Page 8 of A Duchess for his Family

“Yes, Father.” She hesitated to continue, but curiosity overpowered her. “There was a gentleman there, with two little girls. I saw them only for a moment.”

It was extraordinary how warm one’s cheeks could become from a sentence composed almost entirely of truth.

“A gentleman?” her mother echoed.

“Yes. Tall. Dark-haired.” Sophia busied herself smoothing a crease from her skirt. “Rather stern-looking.”

Frances laughed. “That describes half the men of consequence in England, and all of them when presented with a bill.”

Her father’s brows rose. “Then that must have been Benedict Langley, the Duke of Rivermere. His estate borders ours beyond the western fields. A very respected man. Rather grave, I believe, but dependable. He is guardian to his late brother’s daughters.”

For a moment, the hall seemed to tilt.

The Duke of Rivermere.

She’d argued with a duke. Worse, she’d argued with him while muddy, disheveled, flushed, and in possession of a book that had been treated with less care than most stable buckets.

“Sophia?” Emma asked. “What is the matter?”

“I am quite well.”

Frances narrowed her eyes with immediate sisterly interest. “You have gone pink.”

“It is warm indoors.”

“It is not.”

“It feels warm to me.”

Her mother gave her a distracted look. “If you encountered His Grace, I hope you made a respectable impression.”

Sophia thought of her torn glove and her voice, soft but stubborn, disagreeing with his rules.

“We only spoke briefly,” she said, and felt her conscience pinch.

“Rivermere is not a man one wishes to offend,” her father remarked, though without severity. “He is said to be proper in all things.”

Sophia’s horror deepened. Proper men, she felt certain, did not appreciate being contradicted by young ladies who climbed trees.

“I shall go change my dress,” she said quickly.

“That would be wise,” her mother replied. “And do ask Jenny to brush your hair thoroughly. It looks wind-tossed.”

Sophia escaped before Frances could ask why a simple walk in the gardens left her looking as if she had been pursued by the weather.

Chapter Three

“Now, Miss Norton, you must understand that a turnip is a much-abused vegetable.”

Sophia looked up at her dance partner with the startled attention of a young lady who had expected, at worst, a remark upon the weather.

“Is it?” she asked.

“Most assuredly,” Mr. Wilcox replied.

He was a kindly widower of nearly sixty, and he guided her through the next figure with great solemnity and very little rhythm.

“People speak of roses, peaches, pineapples and all manner of showy produce, but the turnip, Miss Norton, is the true test of a country estate.”