Page 159 of A Duchess for his Family

Sophia raised her eyebrows.

“Yet.”

Benedict almost smiled. Sophia shifted Eveline upon her hip.

“And now?”

“Now what?”

“What do you think of trees?”

Benedict looked toward the branch, then toward the girls: Marjorie above, Amelia beside him, Eveline squirming eagerly in Sophia’s arms. His expression softened.

“Now,” he said, “I believe some invitations require supervision.”

Sophia’s heart gave the same quiet ache it always did whenever she saw how thoroughly love had changed him without making him any less himself.

He had not become careless. He still checked carriage wheels before journeys. He still inspected the nursery fires twice before bed. He still held opinions about ponds, horses, ladders, gates, thunderstorms, unfamiliar dogs, uneven stairs, poorly secured windows, adventurous gardeners, unsuitable footwear, and whether eleven-year-old girls ought to be permitted bows of their own.

He learned that love could not be kept safe by making the world smaller. Sometimes love meant standing beneath a tree with both arms raised.

Sophia placed Eveline into his hands. Benedict lifted the little girl carefully onto the lowest branch. Eveline gasped. Her little face filled with wonder.

“Tree!”

“Yes,” Benedict said, keeping both hands firmly around her waist. “It is a tree.”

“Up.”

“No.”

Marjorie groaned. “She is wasting her best argument.”

“She has only one argument,” Amelia said.

“It is effective.”

Benedict looked upward. “Come down.”

“I am perfectly safe.”

“Marjorie.”

She pouted. “Fine… I am coming.” She began descending. Eveline watched with enormous concentration. One small foot lifted experimentally. Benedict tightened his grip.

“No.”

Eveline looked at him.

“No feet.”

She looked down at her feet as though surprised to discover she possessed them. Sophia laughed.

“She cannot remove them, Benedict.”

“She may leave them where they are.”

“Perhaps you should write a rule.”