Chapter 26 #2
The answer came at once. Sophia looked at him. Benedict had not meant to interrupt, but the thought of Rivermere before her in all its silent rooms, guarded children and his own rigid routines, and that made the claim impossible to accept.
“The house existed,” he amended. “That is not the same thing. And the twins already think of Rivermere as your home.”
Sophia’s fingers curled together. “They are children. They love generously.”
“They do not always accept generously.”
He knew that Marjorie could resist a new governess, a new pudding, or a change in walking route with equal determination. Amelia offered affection slowly, as though each small trust had to be examined before it was given. Yet both made a place for Sophia without hesitation.
“They look for you when you enter a room,” Benedict said. “Amelia saves things to tell you. Marjorie expects you to join every scheme she invents. When either of them wakes frightened, they ask for you. This is the home they share with you… it is your home.”
She looked toward the dark shape of the house. “Do you believe it is my home?”
Benedict should have answered. The word yes should have been simple. Yet it carried too much weight. To call Rivermere her home felt dangerously close to asking her never to leave. So Benedict remained silent.
Uncertainty flickered across Sophia’s face.
It was small, almost hidden, but he saw it.
Before it could turn into hurt, he reached for her hand.
Her fingers were cool beneath his. Sophia looked down at their joined hands, then back at him.
She did not pull away. Benedict held her gently, his thumb resting against her knuckles.
The contact felt more honest than any answer he could have formed.
He had spent his life trusting words set into contracts, rules, and orders. Yet no sentence felt adequate for what he wished her to understand.
You changed this place. You changed them. You changed me.
His thumb moved once across the back of her hand.
Sophia’s eyes lifted to his. Benedict did not decide to move closer.
He simply did. Sophia’s breath caught, but she remained where she was.
He paused when only a few inches separated them.
It was not restraint alone. It was a question. Sophia answered by leaning toward him.
Their lips met. The kiss was soft, almost uncertain, no more than a tender pressure at first. Benedict had imagined kissing her in the garden earlier and again before the looking glass, but nothing in his imagination had prepared him for the warmth of her mouth or the small breath she released against him.
His free hand rose to her cheek. Sophia leaned into his palm. Her fingers tightened around his other hand, anchoring him and undoing him at once.
He kissed her again, still gently, still with a care that felt almost painful.
Yet the second touch lingered longer. Her lips moved softly beneath his, answering him with a tenderness that sent warmth through his chest and blurred every careful boundary.
The kiss carried every moment they had stopped themselves before, every accidental touch neither had truly believed was accidental.
Benedict’s thumb brushed her cheek. Sophia’s free hand rose uncertainly and rested against the front of his coat.
The contact drew him closer. He heard her quiet intake of breath.
For one dangerous moment, he wanted more.
He wanted to draw her fully against him, to feel her arms around his neck, to kiss her until neither of them remembered duty, caution, or the practical terms upon which their marriage had begun.
The force of his desire startled him. He drew back first, though only an inch.
Sophia’s eyes stayed closed for one breath before opening.
They stared at one another. Her lips were parted, her cheeks faintly flushed even in the moonlight.
Benedict’s hand still rested against her face, and her palm remained over his heart.
He wondered whether she could feel how violently his heart beat. He lowered his hand slowly.
“I…” The word failed him.
There were apologies he might offer, though he was not sorry. There were explanations he might attempt, though he understood none of it himself. Sophia looked equally stunned.
“Yes.” It was not an answer to anything. Benedict suspected she knew that.
Their hands remained joined between them. Beyond the wall, the night continued exactly as before. Nothing had changed, yet everything had.
Sophia glanced toward the flower bed.
“The blossoms will be beautiful,” she whispered.
Benedict looked at her rather than the plants. “Yes.”
A small, uncertain smile touched her mouth. Neither of them moved to leave. Benedict looked down at their clasped hands. He could still feel her kiss upon his lips, impossibly soft and entirely real.
“I should escort you inside,” he said at last.
“Probably.”
Neither stood. Sophia’s smile deepened. Benedict almost laughed, but the sound caught in his throat before it could escape.
After another quiet moment, he rose and offered her his hand.
She placed hers in his, and he helped her to her feet.
They walked toward the house side by side.
Their shoulders did not touch, though the space between them seemed alive with the memory of the kiss.
At the garden door, Sophia paused. “Good night, Benedict.”
“Good night.”
She disappeared into the house. Benedict remained outside for several seconds longer, staring at the doorway through which she had gone. He had come into the garden because he could not sleep after nearly kissing his wife.
Now he had kissed her.
Sleep seemed more impossible than ever.