Page 124 of A Duchess for his Family

And because he had spent years mistaking pain for proof of necessity, the fact that the decision hurt him so much almost convinced him he was right.

Chapter Thirty

Sophia did not sleep, although she attempted to do so with considerable determination.

She removed her earrings, allowed Jenny to unpin her hair, changed into her nightdress, drank half a cup of warm milk she did not want, and lay beneath the covers with her eyes firmly closed as though sleep might be persuaded by good manners. It was not.

The ball followed her into the darkness, only it was not the music, or the chandeliers, or the endless procession of silk gowns and polished shoes. It was Benedict.

You have always known what this marriage was.

Sophia turned onto her side. The room was dark except for the faint orange glow of the dying fire. Beyond the windows, Rivermere slept beneath a moonless sky.

It was an arrangement.

She pulled the blanket higher.

For Amelia and Marjorie.

Sophia closed her eyes more tightly, as though that might stop her from hearing him. It did not. The conversation returned with cruel precision. A marriage in name only, and that she had demanded it. That fact seemed almost absurd now.

Sophia remembered the woman she had been when she set that condition, frightened, defensive, and certain that marriage to Benedict would be a practical arrangement in which she might finally become useful somewhere.

She imagined herself caring for Amelia and Marjorie, managing a household, having books, gardens, perhaps children someday, if she chose it. Benedict had stood somewhere at the edge of that imagined future, stern and dependable and conveniently untouched by all dangerous forms of emotion.

She had never accounted for his smile. That had been her first mistake.

Or perhaps his hands, his dry humor, the way he listened when she spoke as though whatever she said deserved consideration, even when he disagreed with every word, the way he protected the girls, the way fear lived beneath every rule he imposed, and the way he had crossed crowded rooms for her before she understood that anyone could notice when she needed rescuing.

Sophia opened her eyes. The ceiling above her was only darkness.

“I love him.” The words slipped out before she could stop them.

Sophia stared upward. Her heart began to beat harder.

She whispered it again. “I love him.”

Nothing changed. The room did not change. The heavens did not open. No great revelation followed, only the quiet certainty of something she had apparently known for much longer than she had had the courage to name.

She loved Benedict. And he had spent the past week carefully removing himself from her.

Sophia covered her face with both hands. For several moments she remained that way, breathing into her palms. Of all the foolish things she might have done with her life, falling in love with a man who had specifically agreed not to require love from her seemed particularly efficient.

A miserable laugh escaped her. It turned dangerously close to a sob. Sophia pressed her lips together.

No.

She would not cry. She had already spent too many years believing that if she remained quiet enough, patient enough, undemanding enough, pain might pass without troubling anyone. But this was different. She could not remain beside Benedict every day and pretend.

Sophia rolled onto her back again.

He wanted her. Perhaps not in the way she wanted him. Perhaps never in the way she wanted him. But something existed between them, and Benedict had chosen to bury it before it could become dangerous.

She understood his grief, his fear, his determination to protect everything he loved by refusing to admit how deeply he loved it. Sophia once thought understanding someone made pain easier. It did not. Sometimes it merely explained the knife.

She sat up. The room seemed suddenly too small. She pushed aside the blankets and crossed barefoot toward the window. The glass was cold beneath her fingertips.

Outside, Rivermere lay dark and silent. Somewhere beyond those shadowed roofs was Benedict’s room, or perhaps he was still in his study.