humour after all.
‘Wicked? Oh, no, not me. I was always the responsible twin,’ Callum remarked. For a moment she thought she had said the wrong thing, but he was still smiling. Then he turned from her; the moment of shared amusement was lost. ‘Try to get some sleep. I will, if you do not object.’
‘Of course not.’ Sophia was not at all tired, but if Callum was not sleeping well then she should encourage him to get all the rest she could. She closed her eyes and waited until she heard his breathing become slow. After a cautious peek she pulled her small sketching block from her reticule and began to draw his profile. It was not easy as the chaise lurched and swayed, but it was engrossing and she soon lost consciousness of everything but the battle to translate her husband’s face into lines and shading.
She had almost finished when he jerked, his eyes still closed. ‘Sophia. No, don’t—’
The pencil skidded across the page. She stuffed it and the block away and caught at his hands that had clenched into fists. ‘Callum?
‘What?’ He came awake in an instant, his pupils wide as he stared at her. ‘I’m sorry. A dream. Look—we have reached Kilburn Wells. Not long to London now.’
Chapter Eight
C al pushed away the lingering traces of the nightmare, of Sophia vanishing into a dark mist, not looking back. He made himself think of her laughter as the chaise drew up in Half Moon Street. Her uninhibited snort of amusement, the transformation of her face at the shared joke, the naughty twinkle in her eye at his most improper teasing of her brother were all delightful. To share laughter like that, to share a joke without it having to be spelled out—a simple joy, but a precious one he thought he had lost.
He looked at her as he helped her down, but she was once more serious and slightly wan in her sombre grey carriage dress. Marriage had not brought colour to her cheeks. But why should it? Her family was secure, but at the price of her marrying the wrong man and being plunged into a strange new life.
‘Another house to explore. It looks delightful,’ she said politely. Cal took her arm as they went up the steps and through the door that Hawksley was holding open. Under his fingers he felt her slenderness and measured the almost imperceptible distance she kept between them. How very ladylike, he thought, his body stirring at the thought of how unladylike he might be able to coax her to be that night. She’s a virgin who doesn’t love you, he reminded himself. Take care.
‘Good afternoon, madam. Sir.’
‘You must be Hawksley,’ Sophia said. From somewhere she conjured up a warm smile.
‘Yes, madam. Would you wish me to assemble the staff now or should I send for your maid, ma’am?’
Cal saw her cut him a fleeting glance, but she replied to the butler without waiting for his approval, ‘It would be best to meet everyone now, if you please, Hawksley.’
They must have been waiting, poised behind the baize door under the curve of the steps, for it opened the moment Hawksley clapped his hands. ‘Mrs Datchett, the cook-housekeeper, ma’am. Chivers, your maid. Andrew and Michael, the footmen, Prunella and Jane, the maids. Millie, kitchen maid.’ There were bows and curtsies. Cal had worked hard to commit the names to memory in the same automatic way he had done when dealing with the dozens of clerks and servants and merchants who filled his working days, but Sophia smiled and exchanged a few words with each of the staff in turn, repeated names, made a little ceremony of it.
They beamed back at her. She obviously had the knack with staff, he thought as Michael took his hat and gloves and Sophia went towards the stairs with Chivers. ‘Tea in the drawing room in fifteen minutes, please, Hawksley,’ she said decisively. ‘At what time would you wish dinner, Mr Chatterton? Or do you dine out this evening?’
He looked at her poised, one hand on the banister, her willowy figure half-turned
‘Wicked? Oh, no, not me. I was always the responsible twin,’ Callum remarked. For a moment she thought she had said the wrong thing, but he was still smiling. Then he turned from her; the moment of shared amusement was lost. ‘Try to get some sleep. I will, if you do not object.’
‘Of course not.’ Sophia was not at all tired, but if Callum was not sleeping well then she should encourage him to get all the rest she could. She closed her eyes and waited until she heard his breathing become slow. After a cautious peek she pulled her small sketching block from her reticule and began to draw his profile. It was not easy as the chaise lurched and swayed, but it was engrossing and she soon lost consciousness of everything but the battle to translate her husband’s face into lines and shading.
She had almost finished when he jerked, his eyes still closed. ‘Sophia. No, don’t—’
The pencil skidded across the page. She stuffed it and the block away and caught at his hands that had clenched into fists. ‘Callum?
‘What?’ He came awake in an instant, his pupils wide as he stared at her. ‘I’m sorry. A dream. Look—we have reached Kilburn Wells. Not long to London now.’
Chapter Eight
C al pushed away the lingering traces of the nightmare, of Sophia vanishing into a dark mist, not looking back. He made himself think of her laughter as the chaise drew up in Half Moon Street. Her uninhibited snort of amusement, the transformation of her face at the shared joke, the naughty twinkle in her eye at his most improper teasing of her brother were all delightful. To share laughter like that, to share a joke without it having to be spelled out—a simple joy, but a precious one he thought he had lost.
He looked at her as he helped her down, but she was once more serious and slightly wan in her sombre grey carriage dress. Marriage had not brought colour to her cheeks. But why should it? Her family was secure, but at the price of her marrying the wrong man and being plunged into a strange new life.
‘Another house to explore. It looks delightful,’ she said politely. Cal took her arm as they went up the steps and through the door that Hawksley was holding open. Under his fingers he felt her slenderness and measured the almost imperceptible distance she kept between them. How very ladylike, he thought, his body stirring at the thought of how unladylike he might be able to coax her to be that night. She’s a virgin who doesn’t love you, he reminded himself. Take care.
‘Good afternoon, madam. Sir.’
‘You must be Hawksley,’ Sophia said. From somewhere she conjured up a warm smile.
‘Yes, madam. Would you wish me to assemble the staff now or should I send for your maid, ma’am?’
Cal saw her cut him a fleeting glance, but she replied to the butler without waiting for his approval, ‘It would be best to meet everyone now, if you please, Hawksley.’
They must have been waiting, poised behind the baize door under the curve of the steps, for it opened the moment Hawksley clapped his hands. ‘Mrs Datchett, the cook-housekeeper, ma’am. Chivers, your maid. Andrew and Michael, the footmen, Prunella and Jane, the maids. Millie, kitchen maid.’ There were bows and curtsies. Cal had worked hard to commit the names to memory in the same automatic way he had done when dealing with the dozens of clerks and servants and merchants who filled his working days, but Sophia smiled and exchanged a few words with each of the staff in turn, repeated names, made a little ceremony of it.
They beamed back at her. She obviously had the knack with staff, he thought as Michael took his hat and gloves and Sophia went towards the stairs with Chivers. ‘Tea in the drawing room in fifteen minutes, please, Hawksley,’ she said decisively. ‘At what time would you wish dinner, Mr Chatterton? Or do you dine out this evening?’
He looked at her poised, one hand on the banister, her willowy figure half-turned
Similar Books
