“Yes, sir. She is preparing for the evening in her rooms.”
“Will you have the carriage brought round?”
“Yes, sir.”
Andrew thanked him, taking off his hat and gloves and striding up the stairs to do just the same as Soph. A glance at his pocket watch informed him he was rather short on time. They needed to leave in the next quarter hour if they were to arrive at the Whitcomb’s on time.
The door beside his own opened as he was steps from it.
“Oh, good,” Sophie said, stepping out in a rustle of silk, “you’ve arrived.”
He could only stare.
The gown was a deep blue silk, the sleeves were a gauzy material, and silver thread on the skirt glinted in the waning sunlight. And her midnight hair, swept up as it was with tendrils falling tastefully around her face, showed off her slim neck to perfection.
Gads.
Gads.
“Is my hair out of place?” she asked. “Bess offered to help me with it, and it is a bit more ornate than I am used to.”
He pressed his eyes closed for a breath. “No. No, you are perfect.” He smiled at her.
She returned it and, seemingly on impulse, spun in a circle. “I admit, though I do not care overmuch for social events, it is rather fun to dress up on occasion.”
He needed to find another such occasion, and soon.
“I need a few minutes to change, then I will meet you in the drawing room.” He opened the door, but something in her expression held him back. In the moment he’d begun to turn, her excitement had faded… leaving a nervous demeanor in its absence. “Is everything well?”
She lifted a single shoulder, shrugging off his question. “Yes, of course.”
He didn’t believe it for a minute. “It is not too late to cry off. I’m not even dressed.”
“Oh, but I am, and what a waste of your maid’s ministrations.”
He allowed his eyes to trail down her again. Purely to refresh his memory. “She did do a fantastic job… I’ll take you somewhere else. I am certain there is some other event we can discover this evening.”
Half her mouth tipped down. “No, I have to attend. I need all the time I can get to convince Mr. Whitcomb that I deserve a spot in this project. I am simply fighting off a fit of the blue devils that I even need to.” She looked to the ceiling, fisting her hands on her hips. “Drat, but I hate how that man makes me feel. As if I am fresh from the schoolroom.”
Her voice began to crack, and in that moment, Andrew heard the telltale signs of footsteps on the servants’ stairs. He glanced around; Sophie would not wish to be found teary in front of one of the staff.
In a moment of dubiously good intent, he slipped a hand about her waist and tugged her into his open door, closing it behind him. Her body arched into his with the action, her stomach pressed against him, and the weight of her back on his arm.
Her eyes popped open. “What—”
“Someone was coming. I did not wish them to interrupt our conversation.” They were only a step into his chambers, but the intimacy seemed to envelop them. Flashes of the night they’d played chess in her room assaulted him. At least this time, it was not so late, and they were both properly attired. He released her, stepping back. “Sophie, I have said it before, but you do not need to proveanything to this man. He sounds like an insufferable coxcomb, and doubtless your intellect already exceeds his.”
She straightened her dress. “It does not, though; I am failing miserably, and I hardly know why. It is not as if the work is even difficult.” The tears he’d heard evidence of in her voice now began to gather in her eyes, but she blinked them back.
“I know why,” Andrew bit out. “Because he is treating you horribly.”
Hands flexed, she shook her head and slipped past him further into his room, seemingly without direction, just needing to move. “No, he—” She froze, stepping toward his desk—her movements decidedly with direction now. “Andrew, do you draw?”
His heart leapt into his throat. He knew which drawings were out.
“Only a little.” He strode to her, but it was too late. She was already at the desk, lifting the rough sketch lying there. The sketch of her. “It is a pointless endeavor, but my mother taught me,” he said, as if words could distract her from what she held.
He couldn’t see her face—wasn’t certain he wanted to. But she paused. A long pause. “Is this me?”
