Page 98 of A Duchess for his Family

“You are becoming rather cynical.”

“I have searched beneath three benches and one overturned flowerpot.”

“And yet you continue.”

He looked at her. The quiet attention in his eyes made her suddenly aware that they were alone.

“I gave my word,” he said.

Sophia lowered her gaze before he could see how deeply the answer pleased her.

The clue had been wedged beneath the urn’s stone base. She leaned closer and reached for the corner of the paper.

“It is caught.”

“Leave it. I shall move the urn.”

“You will crush Marjorie’s clue.”

“That may shorten the hunt considerably.”

Sophia glanced up at him. “You would not dare.”

“No,” he admitted. “She would only create another.”

She smiled and stretched farther. Her fingers closed around the paper. At that same moment, the sole of her slipper slid upon the damp grass. Sophia gasped, and the ground vanished beneath her balance, with her shoulder tipping backward. She had only enough time to think that falling before Benedict would be humiliating when his arm came around her waist.

He caught her firmly against him. The movement stopped all at once. For one breath, Sophia knew only the strength of his arm and the solid warmth of his body behind hers. Then he turned her toward him.

“Are you hurt?”

“No.” The word emerged too softly. Benedict’s hand remained at her waist. Sophia’s palm had settled against his chest. Beneath the dark cloth of his waistcoat, she could feel the quick, heavy rhythm of his heart. It was beating as rapidly as hers.

She looked up. They were standing far too close. The realization moved through her slowly and then all at once. His face was only inches from her own. Sunlight caught in his green eyes, revealing shades she had never noticed at a dinner table or across a drawing room. His breath touched her temple. His fingers pressed through the thin fabric of her gown, warm and unmistakable against the curve of her waist.

Sophia forgot the clue still crushed in her hand.

She forgot the treasure hunt. She forgot every sensible rule she had ever learned about how a duchess ought to behave alone in a garden with her husband.

Benedict stared down at her as though equally startled by what he held. His gaze dropped, not to her shoulder, nor to the grass beneath her feet, but to her lips.

Sophia’s breath caught. Something changed in his expression. The severity she knew so well loosened, revealing a hunger so quiet and unguarded that it made heat gather beneath her skin.

He leaned closer only slightly, yet the distance between them became charged with the promise of being crossed. Sophia did not move away. She could smell clean linen, leather, and the faint trace of the soap he used. His thumb shifted once at her waist, an unconscious movement that sent warmth through her entire body.

Her lips parted. Benedict’s eyes darkened.

For one suspended second, Sophia was certain he meant to kiss her.

She wanted him to.

The truth arrived without modesty or defense. She wanted to feel his mouth upon hers. She wanted to know whether all the restraint between them would survive the first touch or break entirely beneath it.

He bent his head.

“Sophia!” Marjorie’s voice rang across the garden.

They sprang apart. Benedict released her so quickly that the sudden absence of his hand felt like cold air against her skin. Sophia took one unsteady step backward and nearly slipped again. His hand shot out. She recovered before he touched her.