Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
“So… you have returned.”
Sophia stood in the morning room with the folded note in one hand and the lid of the ivory box resting against the other.
The gown lay inside exactly as it had before, with its pale silk arranged in graceful folds, its surface catching the morning light with a soft, pearly gleam.
The ribbon had been replaced, though not tied with the careful severity Sophia herself had employed when sending it back.
It now rested in a loose bow, as if even the ribbon had been instructed not to argue with her.
The parcel arrived scarcely an hour after breakfast. Sophia stared at it for several minutes before finding the courage to open it. Now she looked from the gown to the letter, feeling bewilderment tightening between her brows. She unfolded the page once more.
“Miss Norton,” she read aloud, because hearing Benedict’s words seemed the only way to make sense of them. “I regret if my gift caused you distress. It was not my intention to suggest that anything about you required improvement.”
The handwriting was firm and orderly, each line composed with the discipline Benedict applied to nearly all things. Yet there were places where the ink deepened, as though his pen paused while he searched for words he did not ordinarily allow himself to need.
“I saw the gown and thought it would become you. That is the whole of the matter.”
Sophia stopped. The room seemed suddenly too still. He had seen it and thought of her. It was a simple sentence, entirely proper. There was no reason for it to settle beneath her ribs with such warmth.
Sophia cleared her throat and continued.
“As I understand that the difficulty lies not in the gown itself but in my having chosen it without consulting you, I have opened an account in your name with Madame Delacroix, whose establishment is considered among the finest in London.”
Sophia lowered the page.
“He has done what?”
The gown offered no explanation. She read the sentence again, more slowly, hoping the words might rearrange themselves into something less alarming. They did not.
“You may select whatever you like, in whatever style and number you consider appropriate,” she continued, now speaking with growing disbelief. “No purchase need be referred to me for approval.”
Sophia pressed her lips together. That last line was unmistakably Benedict. Even in apology, he anticipated objections, constructed defenses, and fortified every vulnerable point.
“If you truly dislike the gown, you may give it away as you please. I shall not be offended.”
She glanced at the silk.
“I do not dislike it,” she whispered.
That was the most inconvenient part. The gown was beautiful.
Not loudly so, not like Frances’s bright silks or their mother’s fondness for embellishment, but with a quiet elegance Sophia could not help loving.
The color reminded her of moonlight on water.
Tiny embroidered leaves traced the bodice and sleeves, delicate enough to be noticed only on close inspection.
It was precisely the sort of beauty she would have admired and never dared choose for herself.
At the bottom of the letter, Benedict had written only:
The gown was intended to please you, Miss Norton. Nothing more.
Benedict.
She touched his name with one finger before realizing what she did and snatching her hand away.
“This is impossible,” she informed the empty room.
“What is impossible?”
Sophia jumped so sharply that the letter nearly slipped from her fingers. Emma stood in the doorway, serene in blue muslin, while Frances appeared beside her in a walking dress of rich green, removing her gloves with the air of a woman who expected to find entertainment and was rarely disappointed.
Behind them, a footman looked apologetic.
“I announced Their Graces, miss,” he told her.
“I am certain you did.”
Sophia had simply been too occupied with dukes, gowns, and ruinously thoughtful letters to hear him.
Emma entered first, her eyes moving at once to Sophia’s face. “Are you quite well?”
“Yes.”
Frances looked beyond her.
“No,” she answered decisively. “She is standing beside an open dress box with the expression of a lady who has discovered either a fortune or a body.”
“It is neither.”
Frances crossed the room in three quick steps and looked into the box. Her gasp was entirely sincere.
“Oh, Sophia.”
Emma followed more calmly, though even she gave a soft sound of admiration when she saw the gown.
“It is exquisite,” she whispered.
Frances reached for the silk, then paused before touching it, evidently overcome by sufficient reverence to remember her manners. “Where did it come from?”
Sophia folded the letter too quickly. Neither sister failed to notice.
Emma’s gaze dropped to the page. “From the Duke of Rivermere?”
Sophia wished, not for the first time, that her sisters were less intelligent.
“He sent it yesterday.”
“And you have hidden it from us until now?” Frances demanded.
“I returned it.”
Both women stared at her.
“You returned that?” Frances pointed to the gown as though Sophia had insulted it personally.
“It is far too expensive.”
Emma’s expression became thoughtful. “Yet it appears to have returned to you.”
“Yes.”
“With a letter,” Frances added.
“Yes.”
“And judging from your color, the letter contained something more interesting than an account of the weather.”
“It did not.”
Frances held out one hand. “Give it to me.”
“No.”
“Then read it.”
“I have already done so.”
“To yourself,” Frances said. “That hardly counts.”
Sophia moved the letter behind her back.
Emma, at least, possessed the kindness to conceal her amusement. “What did he say?”
Sophia hesitated. She could refuse to tell them. She could close the box, carry it upstairs, and insist that the entire matter concerned no one but herself. She looked at Frances’s expectant face and Emma’s patient one. There were battles a woman might win. This was not among them.
