Your Grace. I cannot let her leave without asking her to be my wife. ”
The bishop’s eyebrows rose. “The Duke of Ashford’s sister has been working as your governess?”
Henry met the bishop’s eyes steadily as he told him the details of Sophia’s situation. “Her brother has since been restored to his title and fortune. He wishes her to have the Season she was denied. To marry well.”
“And the brother has given his blessing? Are you considered marrying well?”
“Yes, Lord Ashford has written his consent. He and his wife will arrive tomorrow for the wedding.” Henry placed Sebastian’s letter onto the desk. “It is all here, in the correspondence. I cannot wait to make Miss Ashford my wife.”
Bishop Thornton studied him for a long moment. Henry forced himself to remain still, to project nothing but sincerity and appropriate lovesick eagerness.
Finally, the bishop smiled. “Young love. It does have a tendency to demand haste.” He pulled paper toward him and took up his pen. “Very well, Lord Montrose. I’ll prepare the license.” The bishop began writing. “I assume you wish to marry in the parish church?”
“Yes, Your Grace. On the third of March, if that suits.”
“Four days hence. My, you are eager.” But the bishop’s tone was indulgent rather than suspicious. “I’ll send word to the vicar. He’ll need to arrange the church, prepare the register, and so forth.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
The bishop signed the license with a flourish and pressed his seal into the wax. “There. Take this to the vicar. It will be what he needs to carry forth. Congratulations, Lord Montrose. I wish you and Miss Ashford every happiness.”
Henry accepted the license, the paper feeling heavier than it should in his hands. “Thank you.”
As he left the study, Davies waiting in the entrance hall, an unease came to him, churning his stomach.
The license made it real. Official. In four days, Sophia would be his wife.
He’d just spent the last quarter hour lying to a bishop about loving her.
Lying to a man of the cloth was surely on the list of sins.
He must remember, however, this was for Rebecca. She would want him to do what was best for the child. He felt without a doubt Miss Ashford was indeed that. Hopefully, a loveless marriage to him would be worth the sacrifices she was about to make for Amelia.
*
The return journey was quieter. Davies seemed to sense Henry’s mood and kept his observations to himself, leaving Henry to stare out the window at the unseasonably warm countryside.
The lies had come so easily. Too easily. He’d told the bishop he loved Sophia, that he couldn’t imagine his life without her, that she’d shown Amelia devotion and kindness.
All true. Except for the love part.
Except… was it entirely false?
He thought of her tears in the study when she’d told him about leaving Amelia. The way she’d laughed at their disastrous attempt to gaze fondly at each other. The fierce protectiveness in her voice when she’d said they’d face his mother together.
The fact that she’d trusted him with her assault. With her pain. With her fear.
He barely knew her, and yet he knew the most important things. Her courage. Her capacity for love. Her determination to protect those she cared about.
And yes, he noticed her beauty. The way her eyes reflected the firelight. The graceful line of her neck. The soft curve of her mouth when she smiled.
Physical attraction wasn’t love. But it was something.
More than he’d felt for anyone since Eleanor.
And he was a man, after all. Still young and vigorous.
With needs. Thinking of Sophia on the other side of the his bedchamber door, night after night, ignited feelings he’d thought would never come again.
Was he being foolish, hanging on to Eleanor’s memory?
Was it guilt over her death that made him so unwilling to entertain the idea of anyone else in his lie?
The thought brought immediate guilt. He should be honoring her memory, keeping the vow he’d made to himself that no one would ever replace her. Should he not?
Eleanor had been dead for six years. And Sophia was very much alive. Warm, brave, and beautiful. She deserved so much more than a man still clinging to a ghost.
The carriage turned up the drive to Montrose Manor.
Through the window, Henry could see Sophia and Amelia near the ornamental pond.
Sophia held a basket, and Amelia was tossing something into the water—bread, from the look of it.
Several ducks paddled closer, and even from this distance, he could hear Amelia’s delighted squeals.
It struck him then. This was his family. Sophia and Amelia. He might not deserve them, but they were his.
“My lord?” Davies’s voice was gentle. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” Henry said. “I’m fine.”