Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
“Your Grace, the carriage is this way.”
Benedict scarcely heard his footman. He had just stepped from his solicitor’s office into the noise and pale brilliance of the afternoon, with his gloves in one hand and several tiresome legal matters still arranged in orderly succession within his mind, when movement across the street arrested him.
Madame Delacroix’s door opened. Emma emerged first, followed by Frances, both attended by a shopgirl carrying boxes tied in broad ribbons. Then, Sophia stepped into the sunlight.
Benedict stopped. There were moments in which the world altered without warning. A carriage rattled past. Hooves struck the stones. A costermonger called from the corner, and the wind carried the mingled scents of dust, horse, warm bread, and summer flowers from a nearby stall.
Yet Sophia seemed to stand apart from all of it.
She wore a pale yellow bonnet, and the ribbon beneath her chin stirred in the breeze.
Her expression was animated as she replied to something Frances said.
Her smile was open and unguarded. She looked like a ray of sunshine given human form.
The thought was so uncharacteristically fanciful that Benedict might have rejected it, had he been capable of thinking anything else.
He forgot the carriage. He forgot the solicitor. He forgot, for several wholly indefensible seconds, that gentlemen did not stand motionless upon pavements staring at young ladies across crowded streets.
Then Sophia turned. Her gaze found him at once. Her smile vanished.
Benedict recovered sufficiently to lift his hat in greeting.
Sophia’s eyes narrowed. Even from across the street, he saw the faint rise of color in her cheeks.
She gave a small, indignant huff, turned her face away with deliberate precision, and addressed herself to Emma as though Benedict had ceased to exist.
Something warm and unexpected moved through him. His mouth curved. Frances looked across the street, saw him, and immediately appeared delighted. Emma followed her gaze and offered a graceful nod.
Sophia continued not to look. It was an impressive performance, weakened only by the fact that she adjusted the ribbon of her bonnet twice and nearly walked into one of Madame Delacroix’s boxes.
“Your Grace?” the footman prompted again.
“Yes,” he said, still watching Sophia as her sisters guided her toward their carriage. “I know where it is.”
He did not move. Across the street, Sophia glanced back despite herself. Their eyes met. Benedict’s smile deepened. She looked away even faster than before.
Only then did he turn toward his carriage, carrying with him the deeply satisfying knowledge that Sophia could ignore him with great determination, but not, it seemed, with complete success.
The gown was entirely unnecessary. Sophia repeated this to herself as Jenny fastened the final pearl button at her back, as her mother declared the color perfection, and as Frances circled her twice with the severe concentration of a general inspecting troops before battle.
It remained unnecessary as Sophia stood before the looking glass.
Unfortunately, it was also beautiful. The pale silk seemed to hold the candlelight rather than merely reflect it.
Its delicate embroidery traced silver-green leaves across the bodice and sleeves, subtle enough not to demand notice and fine enough to reward it.
The gown did not transform her into someone brighter, bolder, or more fashionable.
It made her look like herself, only as though someone had taken great care in seeing her.
That thought was more dangerous than the gown.
By the time the Norton carriage reached Lady Briarwood’s house, Sophia had nearly persuaded herself that no one would pay particular attention to her. The illusion survived until she entered the ballroom.
Conversation did not cease. That would have been too dramatic and, therefore, almost merciful. Instead, it shifted. Faces turned by degrees. Fans paused. Eyes traveled over the gown, returned to her face, then moved toward one another in silent understanding.
There she is. The future Duchess of Rivermere.
Sophia felt the title before anyone spoke it. It seemed to precede her into the room, grander and more assured than she had ever been, demanding that strangers measure her against it.
Lady Briarwood’s ballroom glittered with gold, glass, and an alarming number of people who appeared to possess no occupation beyond observing others. Heat gathered beneath the chandeliers.
Sophia’s fingers tightened upon her fan. She had always known how to disappear at a ball. One found a quiet place near the wall, listened more than one spoke, and allowed brighter ladies to draw the attention away. But a future duchess, apparently, could not disappear.
Then Benedict saw her. He was standing near the far end of the room speaking with Lord Briarwood, his dark evening coat making him seem even more severe among the softer colors surrounding him. His gaze moved across the crowd, found Sophia, and stopped.
For one suspended moment, he simply looked at her. The expression upon his face did not alter greatly. Benedict was not a man who surrendered himself to visible astonishment. Yet something in his eyes deepened, and the sensation of being watched changed entirely.
Sophia’s discomfort did not vanish. It merely acquired a different cause.
He excused himself at once and crossed the ballroom toward her.
People moved aside. Of course they did. Benedict carried consequence about him as naturally as other men carried walking sticks.
