Chapter 24 #2
Fairford then told a story about his elder sister attempting to teach him embroidery when they were children. According to him, he stitched his own sleeve to the frame and refused assistance because he had mistaken helplessness for dignity.
Sophia’s laughter came again, softer this time but no less beautiful. Benedict found himself disliking Fairford’s childhood. There was no justification for this. By all accounts, it had been entirely respectable.
Still, the longer the man spoke, the more Benedict became aware of every smile Sophia gave him. Her posture had lost its usual reserve. Warmth softened her voice, and color remained high upon her cheeks.
She was enjoying herself. That should have pleased him. It did not. Worse still, Benedict had very little opportunity to interrupt without appearing rude. Every time Fairford paused, Sophia asked another question. Every time Benedict prepared a remark, Fairford began a new anecdote.
Once, Sophia looked toward him as though inviting him into the conversation. Before Benedict could speak, Fairford asked whether Rivermere’s roses had recovered from the late frost and Benedict’s answer became unnecessary.
By the time Peters brought fresh hot water, Benedict had begun to consider whether neighboring customs placed any limit upon the length of an afternoon call.
At last, Fairford rose. “I fear I have imposed upon you long enough.”
Benedict stood immediately. “Not at all.”
The words were courteous. His speed was less so.
Fairford bowed over her hand with perfect propriety. “Thank you for a most pleasant afternoon, Your Graces.”
“I enjoyed it very much.”
“I shall send Abernathy’s second volume tomorrow,” Fairford promised.
“That is very kind.”
“And perhaps, when the weather improves, we may settle upon a day for Belgrave.”
“Perhaps,” Sophia nodded courteously.
Fairford departed with another bow. Benedict accompanied him into the hall, endured a final observation about the roads, and watched him descend the front steps.
Fairford mounted his horse and rode away along the avenue.
Benedict remained at the door until the man disappeared beyond the trees.
Only then did he return to the drawing room.
Sophia was gathering her embroidery. The light shifted during the visit, leaving the room warmer and more golden than before.
“Did Mr. Fairford offend you?” she asked.
Benedict stopped. “Why should you think that?”
“You appeared displeased.”
“I was not displeased.”
“You looked at him as though he had committed a crime during tea.”
He shrugged. “He spoke too much.”
Sophia stared at him. Then her mouth trembled.
“You barely spoke at all.”
“There was hardly any chance,” Benedict replied dryly.
Her laughter caught him entirely unprepared. It rose bright and warm into the room, freer than it had been during Fairford’s visit. Sophia pressed her fingers to her lips, though this did nothing to conceal her amusement.
Benedict looked away before his own expression betrayed him. “I fail to see what is so entertaining.”
“That is because you are determined not to.”
“I am glad you found the afternoon amusing.”
“Oh, I did.” The answer irritated him, though not as much as it should have done. Sophia stepped closer, still smiling. “Mr. Fairford is pleasant.”
“So it appears.”
“And very knowledgeable.”
“On several subjects.”
“You disapprove of his knowledge?”
“I disapprove of its duration.”
Her laughter threatened again. Benedict found himself watching her mouth. That was dangerous.
Sophia gathered her embroidery and passed him. The faint scent of roses at her wrists lingered in the air after she had gone. Benedict remained beside the open window, attempting to understand his own behavior.
Jealousy was the obvious explanation.
It was also absurd. His marriage to Sophia had been practical. He had offered her security, position, and a family in need of her kindness. Whatever tenderness had developed between them did not alter the nature of their arrangement.
It was not a real marriage, not in the sense marriages were described in poetry, novels, or vows spoken with more hope than caution.
He had no reason to resent Fairford for making Sophia smile.
No reason to remember how closely the man had watched her.
No reason to object to a borrowed book, a ruined abbey, or an invitation which had included them both.
No reason to wonder whether Sophia might prefer a gentleman who discussed books easily and did not spend half his life forbidding things.
Fairford was nearer her age. He laughed readily. He listened without turning every conversation into an examination of risk and consequence. Perhaps Sophia would have found such a man easier to marry.
The thought entered Benedict with an unpleasant sharpness.
Rivermere changed since Sophia came to it. The house no longer seemed built entirely from silence. Neither, Benedict suspected, was he. Yet the thought of Fairford returning made something dark and unreasonable tighten beneath his ribs.
He did not want the man’s books in Sophia’s hands. He did not want her standing beside him at Belgrave, laughing over ruined angels and disorderly roses. Most of all, he did not want Fairford to discover how easy it was to make her laugh.
Benedict closed his eyes.
It was not Fairford’s face he saw. It was Sophia’s, bright with amusement in the afternoon light.
He heard her laughter again, not the polite sound she had given their visitor, but the freer laughter which had escaped after Fairford left, the laughter Fairford had not heard. That should have satisfied him.
Instead, Benedict found himself wanting more. He wanted to be the cause of it.
And he could not stop wishing that every beautiful sound she made belonged only to him.