Page 25 of When She Was a Governess
“Thank you,” she said.
They sat in silence for a moment. She could almost feel the weight of their confessed pasts between them.
“If we are to pretend to be in love,” Henry said finally, “we must call each other by our first names. I am Henry.”
“And I am Sophia.”
Henry stood and extended his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Sophia placed hers in it. His fingers closed around hers—dry and warm. He raised her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles, his eyes never leaving hers.
“Thank you, Sophia. For taking such good care of Amelia. For agreeing to this.”
When he released her hand, the room felt colder. She turned toward the door, her heart racing. It was just this man. He made her stomach flutter and her pulse race. He made her feel almost drunk with desire. What in the world was she to do about that?
“I shall retire, my lord,” Sophia said. “Mrs. Bromley has many plans for me tomorrow, including hiring a new governess for Amelia and a lady’s maid for me. It is strange to think about how much everything is to change.”
“Yes, you will need your rest. Good night, Sophia.”
When she reached the door, he called out to her. “Sophia?”
She paused, looking back.
“My sister wanted Amelia raised with love, not cold formality. With warmth and affection and freedom to be herself.” His expression was earnest, almost vulnerable. “Youare that person. I’m glad Amelia will have you. I’m glad I’ll have you.”
“I know,” Sophia said gently. “I’m glad too.”
She slipped out of the breakfast room and made her way up the stairs, her mind whirling. In the space of one dinner, Henry Montrose had gone from being her distant employer to someone she understood, admired, and—God help her—was beginning to care for far more than was wise.
He’d shared his deepest pain with her. He’d offered to defend her honor. He’d looked at her like she was important.
Yet he was still in love with a dead woman.
Sophia reached her small governess’s room and closed the door, leaning against it. In one week, she would marry Henry Montrose. She would become Lady Montrose, stepmother to Amelia, mistress of this house. She would spend the rest of her life married to a man who had promised to protect her, provide for her, respect her.
But he would never love her.
She’d convinced herself that Amelia would be enough. That loving his niece, raising her, giving that motherless child everything she needed—that would fill whatever void existed in Sophia’s heart.
Yet as she pressed her hand to her chest, feeling her heart race at the memory of his smile, his voice, the way he’d said her name, she realized with sickening clarity that it would not be enough. She could already see the path unfold before her. As the days continued, one after the other, she would fall more and more in love with her husband. This yearning in her stomach and chest would grow until one day she would be utterly lost to it.
She was a practical woman. She’d accepted her lot. She’d told herself it was enough. But standing here, still feeling the ghost of his lips on her knuckles, she knew the truth. Henry Montrose’sheart was six years dead, buried at the bottom of the sea with a woman named Eleanor. There was no room for Sophia there.
And yet, foolishly, desperately, she wished there could be.
Chapter Six
The morning ofthe twenty-seventh dawned unseasonably warm, as though spring had decided to arrive a full month early. Henry stood at his study window, watching pale sunlight gild the lawn, and tried to shake the restlessness that had plagued him since Sophia had agreed to marry him. He’d barely slept the night before. Every time he’d closed his eyes, he’d seen her face across the dinner table—the firelight catching in her hair, the way her eyes had filled with tears when he’d told her about Eleanor, the quiet strength in her voice when she’d confessed her own assault.
She haunted him, and he didn’t know what to make of it.
A sharp knock interrupted his brooding. “Come.”
Grimshaw entered, bearing a silver salver with a single letter. “From London, my lord. The Duke of Ashford’s seal.”
Henry’s heartbeat stuttered. He took the letter with hands that weren’t quite steady. “Thank you, Grimshaw. That will be all.”
When the butler withdrew, Henry broke the seal and unfolded the pages. Sebastian’s handwriting was bold and decisive.
Montrose Manor, Kent
