Page 52 of A Duchess for his Family

Sophia stared at her sister through the looking glass. “I do not wish to appear delicate.”

“Then look severe.”

“I do not know how.”

“Think of Benedict explaining dancing.”

Despite herself, Sophia gave a breath of laughter.

“There,” Frances said triumphantly. “Much better.”

The bedchamber smelled of orange blossom, warm wax, and the faint lavender water Jenny had pressed onto Sophia’s wrists. Morning light entered through the curtains in pale, quiet bands, touching the ivory satin of her gown and making the embroidered leaves along the hem shimmer whenever she moved.

The dress was not the same one Benedict had sent her, though Madame Delacroix had designed it with the same quiet elegance. Nothing about it was excessive. There were no heavy jewels, no grand abundance of lace, no decorations intended to transform Sophia into a different woman. She had chosen it herself. Benedict had paid for it without comment. That, somehow, made it feel more intimate.

Emma adjusted the small pearls threaded through Sophia’s hair, her movements gentle and assured. “Everything will be well.”

“How can you know?”

“Because I was frightened, too.”

Sophia looked at her sister’s reflection. “You never appeared frightened.”

Emma smiled. “That does not mean I wasn’t.”

Frances moved to Sophia’s other side. “I was not frightened.”

“You argued with Andrew ten minutes before the ceremony,” Emma reminded her.

“He deserved it.”

“He told you that you looked beautiful.”

“He said I looked pretty. It was entirely inadequate for the occasion.”

Sophia’s lips trembled again. But still, the prospect of walking into a church filled with half the county did not seem any less alarming.

“What if I stumble?” she asked.

“Benedict will catch you,” Emma replied.

“What if I forget my vows?”

“The clergyman will prompt you.”

“What if I faint?”

Frances considered. “That would make the ceremony memorable.”

“Frances.”

“I am only saying there are worse things than being memorable.”

Sophia looked once more into the looking glass. The woman reflected there appeared calm. Her brown hair was arranged beneath a fine veil. Her cheeks held more color than usual, and her hazel eyes looked unusually bright. She scarcely resembled the young woman who once hid beside ballroom walls with a book in her reticule.

Yet beneath the satin and pearls, she remained entirely herself: quiet, uncertain, hopeful… terrified.

At that moment, a knock sounded.