Page 28 of When She Was a Governess
“Oh yes. I’ll tell the bishop that. ‘Fear not, Your Grace, I’m charming enough when I choose to be.’”
Davies laughed, warm and genuine, easing some of Henry’s tension.
“Miss Ashford certainly seems to think well of you,” Davies added.
Did she? Henry thought of Sophia at dinner—the way she’d listened to him speak of Eleanor, the sympathy in her gaze, the trust she’d shown in sharing her own assault. The connection that flickered between them. A connection they were both denying? Or was it only his imagination?
“We barely know each other,” Henry said. “Yet somehow I feel as if we do.”
“They say that is how it is when one finds their soulmate,” Davies said.
Henry shot him a look. “When did you become such a romantic?”
“I’m a practical man. And practically speaking, you could do far worse than Miss Ashford. She’s kind, intelligent, devoted to Miss Amelia.” Davies paused. “And quite beautiful, isn’t she?”
“That’s hardly relevant.”
“Isn’t it? You’re about to spend your life married to her. Beauty may not be everything, but it certainly doesn’t hurt.”
Henry turned back to the window rather than answer. Yes, Sophia was beautiful. He’d noticed from the beginning—kept it locked away where it couldn’t cause trouble. But lately, ignoring it had become nearly impossible. The shine of her fair hair. The curve of her neck. The brilliant smile and flush of her cheeks.
The carriage jolted over a rut.
Davies steadied himself. “It is not outlandish to imagine your feelings developing into something deeper than convenience. Into love. For both of you.”
Henry studied him. “She will not fall in love with me. I’m certain of it.”
“I disagree.” Davies’s voice softened. “You both deserve more than mere convenience.”
“What I deserve is irrelevant.”
“Is it?”
The carriage rolled through the village. They passed the church where, in four days’ time, Henry would stand beside Sophia Ashford and recite vows before God and her family.
Four days.
“I promised Miss Ashford a marriage in name only,” Henry said. “Separate chambers. No expectations beyond raising Amelia and upholding appearances. She seemed relieved.”
“Is that what you want, my lord? An empty bed for the rest of your days? With your lovely bride on the other side of a wall you built yourself?”
Henry met his gaze. “I loved Eleanor. That part of my heart died with her six years ago. Sophia deserves more thana widower who cannot love again. I can offer her security, protection, a home—not love. Never love.”
Davies studied him for several moments. “And if she wanted more?”
“She doesn’t.”
“Are you absolutely certain?”
Henry looked away. They had agreed to the plan. She had seemed quite devoted to it all. Yet, again, he had felt a spark light between them. Different than he had felt for Eleanor. She had been fragile, in need of protection, which had tugged at his heart whereas Sophia was his equal. She was strong. Stronger than him. Being with her made him feel calmer, more optimistic.
The carriage slowed, turning up a tree-lined drive toward Bishop Thornton’s residence—a substantial stone house with mullioned windows and a neat, orderly garden.
“We’re here, my lord,” John called.
Henry straightened his coat, steeling himself. He would be convincing. He would tell the bishop he’d fallen desperately in love with Sophia Ashford, discovered she was a duke’s sister, and now wished to marry her before London claimed her.
A story close enough to truth to sound believable. And far enough from it to make him feel like a fraud.
