Page 101 of A Duchess for his Family

“My father had a copy. The illustrations were much better than the prose.”

“I thought the same. He describes a primrose as though presenting evidence before a court.”

“Perhaps he feared contradiction.”

Fairford laughed. “I should like to lend you the second volume. His treatment of alpine plants is less severe.”

“That is very kind.”

Benedict’s fingers tightened against the arm of his chair. It should not have bothered him. A neighbor might lend Sophia a book without threatening the peace of England. Fairford was not attempting seduction through botanical literature. That would be ridiculous. Still, Benedict did not care for the ease with which he offered her something that might bring him back to Rivermere.

“You may send it with a servant,” Benedict suggested.

The remark emerged before he had decided to make it.

Fairford turned toward him. “Of course.”

Sophia’s gaze rested upon Benedict for one brief, puzzled moment. He lifted his tea.

Fairford then spoke of a ruined abbey upon the eastern boundary of Belgrave. A portion of the old chapel remained, along with several badly weathered carvings.

“One angel is especially dreadful,” Fairford mentioned sadly. “It has the expression of a man who has just discovered the cost of his own funeral.”

Sophia laughed. The sound was bright enough to cross the room and strike Benedict somewhere beneath the ribs.

“I should like to see it,” she said.

“I would be happy to welcome you. The view from the eastern hill is worth the journey as well.”

Benedict’s hand stilled. It should not have bothered him. A neighboring gentleman might invite the Duke and Duchess of Rivermere to view his estate without causing a scandal, a duel, or even raised eyebrows. Yet Fairford had not looked at Benedict when he extended the invitation. He had looked at Sophia.

Benedict told himself it was because Sophia had expressed interest. He told himself again when Fairford leaned forward to hear her answer.

“Perhaps we shall visit when the weather is cooler,” Sophia replied.

“We?” Benedict asked.

Both of them turned toward him.

Sophia’s brows lifted. “I assumed you might accompany me.”

“Of course.” The answer came rather too quickly.

Fairford smiled. “I shall consider it settled, then.”

Nothing was settled.

Benedict did not know when an idle mention of a badly carved angel had become an arrangement, but Fairford appeared unusually skilled in advancing a conversation before anyone could object.

The visit continued through the first pot of tea and halfway through the second. Fairford admired Sophia’s embroidery, which Benedict felt was unnecessary, since Sophia herself had already declared the flower unrecognizable.

“What is it meant to be?” Fairford asked.

“A rose.”

He considered it carefully. “I should have said a carnation.”

“So did Amelia.”