And this felt nothing like returning home to his housekeeper or mother.
The bank was located close enough to walk, though just far enough to be inconvenient enough that he usually hired a hackney. But tonight, it was an opportunity to put off the inevitable, so he chose to travel by foot. Tucking his portfolio beneath his arm and pulling his hat down against the January wind, he crossed the cobbled street.
It was ridiculous, really, these feelings coursing through him. He had invited Sophie to stay, and it was his home—or his family’s. He should not feel this trepidation about being around her. But at the same time, he felt it was actuallythe smartest way to handle the situation. He could not allow the affection he’d had for her to resurface. Or worse, grow. He’d forfeited any liberty to those feelings when he’d been too late to declare his suit—regardless of the state of her and her husband’s relationship, which had caused her to be in London alone and in need.
The blackguard. He should learn the man’s name so he could properly curse it.
Yet he also wanted to know nothing about him. Sophie had not readily offered up anything about the man, so it was not his place to pry.
The townhouse resided just past a courtyard garden. His feet slowed. If only his brothers or father were in residence, to add some sort of buffer to his time with the woman he’d once upon a time wished to marry. Or an aged aunt, who could lend propriety to the situation… but their family tree was sadly lacking.
Andrew should have seen her settled into a reputable hotel, but, no, she did not have an excess of funds, nor did he wish her in town alone. He’d noted the night before that she had no maid, and growing up, she’d slipped from home often enough for him to not be surprised that she did not employ one. London was not the place for a woman unaccompanied.
And yet here he was, having left her alone all day. What had she done to occupy her time?
The butler let him in, taking his hat and coat and directing him to the dining room. “The missus thought to hold dinner for you, sir, when you are ready.”
Oh blast. She’d not eaten? It was nigh on eight o’clock.
Rather than the pitiful smattering of plates usually set at the table when he was the only one in residence, there was enough for a small dinner party, including several candles lit along the length of the table. And there, just to the right of the head seat, sat Sophie, resplendent in an unadorned blue gown, her hair done up in a simple fashion, and the bulk of her face obscured by a book.
He could not help it. A chuckle bubbled up his throat.
The book lowered, revealing narrowed eyes.
“Do you find something amusing, Mr. Langford?”
He leaned against the doorway. “Only you, with a novel at the supper table. How often did you hide one beneath the tablecloth growing up?”
Her lips twitched, and she set the book in her lap. “Our parents held the most boring conversations.”
“And I was not enough to hold your attention?”
“Compared to differential calculus?” She sighed, sinking her chin into her propped hand. “The stuff of daydreams.”
He pushed from the door. “I see how highly you esteemed my company.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I read a great deal more when seated beside Geoffrey.”
It did, actually. He dipped his head in thanks. “I am grateful to at least have ranked higher than my stuffy older brother.”
“At least a smidge.” She came to her feet as he approached the table. “Your housekeeper assured me you would not mind a formal dinner—but the way you are gazing around as if it is entirely foreign has me wondering if it has caught you unawares.”
That was one way to put it. “No, no, I am only sorry you waited up for me.”
“You are home rather late.” Her statement held no ire; it was simply a statement of fact. She sank back into her chair, and for a moment, he could only stare at her.
Home. His dinner table. Sophie.
He pulled off his gloves as he sat beside her. It felt far too intimate, with only the dim sconces on the wall and the candlelight flickering between them. This was exactly as he’d dreamed his future would be when he came off that blasted boat six years before. But now it was a nightmare. He wasn’t usually such a ninny around women—never was, actually. So long as one saw each moment as a logical give and take of sentiment and knowledge, one was not often wrong-footed.
At the moment, he did not feel he had a foot at all. Andrew forced himself to meet her eyes, seeing the situation for what it was. To see her logically. A family friend. An old acquaintance. Another man’s wife.
That last one was exactly the dousing of cold water he needed.
“I am sorry, my schedule was rather a mess today.” He reached for the dish of sweetbread in front of him, offering it to her first, then taking some for himself.
“Do you set it yourself? The schedule.” She put a helping of the vegetables on both her plate and his. Steam did not roll off them, but neither did they appear to have gone long cold.
