Benedict had barely taken two steps toward the sitting room when his sister Eloise came dashing down the hall. Like all the Bridgertons, she had thick, chestnut hair and a wide smile. Unlike Benedict, however, her eyes were a clear, deep green—the exact shade possessed by their brother Colin.

The exact shade, it occurred to him, of Sophie’s.

“Benedict!” she called out, throwing her arms rather exuberantly around him. “Where have you been? Mother has been grumbling all week, wondering where you’d gone off to.”

“Funny, when I spoke to Mother, not two minutes ago, her grumbles were about you, wondering when you were finally planning to marry.”

Eloise pulled a face. “When I meet someone worth marrying, that’s when. I do wish someone new would move to town. I feel as though I meet the same hundred or so people over and over again.”

“You do meet the same hundred or so people over and over again.”

“Exactly my point,” she said. “There are no secrets left in London. I already know everything about everyone.”

“Really?” Benedict asked, with no small measure of sarcasm.

“Mock me all you want,” she said, jabbing her finger toward him in a manner he was sure his mother would deem unladylike, “but I am not exaggerating.”

“Not even a little bit?” he grinned.

She scowled at him. “Where were you this past week?”

He walked into the sitting room and plopped down on a sofa. He probably should have waited for her to sit, but she was just his sister, after all, and he’d never felt the need to stand on ceremony when they were alone. “Went to the Cavender party,” he said, propping his feet up on a low table. “It was abominable.”

“Mother will kill you if she catches you with your feet up,” Eloise said, sitting down in a chair that was kitty-corner to him. “And why was the party so dreadful?”

“The company.” He looked at his feet and decided to leave them where they were. “A more boring bunch of lazy louts, I’ve never met.”

“As long as you don’t mince words.”

Benedict raised a brow at her sarcasm. “You are hereby forbidden from marrying anyone who was in attendance.”

“An order I shall probably have no difficulty obeying.” She tapped her hands against the arms of her chair. Benedict had to smile; Eloise had always been a bundle of nervous energy.

“But,” she said, looking up with narrowed eyes, “that doesn’t explain where you were all week.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you are exceedingly nosy?”

“Oh, all the time. Where were you?”

“And persistent, too.”

“It’s the only way to be. Where were you?”

“Have I mentioned I’m considering investing in a company that manufactures human-sized muzzles?”

She threw a pillow at him. “Where were you?”

“As it happens,” he said, gently tossing the pillow back in her direction, “the answer isn’t the least bit interesting. I was at My Cottage, recuperating from a nasty cold.”

“I thought you’d already recuperated.”

He regarded her with an expression that was an unlikely cross between amazement and distaste. “How do you know that?”

“I know everything. You should know that by now.” She grinned. “Colds can be so nasty. Did you have a setback?”

He nodded. “After driving in the rain.”

“Well, that wasn’t very smart of you.”

“Is there any reason,” he asked, glancing about the room as if he were directing his question at someone other than Eloise, “why I am allowing myself to be insulted by my ninnyhammer of a younger sister?”

“Probably because I do it so well.” She kicked at his foot, trying to knock it off the table. “Mother will be here at any second, I’m sure.”

“No, she won’t,” he returned. “She’s busy.”

“Doing what?”

He waved his hand toward the ceiling. “Orienting the new maid.”

She sat up straight. “We have a new maid? Nobody told me about it.”

“Heavens,” he drawled, “something has happened and Eloise doesn’t know about it.”

She leaned back in her chair, then kicked his foot again. “Housemaid? Lady’s maid? Scullery?”

“Why do you care?”

“It’s always good to know what’s what.”

“Lady’s maid, I believe.”

Eloise took all of one half second to digest that. “And how do you know?”

Benedict figured he might as well tell her the truth. The Lord knew, she’d know the whole story by sundown, even if he didn’t. “Because I brought her here.”

“The maid?”

“No, Mother. Of course the maid.”

“Since when do you trouble yourself with the hiring of servants?”

“Since this particular young lady nearly saved my life by nursing me while I was ill.”

Eloise’s mouth fell open. “You were that ill?”

Might as well let her believe he’d been at death’s door. A little pity and concern might work to his advantage next time he needed to wheedle her into something. “I have felt better,” he said mildly. “Where are you going?”

She’d already risen to her feet. “To go find Mother and meet the new maid. She’s probably going to wait on Francesca and me, now that Marie is gone.”

“You lost your maid?”

Eloise scowled. “She left us for that odious Lady Penwood.”

Benedict had to grin at her description. He remembered his one meeting with Lady Penwood quite well; he, too, had found her odious.

