Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
“Ithink, miss, if I may say so, that you will make a very lovely duchess.”
Sophia looked at Jenny in the mirror and felt her face warm at once. “You may not say so unless you intend to make me nervous before breakfast.”
Jenny, who stood behind her with a comb in one hand and several pins arranged neatly between her fingers, smiled with the careful affection permitted between a lady and her maid.
She served Sophia for nearly five years, long enough to know when silence was wanted and when it would only allow Miss Norton to worry herself into a headache.
She was not familiar, precisely. But there was a gentleness in Jenny’s manner that Sophia often found more comforting than all the elegant advice of relations.
“I only meant it kindly, miss.”
“I know.” Sophia softened at once. “Forgive me. I am very poor company this morning.”
“You are to be married to a duke,” Jenny said, separating a lock of Sophia’s brown hair and winding it deftly. “I should think any lady might be allowed a few nerves.”
Sophia lowered her gaze to her hands, folded upon the dressing table.
Her chamber smelled of rosewater, clean linen, and the faint lavender Jenny tucked among her ribbons.
Outside the open window, a breeze moved the pale curtains inward and back again like a quiet breath.
It ought to have been a peaceful morning.
Instead, Sophia felt as though she had been placed inside someone else’s future by mistake.
“Everyone is pleased with my marriage,” she sighed.
“Are you, miss?”
The question was spoken softly and respectfully. Yet it touched too near the tender place Sophia had spent several days avoiding.
“I am doing what is right,” she replied.
Jenny pinned a curl into place. “That is not quite the same thing.”
Sophia met her eyes in the glass. Jenny’s expression remained proper, but concern made it very nearly bold.
“The duke needs a wife,” Sophia mused, as if presenting evidence. “Amelia and Marjorie need a mother. I just happen to fit the role.”
Jenny hesitated. “And do you want the role?”
Sophia’s fingers tightened together. Want was a dangerous word.
It suggested choice, longing, even hope.
She was not certain she had the courage for any of those things.
She knew only that Amelia’s face had fallen when she imagined Sophia would leave, and Marjorie’s brave little chin trembled before she could hide it.
“I want the girls to be happy,” she confessed.
Jenny did not answer at once. She slid another pin into place, then touched the arrangement with the lightest hand. “Then I hope they know how fortunate they are.”
Sophia looked away. Before she could respond, a knock came at the chamber door. Jenny went to answer it and returned with one of the housemaids, who carried a large, flat box tied with a satin ribbon of deep ivory. A folded note rested atop the box, sealed with dark wax.
“For Miss Norton,” the maid declared, bobbing a curtsy. “It came by messenger from Rivermere Hall.”
Sophia’s heart gave an entirely unreasonable leap.
Jenny set the box on the bed, then brought the note to Sophia. “His Grace’s seal, miss.”
Sophia accepted it with fingers that felt suddenly clumsy. She broke the wax carefully. The handwriting within was strong, dark, and very plain.
Miss Norton,
Lady Briarwood has issued invitations for a small assembly next Thursday evening, and it could be the first occasion upon which we may attend together since our engagement became generally known. It seems a suitable opportunity to accustom society to what is already settled between our families.
I have taken the liberty of sending a gown which I believe may be appropriate for the evening. If it displeases you, you are of course under no obligation to wear it. If it pleases you, I shall consider myself fortunate to see you in it.
Your obedient servant,
Benedict Langley, the Duke of Rivermere
Sophia read the note twice.
If it pleases you.
There was nothing extravagant in the words. Nothing that any censorious person could call improper. Yet her pulse behaved foolishly over them, lingering especially upon that last sentence until she folded the paper with more haste than care.
“What does His Grace say?” Jenny asked, though her eyes already strayed to the box with open curiosity.
“He has sent something for the ball.”
Jenny’s brows lifted. “A gown?”
“So it appears.”
Sophia stood and approached the bed with considerable caution, as though the box might contain not silk but consequence. Jenny untied the ribbon. The lid lifted with a soft sigh of tissue paper.
