Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Sophia discovered at half past ten that modesty was of no help against seven pearl buttons placed directly between one’s shoulder blades.
She stood before the looking glass with one arm bent behind her and the other reaching awkwardly over her shoulder. Her fingertips found the uppermost button, pushed at it, lost it, and caught a strand of hair instead.
“Oh.”
The reflection staring back at her appeared flushed, disordered, and increasingly resentful of dressmakers. She gathered her loose hair over one shoulder and attempted the maneuver again. The button shifted within its narrow silk loop but refused to come free.
“Traitorous little thing.”
The pearl button shone with complete innocence.
Jenny had retired nearly an hour earlier after Sophia assured her that no further assistance would be required.
At the time, this had seemed considerate.
Jenny had risen early and spent the day attending to a visiting seamstress, two missing ribbons, and Marjorie’s conviction that Admiral required a bonnet.
The kitten had not agreed. His resistance resulted in one scratched ribbon, an overturned basket, and Marjorie’s declaration that gentlemen did not always appreciate fashion. Sophia had not wished to disturb Jenny merely because a gown refused to release its occupant.
Perhaps she could undo the lower buttons first.
She turned her back more fully toward the glass and reached behind her waist. The lowest button proved no more cooperative than the first. After several minutes of twisting, stretching, and muttering remarks unworthy of a duchess, Sophia rested both hands upon the dressing table.
Perhaps I could sleep in my gown.
It would crease horribly. Jenny would know at once what happened. Worse, she would look at Sophia with the gentle patience reserved for children who refused assistance and then discovered the consequence.
Sophia was still considering whether sleeping upright in a chair might preserve the silk when a knock sounded at the outer door of her sitting room.
She straightened. At such an hour, a knock could not be casual. The girls had gone to bed, and the household had settled into its evening quiet. Beyond the faint crackle of the fire, Rivermere seemed to breathe in a deep, sleeping silence.
Sophia drew her wrapper more securely over the gown and crossed the sitting room.
“Who is it?”
“Benedict.”
Her hand froze upon the latch. Then, she opened the door.
Benedict stood in the corridor holding a book.
He had removed his coat and cravat, though his dark waistcoat remained fastened and his shirtsleeves were still immaculate.
His collar lay open at the throat, revealing a small portion of skin Sophia had no proper reason to notice and no ability whatever to ignore.
Without the stern arrangement of formal evening dress, he appeared less like the Duke of Rivermere and more dangerously like a man who belonged outside his wife’s chamber after dark.
His hair had fallen slightly across his brow. He looked tired, though not displeased, and the softer candlelight from her room took some of the severity from the lines of his face.
Sophia became immediately conscious of her loose hair, her wrapper, and the evening gown she had been unable to remove.
“You left this in the drawing room,” he said.
Her gaze dropped to the volume in his hand. It was the botanical book Mr. Fairford had sent that afternoon.
“Oh.”
Something changed very slightly in Benedict’s expression.
“I thought you might wish to have it returned.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
He held it out. Sophia accepted it, and their fingers brushed along the smooth leather spine. The contact lasted no more than a second. Her pulse responded as though he had taken her hand and held it.
Benedict’s gaze moved briefly toward her face, then away. “I did not mean to disturb you.”
“You have not.” The words came too quickly.
Silence settled between them. It was not, precisely, an uncomfortable silence. Sophia and Benedict had shared many silences. Some had been guarded, some companionable, and some so full of unspoken feeling that she had scarcely known how to endure them.
This one felt different. The lateness of the hour altered everything.
There were no servants arranging tea, no twins interrupting, no open garden to remind them of the world beyond one another.
They stood at the threshold of her private rooms, with Benedict’s throat bare above his collar and Sophia’s hair falling loose over one shoulder.
He inclined his head. “Good night, then.”
He began to turn.
“Benedict?” His name escaped before Sophia had decided to speak it.
He looked back. She ought to have let him go. She ought to have closed the door, placed the book upon the table, and rang for Jenny despite the embarrassment.
Instead, she heard herself speak. “Would you help me?”
Benedict became completely still. “With what?”
