Today, he’d walked her home again, and they’d separated to change for dinner. His hands itched for his sketchbook that lay on his desk; it had been weeks since he’d taken the time to draw anything, and never before had he desired theoutlet as he did now. But there would be time for that in the future. Time for the purposeless pursuit that he enjoyed but had no real use for. Until then, he would remain the man he needed to be: capable, confident, and not needing to sketch out Sophie’s lips because he could not get them from his mind. Fool man.
He tied his cravat, and it came out too tight. Were any of his friends having luck at finding wives? He’d nearly fallen into this arrangement, and it felt rather like cheating. Certainly, Ambrose with his confident plans or Tristan with his charm would be far more successful than Andrew. And Rowan had a way with words that any woman must appreciate.
Cravat retied, he knocked his fist against his leg as he stepped from his room, avoiding looking at the door beside his own, where the staff had moved Sophie on their return. Even Charles drew women in with his devil-may-care attitude. The only one as poorly set up as himself had to be Leonard. Andrew did not know that the discontented man would manage much by way of matrimony. His lot in life was rather similar to Andrew’s—being a second son. But he was a second son who had to act like a first, which might be worse.
“You seem lost in thought.”
He stopped, turning to Sophie’s voice. Her dress was one he’d not seen yet, a pale-yellow silk, wide at the shoulders and trim at the waist. Dash it, couldn’t he have found a less pretty wife? It might make convincing her to likehima little more possible.
“I apologize, I did not hear you leave your room.” Her room. That was now steps from his own, heaven help him.
“It is understandable. After all, I do glide with the grace of a cloud,” she said, her voice lofty, and her hands demonstrating in front of her.
His lips lifted as he waited for her to reach his side, then started down the corridor with her on his arm.
“This is where you agree that I am graceful and impressive,” she said in a whisper.
“Oh, I was not aware I needed to agree to something so widely known.”
Her laugh chimed through the hall. “I don’t remember you being such a flirt growing up, Andrew.”
“We were not married then.” He winked. At least she understood he was flirting. Charles had always told him he was dismal at it, but here she’d claimed it for what he intended, and without appearing disgusted either. Small wins.
She pressed her fingers into his arm. “We are not now, either.”
He covered her hand with his, leaning close. “Hush, London might hear you.”
“Do you host the city in your home often, then?”
“Only on Saturday evenings.”
Her teeth flashed as she shook her head in near-wonder. “I do not recall you being so witty either.”
“You paint a terrible picture of my youth. Not funny nor charming?”
“You know entirely what I mean.”
“Are you happy with your rooms?” he asked.
“Oh yes, they are more than I need.” She hesitated, her hand playing lightly with his coat sleeve and slowly driving him mad. “Do they belong to one of your brothers? I cannot imagine Geoffrey will be pleased to learn I’ve usurped his bedchamber, even for so short a time.”
“They were Edmund’s, so no need to fear retribution. You—we—will be long gone before he ever returns.”
“Yes. You to your bank, and I to my job.”
He nodded, thinking of the half-finished letter waiting in his room that asked his solicitor to pause the proceedings on his estate. But that was ludicrous. Sophie would think him mad in truth if he followed her to Durham.
They entered the drawing room together, and she released his arm as they reached the fireplace and settled there, side by side. The warmth of it made half his body alight, and its flames cast shadows across Sophie’s face.
“Where is your mind right now?” She leaned over and tapped his wrist with the back of her hand. In an almost instinctual move, he flipped his own, grasping hers. Even with their gloves separating them, all of his awareness came to that small point of contact.
He stared down at their hands, seeing the place where his ring lay. “Sophie, are you disappointed that you are wasting your one and only marriage on me? A boring, charmless friend from your youth?”
“One and only?” she asked, as if placating a child. “You forget, this is my second. I have it on questionable authority that I was married five years ago.”
He shook his head, and she sobered, wrapping her hand atop his, making the action near-sisterly. He could have groaned. “Firstly, I just said you are both flirtatious and witty, so do not sell yourself so short. Secondly, I never planned to marry anyway.”
“Never?”
