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Mr. Balfour turned around. She had forgotten how upstanding and correct he presented, all sharp shoulders and long legs. “I what?” he asked in monotone.

“You don’t seem the sort of gentleman to care about such things.” Her voice was quieter than she’d intended.

His features broke into a sardonic smile. “You forget yourself, Miss St. Quinton. I’m no gentleman.”

“The designation has far more to do with character than anything else.”

“Perhaps where your opinion is concerned.” His back was to her again. He was cutting a nip of sugar from the top of a new cone.

Sophie rose to her feet, and holding to the table’s edge, crossed the room to stand a few steps shy of him. “Switchel, you said?”

He looked at her over his shoulder. “That’s right. It’s chiefly a drink of the American States, or so I’m told.”

“Then how did you come to know of it?” She had inched closer to watch as he poured in a dark, viscous liquid.

“My mother.” He sniffed and put the glass bottle aside.

More things she shouldn’t say bobbed to the surface of her mind. “Earlier tonight, you said you know something of loss. It was her you meant, wasn’t it?”

He nodded, reaching to stir the kettle of steaming blond liquid. “She used to make this for me when I was ill. It truly does settle the stomach.”

And he must have suspected she needed that. The medicinal benefit as well as the soothing comfort of this ritual, equal parts spicy and sweet, made by the hands of someone who cared. It was preposterous to think Rafe Balfour cared about her, but his actions this night made it impossible to refute entirely.

“So you grew up simply, then?” she asked, taking a deep breath. “Without a staff and cook?”

“We did far better than most. Mother’s father was a country squire. His son inherited the land, of course, but he made certain his daughters were cared for, too.” He disappeared for a moment and returned with two teacups and saucers. “We had a housemaid and Chenoweth, for the horses, but nothing like the staff my father has now.”

She remembered that much from talk about town. The Balfour wealth was newly acquired, made when father and son had moved to London and opened the store several years back. What must it have been like, for a child to lose his mother, and then be wrenched from his home and taken to this big bustling city to work?

“Have you heard from Miss Penney?” Sophie asked suddenly, anxious to change the subject.

“Ah, no. Not yet.” He ladled the spiced drink into one teacup, and then the next. “I was reminded I must call on her soon.” He offered her a cup and saucer with a smile.

Miss Penney would never find herself in this situation. She never had a golden eyelash out of place. She often spent half a minute looking radiantly at the ceiling before she answered a question. She was polished. Calculated.

“I must have behaved abominably tonight.” Sophie took the drink from his hands and passed him on her return to the table. Of course he was still pursuing a connection with Miss Penney. Why wouldn’t he? That was well and good. Good for both of them.

“You weren’t there long enough to cause a scene.” Mr. Balfour took a seat beside her.

“Miss Penney, she would never act as I have tonight. She’s the pinnacle of respectability.” She wanted to take a sip, but the thin porcelain was so hot against her fingers, she settled for fiddling with the handle instead. “I take it you’re very fond of her.”

“Can I be honest with you?”

She met his look.

“I’m not.” His skin colored a little, pink tinges against paleness, and he huffed a laugh. “I’ve not said it aloud until now, but it’s the truth. I hope she isn’t fond of me either. That we just agree on the mutual benefits of marrying one another and have done with it.”

Sophie’s first sip was so hot as to be tasteless, a sweeping scald down her throat.

“Easy.” His fingers came lightly to her wrist. “You’ll burn yourself alive.”

She smiled, fighting to maintain the muscles’ contractions when they faltered. She stared at her wrist long after his fingers rescinded. “That explains why you aren’t concerned about marriage limiting your power of choice, I suppose.”

“And what of your plans? Are you seeking some grand love?”

Sophie scoffed. “Not unless you call seeking a husband in a sedate, titled gentleman who will one day assume responsibility of my father’s estate ‘grand love.’”

“Your brother was the only heir, then?” His voice was gentle. So gentle that his mention of Edmund failed to even sting her.