Sophia’s courage nearly abandoned her. Heat rose from the base of her throat to her cheeks. She turned slightly and gestured, with as much composure as the situation permitted, toward the row of unyielding buttons.
“My gown.”
His gaze followed the movement. The silence that followed seemed to deepen.
“The buttons are caught,” Sophia explained quickly. “Jenny has retired, and I did not wish to summon her again merely for this. I have tried several times, but they appear determined to remain where they are.”
Benedict stared at the back of the gown.
Sophia could see the effort of his composure in the tightening of his jaw.
It occurred to her rather late that asking one’s husband to undo one’s gown might possess implications not usually associated with simple household assistance. Her embarrassment sharpened.
“Of course, you need not,” she added hastily. “It was a foolish request. I shall ring after all.”
“No.” The answer came abruptly. “I mean, it is not foolish.” He cleared his throat. “I can assist you.”
Sophia stepped aside, and Benedict entered. The door remained open behind him, though the corridor beyond was deserted and dark. Sophia was not certain whether this made the situation more proper or merely gave propriety a vantage point from which to observe their failure.
She set the botanical volume upon a small table. The book’s title gleamed faintly in gold upon the spine. Neither of them looked at it.
Sophia moved to stand before the dressing table.
The looking glass reflected them both. Benedict stopped behind her.
For a moment, their eyes met in the glass.
Sophia’s wrapper concealed most of the gown from the front, but the loose arrangement of her hair left her neck bare.
Benedict’s height and broad shoulders seemed to fill the room behind her.
She turned her back to him. For several moments, neither spoke. The mantel clock ticked. The fire gave a quiet settling sigh. Somewhere far beyond the windows, a night bird called once across the gardens. Sophia could hear Benedict breathing.
His fingers touched the first button. Her shoulders stiffened.
“Am I hurting you?” he asked.
“No.”
Her voice was scarcely more than breath.
He worked the pearl carefully through its loop.
His hands were made for reins, estate papers, and decisions affecting hundreds of lives.
Sophia watched them move with certainty over ledgers and close protectively around the twins’ smaller fingers.
Now those same hands rested at the back of her gown.
The first button slipped free. The silk loosened slightly across her shoulders.
Benedict moved to the second. His touch remained entirely proper.
He touched only pearl, fabric, and the narrow loop holding the gown closed.
Sophia felt each movement as though his fingertips rested directly upon her skin.
The second button came undone, then the third. The loosened edges of the gown parted slightly at her nape. Cool air touched the narrow strip of skin revealed beneath her hair.
Benedict stopped. Sophia raised her eyes to the looking glass.
His gaze had fallen to the exposed line at the top of her spine.
For one suspended heartbeat, he did not move.
His expression was unlike anything Sophia had seen upon his face in company.
His usual control remained, but it had become strained, as though held in place by will alone.
Then his eyes lifted to hers. The look that passed between them was so intense that Sophia forgot to breathe.
Benedict returned his attention to the buttons. The fourth resisted. His fingers worked patiently at the loop. One knuckle brushed the center of her back through the thin silk, and heat rushed through Sophia with such sudden force that her hands tightened against the edge of the dressing table.
“You were correct,” he said in a voice that was lower than usual.
“About what?”
“The buttons. They are stubborn.”
Sophia attempted a laugh. “I am relieved to have my judgment confirmed.”
The sound emerged unsteadily. Benedict’s fingers paused. She saw his eyes close briefly in the glass. Neither spoke of it.
He freed the fourth button, then the fifth. With each one, the gown loosened fractionally. Benedict held its two sides together with one hand while undoing the next, careful not to expose more of her than necessity required.
The consideration made the intimacy infinitely worse. Had he behaved carelessly, Sophia might have been shocked back into composure. Instead, every restrained movement reminded her that he was acutely aware of what he was doing.
His hand shifted lower. Sophia’s pulse leaped. She tried to occupy her thoughts with ordinary things. The fire required another log. She had to remember to return Amelia’s ribbon. The new botanical volume appeared very handsome upon the table.
Then, Benedict’s fingertips grazed her back again, and all ordinary thought deserted her.
She watched his reflection. A faint line had appeared between his brows.