“Lady Penwood is notorious for mistreating her servants. She’s gone through three lady’s maids this year. Stole Mrs. Featherington’s right out from under her nose, but the poor girl only lasted a fortnight.”

Benedict listened patiently to his sister’s tirade, amazed that he was even interested. And yet for some strange reason, he was.

“Marie will come crawling back in a week, asking us to take her back on, you mark my words,” Eloise said.

“I always mark your words,” he replied, “I just don’t always care.”

“You,” Eloise returned, pointing her finger at him, “are going to regret that you said that.”

He shook his head, smiling faintly. “Doubtful.”

“Hmmph. I’m going upstairs.”

“Do enjoy yourself.”

She poked her tongue out at him—surely not appropriate behavior for a woman of twenty-one—and left the room. Benedict managed to enjoy just three minutes of solitude before footsteps once again sounded in the hall, tapping rhythmically in his direction. When he looked up, he saw his mother in the doorway.

He stood immediately. Certain manners could be ignored for one’s sister, but never for one’s mother.

“I saw your feet on the table,” Violet said before he could even open his mouth.

“I was merely polishing the surface with my boots.”

She raised her brows, then made her way to the chair so recently vacated by Eloise and sat down. “All right, Benedict,” she said in an extremely no-nonsense voice. “Who is she?”

“Miss Beckett, you mean?”

Violet gave him one businesslike nod.

“I have no idea, save that she worked for the Cavenders and was apparently mistreated by their son.”

Violet blanched. “Did he…Oh dear. Was she…”

“I don’t think so,” Benedict said grimly. “In fact, I’m certain she wasn’t. But not for lack of trying on his part.”

“The poor thing. How lucky for her that you were there to save her.”

Benedict found he didn’t like to relive that night on the Cavenders’ lawn. Even though the escapade had ended quite favorably, he could not seem to stop himself from racing through the gamut of “what-ifs.” What if he hadn’t come along in time? What if Cavender and his friends had been a little less drunk and a little more obstinate? Sophie could have been raped. Sophie would have been raped.

And now that he knew Sophie, had grown to care about her, the very notion chilled him to the bone.

“Well,” Violet said, “she is not who she says she is. Of that I’m certain.”

Benedict sat up straight. “Why do you say that?”

“She is far too educated to be a housemaid. Her mother’s employers may have allowed her to share in some of their daughters’ lessons, but all of them? I doubt it. Benedict, the girl speaks French!”

“She does?”

“Well, I can’t be positive,” Violet admitted, “but I caught her looking at a book on Francesca’s desk that was written in French.”

“Looking is not the same as reading, Mother.”

She shot him a peevish look. “I’m telling you, I was looking at the way her eyes were moving. She was reading it.”

“If you say so, you must be correct.”

Violet’s eyes narrowed. “Are you being sarcastic?”

“Normally,” Benedict said with a smile, “I would say yes, but in this case, I was speaking quite seriously.”

“Perhaps she is the cast-off daughter of an aristocratic family,” Violet mused.

“Cast-off?”

“For getting herself with child,” she explained.

Benedict was not used to his mother speaking quite so frankly. “Er, no,” he said, thinking about Sophie’s steadfast refusal to become his mistress. “I don’t think so.”

But then he thought—why not? Maybe she refused to bring an illegitimate child into this world because she had already had an illegitimate child and didn’t want to repeat the mistake.

Benedict’s mouth suddenly tasted quite sour. If Sophie had had a child, then Sophie had had a lover.

“Or maybe,” Violet continued, warming to the endeavor, “she’s the illegitimate child of a nobleman.”

That was considerably more plausible—and more palatable. “One would think he’d have settled enough funds on her so that she didn’t have to work as a housemaid.”

“A great many men completely ignore their by-blows,” Violet said, her face wrinkling with distaste. “It’s nothing short of scandalous.”

“More scandalous than their having the by-blows in the first place?”

Violet’s expression turned quite peevish.

“Besides,” Benedict said, leaning back against the sofa and propping one ankle on the other knee, “if she were the bastard of a nobleman, and he’d cared for her enough to make sure she had schooling as a child, then why is she completely penniless now?”

“Hmmm, that’s a good point.” Violet tapped her index finger against her cheek, pursed her lips, then continued tapping. “But have no fear,” she finally said, “I shall discover her identity within a month.”

“I’d recommend asking Eloise for help,” Benedict said dryly.

Violet nodded thoughtfully. “Good idea. That girl could get Napoleon to spill his secrets.”

Benedict stood. “I must be going. I’m weary from the road and would like to get home.”

“You can always avail yourself here.”

He gave her a half smile. His mother liked nothing better than to have her children close at hand. “I need to get back to my own lodgings,” he said, leaning down and dropping a kiss on her cheek. “Thank you for finding a position for Sophie.”

