Page 4 of A Duchess for his Family

“Do you live nearby?” Sophia asked.

Both girls turned at once and pointed beyond the meadow, past the western fields, toward a distance in which nothing particular could be seen but hedgerow, sky, and the faint suggestion of trees.

“There,” Marjorie told her.

Sophia looked. “There?”

“Yes,” Amelia replied, as if the matter were perfectly clear. Then, her gaze lowered. “Oh… your book.”

Sophia turned. Her poor novel lay open upon the grass, its pages bent beneath a fallen twig. She hurried to lift it, brushing away leaves with tender fingers.

“Is it ruined?” Amelia asked, and her concern was both immediate and sincere.

“No, not ruined. Only offended.”

Marjorie peered at the cover. “Is it exciting?”

Amelia leaned nearer with more reverence. “Is it a novel?”

“Yes.”

“I like novels,” Amelia said softly.

“I like them if something happens before chapter five,” Marjorie interjected. “A shipwreck is best, or a duel. Or a secret passage!”

“This one has none of those yet,” Sophia admitted.

Marjorie looked disappointed. “Then why read it?”

“Because sometimes,” Sophia explained, glancing at Amelia, “the most interesting events happen quietly.”

Amelia smiled. The expression transformed her whole face. It was shy, grateful, and so unexpectedly trusting that Sophia felt the same tender ache return.

The noise of the house seemed very far away now, and the oak enclosed them in a green, rustling privacy. Marjorie told her, within three minutes, that she preferred dogs to cats, hated boiled carrots, and believed most adults invented rules because they had forgotten how to enjoy themselves. After much encouragement, Amelia confessed that she had read three chapters of a history book about Rome and thought Brutus had been badly advised.

Sophia listened, questioned, and laughed softly in all the proper places. No one required her to be brilliant. No one compared her to her sisters. The girls accepted her attention as if it were a gift and returned their own with interest.

She was just beginning to think that perhaps this unexpected interruption was the nicest thing that had happened to her all day, when a shadow fell across the grass.

A man’s voice, deep, controlled, and decidedly displeased, spoke from behind them. “What is going on here?”

Chapter Two

Benedict Langley, the Duke of Rivermere, heard the severity in his own voice before he had quite intended it. It crossed the grass ahead of him, low and sharp, and struck all three figures beneath the oak into stillness.

The scene before him did nothing to lessen his alarm.

Marjorie stood with leaves in her hair, mud on her hem, and that guilty look that never failed to precede disaster. Amelia sat beside her, pale and distressed, with both hands clasped tightly in her lap. Between them sat a young lady Benedict had never seen before, her gown marked with bark and grass, and one gloved hand faintly scraped red where the leather had torn.

“Uncle Benedict,” Marjorie said at once, with admirable speed and very little wisdom. “I am perfectly well.”

He came to a stop before them. “Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“Marjorie.”

She sighed. “Only my pride, perhaps. And that not very much.”