“I DIDN’T EXPECT THIS.” James spoke in a different tone of voice than any Sophronia had heard before; he sounded almost reverent as he gazed around the small chapel in the abbey.
He had insisted she sit beside him in the carriage, and she’d been acutely conscious of his body—those legs she couldn’t seem to stop thinking about—just next to hers, his large hands clasped on his knees, the scent of him seeming to seep into her skin.
Miss Green and the viscountess’s daughter also joined them, sitting opposite. When not guided by her mother, Miss Green was a very pleasant conversationalist, if shy. The viscountess’s daughter was much more talkative, and most of her talk revolved around what people thought of her—namely, that she was the most lovely girl in the room at any moment.
Sophronia spent a few joyful moments pondering what it would be like if Mrs. Archer and the viscountess’s daughter were left alone in a room together, neither showing much ability to listen to another person.
But that was mean to Mrs. Archer, who was likely just lonely. It sounded as though James was away far more often than he was here, and it was clear her life revolved around her son, and the vast amount of concern and love she had for him.
Sophronia promised herself she would spend some more time with Mrs. Archer. That is, before the holiday was over and James killed her off in some horrific way.
Wouldn’t that be more upsetting to Mrs. Archer than to have him just tell her he did not wish to be married?
Although telling her would be to confront his problem head-on, and she had the feeling he was unaccustomed to that, being far more used to using his vast amount of charm to wriggle out of a situation.
Like her father. Another reminder to keep her guard up.
“Look, here,” James said, startling her out of her thoughts. He had taken her hand and was leading her to a dark corner of the chapel. A table was placed there, several items gleaming dully in the darkness on its surface.
He paused before the table and dropped her hand, reaching out to lift up one of the items. A large vessel, it appeared to be, with whorled edges and a wide lip.
“What is that?” Sophronia asked, interested in spite of herself. There was something so contagious in his manner, in how he held the vessel with a near reverence but still caressed its curves.
Sophronia felt her eyes roll at herself as the imagery made her think of things she should absolutely not be thinking of, in a chapel, no less.
“It is a pitcher,” he said in a less reverent voice.
Sophronia uttered a snort, surprised by the mundane plainness of his words. “So nothing special? A goblet for holy wine or an offering of flowers to pagan gods or something?”
“I didn’t say that,” he replied, setting the pitcher back on the table. His movement was graceful and cautious, revealing his attitude toward the pitcher and whatever it might be. “It was used by the people who worshipped here. To serve their water, or wine, or whatever they were drinking, during celebrations.” He turned to look at her, his eyes riveting in his handsome face. “Just imagine what it was like to be here, all that faith and love and family in one room. Maybe they were honoring a fallen family member, or celebrating a successful harvest or something. Like when we celebrate the holidays. And they’d be sharing the feelings and also sharing something to drink, something to sustain them. Something to bond them in this time of togetherness.”
She felt shaky as she met his gaze. “That is—that is amazing,” she said, speaking of how he’d described things, the moment in this room a few hundred years ago, rather than the pitcher itself. “No wonder you are so successful in your work.”
He smiled, but it was a rueful smile, one tempered by some sort of—loss? Longing? “I used to wish I could have lived back in those times, where one remained in one place for one’s entire life. Not to have the opportunity to travel, unless it was to wage war, and I certainly did not wish to do that. To be constrained by circumstances rather than open to opportunity.”
She stepped forward and touched his arm. “Why?”
He shook his head, not meeting her gaze, looking at the ground. “It seems I’ve always wished to belong somewhere, even though I chafe against it.” He raised his head and looked into her eyes. She felt the force of that blue stare all the way through to her feet. He was charming, and unreliable, and was even now telling her he would never settle down, never live up to his responsibilities.
And yet she wanted to savor him in this moment, in these few weeks they had together during their pretense.
She stepped forward again, not even knowing what she was planning, only fairly certain of what she was about to do.
“Lady Sophronia,” Miss Green called from the back of the chapel, “and Mr. Archer, do come look at this marvelous triptych.” And just like that, the moment was gone, and whatever she’d thought about doing was swept away by the duty of going to view a triptych, which sounded nearly as indecipherable as whatever hieroglyphics were.
But the fragment of the emotion she’d felt radiating from him—that feeling of wanting something, of yearning—remained, and she was left with the desire to help him. Or if she were to be entirely honest with herself, she was left with the desire for him. She recognized the inherent loneliness in him—she had it herself—and she knew, with even more resolution, that it wouldn’t do any harm for them to assuage their loneliness together, if only for a few weeks.
That, more than mild flirtation or even a stolen kiss or two, would be her gift to him. He deserved it, especially since soon enough he would be rid of her and back to his nomadic ways.
JAMIE CURSED MISS Green’s interest, at least at that very moment. He had gotten good at discerning when a lady was about to do something less than circumspect, and he’d seen the determination in Sophy’s eyes as she regarded him. The determination and the desire, along with perhaps a spark of mischief.
That definitely intrigued him. He wouldn’t have said, upon first meeting her, that she had a mischievous spark. She had too much of her goddess mien on display, which of course made sense since when they first met he’d proposed. Falsely.
But now that he’d spent some time in her company, he’d glimpsed things about her he wondered if she even knew about herself—that she had a sense of humor, that she was capable of deception, but even more, that she was an understanding soul, someone who seemed to sympathize with his situation, though he knew full well he could be derided for it—after all, what relatively young man wouldn’t want to be the focus of female attention, especially when the females were all just as young, comely, and had their respective attractions? If it weren’t him in the situation, he would mock the man who bemoaned that particular fate.
But not her. She’d gauged the situation and offered acceptance, and assistance, and even, he thought, a sense of commonality, though he had no idea what her own difficult position was.
Except that of course there must be one, or else he wouldn’t have found her in a coaching inn drinking ale on her way . . . somewhere, with no family and no objection, after the usual reasonable ones, to embarking on this charade with him.
He wanted to know more about her, about why she had family, but had decided not to be with them, but had instead taken a great leap of faith in agreeing to their bargain; but he was also keenly aware that the more he knew, the more entangled he would become. He couldn’t afford entanglements, at least not emotionally. He could afford them literally, which was why he was willing to give her so much for just a few weeks of her time.
But the cost of an emotional entanglement—that was far more than he was willing to pay. Which made her understanding and sympathy even more dangerous to his peace of mind.
But meanwhile, he couldn’t resist the urge to find out more about her. To give in to the pull he felt to be with her, to see what it would be like to kiss a goddess.
He would just have to stay on his guard, which he’d been doing his whole life.
“What have you found, then, Miss Green?” he asked, following Sophy as she headed toward the back of the chapel. He’d found a treasure, he thought, and not just the pitcher on the table—a treasure he could keep for just a bit, just long enough to soak in its warmth, and feel the calming stillness, if only for a moment.