He approached each small fastening with grave concentration, as though the gown presented a matter of estate law rather than seven troublesome pearl buttons.
The sixth came loose. Only one remained, positioned lower at the center of her back. Benedict hesitated. Sophia felt the hesitation before she saw it. The final button sat just beyond the comfortable reach of his hand. To reach it, he would have to step closer… and he did.
His body did not touch hers, but the heat of him seemed to surround her. His breath stirred the loose curls near her shoulder. The scents of clean linen, leather, and soap filled the small space between them.
Sophia’s entire awareness narrowed to the place where his hand rested against the fabric. The loop had twisted around the pearl. Benedict worked at it carefully. His knuckle grazed the bare edge of skin where the gown had parted.
Sophia inhaled sharply. He went still. Their eyes met in the looking glass. He was close enough that she could see the pulse beating at the base of his throat. His gaze had darkened, the green of his eyes almost lost beneath something deeper and less guarded.
“Forgive me,” he murmured.
“There is nothing to forgive.”
Neither looked away. Benedict’s thumb rested only an inch from her spine. Sophia wondered what would happen if he moved it, if his hand ceased to be careful, if he touched her not because a button required it, but because he wished to.
The thought sent warmth low through her body.
His gaze shifted briefly to the curve of her exposed shoulder. The final loop slipped free. The button came loose. Benedict’s hand remained where it was for one breath longer than necessary, then he lowered it.
“It is done.”
Sophia turned. She had meant only to thank him. She had forgotten how close he stood.
The movement brought them nearly against one another. Her wrapper loosened, and she caught it instinctively at her chest. The back of the gown remained open beneath it, leaving her feeling both covered and strangely exposed.
Benedict stood directly before her, scarcely more than a breath away. Neither moved.
Sophia’s heart was beating so violently she was certain he had to hear it. She wondered whether he could see the pulse at her throat, whether he knew how difficult it had become to draw air into her lungs.
His eyes held hers. There was no polite distance or guarded consideration, only the same restrained hunger she had glimpsed in the garden when he caught her before she fell.
His gaze dropped to her lips. Sophia’s breath caught.
She remembered his arm around her waist, the solid warmth of his chest beneath her palm and the single suspended moment before Marjorie’s voice had called them apart.
There was no one to interrupt them now. The twins slept several rooms away. The servants had withdrawn. Even the corridor outside remained silent.
Benedict’s gaze lingered upon her mouth. Sophia’s lips parted without intention. Something in his face changed.
His hand shifted at his side, his fingers curling once as though resisting the impulse to reach for her. He leaned nearer, not enough to touch her, but enough that the air between them seemed to disappear. Sophia did not step away.
She wanted him to kiss her.
The truth was no longer surprising. It was only overwhelming.
She wanted to feel the restraint in him break. She wanted his hand at her waist again, drawing her closer rather than preventing a fall. She wanted to know whether his mouth would be as careful as his fingers had been or whether care would prove impossible once they touched.
Benedict lifted one hand. For a heartbeat, Sophia thought he meant to cup her face. His fingers stopped halfway between them. The struggle in his expression was so clear that tenderness mingled painfully with her longing.
Then restraint returned. It closed over him slowly, like ice forming across dark water. His hand fell, and he stepped back. The loss of his nearness left the room abruptly cold.
“Good night, Sophia.” His voice was rough enough to betray him, whatever his expression attempted to conceal.
Sophia tightened her wrapper across her chest. “Good night.”
Benedict turned and crossed toward the door. At the threshold, he stopped. For one breath, Sophia believed he might look back. Her heart rose foolishly with the hope of it.
He did not. His hand tightened upon the doorframe, then released it. He left, pulling the door gently closed behind him, while Sophia remained where she stood.
The back of her gown hung loose, with cool air brushing her heated skin. Her shoulder still seemed to remember the warmth of Benedict’s breath, and every place his fingers had touched the silk felt marked.
She raised one hand to the top of her spine. The gesture did nothing to quiet her pulse.
Upon the table, Mr. Fairford’s botanical volume rested untouched. Sophia looked at its neat gold lettering. Then she looked toward the closed door.
She no longer cared in the least what the book contained.