He grasped her hands. “I love your kisses, Soph. But I love you more. I love your intelligence and wit. Your backbone and strength. I love how you shrug one shoulder when you pretend not to care, and how your eyes sparkle when you laugh. I love how you do not need a maid, finery, or to win at chess—”
At that, she laughed, and he squeezed her hands, smiling. “I love how you look in an evening gown, and bent over a page with that furrow in your brows. And how your writing becomes messy when you are excited. I love everything about you except, at the moment, your last name.”
It could not be helped; he had to be kissed. Quickly, because as much as she teased him for his self-restraint, hers was hardly better, she pressed her lips to his. “I love you, too, Andrew. Your intelligence and determination, and that pretty face.” She brushed back his hair as he affected a grimace. “With all I am, I loveyou… But I feel unsettled about Durham. I cannot explain it, but… something does not feel right.”
He nodded, a furrow between his brows. “Then we will discover the concern together. You are not alone in this, Sophie. Never again.”
A throat cleared in the door just behind them, and Sophie’s eyes flew to Mr. Langford’s raised brows.
But Andrew, ever the picture of calm confidence—except when he’d yelled at Mr. Whitcomb, or when he’d kissed her, that was—turned and nodded at his father. “Are we needed at breakfast?”
The man looked between both of them, seeming to measure something in his mind. “No, I had another thought.”
Andrew threaded Sophie’s hand through his arm, a question in his expression.
“I cannot say I agree with how you have handled this situation, Andrew, but all night, I could not shake the thought that… well, that I know the kind of man we raised, and I know you are every bit the gentleman. If you say you acted with Miss Renard’s best interests at heart, I believe you.” His gaze shifted to Sophie, to nod at her with the hint of a smile in the creases around his eyes. “And I do not wish her entrance into our family to be marred by bickering parents and pronouncements of shame.”
Andrew’s hand over hers tightened. “What are you saying, Father?”
“Go. Spencer has readied the chaise. If you exit through the servants’ entrance, you will be an hour gone before the remainder of us break our fast and learn you are not here. Go, and be married on your own terms.”
Sophie’s breath seized at that, a weight lifting from her shoulders at the evidence that at least one of their parents did not condemn them for their choices.
Andrew’s voice was tight as he reached out a hand to shake his father’s. Mr. Langford grasped his son’s in both of his own. Something passed between them in that look.
“Thank you, Father.”
Mr. Langford nodded, the action controlled and meaningful, before turning a smile to Sophie. “And welcome to our family, Miss Renard. My late wife adored you, and would have applauded the match.”
For some reason, that caused tears to prick her eyes, and it was all she could do to stammer out her own gratitude.
Chapter Thirty
Outside the mews behind the Langford home, Andrew assisted Sophie into the chaise. With a grim sort of amusement, he noted that it was only their two-seater. And while fine for their four-hour journey, it would not afford him much space from Sophie.
Her eyes twinkled at him as he lowered himself beside her, and somehow he knew she was thinking the same. “Do not smile at me like that,” he said, repeating himself from that morning. But he could not keep the bit of humor from his voice, even in his attempt at being firm.
“You are welcome to use my shoulder should you need rest after your sleepless night,” she offered as the chaise jolted forward, the two horses and their driver maneuvering it down the alley and into a London road beyond.
“I am far too tall to utilize your shoulder, Sophie,” he said, trying to remain outwardly calm as her scent enveloped him.
“My head, then?”
He barked a laugh, which had likely been her intent. “I shall inform you if I require your bonnet for a pillow.” He made the mistake of looking down at her with his words, and there was not nearly enough space between their lips.
He cleared his throat. Something else was needed here. A distraction. “Let us talk about Durham. Perhaps your unease comes from the uncertainty of it?”
Her eyes clouded, and he felt horrid for being the cause. But she nodded. “It is possible.”
He had certain unease about it as well, but he intended to support her desires however she needed. “I have visited the area once, when I was twelve or thirteen. The journey is long, but the county is beautiful. It should not be difficult for me to find a temporary position there—so far from London, there will be a handful of smaller banks that would likely appreciate my experience. Maybe I will focus a little more on my art.”
She smiled at the last, then looked away, a twist to her lips that indicated she was thinking. His attention caught for a moment, he lost his train of thought but quickly regained it.
“With only a handful of days left before the project begins, you will most certainly be added as a permanent member of the team.” He would see to it himself, if he had to, though it left a bad taste in his mouth. “Mrs. Whitcomb said she was interested in mathematics herself, yes? I imagine she is thrilled to have womanly company. And the rest of the team will come round, I am certain of it.”
She made a noncommittal noise.
He glanced down at her, but her face was now obscured. Her hand lay in her lap, though, and he grasped it, entwining their fingers.
