“Do you think the rector might add that into our vows?” she asked, a thoughtful—though entirely feigned—expression on her face.
“I will request it of him.” He folded his arms across his chest. “What was working at the school like?”
They continued on in that manner for another hour, until Bess awoke and Sophie yawned so violently, Andrew feared for the state of her cheeks and required her to rest her eyes. Shockingly, despite the jostling of the carriage, he managed some sleep as well, waking to the dampened noises of London outside.
Sophie still slept, her bonnet tossed to the ground, and her face relaxed as she leaned against the padded carriage wall. Bess hummed quietly across from them as he scooped up Sophie’s bonnet, unable to keep himself from watching her in that unorthodox state. Sophie had never done anything in a normal fashion; it was one of the reasons he’d been drawn to her. He’d been struggling so much to find where he fit in a society that valued oldest sons and forgot the rest, while she’d been seemingly forging her own path. With her, he’d never felt like a second tier or like he had to be something he was not.
And she was going to marry him. Just as he’d wanted years ago… marry him, but only in name.
He frowned, eyes tracing the curve of her cheek, the space between her parted lips. He didn’t want a marriage in name only. He’d fancied himself in love with Sophie Renard years ago, and now he did not want to share only his name with her. He wanted to share her life. He wanted to be stressed over whether he was going to follow her to Durham and abandon his plans. He wanted her head to rest on him, not against the carriage.
Could he convince her of it? Could he convince her to care for him as he did her? He had a week until they were married—it was a laughable amount of time, but it was time nonetheless, and he would not waste it. Especially because he had only a fortnight in total before they would part ways, marriage or no.
It was decided then. He was going to court Sophie Renard. He was going to convince her to take a chance on a true marriage with him.
Chapter Fifteen
After weeks of not being in the classroom, the opportunity to use her mathematics skills was rather glorious, even with the stipulation that she might not be able to keep this position long term. She had spent the afternoon doing rather basic calculations to ensure that the positions of the planets to the location where the project would occur in Durham were correctly documented. She had only found one error, but Mr. Whitcomb had lifted his brow at even that, which she took to be surprise at her abilities.
Surprise was good; it meant she was exceeding expectations.
Mr. Whitcomb also indicated a minor amount of surprise when she’d informed him her surname was Langford, not Renard. She’d fumbled over the announcement, attempting to make it appear nonchalant, and had justified the confusion with the school having utilized her unmarried name on their records.
In the end, Mr. Whitcomb had just brushed off the information, indicating it was not of importance to him. The way her heart pounded after the exchange was in direct contrast to the benign nature of the man’s reaction.
She left the headquarters, glancing at the clock in the parlor with a grimace. It was an hour later than she was meant to be leaving. She’d have to take a hack home—it would soon be dark, and she could not walk back to Andrew’s home unattended. She gathered her things, slipping into her coat as she walked outthe door, but came up short on the first step. There, just across the road, leaning against a lamp post, was her soon-to-be husband.
He smiled, lifting a hand in acknowledgement, then crossed the street. His great coat was dark blue, which complemented his eyes. “I hope you do not mind my coming to meet you. I finished at the bank near the time you said you’d be finished here, so I thought to see if I might walk you home.”
“I am an hour late.”
He grimaced. “Trust the mathematician to puzzle that out.”
“You waited an hour for me?”
“Only forty-seven minutes.”
“Your calculation is far more precise than mine.” Then it was her turn to grimace. “Add this to your list of things to know about me—I am not particularly prompt.”
“I already knew that.” The corner of his mouth hitched up as he offered his arm. He had that boyish look about him again that she so loved, with his dark hair blowing into his eyes beneath his hat, and his cheeks flushed by wind.
She took his arm. “Very true. Do you recall when we were meant to meet at the river to race boats when we were… How old were we? Nine and ten?”
He nodded, his smile growing. “I do not recall any boat racing that day, something to do with me getting caught in a rainstorm after you failed to show up—too entranced in a novel.”
“The story was delightful.”
“The cold I caught was not.”
She leaned into him as she laughed. “You did not hold it against me, though. You always were far more even-tempered than I.”
“Someone had to balance your brash ways. It was a struggle, but I was the only one to fill those shoes.”
She grinned up at him. This was far better than taking a carriage, even with the chill air. She did her best to repress a shiver.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
“Much less than you, I am sure. After all, I have not been outside for an hour already.”