“Miss Beckett, you mean?” Violet asked, her lips curving slyly.

“Sophie, Miss Beckett,” Benedict said, feigning indifference. “Whatever you wish to call her.”

When he left, he did not see his mother smiling broadly at his back.

Sophie knew that she should not allow herself to grow too comfortable at Bridgerton House—she would, after all, be leaving just as soon as she could make the arrangements—but as she looked around her room, surely the nicest any servant had ever been assigned, and she thought about Lady Bridgerton’s friendly manner and easy smile…

She just couldn’t help wishing that she could stay forever.

But that was impossible. She knew that as well as she knew that her name was Sophia Maria Beckett, not Sophia Maria Gunningworth.

First and foremost, there was always the danger that she’d come into contact with Araminta, especially now that Lady Bridgerton had elevated her from housemaid to lady’s maid. A lady’s maid might, for example, find herself acting as a chaperone or escort on outings outside the house. Outings to places where Araminta and the girls might choose to frequent.

And Sophie had no doubt that Araminta would find a way to make her life a living hell. Araminta hated her in a way that defied reason, went beyond emotion. If she saw Sophie in London, she would not be content simply to ignore her. Sophie had no doubt that Araminta would lie, cheat, and steal just to make Sophie’s life more difficult.

She hated Sophie that much.

But if Sophie were to be honest with herself, the true reason she could not remain in London was not Araminta. It was Benedict.

How could she avoid him when she lived in his mother’s household? She was furious with him right now—beyond furious, in all truth—but she knew, deep down, that anger could only be short-lived. How could she resist him, day in and day out, when the mere sight of him made her weak with longing? Someday soon he’d smile at her, one of those sideways, crooked sorts of smiles, and she’d find herself clutching on to the furniture, just to keep herself from melting into a pathetic pool on the floor.

She’d fallen in love with the wrong man. She could never have him on her terms, and she refused to go to him on his.

It was hopeless.

Sophie was saved from any further depressing thoughts by a brisk knock on her door. When she called out, “Yes?” the door opened, and Lady Bridgerton entered the room.

Sophie immediately jumped to her feet and bobbed a curtsy. “Was there anything you needed, my lady?” she asked.

“No, not at all,” Lady Bridgerton replied. “I was merely checking to see if you were getting settled in. Is there anything I can get for you?”

Sophie blinked. Lady Bridgerton was asking her if she needed anything? Rather the reverse of the usual lady-servant relationship. “Er, no thank you,” Sophie said. “I would be happy to get something for you, though.”

Lady Bridgerton waved her offer way. “No need. You shouldn’t feel you have to do anything for us today. I’d prefer that you get yourself settled in first so that you do not feel distracted when you begin.”

Sophie cast her eyes toward her small bag. “I don’t have much to unpack. Truly, I should be happy to begin work immediately.”

“Nonsense. It’s already nearly the end of the day, and we are not planning to go out this evening, anyway. The girls and I have made do with only one lady’s maid for the past week; we shall certainly survive for one more night.”

“But—”

Lady Bridgerton smiled. “No arguments, if you please. One last day free is the least I can do after you saved my son.”

“I did very little,” Sophie said. “He would have been fine without me.”

“Nonetheless, you aided him when he needed help, and for that I am in your debt.”

“It was my pleasure,” Sophie replied. “It was the very least I owed him after what he did for me.”

Then, to her great surprise, Lady Bridgerton walked forward and sat down in the chair behind Sophie’s writing desk.

Writing desk! Sophie was still trying fathom that. What maid had ever been blessed with a writing desk?

“So tell me, Sophie,” Lady Bridgerton said with a winning smile—one that instantly reminded her of Benedict’s easy grin. “Where are you from?”

“East Anglia, originally,” Sophie replied, seeing no reason to lie. The Bridgertons were from Kent; it was unlikely that Lady Bridgerton would be familiar with Norfolk, where Sophie had grown up. “Not so very far from Sandringham, if you know where that is.”

“I do indeed,” Lady Bridgerton said. “I haven’t been, but I’ve heard that it is a lovely building.”

Sophie nodded. “It is, quite. Of course, I’ve never been inside. But the exterior is beautiful.”

“Where did your mother work?”

“Blackheath Hall,” Sophie replied, this lie slipping easily off her tongue. She’d been asked that question often enough; she’d long since settled upon a name for her fictional home. “Are you familiar with it?”

Lady Bridgerton’s brow furrowed. “No, I don’t believe so.”

“A bit north of Swaffham.”

Lady Bridgerton shook her head. “No, I do not know it.”

Sophie gave her a gentle smile. “Not many people do.”

