Chapter 4
Chapter Four
“Sir Jonathan’s wine was better than his musicians,” her father observed in the carriage on the way home.
“Henry, wine is not the measure of an evening,” her mother replied.
“It is one measure.”
“The company was the measure, darling,” she pointed out. “The dancing, the conversation.” She glanced across the carriage. “Sophia, wouldn’t you agree?”
Sophia frowned. “About the wine?”
Her father amusedly coughed into his glove.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake… You are not listening to me at all.”
“I am,” Sophia protested.
“Then tell me about your dance with the Duke of Rivermere,” her mother asked with dangerous serenity.
She swallowed heavily. “Dukes dance with young ladies, Mama. It is one of the many burdens of rank.”
Her father made another sound into his glove.
“I spoke to him briefly today, remember?” Sophia was quick to add. “It was civil to acknowledge the meeting earlier.”
Her mother seemed satisfied for the time being, and she continued to speak of the ball. Sophia heard almost none of it. She sat with her gloved hands folded in her lap, her shawl slipping unnoticed from one shoulder, while the Duke of Rivermere’s words returned to her with unsettling persistence.
‘Would you consider visiting Rivermere Hall from time to time?’
It was a simple request. He didn’t ask for anything improper, nor did he speak with any warmth that might invite foolishness. He asked on behalf of two little girls who had, for reasons Sophia could not understand, taken some liking to her after one muddy, alarming encounter beneath an oak tree.
“Sophia,” her mother called out.
Sophia started. “Yes, Mama?”
“You are very quiet.”
Frances would have laughed at that. Emma would have smiled. Sophia merely lowered her gaze. “I am only tired.”
“A ball is meant to enliven young ladies, not exhaust them.”
“Perhaps I am improperly constructed for balls.”
Her father gave a small cough that might have concealed amusement. Her mother looked as though she would have preferred not to hear such a possibility spoken aloud.
When at last they reached Keswick Manor, the house received them with the sleepy dignity of a place that had spent the evening recovering from its earlier disorder.
The children were in bed. The visiting husbands had gone to their rooms. Even Frances, miraculously, did not emerge to demand an accounting of every expression worn by every person at the ball.
In her chamber, the candles had been lit low. The air smelled faintly of lavender, starch, and the dying roses Jenny had placed upon the washstand that morning. Sophia dismissed her maid as gently as she could and sat before the glass, unpinning her hair with slow, distracted fingers.
Why did he choose me?
There were surely dozens of ladies better suited to entertaining two little girls, ladies who spoke easily, played the pianoforte without fear of being overheard, and knew charming games and amusing stories, as well as the precise tone in which children must be guided without being lectured.
She was shy. She was awkward in company, too fond of books, too inclined to listen when she ought to sparkle. At a ball, she preferred corners. At dinner, she preferred being placed beside elderly gentlemen who liked to talk and did not require much reply.
What possible good could she do in a ducal household?
None, she told herself. The answer must be no.
It would be simple enough. She would thank His Grace for the honor, express her affection for his nieces, and explain that she did not think herself equal to the responsibility.
That would be sensible. Becoming involved with Rivermere Hall could only lead to complications.
A duke’s household was not a place for uncertain young women to wander into simply because two children smiled at them. And yet…
Amelia’s shy smile rose in her memory, sweet and careful. Then Marjorie’s grin, bold as sunlight, appeared beside it.
That was the dangerous part, not the duke. At least, not only the duke.
“I shall refuse,” she whispered into the darkness.
But even as she said it, the words lacked conviction.
By the time sleep finally reached her, soft and uneven, Sophia was no closer to an answer.
She drifted away with the question still open in her mind and with two identical faces, one mischievous, the other gentle, waiting patiently beneath the old oak tree.
“I am here to see Miss Norton.”
The sentence produced precisely the effect Benedict expected, though not the one he desired.
Lord Keswick, who received him in the morning room with every appearance of polite bewilderment, paused, one hand resting on the back of a chair.
Lady Keswick, seated near the tea table, looked up so quickly that one of her rings struck the porcelain cup in her hand.
Miss Norton, who entered only a moment before and was now standing quietly beside her mother, became very still.
Benedict observed all three reactions and felt that he perhaps approached the matter too directly. The trouble was that indirectness wasted time.
“Sophia?” Lord Keswick repeated.
“Yes,” Benedict nodded.
“I had supposed…” Lord Keswick cleared his throat. “That is, I imagined Your Grace had come regarding the western fence. My steward mentioned some discussion between the estates.”
“The fence may wait.”
Lady Keswick’s brows lifted by the smallest degree. A duke might neglect a fence, perhaps, but he was not expected to neglect an explanation.
Sophia’s gaze flickered to his and away again. She wore a morning gown of pale muslin, simple and becoming, with a ribbon at her waist and her brown hair arranged so neatly that Benedict could not help remembering it loosened beneath the oak, touched by sunlight and leaves.
The recollection was inconvenient, so he dismissed it.
“I wished to continue a conversation begun last evening,” he explained.
Sophia’s cheeks colored. “Of course, Your Grace.”
Lord Keswick looked from Benedict to his daughter. Lady Keswick looked at Sophia, then at Benedict, then at the tea service, as if it might provide the proper rules for a visit that arrived without consulting precedent.
“Well,” Lady Keswick recovered herself with admirable speed, “Sophia and I would be honored to take tea with Your Grace.”
Lord Keswick took the hint, bowed, and excused himself with a dignity that did not entirely conceal his curiosity. Benedict sat only when the ladies did. He accepted tea, though he did not want it.
