Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Benedict had never considered Hyde Park a place of danger, although not because danger could not exist there.
Horses bolted. Carriages overturned. Gentlemen rode too quickly to impress ladies.
Children chased hoops without regard for wheels, hooves, or ducal nerves.
But such dangers were visible, measurable, and therefore manageable.
Society’s curiosity, however, was another matter. It moved like smoke.
From the moment he and Miss Norton entered the park as an officially engaged couple, Benedict observed the whispers begin.
Heads turned behind bonnets. Fans lifted.
Gentlemen paused mid-conversation. Ladies sitting in open carriages lowered their voices while making no serious attempt to conceal that they were looking directly at him and his future duchess.
Sophia noticed all of it.
She walked at his side, her gloved hand resting lightly on his arm, the contact proper and modest, yet strangely distracting.
Her maid, Jenny, followed several paces behind, at a distance suitable to propriety and close enough to prevent any ambitious imagination from inventing scandal.
The arrangement was faultless. Lady Keswick could have found nothing to condemn.
Society, naturally, would attempt to condemn it anyway.
Sophia’s gaze flicked toward a pair of young ladies beneath a parasol, then toward an elderly gentleman who turned too slowly to pretend he had not been staring. Her fingers tightened very slightly upon Benedict’s sleeve.
He looked down at her. “Are you cold?”
“No.”
“Tired?”
“No.”
“Then you are crushing my sleeve for sport?”
Her hand loosened at once. A little color rose in her cheeks. “I was not crushing it.”
“Punishing it, perhaps.”
She glanced up at him, and he saw irritation mingled with embarrassment in her hazel eyes. It was an expression he found he liked far more than was convenient.
“They are all staring,” she said.
“Yes.”
Sophia waited. Benedict continued walking.
After several seconds, she said with some indignation, “That is all you intend to say?”
“What else should I say?”
“You might express concern.”
He gave a dismissive shrug. “I am not concerned.”
“That is very evident.”
He almost smiled. “You sound displeased by my composure.”
“I am displeased by its excess. A moderate amount of composure is admirable. Yours borders on offensive.”
A lady in a passing barouche bowed to him with bright curiosity. Benedict inclined his head. Sophia’s mouth tightened.
“They will talk whatever we do,” he said.
“What a wonderfully comforting observation. They will talk. How very easy for you. You have been a duke all your life.”
“Not all my life.”
“Near enough.”
“I was once a small boy.”
“I find that difficult to imagine.”
“That is because you possess excellent judgment.”
Despite herself, her lips twitched. Then she mastered the impulse and looked ahead.
“You know what I mean. People have watched you since you were born. You are accustomed to being observed, discussed, bowed to, approved of, disapproved of, and probably obeyed before you even decided what you wanted.”
“That last part is exaggerated.”
“Is it?”
“No. But it is still unkind of you to mention it.”
Her laugh escaped before she could restrain it. The sound was brief, surprised, and so pleasing that Benedict found his attention caught by it more firmly than by all the whispers in the park.
Then another group passed them. One lady stared openly at Sophia’s gown, her face, and finally at the hand resting upon Benedict’s arm. Sophia’s laughter faded.
“I am not used to being looked at,” she admitted more quietly. “Not in this way.”
Benedict slowed his pace. The path before them curved beneath a row of trees just beginning to thicken with summer green. Sunlight trembled over Sophia’s bonnet ribbon. She looked composed enough to satisfy every rule of conduct, yet he felt the tension in the hand that returned to his sleeve.
He thought to bring her here because it was proper for an engaged couple to be seen, because public appearances would make the announcement settled, respectable, undeniable, and because he had believed that once the world knew she was under his protection, it would be easier for her.
He had not considered that being placed beneath his protection would also place her beneath his consequence. That failure irritated him.
“I should have warned you,” he said.
Sophia looked up, startled. “Warned me?”
“That people would stare. That they would speculate. That walking beside me would make you feel watched.”
Her expression softened at once, which he found worse than if she had remained annoyed. “You could not have prevented it.”
“No. But I might have prepared you.”
“I am not certain preparation would have helped. One cannot rehearse being examined like a new species of flower.”
