Page 107 of A Duchess for his Family

The back of her gown hung loose, with cool air brushing her heated skin. Her shoulder still seemed to remember the warmth of Benedict’s breath, and every place his fingers had touched the silk felt marked.

She raised one hand to the top of her spine. The gesture did nothing to quiet her pulse.

Upon the table, Mr. Fairford’s botanical volume rested untouched. Sophia looked at its neat gold lettering. Then she looked toward the closed door.

She no longer cared in the least what the book contained.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Benedict knew he would not sleep.

He could still feel the delicate resistance of the pearl buttons beneath his fingers. He could still see her reflected in the glass, loose-haired and flushed, watching him with an expression that had stripped every sensible thought from his head.

He had nearly kissed her.

The knowledge followed him down the corridor like an accusation. Worse, she had not moved away. For one reckless instant, he had been certain she wanted him to do it. Her lips had parted. Her breath had caught. She had looked at him not with alarm, but with the same startled longing that had nearly conquered what remained of his restraint.

He descended the back staircase, crossed the darkened morning room, and let himself into the garden. The night air struck cool against his face.

Rivermere lay quiet beneath a pale moon. Gravel shone faintly along the paths, and the clipped hedges had become dark walls softened by shadow. The house behind him rose in dignified silence, its windows dark except for one or two faint squares of candlelight.

His feet carried him toward the old flower garden. He sat upon the low stone edge beside the bed Sophia had helped restore. The young plants were nearly invisible in the darkness, but he knew they were there.

Benedict stared at the dark earth. He had no idea how much time passed. Five minutes, perhaps… or fifty-five. The garden did not require an answer. It did not expect him to speak, decide, or prevent some impending disaster. It merely existed around him, damp with night air and filled with the quiet labor of things growing where no one could see.

He rested his forearms upon his knees. The image of Sophia returned despite every effort to banish it. Benedict closed his eyes and right then, footsteps sounded upon the gravel.

He opened them and turned. Sophia was standing at the entrance to the path. She was wearing a dark cloak over her nightdress, fastened closely at her throat. Her hair remained loose, falling over her shoulders in soft waves that caught the moonlight. The sight of it stirred an immediate and vivid memory of his fingers near the open back of her gown.

For one moment, neither of them spoke. Then she came nearer.

“You could not sleep either?”

Benedict shook his head. Speech seemed beyond him.

Sophia stopped beside the stone border. She looked toward the flower bed, then back at him. “May I sit?”

He nodded. She lowered herself beside him, leaving a careful space between them. The scent of lavender followed her, faint and familiar. Benedict was aware of every inch separating them and, more dangerously, of how little distance it truly was.

Silence settled. Sophia drew the cloak around her knees. Benedict looked toward the flower bed because looking directly at her seemed unwise.

“It is strange,” he said at last.

“What is?”

“To see something growing here.”

Sophia followed his gaze. “Mr. Wilkes is already planning how the colors will look together.”

“He has been planning that for years.”

“But now he believes he will see them.”

Benedict studied the faint shapes of the young plants.

“He did everything he knew to do,” he said. “He changed the soil. Altered the watering. Fed the roots. Yet nothing survived.”

“The problem was beneath it all.”