“Goodnight, Soph,” he said, pulling his gaze from hers. “I hope you sleep well.”
Something in that look, which seemed to match the fire burning in the hearth, warmed her to her very core. And by the time any words came to her mouth, he was already gone.
Andrew’s heart would not slow.
With great effort, he had been able to think of it as any other room. Any other room, so long as he focused on the board. Not her hair. Her attire. Her everything.
He pushed both hands through his hair, drawing in a breath that made his chest hurt even more. Blast it all, what was he playing at, going into her room like that? It had nearly all been a lie. No, not true falsehoods—there was truth to each, but what did it matter if the servants talked a little? What did it matter if he invited her to the theater tonight or in the morning? Yes, he’d wanted to apologize, but that too could have waited. In truth, he’d just wished to see her again. She’d been so forlorn even after the library, and Charles’s recommendations had been ringing in his ears. And with only that thin wall between them, and hearing her moving around in there… he’d given into a very dangerous impulse.
Would he ever recover from seeing her with her hair in a loose plait over her shoulder, hands lifting the blanket from her bed?
No. He knew that for a fact.
Sleep would certainly be elusive. With long strides, he crossed to his desk and pulled out his sketchbook.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Sophie did not sleep well. She’d dreamt of Mr. Whitcomb firing her in front of half the project team, of her parents parading eligible bachelors in front of her, of a chess rook that morphed into Andrew, who kissed her cheek, the spot bursting into flame and engulfing her.
Fustian, but it was odd. She’d never been one to remember her dreams, but these—these felt branded to her mind and were making it difficult to stay focused on the play unfolding on the gilt stage before her. Instead of the actors, she kept seeing the players at work in her own life’s drama.
And as the romantic leads? She and Andrew. Which was absurd. She was marrying the man, not falling in love with him.
Why did that feel like a falsehood?
“Are you well? We need not stay. Ambrose is clearly happy without us.”
Sophie’s eyes jerked open. She’d pressed them closed, her subconscious likely wishing it could block out her feelings as easily as she blocked out her view of the stage below.
Mr. Hartley was indeed entertained. He was in conversation with a young woman that Andrew had told Sophie was one of the man’scandidatesfor marriage. Evidently, there were several.
When she apparently took too long to respond, Andrew drew close again, his arm brushing hers. “I myself am often bored with the theater. Not nearly enough math equations to complete. Downright monotonous.”
Her mouth quirked up. “It is rather tedious.”
“And Shakespeare?” He shuddered.
“Do not let anyone else hear you bemoan the genius. You may be cast out of polite society.”
“One of my friends, Rowan Ashworth, would agree with them. I hope I can trust you to keep my secret.”
“Always.”
He smiled down on her, and for the briefest of moments, his gaze flicked to her mouth. Attraction bloomed in her. Not love, certainly. But definite attraction. Was it possible that he might feel it as well? Could this renewal of their friendship have sparked something more for him? And how could she know?
As the curtain drew open on the second act, he remained close, his arm grazing hers whenever he shifted, his knee just inches from her own. She became rather fixated on that. On measuring the distance and cataloging each moment they touched. Was there a methodical way of learning if he cared for her? The risk of continuing on as they were was too great if not.
So, she did her best to keep emotion out of it—ignoring the flares of heat in her chest and stomach each time they touched. Seven times, so far. And thrice, he looked over at her in the first quarter hour, to share a smile, comment, or reaction over the play. Was that high? It seemed low. She studied Ambrose Hartley and the woman he’d escorted to the theater tonight—Miss Chambers—noting how often he interacted with her. He did not sit as close, but he certainly looked at her more.
The results were inconclusive. Mathematics was failing her for the first time in her life.
“You seem as if you are dissecting the play, rather than watching it. What is on your mind?”
Sophie colored.
“Well, now you must tell me.”
She lightly cleared her throat. “If you must know,” she whispered, “I was trying to determine if your Mr. Hartley is enamored with Miss Chambers. How does one tell, do you think?”
