Page 136 of A Duchess for his Family

“Almost certainly.”

Sophia leaned back in the chair. “What if nothing changes?”

Her mother’s expression became serious. “Then at least you will know you remained long enough to discover it.”

Sophia looked down. “And if he cannot love me?”

“Then that will hurt,” her mother replied. “I cannot promise otherwise. But there is a difference between being hurt by the truth and being hurt because both of you are too frightened to speak it.”

Sophia stared at her mother. She had not expected that, perhaps because she had spent years believing her mother valued propriety above all else. Tonight, she saw something else beneath it. She saw a woman who had loved, a woman who understood that marriage could be governed by rules and duties yet still be ruined by everything left unsaid.

Sophia stood. “I shall return tomorrow.”

Her mother rose, too. “That seems sensible.”

“I thought you might argue.”

“My daughters very rarely listen when I argue.”

“That is because you usually argue about gloves.”

“Gloves matter.”

Sophia kissed her cheek, while her mother wrapped both arms around her. For a moment Sophia allowed herself to be held.

“You will be all right,” her mother whispered.

Sophia wished she felt certain. Still, when she climbed into bed half an hour later, the decision had settled something inside her.

Tomorrow she would go home. She would speak to Benedict. No more carefully avoiding the truth, no more pretending the arrangement had remained untouched merely because they once intended it to.

At eleven, she was still awake.

At half past eleven, she turned her pillow over.

At quarter to twelve, she attempted to read.

At midnight, she realized she had read the same paragraph nine times.

Sophia dropped the book.

“This is ridiculous.”

The room offered no argument. She sat upright. Tomorrow suddenly seemed an intolerably distant country. Rivermere was scarcely more than a short carriage journey away. She knew the road. The night was clear enough. And if she remained here until morning, she would only spend another six hours imagining every possible conversation with Benedict until none of them sounded remotely human.

Sophia threw back the covers. Twenty minutes later, she was dressed. The household objected. Her father appeared in the entrance hall wearing a robe and an expression of complete bewilderment. Her mother appeared behind him and took one look at Sophia’s cloak.

“You are going now.”

“Yes.”

“It is after midnight,” her father frowned. “You cannot simply set out in the middle of the night.”

“I shall take the carriage.”

“That was not the difficulty I meant.”

Her mother touched her husband’s arm. “Henry.”