Sophy sent her aunt a sheepish look. “I heard the vicar’s voice. I know he gave a sermon. I just didn’t hear the words.”
Julia chuckled. Long accustomed to Sophy’s daydreaming, she merely shook her head and, linking her arm with Sophy’s, led her up the aisle.
Sophy duly smiled at the vicar, shook his hand, and murmured an appropriate response to his comment regarding the fine morning, then followed Julia onto the expansive lawns that ringed the church.
Mrs. Pritchard and Mrs. Hughes, two old dears who lived nearby, were waiting to waylay them and chat, and Julia and Sophy obliged. The older ladies prided themselves on being up with the latest social news, and Julia made an effort to stay up to date in that sphere.
Sophy smiled and nodded, but otherwise let the chatter wash over her; she rarely found anything in the social sphere worthy of notice.
Portobello Street ran along the southern boundary of the green expanse surrounding the church, and the Carmichael residence, a three-storied town house, stood in the middle of the block on the street’s other side. While Sophy and Julia chatted with the ladies, from the corner of her eye, Sophy could see her front door.
By the time she and Julia took their leave of Mrs. Pritchard and Mrs. Hughes, Sophy’s mind had fastened on the what-should-I-do question. Hoping to avoid further unproductive chatting and steer Julia directly home, Sophy turned in that direction, only to find herself confronting a black wall.
She recognized the overcoat first; it was better cut than most and made of an exceedingly soft and commensurately expensive wool-and-cashmere blend that her senses remembered very well, courtesy of being all but wrapped in it the day before.
When she raised her gaze to Martin Cynster’s face, he was smiling—devastatingly—at her.
Her heart started to beat faster. Her mouth dried.
She forced herself to nod politely and extend her hand. “Mr. Cynster. We meet again.”
He grasped her fingers lightly, and holding his hat and cane in his other hand, the epitome of elegance, he half bowed. “Miss Carmichael. A happy encounter. I hoped to reassure myself that you’d taken no hurt after the excitements of yesterday.”
The gently teasing look in his eyes—warm, delectable, melted caramel at that moment—suggested that he knew perfectly well that to her, he himself qualified as one of yesterday’s excitements.
She really should want to dent such unshakable confidence. Instead, she fought to smother the butterflies erupting in her stomach and quell her senses’ overreaction to the perfectly gauged, perfectly gentlemanly grip of his fingers on hers.
He released her hand, and she felt that deeply, too.
Don’t fret. His impact will surely fade with time.
Even as the thought formed, she acknowledged the prediction might well prove false.
She glanced at Julia. Her aunt had, of course, noticed Cynster—his wasn’t a presence any sane female could overlook—and one glance at Julia’s eager expression told Sophy that Hector had embellished Sophy’s own report of the troubles at the works and given her aunt chapter and verse about the gentleman who had rescued her.
Martin noted the eagerness in the older lady’s eyes and, from his research, limited though that had been, guessed that she was the widowed aunt who filled the role of Miss Carmichael’s chaperon, even though, doubtless, Miss Carmichael no longer believed she needed one.
He smiled politely at the older lady and flicked an inquiring and faintly challenging glance at his quarry. “Won’t you introduce me to your companion?”
He saw her lips tighten, then resignation swept her features; he could almost hear her smothered sigh.
She gestured to him. “Mr. Martin Cynster, allow me to present my aunt, Mrs. Canterbury.”
Increasing the intensity of his smile, he grasped the gloved fingers Mrs. Canterbury readily offered. He bowed, then released her. “A pleasure, ma’am. I had the honor of meeting your niece yesterday.”
“So I heard.” Mrs. Canterbury glanced at said niece. “I understand, Mr. Cynster, that the family and I owe you our most fervent thanks for your quick actions in protecting dear Sophy yesterday.” She returned her gaze to him and beamed. “I’m exceedingly glad to make your acquaintance, sir, and to be able to tender the family’s gratitude in person.”
He summoned his most bashful look. “It was nothing any other gentleman wouldn’t have done had they been there. I was happy to be of assistance.” Smoothly, he transferred his gaze to Miss Carmichael. “And I’m doubly glad to have confirmed that Miss Carmichael took no lasting hurt.”
She studied him as if surprised to hear the sincerity in his words.
Her aunt was looking back and forth between them, a shrewd glint in her eye. “Mr. Cynster.” When he looked at her, she smiled benevolently. “Am I correct in assuming that you’re residing in town?”
“Indeed, ma’am. I have rooms at the Kings Head.”
She nodded. “A very worthy establishment. However, I doubt the quality of their table can compete with ours. You must allow us to host you for luncheon.” Without looking at her niece—who, from the corner of his eye, he could see was shooting daggers at her—Mrs. Canterbury fixed a guileless gaze on him. “Unless you have some prior engagement?”
Well, that was easier than I expected.
