Page 6 of A Duchess for his Family

“They may be both.”

The answer was so calm that it irritated him more than open defiance would have. She was not bold in any obvious way. Her voice remained soft, though her cheeks were still touched with color. Yet she placed herself between his anger and the children as surely as if she’d stepped before a carriage.

“My wards have rules for a reason, Miss Norton.”

“I do not doubt it.”

“Then you will understand that rules are of little use if they may be set aside whenever an oak tree appears agreeable.”

“I should never recommend setting rules aside entirely,” she explained. “Only that a rule which forbids every risk may sometimes teach a child to take risks in secret.”

Marjorie looked suddenly delighted.

Benedict saw it and frowned. “Do not look pleased.”

“I am not,” Marjorie grinned, looking very pleased indeed.

Sophia lowered her gaze briefly, and he suspected she was hiding a smile. He found it intolerable, chiefly because he nearly wanted to smile himself.

“Miss Norton,” he inhaled before speaking, “you cannot believe I ought to encourage reckless climbing.”

“No. But perhaps she might be taught to climb safely.”

“Safety and climbing are not natural companions.”

“Neither are children and stillness, Your Grace.”

A breeze moved through the oak, carrying the smell of leaves and warm earth. Benedict became aware of Amelia watching him with anxious hope, of Marjorie watching Sophia with open admiration, and of Miss Norton herself, who seemed to grow more embarrassed the longer she stood her ground and yet did not yield an inch.

She had good arguments. Very good ones. Benedict had no intention of saying so.

“What you call stillness,” he replied, “I call preservation.”

“And what you call preservation may occasionally feel like captivity to those being preserved.”

The words struck with unexpected force. He looked at the twins. Amelia’s gaze dropped to her lap. Marjorie scuffed one shoe against the grass. Neither child spoke.

Benedict felt the last of his anger alter shape. It had not vanished. It never did so quickly. But beneath it lay the fear he refused to name. He had buried too many people. He had stood beside too many beds. The world had taught him that those who were loved could be taken without permission, without fairness, and without warning.

“I was frightened,” he said at last.

The admission cost him more than he expected. Marjorie’s expression changed at once. Amelia’s eyes lifted.

Benedict kept his own voice controlled. “When I saw that branch upon the ground, I thought…” He stopped. There were images not fit for children. “I thought you had been hurt. Both of you. And I have little patience with rules being broken when the consequence might have been grave.”

Marjorie’s grin faded completely now. “I am sorry, Uncle Benedict.”

“So am I,” Amelia said, though she had done very little wrong, as usual.

His sternness weakened. That, too, irritated him.

“You are not to wander out of sight again,” he urged. “And if there is to be climbing, it will be discussed before it is attempted, supervised, and conducted no higher than I judge reasonable.”

Marjorie opened her mouth.

“No higher,” he repeated.

She closed it, but looked as though she had already begun negotiations in her mind.