“I’m afraid so.”
Sophie just shook her head as she walked to the door. Conversations with Benedict Bridgerton could be exhausting.
“Oh, Sophie!” he called out.
She turned around.
He smiled slyly. “I knew you wouldn’t throw the spoon.”
What happened next was surely not Sophie’s fault. She was, she was convinced, temporarily and fleetingly possessed by a demon. Because she absolutely did not recognize the hand that shot out to the small table next to her and picked up a stump of a candle. True, the hand appeared to be connected quite firmly to her arm, but it didn’t look the least bit familiar as it drew back and hurled the stump across the room.
Straight at Benedict Bridgerton’s head.
Sophie didn’t even wait to see if her aim had been true. But as she stalked out the door, she heard Benedict explode with laughter. Then she heard him shout out, “Well done, Miss Beckett!”
And she realized that for the first time in years, her smile was one of pure, unadulterated joy.
Chapter 10
Although he responded in the affirmative (or so says Lady Covington) Benedict Bridgerton did not make an appearance at the annual Covington Ball. Complaints were heard from young women (and their mamas) across the ballroom.
According to Lady Bridgerton (his mother, not his sister-in-law), Mr. Bridgerton left for the country last week and has not been heard from since. Those who might fear for Mr. Bridgerton’s health and well-being should not fret; Lady Bridgerton sounded more annoyed than worried. Last year no less than four couples met their future spouses at the Covington Ball; the previous year, three.
Much to Lady Bridgerton’s dismay, if any matches are made at this year’s Covington Ball, her son Benedict will not be among the grooms.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 5 MAY 1817
There were advantages, Benedict soon discovered, to a long, drawn-out recovery.
The most obvious was the quantity and variety of most excellent food brought forth from Mrs. Crabtree’s kitchen. He’d always been fed well at My Cottage, but Mrs. Crabtree truly rose to the occasion when she had someone tucked away in the sickroom.
And even better, Mr. Crabtree had managed to intercept all of Mrs. Crabtree’s tonics and replace them with Benedict’s best brandy. Benedict dutifully drank every drop, but the last time he looked out the window, it appeared that three of his rosebushes had died, presumably where Mr. Crabtree had dumped the tonic.
It was a sad sacrifice, but one Benedict was more than willing to make after his last experience with Mrs. Crabtree’s tonics.
Another perk of staying abed was the simple fact that, for the first time in years, he could enjoy some quiet time. He read, sketched, and even closed his eyes and just daydreamed—all without feeling guilty for neglecting some other task or chore.
Benedict soon decided that he’d be perfectly happy leading the life of the indolent.
But the best part of his recovery, by far, was Sophie. She popped into his room several times a day, sometimes to fluff his pillows, sometimes to bring him food, sometimes just to read to him. Benedict had a feeling that her industriousness was due to her desire to feel useful, and to thank him with deeds for saving her from Phillip Cavender.
But he didn’t much care why she came to visit; he just liked it that she did.
She’d been quiet and reserved at first, obviously trying to adhere to the standard that servants should be neither seen nor heard. But Benedict had had none of that, and he’d purposefully engaged her in conversation, just so she couldn’t leave. Or he’d goad and needle her, simply to get a rise out of her, because he liked her far better when she was spitting fire than when she was meek and submissive.
But mostly he just enjoyed being in the same room with her. It didn’t seem to matter if they were talking or if she was just sitting in a chair, leafing through a book while he stared out the window. Something about her presence brought him peace.
A sharp knock at the door broke him out of his thoughts, and he looked up eagerly, calling out, “Enter!”
Sophie poked her head in, her shoulder-length curls shaking slightly as they brushed against the edge of the door. “Mrs. Crabtree thought you might like tea.”
“Tea? Or tea and biscuits?”
Sophie grinned, pushing the door open with her hip as she balanced the tray. “Oh, the latter, to be sure.”
“Excellent. And will you join me?”
She hesitated, as she always did, but then she nodded, as she also always did. She’d long since learned that there was no arguing with Benedict when he had his mind set on something.
Benedict rather liked it that way.
