Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Sophia slipped through the open doors to the terrace so quietly that Benedict might not have noticed, had he not been watching her far more closely than discretion permitted.
One moment, she was standing near her mother beneath the chandeliers, pale silk glowing softly about her, and the next, she disappeared beyond the curtains into the darkness. Benedict waited only long enough to avoid appearing as though he’d followed her immediately.
Then, he followed her immediately.
The night air met him with welcome coolness.
Behind him, music and conversation spilled faintly through the open doors, softened by distance into an indistinct murmur.
The terrace stones shone silver beneath the moon, and the gardens beyond were reduced to dark hedges, pale gravel paths, and the occasional white gleam of a rose.
He found Sophia near the balustrade, with one hand resting upon the stone. Her face was turned toward the gardens, her eyes closed as she drew a slow breath. The ribbons at her sleeves stirred gently in the breeze.
Benedict stopped several paces behind her. He had already told her she looked beautiful. The truth had been far more dangerous than that. She looked luminous.
The gown seemed made of moonlight now, its embroidery catching every faint gleam. Yet it was not the silk that held him. It was the loosened line of her shoulders, and the quiet relief upon her face when she believed herself unobserved.
“You escaped.”
Sophia opened her eyes and turned. “For only a moment.”
“I did not accuse you of desertion.”
“Your tone suggested an inquiry.”
“My tone often suggests things I have not intended.”
“That must be inconvenient for everyone around you.”
Benedict came to stand beside her. “I am told they have adapted.”
Her lips curved. For a moment, neither spoke. The sounds of the ballroom continued behind them, bright and distant, while the night seemed to gather more closely around the terrace.
Benedict rested one hand upon the balustrade.
“The girls have begun calling Rivermere home,” he said, without being provoked.
Sophia looked at him. “Was it not always their home?”
“Not to them.” He watched the dark line of the garden rather than her face. “Until recently, Marjorie called it my house. Amelia called it Rivermere Hall, as though she were a guest being careful with the furniture.”
Something tightened beneath his ribs at the memory. After their parents’ deaths, he moved the twins into his household, rearranged rooms, altered schedules, dismissed unsuitable servants, and made every practical provision he could conceive. Yet, he had not known how to make a place belong to them.
“They speak of returning home now,” he continued. “Not returning to Uncle Benedict’s house.”
Sophia’s expression softened. “I am glad.”
“You are the one responsible for that,” he admitted.
“I think that gives me far too much credit.”
“It does not.”
She looked down at her hands. Moonlight rested upon the curve of her cheek.
“I have grown very fond of them,” she confessed. “Both of them.”
“As they have of you.”
“Marjorie informed me yesterday that I am nearly as entertaining as a secret passage.”
Benedict’s mouth moved. “That is her highest form of praise.”
“And Amelia asked whether she might keep some of her books in my room after the wedding.”
He turned toward her. Sophia’s gaze remained lowered, but he saw the tenderness in her expression. She spoke of the wedding with less alarm now. The thought brought an unfamiliar warmth to his chest.
For several moments, they stood together in silence.
It did not feel empty. The ballroom seemed far away, though no more than a few steps separated them from it.
Sophia was near enough that he could smell the faint floral scent at her wrists, near enough that the breeze occasionally pressed the silk of her sleeve against his coat.
Benedict became aware of every inch between them. He wondered whether she felt it, too. Her eyes lifted to his. The moonlight made them appear darker than hazel, soft and uncertain. Neither of them moved.
The intimacy of the moment arrived without warning. It was not improper. They stood upon an open terrace with guests only yards away. Yet Benedict felt as though they had somehow become entirely alone.
He cleared his throat. Sophia blinked and turned quickly toward the garden.
“There are still several matters which must be addressed before the wedding,” he said.
Her shoulders stiffened. Benedict noticed it at once.
“Of course,” she replied carefully.
“You do not sound pleased.”
“I am preparing myself.”
“For what?”
“Rules.”