Yet when he reached her, his attention settled wholly upon Sophia, as though no one else in the crowded room had any claim to it.
“Miss Norton.”
“Your Grace.”
She curtsied. He took her hand and bent over it, his lips brushing her glove. The touch was entirely proper, yet her pulse behaved as though it were not. When he straightened, his gaze swept over her gown and returned to her face.
“You look precisely as I imagined you would,” he said.
Sophia blinked. “Is that a compliment?”
“With considerable restraint.”
Heat rushed into her cheeks. His eyes held hers for one moment longer, and she thought she detected the faintest satisfaction in them.
“I am glad the gown did not suffer permanent banishment,” he added.
“I remain unconvinced it was necessary.”
“So you have informed me.”
Before she could answer, Lady Briarwood approached with her husband, and Sophia was drawn into greetings.
The next quarter hour passed in a blur of introductions, bows, smiles, and names she feared she would never properly retain.
Everywhere she turned, there seemed to be another person eager to examine the woman Benedict Langley had chosen.
Most were perfectly civil. That was almost the difficulty.
Lady Hartley, a thin woman with a pleasant smile and eyes like polished pins, looked Sophia over with delicate approval.
“What a charming gown, Miss Norton. Such a gentle shade. Very suitable to your… quiet manner.”
Sophia smiled. “Thank you.”
“And Rivermere is such a substantial household,” Lady Pembroke added. “Though I am certain His Grace has made all necessary arrangements. One cannot expect a young lady raised in comparative retirement to understand everything at once.”
The words were sympathetic. The tone was kinder still. Sophia nevertheless felt each one like the light pressure of a blade.
Lady Hartley gave a little laugh. “Indeed. A duchess must be so many things: hostess, patroness, example. But one learns, I suppose, provided one has the proper guidance.”
“I have always found Sophia very capable,” Benedict assured her.
Lady Pembroke smiled quickly. “Naturally, Your Grace. No one meant otherwise.”
“Then I am pleased we agree.” There was no accusation in the words, only a firmness that left no room for further interpretation.
Lady Hartley adjusted her fan. “We were speaking only from concern.”
“Your concern is unnecessary.”
Silence settled over the little circle. Sophia looked at him. Benedict’s expression remained perfectly composed. He appeared neither angry nor embarrassed, merely certain. That certainty stood beside her like a wall.
Lady Pembroke inclined her head. “Of course.”
Within moments, both ladies discovered pressing reasons to greet acquaintances elsewhere. Sophia watched them retreat, astonished.
Benedict turned to her. “Will you dance with me?”
She stared at him. “Now?”
“Yes.”
There was something in his eyes that told her he had not asked because the music particularly pleased him. He offered his hand. Sophia placed hers in it.
The set had already begun forming. Benedict led her among the dancers, and when the music started, its familiar order came as a relief. Steps, turns, distance, return. Each movement gave her something to do besides remember Lady Hartley’s smile.
For several moments, Benedict said nothing. He merely guided her through the figures with steady attention, allowing the music to create a small, moving refuge around them.
Sophia’s breath gradually eased. When the dance brought them together again, she looked up at him.
“You need not have done that.”
“Yes, I did.”
“They were only speaking.”
“They were being unkind.”
“Very politely.”
“That does not improve unkindness.”
Sophia nearly missed her step. Benedict’s hand steadied hers before anyone else could notice.
She expected him to defend Amelia and Marjorie. Protection seemed woven into everything he did for the girls, from the rules and vigilance to the sternness that concealed fear. She never imagined that instinct might extend to her.
“You noticed,” she said softly.
His brows drew together. “Of course I noticed.”
The answer struck her with unexpected force. Sophia looked away, afraid that he might see too much in her face.
All her life, people loved her. She had never doubted that.
But love and notice were not always the same thing.
Too often, she had made herself smaller so others might remain comfortable.
Too often, silence had been mistaken for contentment.
Benedict had seen her discomfort across a crowded ballroom. He crossed the room for her.
The dance separated them, then brought them back together. When his hand met hers again, Sophia felt the warmth of it even through her glove.
“You cannot silence every person who doubts me,” she whispered.
“No,” he replied. “But I can ensure they do not mistake my silence for agreement.”
Her heart gave a painful, tender beat. Around them, the ballroom remained bright and watchful. People still stared. Whispers would linger long after the music ended. Yet for the first time that evening, Sophia no longer felt as if she stood alone beneath their judgment.
Benedict looked down at her, and Sophia understood, with a wonder that frightened her, that the protection he gave was not merely possession, nor duty, nor the consequence of an arrangement.
He had seen her hurt and it mattered to him.