Page 117 of A Duchess for his Family

Sophia looked toward the small pile beside her plate. They were from her mother, from Emma, and a note from Frances which began with the words I have heard something extremely interesting and therefore promised very little peace.

“Terrifyingly important.”

Marjorie nodded, satisfied, and the conversation continued. Sophia drank her tea and did not look at Benedict’s empty chair again, not until three minutes later.

The following afternoon, she found him in the library, or rather, she found him leaving it. Sophia had been carrying two books and a small basket of embroidery silks Amelia insisted required sorting when Benedict stepped through the doorway, and they almost collided.

His hand came out instinctively. For one brief moment, his fingers closed around her elbow, warm and familiar. Sophia’s breath caught. Their eyes met. Something passed across Benedict’s face so quickly she might have imagined it. Then his hand fell.

“My apologies.” The words were perfectly courteous.

Sophia blinked. “You need not apologize. I was not looking where I was going.”

“Nor was I.”

There should have been something after that. There usually was, some dry remark about the danger of carrying too many books, some observation regarding her ability to turn an ordinary corridor into an obstacle course. Perhaps he would take the books from her despite her objections and carry them wherever she meant to go. Instead, Benedict stepped aside.

“Good afternoon, Sophia.”

Good afternoon.

Not where are you going?

Not what have you found now?

Not even the faint lift of one eyebrow which so often turned his solemn face into something meant only for her.

“Good afternoon,” she replied.

He inclined his head, then he walked away. Sophia remained where she was. The embroidery basket pressed awkwardly against her wrist. She listened to his footsteps disappear along the corridor. Only then did she realize that she had been holding her breath.

She released it carefully. It meant nothing. People passed one another in corridors without conducting elaborate conversations every day. It would have been absurd to attach significance to it.

Sophia entered the library. She put Amelia’s basket upon the table. Then she stood beside it for so long that she forgot why she had come.

By the third day, pretending became more difficult.

Benedict was busy. That was what everyone said. The steward required him. A tenant dispute required him. The accounts required him. A letter from London required an answer. The south field required discussion. Sophia began to resent the south field personally.

Whenever she entered a room, Benedict seemed to be on his way out of it. When she encountered him at dinner, he was unfailingly attentive. He held her chair. He asked whether she wished for wine. He inquired after her morning. He listened to her reply.

Then he turned to Amelia and asked about her lessons. There was nothing she could object to. That was the cruelty of it. He did nothing wrong. He was kind. He was considerate. He was Benedict in every way that mattered to propriety.

Only the small things had disappeared. His eyes no longer found hers after Marjorie said something outrageous. He no longer lingered when they happened to be alone. He no longer crossed the drawing room merely because Sophia sat beside the fire. When their hands nearly touched upon the breakfast table, he moved his first. And every evening, after dinner, he returned to his study.

Sophia began to hate the study, too. It joined the south field upon a growing list of innocent things she regarded with unreasonable hostility.

She tried to be sensible. The kiss changed nothing. They had never discussed it.

Perhaps Benedict regrets it.

The thought came quietly the first time. By the fourth day, it no longer bothered to be quiet. Perhaps he regretted kissing her. Sophia lay awake considering it.

She remembered the garden with painful exactness. She could still feel his hand upon her cheek and the tenderness with which his mouth had met hers. She remembered thinking that something had finally changed between them. She had gone to bed that night unable to stop smiling into the darkness like a girl several years younger and considerably more foolish.

Now, embarrassment burned beneath her skin whenever she remembered it. Perhaps she misunderstood. Perhaps what had seemed enormous to her had been merely an impulse to him. It was just a husband kissing his wife, which was nothing extraordinary.

Nothing was promised, so nothing was altered, except Sophia.