He frowned. “Rules?”
“Or instructions. Perhaps a schedule. You have the look of a man about to explain the correct management of my future existence.”
“I do not possess such a look.”
“You possess it frequently.”
Benedict considered objecting, then decided the argument would only provide her with evidence. “This is not a lecture.”
“Then what grave deficiency have you discovered?”
“Your dancing.”
She frowned. “There is nothing wrong with my dancing.”
“There are several matters requiring… correction.”
Her mouth opened. For one perilous moment, Benedict believed she might laugh directly in his face.
“You have been observing my dancing?” she asked.
“I observe most things.”
“That is an alarming admission.”
“You turn too quickly.”
“I turn precisely when the dance requires it.”
“You nearly collided with Lord Ashcombe during the second set.”
“Lord Ashcombe was moving in the wrong direction.”
Benedict looked away before she could see his amusement too plainly.
“You also look at your feet,” he added.
“Only when gentlemen give contradictory signals.”
“My signals are never contradictory.”
“They are generally commands.”
“They are clear.”
“That is not the same thing.”
Benedict turned toward her again. “Well, be that as it may, you still require lessons.”
Sophia folded her arms. “From whom?”
“Me.”
This time, a small laugh escaped her before she could prevent it. Benedict felt absurdly rewarded by the sound.
“You intend to teach me how to dance?” she asked.
“I am an excellent dancer.”
“You are a competent dancer.”
“I have received no complaints.”
“Perhaps everyone is frightened of you.”
“He almost smiled. That has occasionally proved useful.”
Sophia shook her head, though she was smiling now herself. “I cannot imagine anything more severe than a dancing lesson conducted by you.”
“I shall attempt not to terrify you.”
“How generous.”
“We will begin tomorrow.”
Her smile vanished. “Tomorrow?”
“At Rivermere. After luncheon.”
“You have already decided the hour?”
“Naturally.”
“And the number of lessons?”
“As many as are required.”
Sophia narrowed her eyes. “You mean until I surrender.”
“Until you improve.”
She looked at him for a long moment, plainly searching for some means of escape. Benedict waited.
At last, Sophia sighed. “One lesson.”
“Three.”
“Two.”
“Four.”
“That is not how bargaining works.”
“It appears to be working very well for me.”
Her eyes flashed. “Two lessons, Your Grace.”
“Three, Miss Norton.”
She held his gaze.
“Two,” she repeated, “and you are forbidden from criticizing my feet.”
“I cannot agree to that without first observing them.”
Color rose into her face. Benedict realized the words only after he had spoken them. The air between them altered again.
Sophia looked away. “Three lessons,” she said quickly.
A slow satisfaction moved through him. “Agreed.”
“You are insufferable.”
“So I have been informed.”
From within the ballroom, the musicians began another set. Benedict offered his arm.
Sophia looked at it with suspicion. “Are you intending to examine my dancing now?”
“I am intending to escort you inside.”
She placed her hand on his arm, nevertheless. As they walked toward the open doors, Benedict found himself anticipating the following afternoon with an enthusiasm entirely disproportionate to the improvement in Sophia’s dancing.
He suspected, with growing certainty, that the lessons would be of very little educational value.
He intended to conduct them thoroughly all the same.
“Uncle Nathaniel says the first rule of dancing is never to trust a gentleman who counts aloud.”
“I said no such thing,” the Duke of Redgrave protested. “I said never to trust a gentleman who counts badly.”
Marjorie dissolved into laughter. Amelia tried to preserve a more dignified expression, but it trembled at the corners until she surrendered and laughed, too.
Sophia sat beside them in Rivermere Hall’s smaller drawing room, warmed by the fire and the afternoon light spilling through the tall windows.
The furniture had been pushed back to clear a space upon the carpet, though no dancing had yet begun.
For the moment, there was only talk of it: rules, steps, partners, and all the disasters the Duke insisted might occur when any of the three were neglected.
This was the first time Sophia had met him.