For several moments, all was propriety. Nothing in the room suggested danger, and yet Benedict felt the same tautness in his chest he experienced when one of the girls went too near a spirited horse.
“Your Grace,” Sophia said in a voice that was gentle but prepared. “I am grateful that you thought of me with such kindness.”
Benedict set down his cup. “But you mean to refuse my request?”
Her eyes lifted, startled. “I… Yes. I believe I must.”
Sophia folded her hands in her lap. Benedict noticed a faint mark still visible near her wrist where the tree had scratched her. “It would not be proper for me to visit Rivermere Hall regularly. I am not the girls’ governess, nor their relation.”
“It would give people something to gossip about,” Lady Keswick added, with a polite inclination of her head. “And gossip, Your Grace, rarely contents itself with the truth when invention is more entertaining.”
Benedict could not deny it. He used propriety as armor for most of his life. He could hardly complain when another person recognized its weight.
“I see,” he said.
Sophia’s expression softened, and that was somehow worse than triumph. “I am sorry. I liked Amelia and Marjorie very much.”
The quiet sincerity of that reply made his decision harder rather than easier. He had spent the night considering alternatives. A companion could be hired. A governess could be found, though the girls already had tutors for their lessons. None of the alternatives satisfied him.
Amelia asked at breakfast whether Miss Norton would come soon.
Marjorie announced that if Miss Norton did not come, she would write to her, though spelling was an oppressive system invented to discourage feeling.
Benedict had looked at their hopeful faces and understood that his problem was not finding a woman. It was finding this one.
The room waited. Benedict looked at Sophia, at the careful modesty of her posture and the anxiety she tried so hard to hide.
She had climbed a tree without hesitation.
She had argued with him when fear made him unreasonable.
She had spoken of children as though they were creatures to be understood, not merely managed.
If visits were improper, there was only one proper solution.
“Then I should like to marry you.”
The silence that followed was absolute. Lady Keswick’s teacup froze halfway to its saucer. Sophia stared at him as though he had ceased speaking English and begun reciting weather reports in Latin.
Benedict, who had faced creditors, magistrates, dying men, and furious tenants with less discomfort, felt the first true uncertainty of the morning. Perhaps he ought to have led more gently into it.
Sophia’s lips parted. No sound emerged.
Lady Keswick was the first to recover. “Your Grace.”
He inclined his head. “Lady Keswick.”
“Did I understand you correctly?”
“You did.”
Sophia finally found her voice, though it came out breathless. “You… wish to marry me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” The question was so immediate, so unadorned by vanity, that something in Benedict’s chest tightened.
He chose his answer with care. “Amelia and Marjorie need a permanent female figure in their lives. They have lost too much already to be offered affection that may vanish whenever propriety becomes inconvenient.”
Sophia looked down at her hands.
“They spoke of you again this morning,” he continued.
“Amelia, who is cautious with strangers, asked whether you liked novels with happy endings. Marjorie, who is cautious with nothing, declared that you were brave enough for any adventure and sensible enough to improve one. They are fond of you. More importantly, they trust you.”
A flush rose slowly into Sophia’s face. “Your Grace, they scarcely know me.”
“Children judge quickly.”
“They may judge wrongly.”
“So may adults. We generally take longer and are more pleased with ourselves for it.”
To his surprise, Lady Keswick made a small sound that might, in another woman, have become a laugh.
“I would make a terrible duchess,” Sophia added.
“I am not looking for a perfect duchess.” He leaned forward slightly, with his hands clasped between his knees. “I am looking for the right woman for Amelia and Marjorie.”
“And you think that is me?” she whispered.
“I think it may be.”
He had meant the words to be measured, practical, and reassuring.
Instead, they had entered the room with a gravity he had not intended.
Sophia’s eyes met his, wide and uncertain, and for one strange moment he saw the ballroom lights on her hair and the astonishment on her face again, as he had chosen her before every watching lady.
Lady Keswick set down her cup very carefully. “This is a serious proposal, Your Grace.”
“I do not make unserious ones.”
“No,” she nodded. “I would not imagine that you do.”
Sophia rose suddenly, then seemed to realize she had nowhere to go. Her fingers pressed against the back of the chair. “I am not accomplished in society. I do not know how to command a great household. I am more comfortable in a library than a ballroom. I… should disappoint you almost immediately.”
Benedict stood as well. “You overestimate how much I require of society and underestimate how much I value kindness.”
Her eyes shone with confusion and something that looked almost like fear. He understood that. He was asking too much, too quickly, and in his usual manner had mistaken decisiveness for mercy.
So he softened his voice. “I am not asking for an answer today. I ask only that you think about it,” he urged. “Consider what you would require, what assurances you would want, and whether the idea is entirely intolerable.”
“Entirely intolerable?” she repeated faintly.
“I should prefer not entirely.”
Again, that almost-smile threatened and vanished from her face.
Benedict bowed to Lady Keswick, then to Sophia. “I shall leave you to your thoughts.”
At the door, he paused despite himself. Sophia stood beside the tea table, pale, bewildered, and lovely in a way he was determined not to examine. Behind her, morning light touched the violets painted on the cups, making the room seem far too delicate for the proposal he had placed there.
“Miss Norton,” he called out.
She looked at him.
“Whatever your answer, I remain grateful for what you did for Marjorie.”
Her expression changed at the child’s name, softening almost before she could prevent it.
That, Benedict thought as he took his leave, was why he’d asked.
Not because she knew how to be a duchess, but because she already knew how to care.