“The color is back in your cheeks,” she commented as she set the tray down on a nearby table. “And you don’t look nearly so tired. I should think you’ll be up and out of bed soon,”
“Oh, soon, I’m sure,” he said evasively.
“You’re looking healthier every day.”
He smiled gamely. “Do you think so?”
She lifted the teapot and paused before she poured. “Yes,” she said with an ironic smile. “I wouldn’t have said so otherwise.”
Benedict watched her hands as she prepared his tea. She moved with an innate sense of grace, and she poured the tea as if she’d been to the manner born. Clearly the art of afternoon tea had been another one of those lessons she’d learned from her mother’s generous employers. Or maybe she’d just watched other ladies closely while they’d prepared tea. Benedict had noticed that she was a very observant woman.
They’d enacted this ritual often enough that she didn’t have to ask how he liked his tea. She handed him his cup—milk, no sugar—and then placed a selection of biscuits and scones on a plate.
“Fix yourself a cup,” Benedict said, biting into a biscuit, “and come sit by me.”
She hesitated again. He knew she’d hesitate, even though she’d already agreed to join him. But he was a patient man, and his patience was rewarded with a soft sigh as she reached out and plucked another cup off the tray.
After she’d fixed her own cup—two lumps of sugar, just the barest splash of milk—she sat in the velvet-covered, straight-backed chair by his bed, regarding him over the rim of her teacup as she took a sip.
“No biscuits for you?” Benedict asked.
She shook her head. “I had a few straight out of the oven.”
“Lucky you. They’re always best when they’re warm.” He polished off another biscuit, brushed a few crumbs off of his sleeve, and reached for another. “And how have you spent your day?”
“Since I last saw you two hours earlier?”
Benedict shot her a look that said he recognized her sarcasm but chose not to respond to it.
“I helped Mrs. Crabtree in the kitchen,” Sophie said. “She’s making a beef stew for supper and needed some potatoes peeled. Then I borrowed a book from your library and read in the garden.”
“Really? What did you read?”
“A novel.”
“Was it good?”
She shrugged. “Silly, but romantic. I enjoyed it.”
“And do you long for romance?”
Her blush was instantaneous. “That’s a rather personal question, don’t you think?”
Benedict shrugged and started to say something utterly flip, like, “It was worth a try,” but as he watched her face, her cheeks turning delightfully pink, her eyes cast down to her lap, the strangest thing happened.
He realized he wanted her.
He really, really wanted her.
He wasn’t certain why this so surprised him. Of course he wanted her. He was as red-blooded as any man, and one couldn’t spend a protracted amount of time around a woman as gamine and adorable as Sophie without wanting her. Hell, he wanted half the women he met, in a purely low-intensity, non-urgent sort of way.
But in that moment, with this woman, it became urgent.
Benedict changed positions. T
hen he bunched the coverlet up over his lap. Then he changed positions again.
“Is your bed uncomfortable?” Sophie asked. “Do you need me to fluff your pillows?”
Benedict’s first urge was to reply in the affirmative, grab her as she leaned across him, and then have his wicked way with her, since they would, rather conveniently, be in bed.
But he had a sneaking suspicion that that particular plan would not go over well with Sophie, so instead he said, “I’m fine,” then winced when he realized his voice sounded oddly squeaky.
She smiled as she eyed the biscuits on his plate, saying, “Maybe just one more.”
Benedict moved his arm out of the way to allow her easy access to his plate, which was, he realized somewhat belatedly, resting on his lap. The sight of her hand reaching toward his groin—even if she was aiming for a plate of biscuits—did funny things to him, to his groin, to be precise.
Benedict had a sudden vision of things . . . shifting down there, and he hastily grabbed the plate, lest it become unbalanced.
“Do you mind if I take the last—”
“Fine!” he croaked.
She plucked a ginger biscuit off the plate and frowned. “You look better,” she said, giving the biscuit a little sniff, “but you don’t sound better. Is your throat bothering you?”
Benedict took a quick sip of his tea. “Not at all. I must’ve swallowed a piece of dust.”
“Oh. Drink some more tea, then. That shouldn’t bother you for long.” She set her teacup down. “Would you like me to read to you?”