“Yes!” Benedict said quickly, bunching up his coverlet around his waist. She might try to take away the strategically placed plate, and then where would he be?
“Are you certain you’re all right?” she asked, looking far more suspicious than concerned.
He smiled tightly. “Just fine.”
“Very well,” she said, standing up. “What would you like me to read?”
“Oh, anything,” he said with a blithe wave of his hand.
“Poetry?”
“Splendid.” He would have said, “Splendid,” had she offered to read a dissertation on botany in the arctic tundra.
Sophie wandered over to a recessed bookshelf and idly perused its contents. “Byron?” she asked. “Blake?”
“Blake,” he said quite firmly. A hour’s worth of Byron’s romantic drivel would probably send him quite over the edge.
She slid a slim volume of poetry off the shelf and returned to her chair, swishing her rather unattractive skirts before she sat down.
Benedict frowned. He’d never really noticed before how ugly her dress was. Not as bad as the one Mrs. Crabtree had lent her, but certainly not anything designed to bring out the best in a woman.
He ought to buy her a new dress. She would never accept it, of course, but maybe if her current garments were accidentally burned . . .
“Mr. Bridgerton?”
But how could he manage to burn her dress? She’d have to not be wearing it, and that posed a certain challenge in and of itself . . .
“Are you even listening to me?” Sophie demanded.
“Hmmm?”
“You’re not listening to me.”
“Sorry,” he admitted. “My apologies. My mind got away from me. Please continue.”
She began anew, and in his attempt to show how much attention he was paying her, he focused his eyes on her lips, which proved to be a big mistake.
Because suddenly those lips were all he could see, and he couldn’t stop thinking about kissing her, and he knew—absolutely knew—that if one of them didn’t leave the room in the next thirty seconds, he was going to do something for which he’d owe her a thousand apologies.
Not that he didn’t plan to seduce her. Just that he’d rather do it with a bit more finesse.
“Oh, dear,” he blurted out.
Sophie gave him an odd look. He didn’t blame her. He sounded like a complete idiot. He didn’t think he’d uttered the phrase, “Oh, dear,” in years. If ever.
Hell, he sounded like his mother.
“Is something wrong?” Sophie asked.
“I just remembered something,” he said, rather stupidly, in his opinion.
She raised her brows in question.
“Something that I’d forgotten,” Benedict said.
“The things one remembers,” she said, looking exceedingly amused, “are most often things one had forgotten.”
He scowled at her. “I’ll need a bit of privacy.”
She stood instantly. “Of course,” she murmured.
Benedict fought off a groan. Damn. She looked hurt. He hadn’t meant to injure her feelings. He just needed to get her out of the room so that he didn’t yank her into the bed. “It’s a personal matter,” he told her, trying to make her feel better but suspecting that all he was doing was making himself look like a fool.
“Ohhhhh,” she said knowingly. “Would you like me to bring you the chamber pot?”
“I can walk to the chamber pot,” he retorted, forgetting that he didn’t need to use the chamber pot.
She nodded and stood, setting the book of poetry onto a nearby table. “I’ll leave you to your business. Just ring the bellpull when you need me.”
“I’m not going to summon you like a servant,” he growled.
“But I am a—”
“Not for me you’re not,” he said. The words emerged a little more harshly than was necessary, but he’d always detested men who preyed on helpless female servants. The thought that he might be turning into one of those repellent creatures was enough to make him gag.
“Very well,” she said, her words meek like a servant. Then she nodded like a servant—he was fairly certain she did it just to annoy him—and left.
The minute she was gone, Benedict leapt out of the bed and ran to the window. Good. No one was in sight. He shrugged off his dressing gown, replaced it with a pair of breeches and a shirt and jacket, and looked out the window again. Good. Still no one.
“Boots, boots,” he muttered, glancing around the room. Where the hell were his boots? Not his good boots—the pair for mucking around in the mud . . . ah, there they were. He grabbed the boots and yanked them on.
Back to the window. Still no one. Excellent. Benedict threw one leg over the sill, then another, then grabbed hold of the long, sturdy branch that jutted out from a nearby elm tree. From there it was an easy shimmy, wiggle, and balancing act down to the ground.
And from there it was straight to the lake. To the very cold lake.
To take a very cold swim.
“If he needed the chamber pot,” Sophie muttered to herself, “he could have just said so. It’s not as if I haven’t fetched chamber pots before.”
She stamped down the stairs to the main floor, not entirely certain why she was going downstairs (she had nothing specific to do there) but heading in that direction simply because she couldn’t think of anything better to do.
She didn’t understand why he had so much trouble treating her like what she was—a servant. He kept insisting that she didn’t work for him and didn’t have to do anything to earn her keep at My Cottage, and then in the same breath assured her that he would find her a position in his mother’s household.
If he would just treat her like a servant, she’d have no trouble remembering that she was an illegitimate nobody and he was a member of one of the ton’s wealthiest and most influential families. Every time he treated her like a real person (and it was her experience that most aristocrats did not treat servants like anything remotely approaching a real person) it brought her back to the night of the masquerade, when she’d been, for one perfect evening, a lady of glamour and grace—the sort of woman who had a right to dream about a future with Benedict Bridgerton.
He acted as if he actually liked her and enjoyed her company. And maybe he did. But that was the cruelest twist of all, because he was making her love him, making a small part of her think she had the right to dream about h
im.
And then, inevitably, she had to remind herself of the truth of the situation, and it hurt so damned much.
“Oh, there you are, Miss Sophie!”
Sophie lifted up her eyes, which had been absently following the cracks in the parquet floor, to see Mrs. Crabtree descending the stairs behind her.
“Good day, Mrs. Crabtree,” Sophie said. “How is that beef stew coming along?”
“Fine, fine,” Mrs. Crabtree said absently. “We were a bit short on carrots, but I think it will be tasty nonetheless. Have you seen Mr. Bridgerton?”
Sophie blinked in surprise at the question. “In his room. Just a minute ago.”
“Well, he’s not there now.”
“I think he had to use the chamber pot.”
Mrs. Crabtree didn’t even blush; it was the sort of conversation servants often had about their employers. “Well, if he did use it, he didn’t use it, if you know what I mean,” she said. “The room smelled as fresh as a spring day.”
Sophie frowned. “And he wasn’t there?”
“Neither hide nor hair.”
“I can’t imagine where he might have gone.”
Mrs. Crabtree planted her hands on her ample hips. “I’ll search the downstairs and you search the up. One of us is bound to find him.”
“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, Mrs. Crabtree. If he’s left his room, he probably had a good reason. Most likely, he doesn’t want to be found.”
“But he’s ill,” Mrs. Crabtree protested.
Sophie considered that, then pictured his face in her mind. His skin had held a healthy glow and he hadn’t looked the least bit tired. “I’m not so certain about that, Mrs. Crabtree,” she finally said. “I think he’s malingering on purpose.”
“Don’t be silly,” Mrs. Crabtree scoffed. “Mr. Bridgerton would never do something like that.”
Sophie shrugged. “I wouldn’t have thought so, but truly, he doesn’t look the least bit ill any longer.”
“It’s my tonics,” Mrs. Crabtree said with a confident nod. “I told you they’d speed up his recovery.”
Sophie had seen Mr. Crabtree dump the tonics in the rosebushes; she’d also seen the aftermath. It hadn’t been a pretty sight. How she managed to smile and nod, she’d never know.