Benedict glanced toward a pair of matrons who nearly stopped moving in order to observe them. “A rare flower, apparently.”
She gave him a look. “Was that meant to be charming?”
“I am uncertain.”
“It requires practice.”
“I shall add it to my list of duties.”
“You keep a list?”
“Several.”
“Of charming remarks?”
“Not yet.”
This time her smile lasted longer. The sight of it unsettled him in a manner he had no wish to examine.
Sophia’s smile was not like other women’s smiles. There was no calculation in it, no polished expectation of praise. It came slowly, as if she had first to obtain permission from herself, and when it appeared, Benedict felt, absurdly, as though he had been trusted with something private.
He looked ahead before he could stare like everyone else. Before he could decide whether silence was safer than conversation, Benedict remembered the subject he had meant to raise.
“In any case, before we marry, there are a few matters you ought to know about Rivermere Hall.”
Sophia looked up at him. “What sort of matters?”
“The household arrangements. The girls’ routines. Certain rules.”
“Do you have many rules?”
“There are several. For example, there is no climbing trees.”
She turned her head fully toward him. “None?”
“None.”
“Not even if Marjorie promises to come down before supper?”
“Especially not then.”
Sophia’s brows rose. “I begin to see why she climbed one in secret.”
Benedict looked ahead. “There are also no sweets between meals.”
“That is barbarous.”
“It is sensible and prevents stomach aches.”
“It prevents happiness.”
“Happiness should not depend upon sugared almonds.”
“You cannot possibly know that. You are not eight.”
“I was eight once.”
“I am increasingly uncertain of it.”
His mouth twitched before he could stop it. Sophia saw, and her own eyes brightened with triumph. The sight was dangerous. A lady ought not look so pleased with herself in the middle of scolding him. A gentleman ought not wish to provoke it again.
He cleared his throat. “No animals indoors. No dogs in the schoolroom, no kittens in the nursery, no injured birds in the linen cupboard, and absolutely no frogs in the breakfast parlor.”
“That last one sounds very specific.”
“It was.”
“Marjorie?”
“And Amelia, though under protest.”
Sophia’s lips pressed together. “I am sorry. I am imagining it.”
“I advise against it.”
“I am imagining you discovering a frog beside your toast.”
“It was beneath the butter dish.”
She laughed then, and Benedict felt the sound move through him in a most unreasonable fashion.
The next instant she seemed to remember she was meant to be disapproving. “Still, no animals indoors seems severe. Children like creatures.”
“Creatures make mess.”
“So do children.”
“Children may be reasoned with.”
Sophia gave him a look of such disbelief that several nearby ladies might have mistaken it for flirtation.
“Very well,” he amended. “Children may occasionally be reasoned with.”
“And the other rules?”
He hesitated, though he did not know why. “There is a shallow stream beyond the south meadow. The bank becomes slippery after rain. The girls are not permitted to cross it.”
“Are they permitted to approach it?”
“No.”
“To look at it?”
“From a distance.”
“To know it exists?”
He looked at her. “Miss Norton.”
“Your Grace.”
“They will be safe.”
“Perhaps. But will they be happy?”
The question landed with more force than he’d expected.
Around them the park continued its idle splendor.
A phaeton passed, its wheels hissing softly over the path.
A lady’s laugh rose in the distance, bright as glass.
Benedict felt Sophia’s fingers tighten again, but this time not from nervousness.
“They are children,” she spoke softly. “They are not porcelain figures to be kept upon a shelf because someone fears the cabinet might shake.”
“I have never suggested they are porcelain.”
“No. You have suggested they are prisoners.”
“That is unjust.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.” His voice remained calm. He knew it did because calm was the only defense he trusted. “Rules exist for a reason.”
“Perhaps some of those reasons are not very good.”
“Falling from trees is a good reason.”
“So is learning courage.”
“Stomach aches are a good reason.”
“So is delight.”
“Disease from stray animals is a good reason.”
“So is tenderness.”
“Drowning is an excellent reason.”
Her face changed then, and Benedict knew at once he had said too much, not because the argument was weak, but because the fear beneath it stepped into view.
Sophia studied him for a moment. The irritation in her expression did not vanish, but it softened at the edges. That was worse. He could withstand disagreement. He was far less prepared for understanding.
