Page 99 of A Duchess for his Family

“I am quite steady,” she said, though she was nothing of the kind.

“Clearly.” His voice sounded rougher than usual.

From beyond the hedge, Marjorie called again. “Have you found the clue?”

Sophia looked down at the crumpled paper in her hand. “Yes!”

“Then bring it!”

“We are coming,” Benedict answered. His voice had regained its authority, but he did not look toward the hedge. He looked at Sophia. She could not read the expression in his eyes now. There was regret, perhaps, or longing restrained so fiercely that it had become indistinguishable from pain.

Sophia smoothed the clue with trembling fingers. “We should go.”

“Yes.”

Neither moved at first. Then Benedict stepped aside and gestured toward the path. Sophia passed him carefully. As she did, the back of her hand brushed his. The contact lasted no more than an instant.

It followed her all the way across the garden.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Mr. Edmund Fairford arrived at Rivermere Hall shortly after three o’clock.

He owned Belgrave, a respectable estate lying several miles beyond Rivermere’s northern boundary, and had inherited it from an elderly uncle some six years earlier. The property was not large enough to rival Rivermere, though it was prosperous, well-managed, and known for an old orangery that had once been admired throughout the county.

Fairford himself was thirty-one, unmarried, and generally considered sensible. He served as a magistrate, attended parish meetings with admirable regularity, and, as far as Benedict knew, had never caused a scandal more serious than keeping two hunters, which certain neighbors believed were too expensive for his income.

Benedict knew him well enough to exchange bows at assemblies, discuss drainage after heavy rain, and agree that the county roads were poorly maintained. They also served together on several committees and once spent nearly an hour debating bridge repairs without learning anything personal about one another. Benedict had never considered this a deficiency.

Fairford was shown into the smaller drawing room, where Sophia sat by the open windows, her embroidery neglected on her lap. The afternoon was warm, and the breeze carried the scent of roses from the terrace, stirring the pale curtains behind her. She looked up as the gentlemen entered.

Benedict had seen her every day for more than a month. He had seen her at breakfast with her hair imperfectly arranged, in the garden with soil on her gloves, and beside the nursery fire with a book open across her knees. Still, there were moments when the sight of her seemed to arrive unexpectedly.

This was one of them.

“Fairford,” Benedict greeted him.

“Your Grace.” Fairford bowed before turning toward Sophia. “Your Grace.”

Sophia smiled. “Mr. Fairford. I believe we met briefly at Lady Briarwood’s assembly.”

“We did.” Fairford’s expression brightened. “You were wearing pearl silk. It would have been difficult to forget.”

Benedict looked at him. The remark was perfectly proper. It was, in fact, almost dull in its propriety. A gentleman might remember a duchess’ gown without attaching any improper significance to the memory.

Sophia smiled politely. “You possess a better memory than I do.”

“Only for agreeable things.”

Benedict looked at him again. Fairford seemed entirely unaware that anything objectionable had been said, chiefly because nothing objectionable had been said.

That did not improve the matter.

Tea was ordered. Fairford accepted the chair opposite Sophia, while Benedict sat beside the hearth with a clear view of both of them. The arrangement was natural. It was also irritating.

Fairford began with the county roads, which were damp and poorly drained, making them safe territory. Benedict offered two observations upon the northern route and explained that the bridge near Millford required new stonework. For several minutes, the visit proceeded precisely as such visits ought. Then Fairford discovered that Sophia had once visited Belgrave’s gardens as a child.

“You cannot remember them favorably,” he said. “My uncle had an unfortunate affection for clipped peacocks.”