He was not much like Benedict, though there was something in the easy confidence of his posture that suggested the two men had known one another long enough to dispense with ceremony.
The Duke smiled readily, spoke lightly, and possessed the rare talent of teasing children without ever making them feel small.
The twins trusted him without hesitation. Marjorie interrupted him freely. Amelia corrected him when he exaggerated. Neither watched his face for signs they had gone too far. Sophia found herself relaxing because they did.
“What is the second rule?” Amelia asked.
The Duke considered gravely. “Never dance with a person who looks at the floor more fondly than they look at you.”
Sophia gave him a suspicious glance. “I begin to think these rules have been invented for my benefit.”
“Not at all,” he replied. “They are universal principles.”
Marjorie leaned forward. “What is the third?”
“Never agree to dance with anyone whose shoes are too polished.”
Amelia frowned. “Why?”
“Vanity.”
“Or cleanliness,” Sophia suggested.
The Duke looked wounded. “Miss Norton, I hoped you would support me.”
“We have only just met. You have not yet earned such loyalty.”
Marjorie clapped her hands. “I like her answer.”
“So do I,” he smirked. “Though I feel it sets a dangerous precedent.”
Sophia smiled despite herself. She’d expected Rivermere to feel formal that afternoon.
The very thought of Benedict’s promised lesson had made her restless since breakfast. She’d imagined stern correction, precise instruction, and the distinct possibility that he would regard every misstep as evidence of moral decline.
Instead, she had found the girls waiting eagerly in the drawing room and the Duke of Redgrave already seated among them, claiming that dancing was merely walking complicated by pride.
It was difficult to remain anxious while Marjorie attempted to demonstrate a minuet with the solemnity of a courtier and the balance of a young foal.
“You are meant to bow first,” Amelia reminded her.
“I did bow.”
“You nearly struck the table.”
“The table stood too near.”
“That is what Lord Ashcombe said at the ball,” Sophia observed.
The Duke turned to her with immediate interest. “Ah. Then there is a history of dangerous furniture.”
“There is a history of gentlemen moving in the wrong direction.”
“An epidemic,” he agreed.
Marjorie spun once, caught her skirt beneath her shoe, and collapsed onto the settee in another fit of laughter. Amelia covered her face. Sophia laughed with them, the sound escaping before she thought to restrain it.
Then the door opened, and Benedict stood on the threshold.
He removed his coat, though not with the air of authority that seemed less an article of clothing than a condition of his existence.
His gaze swept over the altered room, the displaced chairs, Marjorie half-sprawled on the settee, and Nathaniel wearing the expression of a man entirely innocent of whatever disorder he had caused.
Then Benedict looked at Sophia. The faintest change touched his eyes.
She straightened without meaning to. The Duke of Redgrave noticed and smiled to himself.
“I see the lesson has begun,” Benedict said.
“We are discussing essential principles, old friend,” the Duke explained.
“You are teaching them to distrust polished shoes.”
“A necessary precaution.”
“And furniture,” Amelia added.
Benedict’s brows rose.
Sophia folded her hands in her lap, though her smile remained. “Lord Ashcombe was mentioned.”
“That explains very little.”
“It explains everything,” the Duke assured him.
Benedict looked at the girls. “Have you learned anything useful?”
Marjorie nodded vigorously. “Never trust a gentleman who counts badly.”
“And never dance with a vain person,” Amelia added.
“Or near a table,” Sophia finished.
Benedict regarded his friend with grave disapproval. The Duke returned the look with perfect serenity. For one moment, Sophia thought Benedict might dismiss the entire gathering as hopeless. Then the corner of his mouth moved, only slightly.
“All right,” he said, stepping farther into the room. “The amusing portion is over.”
Marjorie groaned. The Duke placed one hand dramatically over his heart. Benedict ignored them both and held Sophia’s gaze.
“Now,” he continued, with a seriousness made more dangerous by the quiet amusement beneath it, “we must attempt to actually learn something.”