Page 32 of A Duchess for his Family

Nathaniel’s mouth twitched. “Forgive me. I am attempting to discover which part of this has placed the Duke of Rivermere upon the edge of despair.”

Benedict frowned. “I am not upon the edge of despair.”

“No. You are seated several respectable feet from it, drafting terms.”

Benedict looked again at the letter. Sophia’s note lay beside it, written in the delicate, careful hand he had begun to recognize.

She had thanked him. Naturally. She always softened her refusals with gratitude, as though she feared another person’s kindness might break if handled without care. But beneath the gentleness lay something unmistakably firm. She could not accept such a costly gift. She had gowns of her own. She did not wish him to think that becoming his wife required her to be remade into someone more suitable for his position.

“I meant it as a kindness,” Benedict explained.

Nathaniel’s amusement quieted. “Did she believe otherwise?”

“She believed I was ashamed of how she dressed.”

“And were you?”

Benedict looked up sharply. “No, I merely saw the gown and thought of her.”

The admission entered the room before he could prevent it. Rain traced silver paths down the glass. Benedict remembered the pale silk beneath his hand at the dressmaker’s, its quiet shimmer rather than brilliance. He imagined it against Sophia’s skin. He imagined her hazel eyes lifting to his when she entered the ballroom. He wanted to see her in something he chose. The desire appeared innocent until he examined it too closely.

Nathaniel lowered himself into the chair opposite. “Did you tell her that?”

Benedict shook his head. “I just sent the gown.”

“Yes. Cloth is famously articulate.” Nathaniel’s voice remained light, but the mockery had left his eyes. “She is not one of your tenants, Benedict. You cannot arrange her comfort and expect her to understand the feeling you have neglected to mention.”

“I did not attempt to arrange her.”

“You selected what she would wear.”

“I offered it.”

“You are a duke. Your offers have a distressing resemblance to instructions.”

Benedict looked toward the box. He thought of Sophia standing beneath the park trees, telling him how easily his consequence altered the space around her. He believed he understood. Evidently, he understood nothing.

“She thought I wished to change her,” he mused.

“And that troubles you.”

“Because I do not.”

Nathaniel studied him for a long moment. “No,” he said at last. “I do not believe you do.”

Benedict’s fingers tightened around the pen.

Nathaniel leaned forward, his forearms resting upon his knees. “You may yet recover from this astonishing calamity. Write that you were an arse.”

“I shall write no such thing.”

“Then write it in ducal language. Inform her that, upon sober reflection, your conduct lacked judgment, sensitivity, and whatever other virtues you usually keep cataloged in that drawer.”

Benedict almost smiled. Nathaniel noticed. He was courteous enough not to celebrate.

“Tell her the truth,” he continued. “You saw something beautiful and thought of her. You wished to give it to her. You failed to consider how the gift might make her feel.”

Benedict looked down at the unfinished letter. Such an explanation would expose more than his error. It would reveal that he noticed beauty, that he connected it with her and that he wanted, with a force he did not entirely comprehend, to be the cause of some small pleasure in her.