‘Oh, no. I mean … yes, I went shopping and then I called on Averil and Lady Iwerne was there so I have invited her and Lord Iwerne for dinner tonight as well. They’ve just got back to town from their honeymoon, too, just like Averil and Luc. I do like her, very much. Only, we fell to talking and I quite forgot the time. But I remembered to send a message to the staff about the two extra guests, and the wedding presents have been unpacked,’ she finished, breathless.
‘I shall be delighted to see both the presents and our guests.’ And he did look pleased, Sophia thought with relief. She had not been sure it was quite the thing to invite a marquess to dinner at such short notice.
‘I must run and get changed.’
Callum stood aside courteously to allow her to mount the stairs. ‘Perhaps I can look through your drawings while I am waiting.’ He reached for the portfolio.
‘No!’ Sophia whirled round and snatched it back. ‘Not those dreadful scrawls, I would be mortified to have them looked at. I’ll … I’ll find something better than these to show you.’
She whisked upstairs and into her sitting room. Her old folder was on the side and she shuffled some of her better drawings into it, then, with a guilty pang, pushed the portfolio with Mr Ackermann’s card and notes and the caricatures she had bought in it under the sofa. Sooner or later she must confess what she had done, but not quite yet. She wanted to savour the triumph of actually selling her work before she had to defend her actions.
Andrew came at the tug of the bell pull. ‘Please give this to Mr Chatterton.’ She handed him the folder and ran up to her room to dress for her first dinner party as a married lady.
Cal checked with Hawksley that all was ready for the evening, then settled himself in the drawing room with Sophia’s folder of drawings. He had no very great expectations after her reluctance to show them to him. Just because she had been drawing for many years did not mean she had any talent; he only hoped he did not have to struggle to find some kind words to say. It was strange how living with Sophia had made him so sensitive to her feelings. Or perhaps that would have happened with any woman: he was just not used to domestic closeness.
The drawing that lay on top was of a woman, her head bent over sewing. She was obviously utterly focused on her work and yet the pose was one of tranquillity and grace. He stared at it, recognising Chivers despite the fact that her face was not visible. He turned the sheet over and found a minutely detailed flower study, then a sweeping sketch of Green Park followed by another portrait, this time of a small child staring solemnly at a cow. Green Park again, he thought, arrested by the way Sophia had caught the mixture of fear and curiosity on the toddler’s face.
She wanted children, he recalled. So did he, of course. An heir and, he supposed, the proverbial spare. That was unpleasantly close to the bone—life was dangerous and unpredictable and the thought of losing a child made his blood run cold. It would be even worse than losing Daniel. As bad as losing Sophia. He pushed the idea away and thought of a little girl. Yes, that was ideal, three children. At least. As he looked at the sketch in his hand Callum found the abstract wish for children had become something else, a definite desire to have children with Sophia.
Where had that come from? The realisation that she would make a good mother, he supposed, although it was more than that, somehow.
He was still sitting there, daydreaming, the folder open on his knee, when Sophia came down, a trifle pink from hurrying.
‘You look very fine, my dear,’ Cal remarked. She had gained a little weight, a little colour in her cheeks, since they had married. It was hard to remember why he had ever thought her plain.
‘I do?’ She patted at her piled curls, frowning into the overmantel mirror.
‘Indeed. The pink in your cheeks suits you and running down the stairs has produced a most alluring effect around the neckline.’
Sophia looked down at the rapid rise and fall of her bosom and became pinker. ‘Wretch!’
‘Which reminds me, I have a present for you.’
‘For me?’
How intriguing, he thought. Her reaction was a polite query, not an instant demand to know what it was. But then, this was his wife, not his mistress. And, although Sophia had married him for security and position, she was not at all grasping. In fact, he rather wished she would ask him for something, anything. ‘It occurred to me that I had bought you no jewellery and that we are entertaining formally for the first time tonight.’
‘You gave me my wedding ring and your grandmother’s lovely sapphire.’ Sophia held up her hand, the gems winking in the candlelight.
‘And now this.’ He picked up the long dark-blue leather case from the table beside him as he got to his feet.
‘Oh.’ She seemed reluctant to take it and then, when she did, she held it, unopened, in her hand. ‘I have done nothing to deserve it.’
‘You are my wife. You do not have to earn such things—it is my pleasure to give them to you.’
Sophia shook her head. ‘I cannot help but feel this is an unequal relationship.’
‘It is marriage.’ Cal took the box and opened it, wondering what made him such an expert on the subject. Marriage to Sophia was not proving to be quite what he had imagined, a polite, harmonious domestic arrangement with privacy and restraint on both sides and no need for any awkward emotion.
White fire flashed along the length of the case, a line of brilliance against the dark velvet lining. He lifted the necklace and put it around Sophia’s neck, lingering a little as he fastened it, letting his fingers stir the dark tendrils of hair her maid had so cunningly left to caress her skin. ‘And I do not think that marriage is a matter of an accountant’s books, a debit-and-credit balance. It is, I hope, a matter of trust and partnership.’
It was a pleasure to touch her, a pleasure to adorn her with what was, ultimately, the fruits of his hard work. These were not inherited gems. But one day, perhaps they would be. One day Sophia might give them to their daughter on her wedding day. Something swelled in his chest, a mixture of pride and apprehension and a tenderness that made him catch his breath.
Sophia stood and looked at their reflections in the glass, the diamonds pulsing with the rhythm of her breathing, his hands lying possessively on her shoulders. ‘It is lovely. Trust and partnership. I hope that,
too,’ she said slowly and then, with sudden vehemence, she turned and caught his hands in hers. ‘I want that. I want to share my thoughts with you and to have you share yours with me. To be part of your life, even though you never wanted me there.’
‘I never saw you there, but now you are here, my wife, I am glad of it,’ Cal said, surprised to find he meant it. ‘Trust, then, and understanding and sharing?’