nch, backwards,’ she agreed. His lips twitched, just a fraction, but the laughter he was suppressing was plain to see in his eyes. It was shocking in the lean, dark, controlled face. Shocking and irresistible. She smiled back. ‘You are teasing me again.’
‘I did not intend to. Really, there is no need to worry about such things yet.’ Almost imperceptibly Callum relaxed into the corner and it was only as he did so that Sophia realised that he had been wound as tight as a spring, as tense as she was, if not more so. However many things there were in this marriage to worry about, for her it was the answer to a problem. For him it meant a profound change in his way of life, undertaken out of duty.
‘I might be a spendthrift and squander all your money,’ she warned him, keeping her tone light, but with serious intent.
‘You would have to work quite hard at it and, in my estimation, you are too prudent for that.’
Sophia wrinkled her nose, not entirely certain she liked being described as prudent. There were so many other adjectives that one’s husband of less than a day might more flatteringly apply. ‘Are you wealthy, then?’
‘Were you paying no attention to the settlements?’
‘No.’ The smile was still there, so she added, ‘I did not marry you for your money.’
One eyebrow lifted and the smile became quizzical and less amused.
‘Not like that. Yes, of course I was so grateful we could pay off the debts and that Mama will be comfortable. I did not want to become a governess! There were other things—it is a relief that Mark will have influential connections when he finishes his studies and is looking for a parish. If he can establish himself well, then he will be able to support Mama. But I did not seek a life of luxury.’
‘Will your brother make a good clergyman, do you think?’ Callum asked. As he had when she told him about the debts, he did not refer to them again.
‘I am sure he will,’ Sophia said loyally, trying to repress the truth, which was that she thought Mark was becoming insufferably pompous. Her brother had descended for the wedding, patronised the amiable and unassuming vicar, lectured her on her own good fortune and announced his intention of pleasing their mother with a week’s visit at no notice. Sophia, her nerves on edge, had never been so out of sympathy with him.
‘He favoured me with a most enlightening lecture on the Christian duties of marriage yesterday evening,’ Callum said, straight-faced.
‘Oh no!’ Sophia stared at him, aghast. ‘Of all the preposterous things to do—Mark isn’t even ordained yet, and he’s so much younger than you and—’
But Callum was laughing now, a deep, wicked chuckle that made her smile back, even as she cringed at Mark’s effrontery. ‘What did you say? You snubbed him, I hope.’
‘I listened with great attention and then asked him a number of very frank questions about a husband’s duties in the marital bed. How I kept a straight face I will never know. It was very wrong of me, considering that I was about to marry his sister and I suspect he is a virgin.’ Sophia clapped her hand over her mouth to suppress the gasp of shocked laughter. ‘He became mired in the procreation of children, at which point I thanked him earnestly and told him he had given me a great deal to think about.’
‘That was very wicked. I’m surprised at you.’ But the reproof was ruined by the unladylike snort of laugher that escaped her. Thank goodness, he does have a sense of 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
Cal 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.