Chapter 5
Chapter Five
For three days, Sophia devoted herself to the sensible business of refusing a duke.
It ought to have been simple. She told herself so in the morning while stirring tea she did not drink. She told herself so in the afternoon while pretending to read the same page of her novel until the words blurred into shapeless ink.
A proposal of marriage was not a library book to be accepted because it arrived unexpectedly and promised interest. It was a lifetime.
It was Rivermere Hall, a ducal household, two motherless girls, and a man whose eyes seemed to observe far more than he chose to say.
Unfortunately, her parents did not share her caution.
“My dear,” her mother said on the second morning, “hesitation is natural. Refusal, however, would be madness.”
Her father, who had been attempting to appear more measured, nodded over his newspaper. “Rivermere is an excellent match.”
“He is a duke,” her mother added.
“I am aware of it, Mama.”
“And a respectable man. Steady and wealthy.”
“And a duke,” her father echoed.
Her mother looked at him. “I mentioned that already.”
Sophia folded her hands tightly in her lap. “Those are not reasons to marry a man.”
“They are not the only reasons,” her mother replied. “But they are not objections.”
No, Sophia thought miserably. That was the trouble. Nothing about the Duke of Rivermere was an obvious objection. He had been proper, honorable, direct, and unexpectedly kind beneath all that severity. Still, she meant to refuse.
On the fourth afternoon, while Sophia sat near the window with an open book and no recollection of its contents, a carriage came up the drive. Her mother looked out and rose with such speed that Sophia’s stomach tightened before the visitor was even announced.
“His Grace, the Duke of Rivermere,” the butler announced, “with Miss Amelia Langley and Miss Marjorie Langley.”
Sophia stood.
Her mother’s face lit with maternal triumph, carefully disguised as hospitality. “Show them in at once.”
The Duke entered first, tall and grave in dark blue, with his hat beneath one arm. Behind him appeared the twins. All Sophia’s rehearsed refusals weakened at once.
Amelia came in quietly, with one hand clasped around a small reticule, her eyes searching the room until they found Sophia. Then her whole expression softened with relief so sincere that Sophia felt it like a hand pressed to her heart.
Marjorie, by contrast, entered as though every drawing room were merely a landscape to be conquered under stricter conditions.
“Miss Norton!” she cried, before remembering herself and attempting a curtsy at such speed it became almost a stumble. “We have come to see you.”
“So I observe,” Sophia replied, smiling despite every sensible intention.
The Duke bowed. “Forgive the intrusion. They asked after you often enough that refusal became impossible.”
Marjorie turned to him. “You refused three times.”
“And on the fourth, I surrendered.”
“That is persistence rewarded.”
Amelia colored. “We did ask very much, Uncle.”
Tea was ordered. Her mother seated herself in the chair nearest Sophia. The Duke sat opposite, composed and watchful, while the twins settled as close to Sophia as manners allowed, which, in Marjorie’s opinion, seemed very close indeed.
“I wanted to ask you,” Amelia said, drawing a breath of courage, “whether you might recommend a novel suitable for me. Uncle says I am not to read anything alarming before bed, but Marjorie says everything worthwhile is alarming.”
“Not everything,” Marjorie corrected. “Only the best parts.”
Sophia’s smile grew. “Do you prefer adventure, history, or something with a happy ending?”
Amelia considered this with solemn importance. “May one have all three?”
“One may certainly try.”
Marjorie leaned forward. “And do you know any books with girls who climb things?”
The Duke’s gaze shifted at once. “Marjorie.”
“I am only asking about literature.”
“You are never only asking about literature.”
Marjorie looked at Sophia with pride. “I have climbed only one tree since we last met.”
The Duke looked, if anything, less grateful for this achievement than Marjorie had anticipated. “That number was meant to be none.”
“But it was a very small tree.”
“It was an apple tree.”
“With low branches.”
“You tore your stocking.”
“It was an old stocking.”
Amelia sighed with the weary tenderness of one who spent eight years loving an impossible person. “She also frightened the gardener.”
“He startles easily,” Marjorie shrugged.
Sophia could not help laughing then, and the sound seemed to change the room. Amelia smiled shyly. Marjorie beamed. Even the Duke’s severe mouth softened at one corner before he looked down into his tea as though the cup required stern attention.
