Page 102 of A Duchess for his Family

“Then I am in excellent company.”

“Marjorie believed it was an explosion.”

Fairford laughed. Benedict disliked him a little more.

Fairford then told a story about his elder sister attempting to teach him embroidery when they were children. According to him, he stitched his own sleeve to the frame and refused assistance because he had mistaken helplessness for dignity.

Sophia’s laughter came again, softer this time but no less beautiful. Benedict found himself disliking Fairford’s childhood. There was no justification for this. By all accounts, it had been entirely respectable.

Still, the longer the man spoke, the more Benedict became aware of every smile Sophia gave him. Her posture had lost its usual reserve. Warmth softened her voice, and color remained high upon her cheeks.

She was enjoying herself. That should have pleased him. It did not. Worse still, Benedict had very little opportunity to interrupt without appearing rude. Every time Fairford paused, Sophia asked another question. Every time Benedict prepared a remark, Fairford began a new anecdote.

Once, Sophia looked toward him as though inviting him into the conversation. Before Benedict could speak, Fairford asked whether Rivermere’s roses had recovered from the late frost and Benedict’s answer became unnecessary.

By the time Peters brought fresh hot water, Benedict had begun to consider whether neighboring customs placed any limit upon the length of an afternoon call.

At last, Fairford rose. “I fear I have imposed upon you long enough.”

Benedict stood immediately. “Not at all.”

The words were courteous. His speed was less so.

Fairford bowed over her hand with perfect propriety. “Thank you for a most pleasant afternoon, Your Graces.”

“I enjoyed it very much.”

“I shall send Abernathy’s second volume tomorrow,” Fairford promised.

“That is very kind.”

“And perhaps, when the weather improves, we may settle upon a day for Belgrave.”

“Perhaps,” Sophia nodded courteously.

Fairford departed with another bow. Benedict accompanied him into the hall, endured a final observation about the roads, and watched him descend the front steps. Fairford mounted his horse and rode away along the avenue. Benedict remained at the door until the man disappeared beyond the trees. Only then did he return to the drawing room.

Sophia was gathering her embroidery. The light shifted during the visit, leaving the room warmer and more golden than before.

“Did Mr. Fairford offend you?” she asked.

Benedict stopped. “Why should you think that?”

“You appeared displeased.”

“I was not displeased.”

“You looked at him as though he had committed a crime during tea.”

He shrugged. “He spoke too much.”

Sophia stared at him. Then her mouth trembled.

“You barely spoke at all.”

“There was hardly any chance,” Benedict replied dryly.

Her laughter caught him entirely unprepared. It rose bright and warm into the room, freer than it had been during Fairford’s visit. Sophia pressed her fingers to her lips, though this did nothing to conceal her amusement.