“Do you share his love of words?”
Sophronia opened her mouth to respond in the negative, but realized that wasn’t the case. “I do,” she said, feeling a fragment of warmth at the memory of her father. She’d lost her mother too young for her to recall, so it had been just her and him for as long as she had awareness. “Father made the very startling decision not to hire a governess for me, so he oversaw my instruction. He was an engaging teacher, even if his skills at maths left something to be desired.” That went a long way toward explaining his financial difficulties. She didn’t know if he was even aware of just how dire their straits were. Although he would know for certain that it was “straits,” not “straights.”
“You were so lucky to have the benefit of a mind like that,” the vicar said in an admiring tone of voice.
“I suppose so,” Sophronia replied with a smile, unable to deny his enthusiasm.
“Would you—do you suppose you would be so gracious as to visit my rectory and see some of the books I’ve collected? I know your father approved of some of my purchases, he was very helpful in advising me about them.” He seemed to realize what he’d asked her, and turned a bright shade of red. “That is, with your betrothed, of course, and perhaps others of the party who would like to visit.”
Sophronia suppressed a giggle at Mr. Archer being forced to go look at someone’s musty collection of books when, from what she had gathered, he was a collector of remarkable and often dangerous artifacts, nothing nearly so prosaic as books. Written in English, no less. “We would love to, Mr. Chandler, thank you for the invitation.”
It would serve him right for the whole hieroglyphics incident.
Wheeple:
1. The handled end of a sword.
2. Melancholy; prone to sadness.
3. To utter a somewhat protracted shrill cry, like the curlew or plover; also, to whistle feebly.
CHAPTER SIX
His pretend betrothed was ending up being far more bothersome to his state of mind than he would like, Jamie thought sourly. He glanced down the table to where she was in an animated conversation with a youngish gentleman that Jamie thought might be the curate, or one of the young ladies’ brothers. He was gazing at her with what looked like near adoration.
And Jamie couldn’t blame him. Just as she had the previous evening, Sophronia was wearing a lovely gown that seemed as though it had been specifically designed to make her look as beautiful and goddesslike as possible.
Its lines were simple, in stark contrast to the gowns the other women were wearing—this gown had one frill trailing from her waist diagonally to the other side, ending up at the bottom, serving to highlight just how tall and willowy she was. The bodice was simple as well, fitted perfectly to her frame, showcasing the slope of her elegant shoulders and the strength of her slim arms.
But the color was what made it hers. The gown appeared to be either brown or purple, the colors shifting depending on how she moved and where the light caught the fabric. It was daring, unusual, and distinctive—like, he was coming to understand, his fake betrothed herself.
And he did not like the way the young man was looking at her, still. He wanted to be the one gazing into her dark brown eyes, the recipient of her quick, shy smile.
More than that, however, he wanted to hold her in his arms and find out what it would be like to kiss a lady who was nearly his height.
It was purely the jealousy of a male who was accustomed to being the center of female attention, he assured himself. While also feeling like a spoiled child.
But no matter why he felt the way he did, he knew one thing—the gift he wanted most for this holiday season was a kiss from her. Despite what he’d vowed before. A kiss, just one kiss, couldn’t do any harm, could it? And if it brought joy to both of them—holiday joy, the joy of the season, and he knew it would bring joy to her, he had been told often enough of his kissing prowess—then it would make the season brighter.
One gift, that was not so wrong to wish for, was it?
And he was going to do his damnedest to get it.
“Sophy,” he said, striding toward her as the men returned to the drawing room where the ladies sat, drinking their tea after dinner.
He’d met the man who’d so engrossed her during dinner. The vicar, who apparently had known Sophronia’s father and chattered on about some sort of book collection he had that she had agreed they would both go see. Not a threat, then.
She looked up at him, arching her eyebrow in a faintly dismissive manner, which only served to make him want to fluster her even more. “Yes, James?”
Good. She was addressing him by his first name now. He smirked at the thought of suggesting she call him by a nickname—“lord and master,” perhaps, or “future perfection.” He knew that would irk her as much as it would amuse him.
“Mrs. Green was telling me about some of the items she’s collected, and she wanted me to take a look at them. I was wondering if you would like to accompany us?”
“My daughter is just as knowledgeable about the collection as I am, Mr. Archer,” Mrs. Green said, raising her voice as she spoke over the distance between them. “Lady Sophronia has just gotten a fresh cup of tea, we wouldn’t want to disturb her.”
Jamie met Sophronia’s eyes, and he saw perfect understanding there. Thank goodness.
She placed her teacup on the table next to her, then rose in one elegant movement. It looked like water flowing upstream, or a tree nymph emerging from her woodland home.
Or a tall, lovely woman standing. When had he ever been poetic like that before? He’d have to say never. Not that backwards-running water sounded like anything Wordsworth or any of his cohorts would say, but it was definitely more colorful than he had ever been before.
