His face registered both confusion then dismay as her meaning hit him. “Her party. We will need to fake our marriage there.”
“But I told my parents I would not reveal their lie. Our relationship will not stand up against Mrs. Haverwick’s questioning; she would wonder why my mother and father did not announce the marriage was to you. She will know you are not titled, as Mother said my husband was. We would have to tell her that my parents falsified a marriage, and then all of our town will know, and that could very well make it back to Mr. Whitcomb, or worse, our families, before the marriage truly takes place.”
Andrew gripped his desk as his eyes unfocused in thought. “We will have to turn down the invitation, then.”
Sophie’s spirits sank. She did not wish to hurt friends with this endeavor. She was meant to be fixing the lie her parents had created, not creating her own. But she could not see a way around it, so she nodded. “You are right, I am sure.”
“I will send a letter round. I suppose you will need to as well, if we are meant to be two entities, not one, in this circumstance.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.”
“But let us not worry about that now.” He pushed from the desk. “I am, after all, meant to be enjoying lunch with my wife.”
“You mean strategizing our faux marriage is not enjoyable?”
He stopped just in front of her, a hair closer than was generally comfortable, and yet she did not feel uncomfortable in the least. Her chin ticked up to keep his gaze, her eyebrow lifted. “I think I shall engage in my faux marriage instead.”
“Exactly how do you mean to do that?” Sophie barely recognized the breathy tone in which her voice exhibited itself.
Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his hand, brushing a curl behind her ear, his fingers lingering where her jaw met her neck. “We ought to become familiar with touch, yes? If we are meant to convince others we have been married for years.”
“Y–yes.” Her heart hammered uselessly in her chest. It was a struggle to pull in breath.
His knuckles dragged along her jaw to her chin, then both hands trailed across her shoulders and down her arms to take her hands in his. She was frozen beneath his touch, but her skin felt like fire. His thumb adjusted the ring on her finger.
“You are beautiful, Soph,” he said, the words quiet. His eyes seemed to be watching for something, but that made no amount of sense.
Nothing made any sense.
“How kind of you to notice.” The words bubbled up from her, essentially pointless, but needed to fill the space of response where suddenly she felt a lack.
His fingers squeezed hers, then released, but his eyes remained focused on her. Intent. “I mean it.”
She swallowed. “Thank you.”
His gaze narrowed as if probing for more, but her mind was a muddled mess. What was she meant to do or say here? He said he meant it, but he’d also just paraded her as his faux wife—and she knew very well his reasons for entering into this bargain: practical, pragmatic reasons.
He found, or did not, whatever he’d been seeking, and stepped back, adjusting his waistcoat. “We had best get you fed before sending you off to Mr. Whitcomb.” His tone was tight.
With a bit more room to breathe, she collected her thoughts, returning to her chair, though her steps felt sluggish. “You make it sound as if I’m for the lion’s den.”
He shrugged a little, settling back into his chair. “It is rather fitting, though, isn’t it?”
And with her laugh, normalcy returned; they spent half an hour in companionable conversation, until Andrew insisted she allow him to walk her to Whitcomb’s, where he informed her he would return to collect her at five o’clock.
She traversed the stairs to the home, somehow feeling both out of sorts and entirely comfortable. It was a strange dichotomy, indeed.
Chapter Sixteen
It had only been two days. Only two days of this strange arrangement with Sophie, wherein he hoped to coax her to care for him as he cared for her.
Except it was hard to remember it was only two days, when he felt as if he’d made no progress.
She was just as friendly and personable as ever, but not once in their time together—of which he’d tried to ensure was plentiful—had she shown even a spark of interest beyond friendship. Easy conversation, humorous recollections, general pleasantries.
He wanted more.
It was disheartening, but he was not about to give up. Many times, he considered just informing her of his feelings, but she was trapped in their arrangement now, and he would rather maim himself than make her uncomfortable around him. As he seemed to have done in his office. Telling her she was beautiful?Becoming comfortable with touch?He was still plagued with embarrassment over his attempts. If she learned how he felt and did not return those feelings, he could alienate any opportunity of gaining her favor. No, for now, he would keep quiet.
