Page 12 of A Duchess for his Family

She swallowed heavily. “Dukes dance with young ladies, Mama. It is one of the many burdens of rank.”

Her father made another sound into his glove.

“I spoke to him briefly today, remember?” Sophia was quick to add. “It was civil to acknowledge the meeting earlier.”

Her mother seemed satisfied for the time being, and she continued to speak of the ball. Sophia heard almost none of it. She sat with her gloved hands folded in her lap, her shawl slipping unnoticed from one shoulder, while the Duke of Rivermere’s words returned to her with unsettling persistence.

‘Would you consider visiting Rivermere Hall from time to time?’

It was a simple request. He didn’t ask for anything improper, nor did he speak with any warmth that might invite foolishness. He asked on behalf of two little girls who had, for reasons Sophia could not understand, taken some liking to her after one muddy, alarming encounter beneath an oak tree.

“Sophia,” her mother called out.

Sophia started. “Yes, Mama?”

“You are very quiet.”

Frances would have laughed at that. Emma would have smiled. Sophia merely lowered her gaze. “I am only tired.”

“A ball is meant to enliven young ladies, not exhaust them.”

“Perhaps I am improperly constructed for balls.”

Her father gave a small cough that might have concealed amusement. Her mother looked as though she would have preferred not to hear such a possibility spoken aloud.

When at last they reached Keswick Manor, the house received them with the sleepy dignity of a place that had spent the evening recovering from its earlier disorder. The children were in bed. The visiting husbands had gone to their rooms. Even Frances, miraculously, did not emerge to demand an accounting of every expression worn by every person at the ball.

In her chamber, the candles had been lit low. The air smelled faintly of lavender, starch, and the dying roses Jenny had placed upon the washstand that morning. Sophia dismissed her maid as gently as she could and sat before the glass, unpinning her hair with slow, distracted fingers.

Why did he choose me?

There were surely dozens of ladies better suited to entertaining two little girls, ladies who spoke easily, played the pianoforte without fear of being overheard, and knew charming games and amusing stories, as well as the precise tone in which children must be guided without being lectured.

She was shy. She was awkward in company, too fond of books, too inclined to listen when she ought to sparkle. At a ball, she preferred corners. At dinner, she preferred being placed beside elderly gentlemen who liked to talk and did not require much reply.

What possible good could she do in a ducal household?

None, she told herself. The answer must be no.

It would be simple enough. She would thank His Grace for the honor, express her affection for his nieces, and explain that she did not think herself equal to the responsibility. That would be sensible. Becoming involved with Rivermere Hall could only lead to complications. A duke’s household was not a place for uncertain young women to wander into simply because two children smiled at them. And yet…

Amelia’s shy smile rose in her memory, sweet and careful. Then Marjorie’s grin, bold as sunlight, appeared beside it.

That was the dangerous part, not the duke. At least, not only the duke.

“I shall refuse,” she whispered into the darkness.

But even as she said it, the words lacked conviction. By the time sleep finally reached her, soft and uneven, Sophia was no closer to an answer. She drifted away with the question still open in her mind and with two identical faces, one mischievous, the other gentle, waiting patiently beneath the old oak tree.

“I am here to see Miss Norton.”

The sentence produced precisely the effect Benedict expected, though not the one he desired.

Lord Keswick, who received him in the morning room with every appearance of polite bewilderment, paused, one hand resting on the back of a chair. Lady Keswick, seated near the tea table, looked up so quickly that one of her rings struck the porcelain cup in her hand. Miss Norton, who entered only a moment before and was now standing quietly beside her mother, became very still.

Benedict observed all three reactions and felt that he perhaps approached the matter too directly. The trouble was that indirectness wasted time.

“Sophia?” Lord Keswick repeated.