“I picked that one up on a hike,” Benedict said softly. “It happened to be the day my father died.”
“Oh!” Sophie dropped the rock back on the pile as if burned. “I’m so sorry.”
“It was long ago.”
“I’m still sorry.”
He smiled sadly. “As am I.” Then he coughed, so hard that he had to lean against the wall.
“You need to get warm,” Sophie said quickly. “Let me get to work on that fire.”
Benedict tossed a bundle of clothing onto the bed. “For you,” he said simply.
“Thank you,” she said, keeping her attention focused on the small furnace. It was dangerous to remain in the same room as him. She didn’t think he was likely to make an untoward advance; he was far too much of a gentleman to foist himself on a woman he barely knew. No, the danger lay squarely within herself. Frankly, she was terrified that if she spent too much time in his company she might fall head over heels in love.
And what would that get her?
Nothing but a broken heart.
Sophie huddled in front of the small iron furnace for several minutes, stoking the flame until she was confident that it would not flicker out. “There,” she announced once she was satisfied. She stood up, arching her back slightly as she stretched and turned around. “That should take care of—Oh my!”
Benedict Bridgerton looked positively green.
“Are you all right?” she asked, hurrying to his side.
“Don’ feel too well,” he slurred, leaning heavily against the bedpost. He sounded vaguely intoxicated, but Sophie had been in his company for at least two hours, and she knew that he had not been drinking.
“You need to get into bed,” she said, stumbling under his weight when he decided to lean against her instead of the bedpost.
He grinned. “You coming?”
She lurched back. “Now I know you’re feverish.”
He lifted his hand to touch his forehead, but he smacked his nose instead. “Ow!” he yelped.
Sophie winced in sympathy.
His hand crept up to his forehead. “Hmmm, maybe I am a bit hot.”
It was horribly familiar of her, but a man’s health was at stake, so Sophie reached out and touched her hand to his brow. It wasn’t burning, but it certainly wasn’t cool. “You need to get out of those wet clothes,” she said. “Immediately.”
Benedict looked down, blinking as if the sight of his sodden clothing was a surprise. “Yes,” he murmured thoughtfully. “Yes, I believe I do.” His fingers went to the buttons on his shirt, but they were clammy and numb and kept slipping and sliding. Finally, he just shrugged at her and said helplessly, “I can’t do it.”
“Oh, dear. Here, I’ll . . .” Sophie reached out to undo his buttons, jerked her hands back nervously, then finally gritted her teeth and reached out again. She made quick work of the buttons, doing her best to keep her gaze averted as each undone button revealed another two inches of his skin. “Almost done,” she muttered. “Just a moment now.”
He didn’t say anything in reply, so she looked up. His eyes were closed, and his entire body was swaying slightly. If he weren’t standing up, she’d have sworn that he was asleep.
“Mr. Bridgerton?” she asked softly. “Mr. Bridgerton!”
Benedict’s head jerked up violently. “What? What?”
“You fell asleep.”
He blinked confusedly. “Is there a reason that’s bad?”
“You can’t fall asleep in your clothing.”
He looked down. “How’d my shirt get undone?”
Sophie ignored the question, instead nudging him until his behind was leaning against the mattress. “Sit,” she ordered.
She must have sounded suitably bossy, because he did.
“Have you something dry we can change you into?” she asked.
He shrugged the shirt off, letting it land on the floor in a messy heap. “Never sleep with clothes.”
Sophie felt her stomach lurch. “Well, tonight I think you should, and—What are you doing?”
He looked over at her as if she’d asked the most inane question in the world. “Taking my breeches off.”
“Couldn’t you at least wait until I’d turned my back?”
He stared at her blankly.
She stared back.
He stared some more. Finally, he said, “Well?”
“Well what?”
“Aren’t you going to turn your back?”
“Oh!” she yelped, spinning around as if someone had lit a fire under her feet.
Benedict shook his head wearily as he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his stockings. God save him from prudish misses. She was a housemaid, for God’s sake. Even if she was a virgin—and given her behavior, he rather suspected she was—she’d surely seen a male form before. Housemaids were always slipping in and out of rooms without knocking, carrying towels and sheets and what have you. It was inconceivable she’d never accidentally barged in on a naked man.
He stripped off his breeches—not an easy task considering they were still more than a little damp and he had quite literally to peel them from his skin. When he was well and truly naked, he quirked a brow in the direction of Sophie’s back. She was standing rigidly, her hands fisted tightly at her sides.
With surprise, he realized the sight of her made him smile.
He was starting to feel a bit sluggish, and it took him two tries before he was able to lift his leg high enough to climb into bed. With considerable effort he leaned forward and grabbed the edge of his coverlet, dragging it over his body. Then, completely worn-out, he sagged back against the pillows and groaned.
“Are you all right?” Sophie called.
He made an effort to say, “Fine,” but it came out more like, “Fmmph.”
He heard her moving about, and when he summoned up the energy to lift one eyelid halfway open, he saw that she’d moved to the side of the bed. She looked concerned.
For some reason that seemed rather sweet. It had been quite a long time since any woman who wasn’t related to him had been
concerned for his welfare.
“I’m fine,” he mumbled, trying to give her a reassuring smile. But his voice sounded like it was coming through a long, narrow tunnel. He reached up and tugged at his ear. His mouth felt like he was talking properly; the problem must be with his ears.
“Mr. Bridgerton? Mr. Bridgerton?”
He pried an eyelid open again. “Go da bed,” he grunted. “Get dry.”
“Are you certain?”
He nodded. It was getting too difficult to speak.
“Very well. But I’m going to leave your door open. If you need me in the night, just call out.”
He nodded again. Or at least he tried to. Then he slept.
It took Sophie barely a quarter of an hour to get ready for bed. A surfeit of nervous energy kept her going as she changed into dry clothing and readied the furnace in her room, but once her head hit her pillow, she felt herself succumbing to an exhaustion so total it seemed to come from her very bones.
It had been a long day, she thought groggily. A really long day, between attending to her morning chores, dashing around the house to escape Cavender and his friends . . . Her eyelids drifted shut. It had been an extraordinarily long day, and . . .
Sophie sat up suddenly, her heart pounding. The fire in the furnace had burned low, so she must have fallen asleep. She’d been dead tired, though, so something must have woken her. Was it Mr. Bridgerton? Had he called out? He’d not looked well when she’d left him, but neither had he seemed at death’s door.
Sophie hopped out of bed, grabbed a candle, then dashed toward the door of her room, grabbing hold of the waistband of the too-big breeches Benedict had lent her when they started to slip down her hips. When she reached the hall she heard the sound that must have woken her up.
It was a deep groan, followed by a thrashing noise, followed by what could only be called a whimper.
Sophie dashed into Benedict’s room, stopping briefly at the furnace to light her candle. He was lying in his bed, almost preternaturally still. Sophie edged toward him, her eyes focusing on his chest. She knew he couldn’t possibly be dead, but she’d feel an awful lot better once she saw his chest rise and fall.