Page 100 of A Duchess for his Family

“I remember one of them,” Sophia replied. “Though I believed it was meant to be a teapot.”

Fairford laughed. “That may explain why my uncle dismissed the gardener.”

“Perhaps the gardener intended a teapot.”

“If so, he succeeded magnificently.”

Sophia smiled. Benedict lifted his cup. It should not have bothered him. Fairford was a respectable man. His manners were excellent, his intentions harmless, and his conversation more intelligent than that of most gentlemen who entered a drawing room determined to impress a duchess.

There was nothing objectionable in his speaking to Sophia. She was mistress of Rivermere. Guests were expected to address her.

Fairford explained that he intended to restore Belgrave’s orangery, which had been closed since the death of his aunt.

“You mean to restore it rather than replace it?” Sophia asked.

“If it can be saved. The roof is unsound, but the southern wall still holds warmth beautifully.”

“That would be a pity to lose.”

“My gardener says the same, though he expresses his opinions with considerably less grace.”

Sophia leaned forward slightly. “Is the old glass still there?”

“Much of it. Cracked, clouded, and held together by determination.”

“That sounds rather like several families of my acquaintance.”

Fairford laughed again. Benedict set down his cup.

Sophia looked toward him. “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing.” His cup had simply met its saucer with more firmness than he intended.

Fairford continued speaking. He described the orangery’s stone floor, the fig trees which had once grown against the wall, and the possibility of cultivating lemons again if the heating pipes could be repaired.

Sophia grew interested at once. Her questions were thoughtful. She asked whether the ground sloped toward the western side and whether rain entered through the damaged roof. Fairford answered with visible pleasure.

Benedict watched Sophia speak with many people since their marriage. She was always kind, but often reserved. In large company, she listened more than she spoke and let louder people carry the conversation away from her. She did not seem reserved with Fairford. Her hands moved when she spoke. Her eyes warmed. She forgot her embroidery entirely.

Benedict told himself this was a good thing. Sophia had spent too much of her life believing she was uninteresting. He wanted Rivermere to be a place where she felt seen and valued. He had not fully considered that other men would also see her.

Fairford asked whether she preferred formal gardens or those allowed a little wildness.

Sophia glanced toward the open windows. “A little wildness, I think. Though Mr. Wilkes would call it neglect.”

“Ah, Wilkes. He once informed my head gardener that my roses lacked moral discipline.”

“They may have deserved it,” Sophia smiled.

“Most likely. Belgrave’s roses have never possessed character.”

“Perhaps they require better conversation.”

Fairford smiled at her with unmistakable admiration. Benedict did not like the smile. It was not improper. It was not presumptuous. Fairford merely looked at Sophia as though he found her clever. Benedict found her clever too. That, somehow, made Fairford’s appreciation more irritating rather than less.

The conversation moved from gardens to books when Fairford mentioned that he had recently acquired several botanical volumes from a gentleman in Oxford. Sophia knew two of the authors.

“You have read Abernathy?” Fairford asked with surprise.