Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Benedict had never before considered perfection such an unpleasant thing to perform.
To everyone watching, he and Sophia appeared perfectly happy.
He knew because three separate people had told him so.
Lady Hartwell called them devoted. Lord Bainbridge remarked that marriage seemed to agree with Rivermere.
An elderly dowager whose name Benedict had temporarily forgotten looked between them with moist approval and informed Sophia that there was nothing so reassuring as seeing a husband unwilling to leave his wife unattended for more than five minutes.
Sophia smiled. Benedict smiled. The lie became complete.
The ballroom at Ashcombe House glowed with candlelight, crystal, and enough gilding to fund a small war. Music swept beneath the painted ceiling as silk whispered over polished floors and conversation rose and fell around them in elegant waves.
Sophia stood beside him in pale blue. Benedict had noticed the gown the instant she descended the stairs at Rivermere.
He had also made himself say only, “You look very well.”
Very well.
He deserved to be struck.
Sophia had looked at him for half a heartbeat too long before smiling.
“Thank you.”
Now every gentleman in the room appeared capable of seeing what Benedict had deliberately refused to say.
She was beautiful. And not because of the silk, though the color made her hazel eyes warmer and softened the brown of her hair where candlelight touched it.
It was also not because of the pearls at her throat, but because she was Sophia.
It was because she listened with her whole face when someone spoke, because amusement appeared first in her eyes before reaching her mouth, because she had begun to stand differently since becoming Duchess of Rivermere, not louder or grander, but with some new certainty that made people notice what Benedict had noticed almost from the beginning.
He remained beside her. That was his duty. At least, that was what he told himself.
When they entered, his hand rested at the small of her back.
When someone addressed her, Benedict remained near enough to hear.
When she crossed toward the refreshment table, he accompanied her.
When a gentleman bowed over her hand too long, Benedict experienced several thoughts unworthy of a civilized man and expressed none of them.
From a distance, it probably looked like devotion.
Only Sophia knew he had scarcely spoken ten unnecessary words to her all evening.
She played her part beautifully. She laughed when expected.
She spoke warmly to acquaintances. She touched his sleeve once when Lord Harbury told an intolerably long story, and the gesture appeared so natural that Benedict’s heart turned painfully beneath his ribs.
She did not look wounded. She did not look angry.
She looked radiant. And Benedict knew better now than to trust it.
Once, he might not have. He had learned Sophia’s quietness too well.
She concealed pain by becoming easier for everyone around her.
That knowledge made every smile feel like an accusation.
“This is going very well,” Nathaniel murmured beside him.
Benedict did not look away from Sophia. She was speaking with her sister several feet away. Frances said something that made Sophia laugh, though even across the distance Benedict heard the restraint beneath it.
“I do not know what you mean.”
“Of course you do.”
Nathaniel followed his gaze. “To everyone in this room, you look one affectionate glance away from inspiring poetry.”
“That would be unfortunate.”
“Yes. Particularly as you appear miserable.”
Benedict looked at him then. Nathaniel lifted his glass.
“No one else can tell.”
“Then there is no difficulty.”
Nathaniel’s expression went flat. Benedict ignored him. This was better. That was the point. Sophia had security. The girls had her. Rivermere had warmth again. And he could meet all the expectations of a husband without becoming something he had never promised to be.
He could stand beside her in ballrooms and escort her to dinner and ensure no one ever treated her with disrespect. He could give her everything except the one thing neither had included in their agreement.
His heart.
The thought felt unexpectedly childish. He disliked it at once.
Sophia returned to his side. “Frances believes Lord Harbury’s new mustache makes him resemble an unhappy spaniel.”
Benedict looked toward the gentleman in question. “She is not entirely wrong.”
Sophia laughed. It struck him with such force that for one dangerous moment he forgot every resolution he had made. Their eyes met. Something familiar warmed between them. Then Benedict remembered.
He looked toward the dancers. “The next set is beginning.”
Sophia’s smile faded by a fraction. “Yes.”
He offered his hand. “Will you dance?”
Her gaze dropped to his hand. For a moment, Benedict thought she might refuse. Instead, she placed her fingers in his.
“Of course.”
Her glove was thin. That was the first thought he had. The second was that her hand fitted into his exactly as he remembered.
He led her onto the floor. Around them, couples arranged themselves beneath the chandeliers. The musicians began a slower country dance, graceful enough to permit conversation and close enough to make Benedict immediately regret choosing it.
Sophia stood opposite him. She smiled when another couple passed. Benedict bowed. She curtsied.
Perfect.
Every movement between them was perfect. That was almost unbearable.
The figure began. They came together, parted, turned, returned. His hand met hers. Sophia’s fingers curled around his with proper lightness.
Once, she would have commented upon his expression. Once, she might have accused him of conducting the dance like a military campaign. Tonight she said nothing.
Benedict discovered he missed her arguing with him. He nearly smiled at the absurdity.
Sophia noticed. Her eyes lifted. But before either spoke, the figure separated them again. When she returned, she was still watching him.
“Benedict?”
“Yes?”