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

Sophie was unused to an employer wanting to know so much about her personal background; usually all they cared about were her employment record and references. “No,” she said. “There was only me.”

“Ah, well, at least you had the company of the girls with whom you shared lessons. That must have been nice for you.”

“It was good fun,” Sophie lied. In all truth, studying with Rosamund and Posy had been sheer torture. She’d much preferred lessons when she’d been alone with her governess, before they’d come to live at Penwood Park.

“I must say, it was very generous of your mother’s employers—I’m sorry,” Lady Bridgerton interrupted herself, her brow furrowing, “what did you say their name was?”

“Grenville.”

Her forehead wrinkled again. “I’m not familiar with them.”

“They don’t often come to London.”

“Ah, well, that explains it,” Lady Bridgerton said. “But as I was saying, it was very generous of them to allow you to share in their daughters’ lessons. What did you study?”

Sophie froze, not sure whether she was being interrogated or if Lady Bridgerton were truly interested. No one had ever cared to delve so deeply into the faux background she had created for herself. “Er, the usual subjects,” she hedged. “Arithmetic and literature. History, a bit of mythology. French.”

“French?” Lady Bridgerton asked, looking quite surprised. “How interesting. French tutors can be very dear.”

“The governess spoke French,” Sophie explained. “So it didn’t cost any extra.”

“How is your French?”

Sophie wasn’t about to tell her the truth and say that it was perfect. Or almost perfect. She’d gotten out of practice these past few years and lost a bit of her fluency. “It’s tolerable,” she said. “Good enough to pass for a French maid, if that’s what you desire.”

“Oh, no,” Lady Bridgerton said, laughing merrily. “Heavens, no. I know it is all the rage to have French maids, but I would never ask you to go about your chores trying to remember to speak with a French accent.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” Sophie said, trying not to let her suspicion show on her face. She was sure that Lady Bridgerton was a nice lady; she’d have to be a nice lady to have raised such a nice family. But this was almost too nice.

“Well, it’s—oh, good day, Eloise. What brings you up here?”

Sophie looked to the doorway and saw what could only be a Bridgerton daughter standing there. Her thick, chestnut hair was coiled elegantly at the back of her neck, and her mouth was wide and expressive, just like Benedict’s.

“Benedict told me we have a new maid,” Eloise said.

Lady Bridgerton motioned to Sophie. “This is Sophie Beckett. We were just chatting. I think we shall deal famously.”

Eloise gave her mother an odd look—or at least Sophie thought it was an odd look. She supposed that it was possible that Eloise always looked at her mother with a slightly suspicious, slightly confused, sideways glance. But somehow Sophie didn’t think so.

“My brother tells me you saved his life,” Eloise said, turning from her mother to Sophie.

“He exaggerates,” Sophie said, a faint smile touching her lips.

Eloise regarded her with an oddly shrewd glance, and Sophie had the distinct impression that Eloise was analyzing her smile, trying to decide whether or not she was poking fun at Benedict, and if so, whether it was in jest or unkindness.

The moment seemed suspended in time, and then Eloise’s lips curved in a surprisingly sly manner. “I think my mother is correct,” she said. “We shall deal famously.”

Sophie rather thought she had just passed some sort of crucial test.

“Have you met Francesca and Hyacinth?” Eloise asked.

Sophie shook her head, just as Lady Bridgerton said, “They are not at home. Francesca is visiting Daphne, and Hyacinth is off at the Featheringtons. She and Felicity seem to be over their row and are once again inseparable.”

Eloise chuckled. “Poor Penelope. I think she was enjoying the relative peace and quiet with Hyacinth gone. I know I was enjoying the respite from Felicity.”

Lady Bridgerton turned to Sophie and explained, “My daughter Hyacinth can more often than not be found at the home of her best friend, Felicity Featherington. And when she is not, then Felicity can be found here.”

Sophie smiled and nodded, wondering once again why they were sharing such tidbits with her. They were treating her like family, something even her own family had never done.

It was very odd.

Odd and wonderful.

Odd and wonderful and horrible.

Because it could never last.

But maybe she could stay just a little while. Not long. A few weeks—maybe even a month. Just long enough to get her affairs and thoughts in order. Just long enough to relax and pretend she was more than just a servant.

She knew she could never be a part of the Bridgerton family, but maybe she could be a friend.

And it had been so long since she had been anyone’s friend.

“Is something wrong, Sophie?” Lady Bridgerton asked. “You have a tear in your eye.”

Sophie shook her head. “Just a speck of dust,” she mumbled, pretending to busy herself with the unpacking of her small bag of possessions. She knew that no one believed her, but she didn’t much care.

And even though she had no idea where she intended to go from this moment on, she had the oddest feeling that her life had just begun.