Page 111 of A Duchess for his Family

Benedict looked at her rather than the plants. “Yes.”

A small, uncertain smile touched her mouth. Neither of them moved to leave. Benedict looked down at their clasped hands. He could still feel her kiss upon his lips, impossibly soft and entirely real.

“I should escort you inside,” he said at last.

“Probably.”

Neither stood. Sophia’s smile deepened. Benedict almost laughed, but the sound caught in his throat before it could escape. After another quiet moment, he rose and offered her his hand. She placed hers in his, and he helped her to her feet. They walked toward the house side by side. Their shoulders did not touch, though the space between them seemed alive with the memory of the kiss.

At the garden door, Sophia paused. “Good night, Benedict.”

“Good night.”

She disappeared into the house. Benedict remained outside for several seconds longer, staring at the doorway through which she had gone. He had come into the garden because he could not sleep after nearly kissing his wife.

Now he had kissed her.

Sleep seemed more impossible than ever.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“You kissed her?”

Nathaniel’s question carried such delighted disbelief that Benedict immediately regretted saying anything.

He stood behind the desk in his study, one hand resting on a stack of correspondence he had been pretending to examine for the better part of an hour. Morning rain left the windows misted at the edges, though the clouds had begun to thin and pale sunlight now lay across the carpet in long, watery strips.

Nathaniel was perched opposite him, with one ankle resting comfortably upon the other knee, looking as though Christmas had arrived unexpectedly in August.

Nathaniel leaned forward. “You kissed your wife?”

Benedict’s frown deepened. “Who else would I be referring to?”

Nathaniel grinned. “I merely wished to establish the full enormity of the scandal.”

“There is no scandal.”

“A duke kissing his duchess beneath his own roof?” Nathaniel shook his head gravely. “Civilization trembles.”

Benedict picked up the nearest letter. He had no idea what it concerned… something about drainage or sheep, possibly both.

“You are enjoying this far too much.”

“I have waited years to enjoy something this much,” Nathaniel admitted. “And by this, I mean watching you discover that you are, despite considerable evidence to the contrary, a man.”

Benedict lowered the letter.

Nathaniel smiled. It was the smile he had worn at seventeen after convincing three prefects that Benedict had voluntarily agreed to participate in a midnight rowing race. Benedict had not agreed. He had nevertheless ended up in the boat.

“Was it dreadful?” Nathaniel asked.

Benedict stared at him.

“The kiss,” Nathaniel clarified. “Perhaps that explains your present expression. Did you collide noses? Step upon her foot? Deliver a lecture on proper technique halfway through?”

“Nathaniel.”

“Did you count?”