Page 76 of A Duchess for his Family

Marjorie opened her mouth again, but Amelia caught her hand. That more than Benedict’s command silenced her. Amelia always knew when an argument ceased to be a place for children.

“We are sorry,” she whispered.

“You have done nothing wrong,” Sophia said at once.

Benedict’s jaw tightened. Amelia glanced at him and then drew Marjorie toward the groom. Marjorie went reluctantly, looking back twice before the tall grass concealed them. The meadow seemed unnaturally quiet once they had gone.

Benedict waited until the groom and the twins were out of earshot. Then he turned to Sophia.

“What were you thinking?” The question was spoken with such contained fury that she felt it like a physical blow.

Sophia folded her hands before her, chiefly to prevent herself from clenching them. “I was thinking the girls might enjoy a picnic.”

“Beside a pond?”

“It is just a small pond.”

“It is water.”

“Yes, Benedict. I observed that.”

His eyes flashed. “Do not make light of this.”

“I am not.”

“You brought two children here without a nurse, a maid, or anyone capable of assisting you if something occurred.”

“I brought them to a place I examined before I allowed them near the water,” Sophia replied. “The bank is shallow, there is no current and I remained close enough to reach either girl within seconds. I did not simply turn them loose and hope for the best.”

“Marjorie was standing in the water.”

“She was standing upon a stone because she wanted to see the tadpoles,” Sophia explained. “I thought it better to teach her where she might safely put her feet than to pretend she will never approach water unless we are watching.”

He frowned. “The judgment was not yours to make.”

“They may also fall from horses, tumble down stairs, choke at dinner, or be struck by a branch in the garden. Shall we forbid them every room and field in England?”

His face hardened. “You think this amusing.”

“I think your fear has made you unreasonable.”

“My fear keeps them alive.”

“No,” Sophia retorted, her voice rising despite every habit that urged her toward quiet. “Your love keeps them alive. Your fear prevents them from living.”

Benedict went very still. Sophia’s pulse hammered, but she could not call them back. She had watched the girls for weeks. She had seen Marjorie pause at every gate and glance toward the house before daring to cross it. She had seen Amelia refuse invitations before they were fully offered, as though wanting anything might burden those who cared for her.

“They are children,” Sophia continued. “They ought to play near ponds and stain their gloves and return home with foolish stories. They ought to have adventures.”

“They have already lost both their parents,” he reminded her. The roughness beneath his anger caught at her, but he did not soften.

“That is precisely why they should be allowed happiness,” she replied. “Their childhood has already been made smaller by grief. You need not make it smaller still.”

“And you need not endanger them merely to prove yourself more indulgent than I am.”

Sophia stared at him. “Indulgent?”

“Careless, then.”