“They have already lost so much,” she said quietly.
His jaw tightened. “Precisely.”
“No,” she replied. “That is precisely why the world should not be made smaller for them.”
He looked ahead, fixed upon the avenue before them, the moving horses, the gleam of carriage wheels, the safe, visible order of the park. “A smaller world is easier to protect.”
“But harder to live in.”
Benedict had no immediate answer. He disliked that very much.
Sophia appeared to dislike his silence even more. “You are doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Being infuriatingly calm.”
“Would you prefer me to shout?”
“No. I should prefer you to admit I am right.”
“That would be premature.”
“That would be honest.”
“It would be inaccurate.”
She made a sound, small, restrained, and unmistakably annoyed. Benedict should not have found it charming. He did not find it charming. He merely noticed that his future wife’s temper had more color than her shyness allowed most people to suspect.
They walked several paces in silence. More heads turned. More whispers followed. Sophia, for once, seemed too occupied with outrage to care.
At last she agreed. “Very well.”
Benedict heard trouble in the words. “Very well?”
“If Rivermere Hall is to be governed by rules, then I have a few of my own.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”
“I do.”
“Continue.”
She glanced at him, and the flush in her cheeks deepened. “Our marriage will remain in name only.”
He’d expected the condition. He told himself he’d expected it. That did not explain the strange, sharp tightening in his chest.
“Of course,” he nodded.
Sophia looked irritated. Benedict could not imagine why. He had agreed at once, as any gentleman ought. Surely immediate agreement was preferable to hesitation. Yet her mouth tightened, and her gaze turned toward the path with renewed displeasure.
“You agreed very easily,” she pointed out.
“I do not intend to force any intimacy upon you.”
She turned her head away, and he had the distinct impression that he was failing an examination whose subject had never been announced. They walked on beneath the trees. Sunlight broke through the leaves and moved across the brim of her bonnet, the line of her cheek, the curve of her mouth.
Then, Sophia spoke again. “However.” She drew in a careful breath, while her eyes remained focused forward. “If I should ever decide that I wish to be a mother, I expect you to fulfill your duties as my husband.”
For the second time since entering the park, Benedict nearly stopped walking. He did not. Years of discipline prevented it… barely.
A gentleman in a gray coat bowed as they passed. Benedict returned the bow by instinct alone. His mind, usually obedient, had become strangely empty of all ordinary thought and excessively full of Sophia Norton saying the word husband.
My duties as her husband.
The phrase was proper. Marital duties were a legitimate subject in any practical arrangement, particularly when inheritance, household, and future children were at stake. That did not explain why his collar seemed suddenly too tight around his throat.
Sophia glanced up at him, evidently mistaking his silence for reluctance. “It is a reasonable condition. And I should like the choice not to be denied merely because our marriage begins as an arrangement.”
“No. It will not be denied.”
“Then you agree?”
Benedict looked down at her. Her eyes were bright with embarrassment and defiance, her chin lifted as though daring him to think less of her for speaking plainly. She looked shy and brave and thoroughly vexed with him.
He had proposed marriage for the girls. He told himself so repeatedly.
Yet at that moment, with Sophia’s hand trembling almost imperceptibly upon his arm and her color high from the courage of her own words, Benedict found himself confronted by the alarming fact that she would not only become part of Rivermere. She would become his wife.
“Yes,” he said, his voice lower than before. “I agree.”
Sophia looked away at once. For reasons beyond his comprehension, she still seemed annoyed.
The carriage came into view at the edge of the path, the horses waiting in the dappled shade, and Jenny quickening a little behind them as propriety drew them back into ordinary order.
Benedict escorted Sophia toward it with the grave attention expected of an engaged gentleman and the inward bewilderment of a man whose carefully ordered future had just shifted beneath his feet.
At the carriage door, he handed her up. Her fingers rested in his for no more than a second longer than necessary. When she settled inside and looked out at him, still flushed, still indignant, still entirely unlike any woman he had ever known, Benedict bowed.
Then he stepped back.
Only when the carriage rolled away did he realize he had been standing in the path with the expression of a man who had just been informed that rules, however numerous, were no defense at all.