“I would love to see your collection, Mrs. Green, thank you so much for thinking of James and his interests in these things. I share his interest, that is but one of the things we have in common.” She walked to where he stood and took his arm, gazing up at him with an adoring glance.
Bravo, he wished he could say, only that would totally give the game away, wouldn’t it?
“My son has always been interested in old things,” his mother said. From the spiteful glint in Mrs. Green’s eye as she heard the comment, Jamie knew the woman was thinking of Sophronia’s age, and he wished he could deliver some sort of cutting response.
But they were spending at least two more weeks here, and he wouldn’t do anything to disturb his mother’s pleasure, even if it meant enduring looks and comments for the entire time they were there.
Plus it would just mean he would find more reasons to escape to be alone with his betrothed, and perhaps he’d get his Christmas present early.
“James, a word, please.” It was the end of the evening—the very long evening—and Sophronia was exhausted, as much from being on her guard as from having traveled all day.
He, she thought grumpily, looked as fresh and handsome as he had that morning when they’d gotten into the coach. His charming smile remained in effect, hours into the excruciating evening, although perhaps it wasn’t quite as excruciating for him as it had been for her. Or a different kind of excruciating; he was wanted by nearly all the ladies in the general area, whereas she . . . was not.
She’d dutifully accompanied him to view what appeared to be some old, dingy pieces of tin, the “collection” of which Mrs. Green was so proud. Mr. Green seemed to not have an opinion about anything whatsoever, merely nodding in reply to any question posed him and devoting all of his interest to his dinner and later, his brandy.
Miss Green refused to be daunted by Sophronia’s presence, clinging to James’s arm as they walked the hallway to the room where the collection was kept, Sophronia trailing along behind like a tall afterthought.
Until James paused and waited for her to come alongside him, then took her arm on his other s
ide so the three of them were walking abreast. Sophronia couldn’t help but be touched by that courtesy, even though it also proclaimed his marital intentions, and thus served his purpose in bringing her along in the first place.
“What is it, my dear?” He grinned at her, as though fully aware just how his epithet would make her feel, and delighted by the prospect of her reaction—whether annoyance or amusement, she wasn’t sure. A mingling of both, likely as not.
“Could we step outside for a moment?”
His grin got deeper. “You are aware, are you not, that it is December? And therefore likely to be quite cold?” He glanced around at the rest of the company. “Unless you know I can keep you warm.”
“Jamie!” his mother exclaimed. “You’ll embarrass Sophronia!”
And Mrs. Archer was right. Although now her cheeks felt as though they were burning, and heat was spreading through her body so she knew she would not be cold outside at all.
So he had managed to keep her warm after all.
His eyes were laughing as he took her arm and guided her toward the door to the hallway. “We’ll be just a moment, not long enough to cause a scandal,” he called as they walked.
“Do you enjoy doing that?” she asked exasperatedly, then answered her own question. “Of course you do, or you wouldn’t do it.”
“Do what?”
They reached the door, at which a surprised footman waited. “Yes, we’re going outside just for a moment,” James said.
“Can I fetch the lady’s wrap?” the footman asked.
“I won’t need it,” Sophronia replied, still feeling as though she were burning from the inside out.
“Excellent, my lady,” the footman replied, unable to keep the dubious tone from his voice.
The night was cold, but not frigid, and it felt entirely refreshing after being in the stifling—in all ways—atmosphere of the drawing room.
They stood on the stairs, a light showing from the stables to the right of them, the moon casting a glow over the driveway and the gardens in the distance.
It was so blessedly and wonderfully quiet. It seemed he appreciated that as well, since he didn’t speak, just kept hold of her arm as he guided her down the stairs, across the driveway and just up to the gardens, which had a light dusting of snow.
Sophronia hadn’t seen snow in its natural state perhaps ever—her father rarely wanted to go to the country, and even when he did go, it was in the fall or spring. A snow in London quickly turned to slush, the only remnants of the real thing lingering on the trees for a day or two after. Until that, inevitably, melted to join the slush on the streets and the sidewalks.
“What did you want to speak to me about?” His voice was quiet, as though he was reluctant to break the silence.
“I don’t even know.” Well, she did, but she didn’t want to ruin the stillness. “Or I do, but it seems so silly, given what we’re doing.”
“Let me guess—the hieroglyphics?” His words sounded amused again. What must it be like to walk around continually amused? She wished she knew. Then again, if she did know, she would likely be insane, and she did not wish for that.
“Yes. That. You could have warned me.”
“And missed the look of surprise and outrage on your face? You are very expressive, Sophy.”
“Sophronia,” she corrected.
He leaned into her, and she felt the warmth of him, his solid shape at her side. It would be so easy to lean into him as well, to take this moment for what it was, to relish, perhaps the only instance—depending on what her future held—to spend time and flirt with a handsome gentleman who was just what he said he was.