They both went still. The gown lay within like moonlight gathered and folded. It was not gaudy. That was almost the trouble. Had it been heavy with jewels, stiff with gold, or vulgar in its expense, Sophia might have rejected it with ease.
Instead, it was simple in the most devastating manner: silk of the palest pearl, so fine it seemed to hold the morning light on its surface.
The bodice was delicately shaped, modest yet graceful, with tiny seed pearls sewn along the neckline like drops of dew.
The sleeves were sheer and soft, caught with narrow bands of silver thread.
Along the hem, almost invisible until the fabric moved, ran embroidery of pale blue forget-me-nots and little green leaves, so subtle that one had to look closely to see how exquisite it was.
Jenny gasped, pressing a hand to her lips. “Oh, miss.”
Sophia could not speak. Jenny lifted one sleeve with reverent hands. The silk fell over her fingers like water.
“I have never seen anything so beautiful.”
Neither had Sophia. That was precisely why she felt frightened. She imagined wearing it into Lady Briarwood’s rooms. She imagined every eye turning, every whisper sharpening.
“No,” she said suddenly. “I cannot accept this.”
Jenny looked up. “Miss?”
“It is far too grand.”
Jenny’s mouth twitched, but she wisely lowered her gaze.
Sophia stepped back from the bed. “No… no, I cannot accept it.”
“But His Grace sent it for you.”
“That is exactly why I cannot accept it.”
Jenny blinked. “I don’t understand, miss.”
Nor did Sophia, not entirely. She only knew that the gown felt like being seen too clearly. It made her feel uncertain, exposed, and almost beautiful, which was a dangerous sensation for a woman who agreed to a practical marriage and meant to remain sensible.
“I have perfectly suitable gowns,” she pointed out with more firmness than she felt. “The blue muslin will do very well.”
Jenny looked at the pearl silk, then at Sophia. “Very well, miss.”
Sophia went to her writing desk before she lost her courage. She took out paper, dipped her pen, and composed the note with painstaking politeness.
Your Grace,
I am much obliged by your generous thoughtfulness, but I cannot accept so costly a gift.
I possess several gowns perfectly suitable for Lady Briarwood’s assembly and would feel more comfortable wearing one of my own.
I hope you will not mistake my refusal for ingratitude, for I am sensible of the kindness intended.
Respectfully,
Sophia Norton
She sanded the note, folded it, and sealed it before hesitation could return. Jenny replaced the gown in its tissue with an expression approaching mourning.
When the box was carried away, Sophia watched it go with a strange tightness in her chest. She told herself she had done the proper thing.
And yet, when the door closed behind the maid, and the chamber became quiet once more, Sophia looked down at the note from Rivermere still resting upon her dressing table.
If it pleases you.
She pressed her fingers lightly over the words. Then, annoyed with herself, she turned away and told Jenny the blue muslin would need pressing.
Miss Norton,
I fear my gift caused you some discomfort…
Benedict stared at the sentence until the ink began to shine too brightly beneath the afternoon light. It was a poor sentence. Worse, it was inaccurate. He drew his pen through it.
The study smelled of sealing wax, leather, and the faint smoke of a fire that had burned too low.
Rain whispered against the tall windows, soft enough to be soothing had Benedict possessed any inclination to be soothed.
Upon the corner of his desk sat the large ivory box which had returned from Keswick that morning.
The ribbon had been retied with perfect care.
That offended him more than if Sophia had knotted it in fury.
He began again, and at that very moment, the door opened without a knock.
Nathaniel entered, removed his wet gloves, and stopped at the sight of the box.
Under one arm, he carried a leather portfolio from Rivermere’s estate office.
Two cottages on the northern edge of Redgrave had flooded in the week’s rain, and he had ridden over to borrow the plans for the drainage work Benedict had commissioned the previous spring.
Nathaniel treated most of his troubles as entertainment, but he never made light of his tenants’ troubles.
“For me?” he asked, visibly touched. “Benedict, you should not have.”
“It is a gown.”
Nathaniel’s expression brightened. “Then you have surpassed yourself. I have always felt pale silk would bring out my eyes.”