The afternoon warmed around them. Sophia recommended books and promised Amelia a list. Marjorie asked whether heroines were allowed to be muddy.
Amelia confessed she liked stories best when people were kind even after misunderstandings.
Marjorie declared misunderstandings useful because they made everyone speak more loudly and therefore more honestly.
Sophia listened, answered, and felt a guarded place within her opening despite all her efforts to keep it closed.
The girls did not make her feel awkward.
They simply drew near. And across the tea table, the Duke watched with a still, intent attention that made Sophia aware of every time Amelia touched her sleeve, every time Marjorie leaned against her knee, every time her own voice grew softer.
At last, when the visit could not respectably be extended much longer, the twins were gathered. Amelia thanked Sophia for the promised list as though it were a treasure. Marjorie informed her that Rivermere had better trees than Keswick but that she was not to tell Uncle Benedict she said so.
“I heard that,” the Duke said.
“I know,” Marjorie replied cheerfully.
Near the door, he turned to Sophia. “Miss Norton, perhaps you and Lady Keswick would do us the honor of visiting Rivermere Hall. The girls would be pleased to show you the library.”
“And the gardens,” Marjorie added.
“Under supervision,” he frowned.
Sophia’s answer caught somewhere between caution and longing. Her mother supplied it before either could prevail.
“We would be delighted, Your Grace.”
Sophia turned to her, startled. Her mother smiled with perfect innocence and not the slightest remorse.
The Duke bowed. “Then I shall send a carriage tomorrow.”
Sophia’s heart gave a small, helpless leap.
Amelia looked radiant. Marjorie looked triumphant. The Duke looked merely composed, but his eyes lingered on Sophia for one quiet moment before he turned away.
After they had gone, the drawing room felt emptier than it had any right to. Sophia looked down and saw that Amelia had left a ribbon on the sofa. She picked it up gently, smoothing the pale satin between her fingers.
She spent days trying to persuade herself that she had to refuse.
Now, for the first time, she feared she might not wish to.
“Is it true?”
The door to Benedict’s study opened with such force that the nearest candle flame leaned sharply sideways.
Benedict looked up from the estate ledger, his pen still in hand.
He had dismissed three tenants, two letters, one steward, and a headache that morning, causing considerably less disruption than Nathaniel Harcourt did merely by entering a room.
“Nathaniel,” Benedict sighed, in the tone of a man who had long ago discovered that surprise was wasted on certain persons. “Good afternoon.”
Nathaniel Harcourt, the Duke of Redgrave and the most cheerful nuisance in three counties, shut the door behind him with a flourish.
He was tall, fair, and handsome in the careless way of men who did not deserve to be forgiven as often as they were.
He dressed with an elegance that suggested he had never met a tailor he did not charm into indulgence.
His blue eyes shone with unholy interest.
“Do not good afternoon me. Is it true?”
Benedict lowered his pen. “Is what true?”
Nathaniel stared at him. “The marriage, of course.”
Benedict closed the ledger with deliberate care. A faint sigh escaped him. “I hoped it would remain a secret at least until I was certain myself whether it was true or not.”
For the first time since entering, Nathaniel appeared genuinely silenced. It lasted three seconds.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean Miss Norton has not accepted me yet.”
Nathaniel straightened slowly, one hand pressed to his heart in theatrical astonishment. “Good heavens. You proposed marriage to a lady before knowing whether she would accept you?”
“That is generally how proposals work.”
“Not for you. You do not generally propose anything without six documents, two witnesses, and a contingency plan in case of rain.” Nathaniel dropped into the nearest chair. “This is magnificent.”
“It is not magnificent. It is practical.”
“Ah. Worse and worse. I have always dreaded the day you would make matrimony sound like drainage.”
Benedict leaned back. “Have you ridden here merely to insult me?”
“Principally, yes. Also to learn whether my oldest friend has lost his reason in an interesting manner.”
The words were light, but Benedict heard the affection beneath them. Nathaniel was one of the few men who could speak to him without caution, and perhaps the only one who took pleasure in doing so.
They had known each other since school, where Nathaniel escaped punishment through charm, and Benedict accepted punishment even when innocent because he considered arguing inefficient.
At Eton, Nathaniel once smuggled a litter of kittens into the Latin master’s desk.
Benedict discovered the scheme, disapproved of it, and then took responsibility for the kittens when Nathaniel forgot to feed them.