Page 56 of A Duchess for his Family

“He says many things are unsafe.”

“Because many things are unsafe.”

Marjorie looked at Sophia. “You see what I endure.”

Sophia hid a smile behind her cup. “I have heard a similar complaint before.”

The girls had apparently devised an entire program for her morning. She was to be shown every important room and introduced to every person whose duties brought them into the house. They spoke of it with such excitement that Sophia could not disappoint them by confessing she would have preferred to begin with no more ambitious undertaking than finding the library without assistance.

Breakfast ended with Marjorie declaring that the kitchen must come first because Cook had promised seed cake. The corridors seemed even longer with the girls leading her through them at speed. Servants stopped and curtsied as they passed.

Each greeting made Sophia feel as though she wore a title several sizes too large. She smiled, thanked them, and tried desperately to remember every name Amelia whispered after they had gone by.

“You remember Mrs. Bell, the housekeeper.”

“Yes.”

“And Mr. Peters.”

“Yes.”

“And Lucy.”

“Lucy?” Sophia repeated.

“No, that was Anna,” Marjorie corrected. “Lucy has blonde hair.”

Sophia sighed. “I shall offend the entire household before luncheon.”

“You will not,” Amelia assured her. “They already like you.”

“How can they? They scarcely know me.”

Marjorie looked astonished. “We told them.”

That explanation did very little to soothe her.

The warmth reached them before the kitchen itself did. So did the scents of fresh bread, roasting meat, yeast, herbs, and something sweet with cinnamon. The passage opened into a large, busy room where copper pans gleamed on the walls and flames crackled beneath the ranges. Maids moved between tables. A kitchen boy carried a basket of vegetables. The cook stood near the central worktable, issuing instructions with the authority of a field marshal.

The instant Sophia entered, everything stopped. A spoon remained suspended above a bowl. A maid halted with a cloth in her hands. The kitchen boy nearly walked into the wall before catching himself.

The cook turned. “Your Grace.”

She curtsied. Everyone else followed, while Sophia stood before them in sudden, awful silence. She felt a little like a general inspecting troops, except that generals presumably knew what they expected of the troops.

“Good morning,” she greeted them.

Several people murmured the greeting in return.

The cook straightened. “We are honored to welcome you to Rivermere, Your Grace.”

“That is very kind.”

Another silence followed. Sophia became painfully aware that everyone was waiting for her to say something of consequence. She looked at the flour upon the table, the half-rolled pastry, and the row of small pies cooling near the window.

“It smells wonderful,” she offered.

The cook’s grave expression softened by a degree. “Thank you, Your Grace.”