Page 27 of When She Was a Governess
The way his pulse had quickened when Sophia laughed at dinner. The protective fury that had seized him when she told him about her assault. The strange disappointment that had lodged in his chest when she’d reiterated that their marriage would be in name only.
He pushed up from the desk and moved to the window again. Below, he could see Sophia and Amelia in the garden, wandering among the early snowdrops. Sophia bent to show the child something, and even from this distance Henry could see Amelia’s delighted response.
In five days, Sophia would be his wife. In five days, she would become Lady Montrose, mistress of this house, mother to Amelia in name as well as practice. And he would spend the rest of his life married to a woman who deserved far better than a marriage of convenience to a man still grieving his first love.
The thought filled him with something uncomfortably close to regret.
Henry turned from the window and rang for Grimshaw. The letter needed to be sent, the guest rooms needed to be prepared, and he needed to stop standing at windows watching Sophia like some lovesick fool. This was a practical arrangement. Nothing more.
No matter how much his treacherous heart whispered otherwise.
*
The next morning,Henry stepped into the courtyard, shrugging into his coat as Davies followed behind him with gloves and hat in hand.
“Unusually fine weather, my lord,” Davies said, his brown eyes gleaming with that perpetual hint of amusement. “Spring arriving early, it seems.”
“Or winter taking pity on us.” Henry tugged on his gloves. “Is John ready?”
“Waiting with the carriage.” Davies hesitated. “If you’ll forgive my saying so, you seem nervous.”
“I’m going to request a common license to marry my niece’s governess within the week. A certain amount of nervousness is warranted.”
“Your niece’s governess who happens to be a duke’s sister,” Davies corrected. “And whom you’re supposedly madly in love with.”
“Thank you for that reminder.”
Davies offered his hat with a maddeningly neutral expression. “The bishop will want to know why the rush.”
“I’m aware,” Henry muttered. “Which is why I must be convincing.”
“You’ll manage, my lord. You’re a terrible liar in general, but when it comes to Miss Ashford…” Davies tilted his head thoughtfully. “Well. Perhaps it won’t be as much of a lie as you think.”
Henry ignored that entirely. “Let’s go.”
John Marsh stood beside the carriage, face tipped toward the sun like a man starved for warmth. He straightened when Henry approached. “Fine day for a drive, my lord.”
“Indeed.” Henry climbed inside, Davies following. “To Bishop Thornton’s residence.”
The carriage lurched forward. Henry settled back as the countryside rolled past, the gardens showing the first signs ofspring—green shoots pushing through the soil, buds swelling, early crocuses brave and bright beneath the sun.
Everything was awakening. Beginning again.
He wished his own heart felt half as orderly.
After several minutes of silence, Davies cleared his throat. “Might I ask what you plan to tell the bishop, my lord?”
“That I’ve fallen in love with Miss Ashford and wish to marry her as soon as possible.”
“And the haste?”
“Her brother has summoned her to London for a Season. If I don’t marry her before she leaves, I risk losing her to some charming London gentleman.”
Davies’s lips twitched. “You’re too modest, my lord. You’re perfectly presentable.”
“Presentable,” Henry echoed. “What glowing praise.”
“And charming enough when you choose to be.”
