Page 5 of A Duchess for his Family

“Amelia?”

Amelia shook her head. “I am not hurt, Uncle. Truly. We were fortunate that Miss Norton saved Marjorie.”

Benedict turned then to the stranger.

Miss Norton.

She was younger than he had first thought, slender, quiet in appearance, and yet there was an unsteady dignity in the way she lifted her chin to meet him. Hazel eyes, clear and anxious, looked back at him without quite retreating.

Benedict was conscious, absurdly, of the sunlight moving through the oak leaves and trembling across her face.

“You are Miss Norton?” he inquired.

“Yes, Your Grace. Sophia Norton.”

So, this was Lord Keswick’s youngest daughter. He had heard her name in passing. He expected someone mild, perhaps timid, not a young lady with torn gloves and bark dust on her sleeve, standing before him as though she had been discovered in battle.

“You climbed the tree?” he asked.

Her color deepened. “I did.”

Benedict looked once more at the fallen branch. It lay in the grass like proof of every fear that lived in him since the day the twins became his charge. For a moment, he could not speak with civility. Then training, discipline, and years of being observed by others came to his aid. He bowed, stiffly.

“Then I am indebted to you, Miss Norton. You have my sincere thanks.”

Her expression softened a little. “It was nothing.”

“It was not nothing,” he corrected more sharply than he meant. “Marjorie might have fallen.”

“I did not fall,” Marjorie put in.

“You would have,” Benedict returned, turning on her, “had Miss Norton not been here to remedy what should never have occurred.”

Marjorie’s mouth closed.

“I gave very clear instructions,” he continued. “You were to remain near the drive. You were not to wander. You were not to climb. You were not to take Amelia with you into mischief merely because she is too loyal to abandon you to it.”

“I did ask her to come down,” Amelia whispered.

“And I nearly did,” Marjorie said.

Benedict fixed her with a look.

She considered, then amended herself. “Eventually.”

“Lady Marjorie,” Sophia said gently, though her gaze remained upon Benedict, “I believe your uncle was frightened.”

Benedict looked at her. It was not an impertinent remark. It was worse. It was accurate.

“I was not frightened,” he said, because fear, when spoken aloud before children, felt too much like surrender. “I was justly concerned by disobedience.”

Sophia’s lips pressed together, not in submission, but in thought. “Of course. Though sometimes children wish to climb trees for no more wicked reason than that the tree is there.”

Benedict stared at her. “Trees are not invitations.”

“To children, I believe they often are.”

“They are dangers.”