Which was a man entirely determined to remain unencumbered by a woman, who was so desperate to avoid said entanglements that he would go so far as to fake a betrothal, to run the risk of having his much beloved mother find out that he was lying, in outrageous fashion, to her.
To be known as the kind of man who would do such a thing in order to avoid walking down the aisle.
So perhaps she would not lean back.
“It is my turn to thank you,” he said, startling her.
“Why?” Because I have just vowed to stay immune to your charms? Good luck with that, Sophronia, she thought to herself.
“Because if you were not here, if I was forced to face this situation on my own, it would be far more dreadful, even without adding in the possibility that I would find myself engaged to a woman I did not want at the end of the holiday.” He paused as Sophronia was parsing out what he was saying. “That is likely why I chanced discovery.” He shrugged, as though embarrassed. “It isn’t something I seem to be able to help. If there is a worse thing than being stagnant, than being immobilized by one’s life circumstances, I don’t know it.”
“Hence the traveling,” Sophronia replied. She was starting to feel the cold, and felt herself shiver.
“Here.” He must have felt it, too, which wouldn’t be surprising, given their arms were touching and she could almost swear she felt his hand hovering somewhere behind her, not quite on her body but not quite not on it, either. “You can wear my jacket. I just wish to stay out here a little longer.” He removed his jacket before she could protest, then draped it around her shoulders, tucking it in at her waist with a frown of concentration drawing his eyebrows together.
The jacket was warm from his body, and was redolent of his scent, a mix of soap and something that smelled spicy and faintly exotic.
Of course, faintly exotic to Sophronia was anywhere outside London, so perhaps his cologne or whatever it was came from York or Devon or something.
“I don’t know when it first began, but I just remember having to sit still while being given some lesson or another, and feeling as though I wanted to burst out of my skin.” He stared up at the sky, his breath showing visibly in the cold air. “My father used to talk about how much he wished he could just escape, but he had us, and my mother is not a good traveler.” He shrugged, as though it didn’t matter, when Sophronia could tell it absolutely did. “I don’t think it’s fair to ask someone to live a life they don’t want to live.” His voice sounded almost lost. As though it was the young Jamie speaking, not the adult one standing beside her. “If I could move all the time, I think I would. Unfortunately,” he said with a laugh, his tone audibly changing, “there are such essential things as sleep, and visiting with one’s mother.”
“You love her very much, don’t you?” Even in his jacket, she was shivering, but she didn’t want to go back in, not when she had the chance to speak with him out in the open—in so many ways.
“I do. I would do anything to keep her happy.” He paused, then continued. “Anything, that is, except marry someone when I’m not ready to.”
They were both silent for a time, each looking up at the sky. The one place, Sophronia mused, that he hadn’t been yet.
“My father and I were on our own, much as you describe with your mother.” They did have things in common, Sophronia realized. Just not hieroglyphics. “It often felt to me as though it were us against the world.” She shook her head, burrowing herself further into his jacket. “Not that we were against anything, but we were on our own. Just us.”
“You have no other family?” he asked, a surprisingly soft tone in his voice.
She thought of her cousin, and her cousin’s children, and the chickens. “Not precisely. I do, but none I wish to be with. That is why I was so willing to take you up on your offer. Or non-offer,” she said with a laugh.
He didn’t reply. He seemed content to be still here, just standing beside her, his head flung back, the strong lines of his throat showing fierce and strong.
Add throat to the list of body parts she was now thinking about.
“We should go in, you’re freezing,” he said after a bit. He took her arm without waiting for her reply—something characterist
ic of him, she was coming to realize—and walked her back into the house, her mind jumbled up with cold, and Christmas, and what home meant, and why someone would find it impossible to stay in one place, even though that one place held people who loved him.
Gyrovague:
1. Loss of freedoms.
2. One of those monks who were in the habit of wandering from monastery to monastery.
3. The outside circle of a compass.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Today we thought the young people in the company would take the carriages and visit the abbey. It remains as it was when Henry II reigned, and I am certain Mr. Archer and my own dear girl will find plenty to admire.” Mrs. Green issued her words like a proclamation, leaving no possibility of declining. “As well as the rest of the party,” she added, even though it sounded as if “the rest of the party” was an afterthought to Mr. Archer and her own dear girl.
Sophronia looked to where Mr. Archer—James—sat at the breakfast table, a bleary look on his face as though he were still sleeping. Perhaps he did not like the mornings as she did—she found she did her best thinking at that time, much to her night-owl father’s chagrin.
She felt her lips curve into a smile as she recalled just how many times he wanted to discuss some new discovery he’d made after a long evening of reading, only to get exasperated because she was so tired.
“Something amusing, my dear?” He was so observant, even when looking as though he were still lying in bed, the covers tangled about his—
Oh, no. Now she was thinking about his torso. Who knew the study of anatomy was so fascinating to her?
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