“He said he did not mean to imply that I required improvement,” Sophia admitted.
Emma’s eyes softened. “And?”
“And that he saw the gown and thought it would become me.”
Frances placed a hand over her heart. “How terribly inconsiderate of him.”
Sophia frowned. “Do not tease.”
“I am not teasing. A handsome duke thought of you while examining beautiful silk. It is a grave offense. We must alert Parliament.”
“Frances,” Emma murmured, though her smile betrayed her.
Sophia turned toward the window. “He has also opened an account for me with Madame Delacroix.”
There was a brief, remarkable silence. Then Frances seized Emma’s arm.
“Madame Delacroix?”
“I believe so.”
“You believe so?” Frances echoed. “Sophia, women wait months for appointments with Madame Delacroix! Lady Harbury offered her modiste twice the usual sum merely to copy one of her sleeves.”
“I do not require copied sleeves.”
“That is because you have never possessed the correct sleeve.”
Emma approached the box and lightly touched one of the embroidered leaves. “He has given you freedom to choose?”
“Entirely.”
“That was considerate.”
“It was excessive.”
“It may be both,” Emma allowed.
Sophia looked at her gratefully, only for Emma to add. “But the gown is still beautiful.”
“It is unnecessary.”
“So are chandeliers,” Frances replied. “Yet one does not sit in darkness merely to prove economy.”
“This is not a chandelier.”
“No, it is much more becoming.”
Sophia returned her gaze to the gown. The silk seemed almost luminous beneath the sun. She could imagine how it might feel against her skin, cool at first, then warming with her body. She could imagine entering a room in it. More dangerously, she could imagine Benedict seeing her.
Her pulse gave a small, traitorous leap.
“It is too fine for me,” she said quietly.
Emma’s hand stilled upon the fabric. Frances’s teasing expression vanished.
“Sophia,” Emma spoke tenderly.
Sophia wished at once that she had chosen her words more carefully.
“I only meant that I have never worn anything like it.”
“Then it is time you did,” Frances replied.
Sophia shook her head. “You are both being absurd.”
“We are being sisters,” Emma said gently.
Frances lifted the gown from the box with careful hands and held it against Sophia. The silk fell in long, elegant folds before her, pale against the darker muslin of her morning dress. Sophia caught sight of herself in the tall looking glass across from her.
For one suspended moment, she hardly recognized the woman reflected there. The color softened her complexion and brought warmth to her hazel eyes. The embroidered bodice appeared graceful rather than ostentatious, and the skirt seemed designed not to overwhelm her but to move with her.
Frances smiled triumphantly. “There.”
Sophia looked away first.
“It requires accessories,” Emma observed.
“It requires returning.”
“You attempted that,” Frances reminded her. “The gown has demonstrated a stronger character than you anticipated.”
“I might give it away.”
“To whom?” Frances asked. “A woman of precisely your height, coloring, and measurements?”
Sophia opened her mouth. Nothing useful emerged.
Emma began examining the sleeves. “Gloves in cream, perhaps. Nothing too bright.”
“And slippers,” Frances added. “Pale satin.”
“I possess slippers.”
“Not worthy of this gown.”
Sophia folded her arms. “I am not spending the Duke’s money on unnecessary ornaments.”
“Then spend it on necessary ones,” Emma suggested.
“There are no necessary accessories.”
“A shawl,” Emma continued, ignoring her. “Something light, in case the evening is cool.”
“Pearls,” Frances decided. “Very simple ones. We must not allow the gown to compete with her.”
Sophia stared at them. “There is no we.”
Both sisters looked at her.
“There is always a we,” Emma said.
Frances placed the gown carefully back into the box. “We shall go to Madame Delacroix tomorrow.”
“We shall do no such thing.”
“After luncheon,” Emma added. “The children will be settled by then.”
“I have not agreed.”
Frances smiled with dangerous sweetness. “No, but you will.”
Sophia looked from one sister to the other and understood, with sinking certainty, that Benedict’s apology had created a conspiracy. The gown rested between them, lovely, expensive, and impossible to ignore.
She picked up his letter once more.
I saw the gown and thought it would become you.
Sophia traced the edge of the paper with her thumb.
“Only accessories,” she acquiesced.
Frances clapped her hands. Emma smiled.
“And nothing extravagant,” Sophia warned.
“Certainly not,” Frances agreed with such innocence that Sophia knew herself already defeated.
She looked down at the gown once more. It was still far too costly and entirely unnecessary. It was a gift she ought not to have accepted from a man whose every kindness seemed capable of reaching places within her she had guarded for years.
Yet beneath the confusion, beneath the discomfort and alarm, something softer stirred. He listened. Not perfectly, perhaps. Benedict Langley did very little by halves, and his solution to excess had apparently been to offer her unlimited choice. But he understood that she wished to remain herself.
And, more dangerously still, he appeared to like what she was.