Page 40 of A Duchess for his Family

“You noticed,” she said softly.

His brows drew together. “Of course I noticed.”

The answer struck her with unexpected force. Sophia looked away, afraid that he might see too much in her face.

All her life, people loved her. She had never doubted that. But love and notice were not always the same thing. Too often, she had made herself smaller so others might remain comfortable. Too often, silence had been mistaken for contentment. Benedict had seen her discomfort across a crowded ballroom. He crossed the room for her.

The dance separated them, then brought them back together. When his hand met hers again, Sophia felt the warmth of it even through her glove.

“You cannot silence every person who doubts me,” she whispered.

“No,” he replied. “But I can ensure they do not mistake my silence for agreement.”

Her heart gave a painful, tender beat. Around them, the ballroom remained bright and watchful. People still stared. Whispers would linger long after the music ended. Yet for the first time that evening, Sophia no longer felt as if she stood alone beneath their judgment.

Benedict looked down at her, and Sophia understood, with a wonder that frightened her, that the protection he gave was not merely possession, nor duty, nor the consequence of an arrangement.

He had seen her hurt and it mattered to him.

Chapter Eleven

Sophia slipped through the open doors to the terrace so quietly that Benedict might not have noticed, had he not been watching her far more closely than discretion permitted.

One moment, she was standing near her mother beneath the chandeliers, pale silk glowing softly about her, and the next, she disappeared beyond the curtains into the darkness. Benedict waited only long enough to avoid appearing as though he’d followed her immediately.

Then, he followed her immediately.

The night air met him with welcome coolness. Behind him, music and conversation spilled faintly through the open doors, softened by distance into an indistinct murmur. The terrace stones shone silver beneath the moon, and the gardens beyond were reduced to dark hedges, pale gravel paths, and the occasional white gleam of a rose.

He found Sophia near the balustrade, with one hand resting upon the stone. Her face was turned toward the gardens, her eyes closed as she drew a slow breath. The ribbons at her sleeves stirred gently in the breeze.

Benedict stopped several paces behind her. He had already told her she looked beautiful. The truth had been far more dangerous than that. She looked luminous.

The gown seemed made of moonlight now, its embroidery catching every faint gleam. Yet it was not the silk that held him. It was the loosened line of her shoulders, and the quiet relief upon her face when she believed herself unobserved.

“You escaped.”

Sophia opened her eyes and turned. “For only a moment.”

“I did not accuse you of desertion.”

“Your tone suggested an inquiry.”

“My tone often suggests things I have not intended.”

“That must be inconvenient for everyone around you.”

Benedict came to stand beside her. “I am told they have adapted.”

Her lips curved. For a moment, neither spoke. The sounds of the ballroom continued behind them, bright and distant, while the night seemed to gather more closely around the terrace.

Benedict rested one hand upon the balustrade.

“The girls have begun calling Rivermere home,” he said, without being provoked.

Sophia looked at him. “Was it not always their home?”

“Not to them.” He watched the dark line of the garden rather than her face. “Until recently, Marjorie called it my house. Amelia called it Rivermere Hall, as though she were a guest being careful with the furniture.”