Page 53 of A Duchess for his Family

Her father’s voice came softly through the door. “Sophia?”

The room went still. It was time.

The carriage ride passed too quickly, and the church appeared before Sophia had gathered even half the courage she intended to have. Bells rang above them, full and bright, scattering their sound across the countryside.

Outside, the air was cool, carrying the scent of damp grass and early roses. Inside, beeswax candles burned beneath the old stone arches. White flowers filled the windows and pew ends, their fragrance sweet enough to make Sophia’s head swim.

Her father offered his arm.

“You look lovely,” he said in a voice that sounded rougher than usual.

“Thank you, Father,” she offered a smile in return.

Then, the church doors opened. Sophia heard the rustle first. It was silk, whispers, and bodies turning. Every face seemed to look toward her at once. For one dreadful moment, the aisle appeared impossibly long. The flowers seemed too bright, the candles too numerous, the people too near. She felt each expectation fastening itself upon her.

Future Duchess of Rivermere.

Wife.

Guardian.

Mistress of a household larger than any she had ever managed.

Mother, perhaps, one day.

Every title waited beyond the threshold, and Sophia did not know whether she was large enough to carry any of them.

Then, she saw Benedict. He was standing before the altar in black and silver, tall, grave, and composed. His shoulders were square. His expression revealed nothing that the assembled guests could readily interpret.

He looked exactly as he always did, steady and certain. But when his eyes found hers, something changed. His gaze held her without hesitation. The severity left it first, then the distance. Beneath both, Sophia saw a warmth he rarely permitted the world to witness.

He did not look away. Neither did she.

The church receded. The whispers no longer mattered. The faces softened into indistinct shapes. Even the titles awaiting her no longer felt like burdens she had to lift alone. Benedict was there, and something inside her settled.

Her father guided her down the aisle, but Sophia’s attention remained fixed upon the man waiting at its end. Amelia and Marjorie sat in the front pew, both dressed in pale blue. Amelia watched with shining, solemn eyes. Marjorie smiled so broadly that propriety had plainly been abandoned. Nathaniel stood beside Benedict, and his expression was unusually gentle.

Yet Sophia saw only Benedict. As she drew nearer, she noticed that his calm was not perfect. His right hand tightened once at his side. His breathing shifted. His gaze briefly swept over her veil, her gown, the flowers in her hands, then returned to her face as though it had found the only place it wished to remain.

Her father placed her hand in his. Benedict’s fingers closed around hers. Warmth spread through her glove and traveled up her arm.

She took her place beside him. For a moment, neither the clergyman nor the congregation seemed to exist.

Benedict inclined his head toward her. “You look remarkably beautiful,” he whispered.

Heat rose into Sophia’s cheeks. “Remarkably?”

“I dislike exaggeration,” he replied, his thumb moving once against her fingers. “But in this instance, anything less would be inaccurate.”

Sophia’s nervousness did not disappear entirely. It became something else, something bright, trembling, and almost too tender to bear.

She tightened her hand around his. And when the clergyman began, Sophia was standing beside Benedict without looking away.

The ceremony passed in a blur.

Benedict had stood before tenants, magistrates, peers, and men whose fortunes depended on his decisions, never losing command of his thoughts. He had received news of death without faltering, settled disputes while tempers raged around him, and carried two grieving children through the worst days of their lives, certain only that he had to remain steady because no one else could afford to be. Yet the simple act of standing beside Sophia before an altar seemed to deprive him of every reliable faculty he possessed.

Morning light passed through colored glass and rested in quiet patches upon the floor. Somewhere behind him, a guest shifted in a pew. Silk rustled. The clergyman’s voice rose and fell with grave familiarity. Benedict heard scarcely half of what was said.