Benedict set down his pen. “Must you enter every room determined to worsen it?”
“No. Sometimes it occurs without effort.” Nathaniel crossed to the desk and examined the box. “A lady’s gown in your study, returned with the ribbon intact, while you compose a letter with the expression of a man negotiating peace after an avoidable war.”
“There was no war.”
“A skirmish, then.”
Benedict leaned back in his chair. “I sent Miss Norton a gown for Lady Briarwood’s assembly.”
“How thoughtful.”
“She returned it.”
Nathaniel’s eyes widened in amusement. “How devastating.”
Benedict gave him a flat look.
Nathaniel’s mouth twitched. “Forgive me. I am attempting to discover which part of this has placed the Duke of Rivermere upon the edge of despair.”
Benedict frowned. “I am not upon the edge of despair.”
“No. You are seated several respectable feet from it, drafting terms.”
Benedict looked again at the letter. Sophia’s note lay beside it, written in the delicate, careful hand he had begun to recognize.
She had thanked him. Naturally. She always softened her refusals with gratitude, as though she feared another person’s kindness might break if handled without care.
But beneath the gentleness lay something unmistakably firm.
She could not accept such a costly gift.
She had gowns of her own. She did not wish him to think that becoming his wife required her to be remade into someone more suitable for his position.
“I meant it as a kindness,” Benedict explained.
Nathaniel’s amusement quieted. “Did she believe otherwise?”
“She believed I was ashamed of how she dressed.”
“And were you?”
Benedict looked up sharply. “No, I merely saw the gown and thought of her.”
The admission entered the room before he could prevent it.
Rain traced silver paths down the glass.
Benedict remembered the pale silk beneath his hand at the dressmaker’s, its quiet shimmer rather than brilliance.
He imagined it against Sophia’s skin. He imagined her hazel eyes lifting to his when she entered the ballroom.
He wanted to see her in something he chose.
The desire appeared innocent until he examined it too closely.
Nathaniel lowered himself into the chair opposite. “Did you tell her that?”
Benedict shook his head. “I just sent the gown.”
“Yes. Cloth is famously articulate.” Nathaniel’s voice remained light, but the mockery had left his eyes. “She is not one of your tenants, Benedict. You cannot arrange her comfort and expect her to understand the feeling you have neglected to mention.”
“I did not attempt to arrange her.”
“You selected what she would wear.”
“I offered it.”
“You are a duke. Your offers have a distressing resemblance to instructions.”
Benedict looked toward the box. He thought of Sophia standing beneath the park trees, telling him how easily his consequence altered the space around her. He believed he understood. Evidently, he understood nothing.
“She thought I wished to change her,” he mused.
“And that troubles you.”
“Because I do not.”
Nathaniel studied him for a long moment. “No,” he said at last. “I do not believe you do.”
Benedict’s fingers tightened around the pen.
Nathaniel leaned forward, his forearms resting upon his knees. “You may yet recover from this astonishing calamity. Write that you were an arse.”
“I shall write no such thing.”
“Then write it in ducal language. Inform her that, upon sober reflection, your conduct lacked judgment, sensitivity, and whatever other virtues you usually keep cataloged in that drawer.”
Benedict almost smiled. Nathaniel noticed. He was courteous enough not to celebrate.
“Tell her the truth,” he continued. “You saw something beautiful and thought of her. You wished to give it to her. You failed to consider how the gift might make her feel.”
Benedict looked down at the unfinished letter. Such an explanation would expose more than his error. It would reveal that he noticed beauty, that he connected it with her and that he wanted, with a force he did not entirely comprehend, to be the cause of some small pleasure in her.
Nathaniel rose and retrieved his gloves. At the door, he paused. “You are very serious about her.”
Benedict’s gaze remained upon Sophia’s note. “She is to be my wife.”
“That is not what I said.”
The door closed softly behind him. For some time, Benedict sat alone with the rain, the returned gown, and the uncomfortable knowledge that Nathaniel was right.
Then he drew a fresh sheet of paper toward him.
Miss Norton, he wrote.
He stopped, looking at the title and distance. This time, he did not cross it out.