Her voice was quiet enough that only he could hear.
“Is this how things will always be?”
His step almost faltered.
Almost.
Years of discipline saved him. He completed the turn without the smallest outward hesitation.
“What precisely are you asking?”
“Whether we shall continue performing happiness for everyone else while avoiding one another in our own home.” Sophia kept smiling as the dance carried them past another couple.
“You hardly speak to me unless someone else is present. You spend your days in the study and whenever we are alone, you find some reason not to remain so.”
Benedict felt every word precisely because she spoke without accusation.
“You are imagining intention where there is only circumstance.”
“No.” Her gaze met his. “I know the difference between your silence and your absence, Benedict. Lately, you have given me both.”
He understood, and that understanding forced him to look away first. The music carried them forward. He felt the warmth of the ballroom against his collar, the pressure of her hand, the faint scent of roses in her hair.
She waited. He knew Sophia would wait indefinitely if necessary. Her patience was often more difficult to resist than another person’s anger.
“What are you asking me?” he said at last.
The dance brought them closer. Sophia looked up at him.
“I am asking whether this is what our marriage will be.”
He understood. Of course he understood.
Benedict felt the old instinct rise immediately.
Make the matter clear. Define it. Contain it.
“There has been no change in our marriage.”
Sophia’s lips parted slightly. “That is not true.”
“It is.”
“Then perhaps the change is only in you.”
The accuracy of it struck hard.
Benedict kept his expression composed. “Sophia, you have always known what this marriage was.”
Her gaze did not leave his. “Have I?”
“Yes.” The word came too firmly. He softened his voice. “It was an arrangement.”
Sophia’s face became very still.
“For Amelia and Marjorie,” he continued. “That was why I proposed it. That was why you accepted.”
“I know.”
“We agreed upon the terms before we married.”
“I remember.”
“You wished the marriage to remain in name only.”
The faintest flush touched her cheeks. Benedict hated himself for mentioning it here. He continued anyway because stopping would be worse. Hhhhhhhggh“That was your rule, Sophia.”
For one moment, something almost like hurt crossed her face. Then she smiled as the dance required them to pass another couple. Anyone watching would have thought Benedict had whispered some private affection. Only he heard her answer.
“I know what the rule was.”
The words were scarcely audible beneath the music. Benedict’s hand tightened around hers. Sophia looked at him.
“What I do not know,” she said, “is whether I can bear it.”
Everything inside him stopped. The ballroom seemed suddenly distant. Music, laughter, candlelight, all of it withdrew until there was only Sophia standing before him with that terrible quiet honesty in her eyes.
Benedict forgot the next step. Actually forgot it.
Sophia corrected automatically, shifting with him before anyone could notice.
Once, he had taught her to command a ballroom. Now she rescued him from one.
“Sophia…”
She looked away.
“I thought I could.”
The music carried them apart. Benedict had one entire turn in which to breathe. It did not help. When she returned, her expression had composed itself again.
“I thought it would be simple,” she continued. “We would care for the girls. We would be friends, perhaps. We would make a home together.”
Benedict could scarcely speak. “That is what we are doing.”
Sophia gave him a sad little smile. “No. It was.”
The words cut deeper than anger would have done. He wanted to deny it. He wanted to tell her nothing between them had been false, that every laugh mattered, every conversation mattered, the garden mattered, the kiss mattered… especially the kiss.
He wanted to tell her that he had spent several nights remembering the shape of her mouth with an intensity that made sleep nearly impossible. He wanted to confess that distance had not weakened anything. It had made her absence louder.
Instead, he heard himself say, “Perhaps we allowed the arrangement to become unclear.”
Sophia flinched. Benedict saw it anyway.
He saw everything she tried not to show him.
His own words made him feel ill. He wanted to reach for her, but they were already touching.
That was the cruelty of dancing. His hand held hers while every instinct demanded something less formal, something honest.
The figure turned them. Sophia’s other hand rested briefly against his shoulder. Benedict felt the contact through layers of coat and linen as though her palm touched bare skin. His hand loosened around hers.
Then, hope disappeared. He nearly broke then. He nearly stopped the dance entirely. He nearly took her hand and walked her out of the ballroom and told her the truth somewhere no one could hear it, that he was afraid, that he wanted her, and that those two things had become indistinguishable.
Instead, he remembered graves. He remembered what love had cost him before.
The music approached its end. Sophia lowered her eyes.
“I understand.”
Benedict knew she did not. Or perhaps she understood too well.
“Sophia.”
She lifted her face and smiled, beautifully and perfectly.
“For the girls,” she said.
The final notes sounded. Applause rose around them. Benedict bowed. Sophia curtsied. When she placed her hand upon his arm and allowed him to escort her from the floor, the room saw precisely what it expected to see: the Duke and Duchess of Rivermere, elegant, devoted and entirely content.
Benedict walked beside his wife while something inside him ached with every step. He told himself again that this was for the best.
For Sophia. For the girls. For all of them.
And because he had spent years mistaking pain for proof of necessity, the fact that the decision hurt him so much almost convinced him he was right.