Page 33 of A Duchess for his Family

Nathaniel rose and retrieved his gloves. At the door, he paused. “You are very serious about her.”

Benedict’s gaze remained upon Sophia’s note. “She is to be my wife.”

“That is not what I said.”

The door closed softly behind him. For some time, Benedict sat alone with the rain, the returned gown, and the uncomfortable knowledge that Nathaniel was right.

Then he drew a fresh sheet of paper toward him.

Miss Norton, he wrote.

He stopped, looking at the title and distance. This time, he did not cross it out.

Chapter Nine

“So… you have returned.”

Sophia stood in the morning room with the folded note in one hand and the lid of the ivory box resting against the other. The gown lay inside exactly as it had before, with its pale silk arranged in graceful folds, its surface catching the morning light with a soft, pearly gleam. The ribbon had been replaced, though not tied with the careful severity Sophia herself had employed when sending it back. It now rested in a loose bow, as if even the ribbon had been instructed not to argue with her.

The parcel arrived scarcely an hour after breakfast. Sophia stared at it for several minutes before finding the courage to open it. Now she looked from the gown to the letter, feeling bewilderment tightening between her brows. She unfolded the page once more.

“Miss Norton,” she read aloud, because hearing Benedict’s words seemed the only way to make sense of them. “I regret if my gift caused you distress. It was not my intention to suggest that anything about you required improvement.”

The handwriting was firm and orderly, each line composed with the discipline Benedict applied to nearly all things. Yet there were places where the ink deepened, as though his pen paused while he searched for words he did not ordinarily allow himself to need.

“I saw the gown and thought it would become you. That is the whole of the matter.”

Sophia stopped. The room seemed suddenly too still. He had seen it and thought of her. It was a simple sentence, entirely proper. There was no reason for it to settle beneath her ribs with such warmth.

Sophia cleared her throat and continued.

“As I understand that the difficulty lies not in the gown itself but in my having chosen it without consulting you, I have opened an account in your name with Madame Delacroix, whose establishment is considered among the finest in London.”

Sophia lowered the page.

“He has done what?”

The gown offered no explanation. She read the sentence again, more slowly, hoping the words might rearrange themselves into something less alarming. They did not.

“You may select whatever you like, in whatever style and number you consider appropriate,” she continued, now speaking with growing disbelief. “No purchase need be referred to me for approval.”

Sophia pressed her lips together. That last line was unmistakably Benedict. Even in apology, he anticipated objections, constructed defenses, and fortified every vulnerable point.

“If you truly dislike the gown, you may give it away as you please. I shall not be offended.”

She glanced at the silk.

“I do not dislike it,” she whispered.

That was the most inconvenient part. The gown was beautiful. Not loudly so, not like Frances’s bright silks or their mother’s fondness for embellishment, but with a quiet elegance Sophia could not help loving. The color reminded her of moonlight on water. Tiny embroidered leaves traced the bodice and sleeves, delicate enough to be noticed only on close inspection. It was precisely the sort of beauty she would have admired and never dared choose for herself.

At the bottom of the letter, Benedict had written only:

The gown was intended to please you, Miss Norton. Nothing more.

Benedict.

She touched his name with one finger before realizing what she did and snatching her hand away.