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Thomas J. Watson, Sr.
ePub
A4Chapter 15
This Author is quite certain that the male half of the population will be uninterested in the following portion of the column, so you are all given leave to skip to the next section. However, for the ladies, let This Author be the first to inform you that the Bridgerton family was recently sucked into the battle of the maids that has been raging all season between Lady Penwood and Mrs. Featherington. It seems that the maid attending to the daughters Bridgerton has defected to the Penwoods, replacing the maid who fled back to the Featherington household after Lady Penwood forced her to polish three hundred pairs of shoes.
And in other Bridgerton news, Benedict Bridgerton is most definitely back in London. It seems he took ill while in the country and extended his stay. One wishes that there were a more interesting explanation (especially when one is, like This Author, dependent upon interesting stories to earn one’s living), but sadly, that is all there is to it.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 14 MAY 1817
o O o
By the following morning, Sophie had met five of Benedict’s seven siblings. Eloise, Francesca, and Hyacinth all still lived with their mother, Anthony had stopped by with his young son for breakfast, and Daphne—who was now the Duchess of Hastings—had been summoned to help Lady Bridgerton plan the end-of-the-season ball. The only Bridgertons Sophie hadn’t met were Gregory, who was off at Eton, and Colin, who was off, in Anthony’s words, God-knows-where.
Although, if one wanted to put a fine point on it, Sophie already had met Colin—two years earlier at the masquerade. She was rather relieved that he was out of town. She doubted that he would recognize her; Benedict, after all, had not. But somehow the thought of meeting him again was quite stressful and unsettling.
Not that that should matter, she thought ruefully. Everything seemed quite stressful and unsettling these days.
Much to Sophie’s extreme lack of surprise, Benedict showed up at his mother’s home the following morning for breakfast. Sophie should have been able to avoid him completely, except that he was loitering in the hall as she tried to make her way down to the kitchen, where she planned to take her morning meal with the rest of the servants.
“And how was your first night at Number Six, Bruton Street?” he inquired, his smile lazy and masculine.
“Splendid,” Sophie replied, stepping aside so that she might make a clean half circle around him.
But as she stepped to her left, he stepped to his right, effectively blocking her path. “I’m so glad you’re enjoying yourself,” he said smoothly.
Sophie stepped back to her right. “I was,” she said pointedly.
Benedict was far too debonair to step back to his left, but he somehow managed to turn and lean against a table in just the right way to once again block her movement. “Have you been given a tour of the house?” he asked.
“By the housekeeper.”
“And of the grounds?”
“There are no grounds.”
He smiled, his brown eyes warm and melting. “There’s a garden.”
“About the size of a pound note,” she retorted.
“Nonetheless…”
“Nonetheless,” Sophie cut in, “I have to eat breakfast.”
He stepped gallantly aside. “Until next time,” he murmured.
And Sophie had the sinking feeling that next time would come quickly indeed.
o O o
Thirty minutes later, Sophie edged slowly out of the kitchen, half-expecting Benedict to jump out at her from around a corner. Well, maybe not half-expecting. Judging from the way she couldn’t quite breathe, she was probably whole-expecting.
But he wasn’t there.
She inched forward. Surely he would come bounding down the stairs at any moment, ambushing her with his very presence.
Still no Benedict.
Sophie opened her mouth, then bit her tongue when she realized she’d been about to call out his name.
“Stupid girl,” she muttered.
“Who’s stupid?” Benedict asked. “Surely not you.”
Sophie nearly jumped a foot. “Where did you come from?” she demanded, once she’d almost caught her breath.
He pointed to an open doorway. “Right there,” he answered, his voice all innocence.
“So now you’re jumping out at me from closets?”
“Of course not.” He looked affronted. “That was a staircase.”
Sophie peered around him. It was the side staircase. The servants’ staircase. Certainly not anyplace a family member would just happen to be walking. “Do you often creep down the side staircase?” she asked, crossing her arms.
He leaned forward, just close enough to make her slightly uncomfortable, and, although she would never admit it to anyone, barely even herself, slightly excited. “Only when I want to sneak up on someone.”
She attempted to brush past him. “I have to get to work.”
“Now?”
She gritted her teeth. “Yes, now.”
“But Hyacinth is eating breakfast. You can hardly dress her hair while she’s eating.”
“I also attend to Francesca and Eloise.”
He shrugged, smiling innocently. “They’re eating breakfast, too. Truly, you have nothing to do.”
“Which shows how little you know about working for a living,” she shot back. “I have ironing, mending, polishing—”
“They make you polish the silver?”
“Shoes!” she fairly yelled. “I have to polish shoes.”
“Oh.” He leaned back, one shoulder resting against the wall as he crossed his arms. “It sounds dull.”
“It is dull,” she ground out, trying to ignore the tears that suddenly pricked her eyes. She knew her life was dull, but it was painful to hear someone else point it out.
One corner of his mouth lifted into a lazy, seductive smile. “Your life doesn’t have to be dull, you know.”
She tried to step past him. “I prefer it dull.”
He waved his arm grandly to the side, motioning for her to pass. “If that is how you wish it.”
“I do.” But the words didn’t come out nearly as firmly as she’d intended. “I do,” she repeated. Oh, very well, no use lying to herself. She didn’t. Not entirely. But that was the way it had to be.
“Are you trying to convince yourself, or me?” he asked softly.
“I won’t even dignify that with an answer,” she replied. But she didn’t meet his eyes as she said it.
“You’d best get yourself upstairs, then,” he said, raising one brow when she didn’t move. “I’m sure you have a great many shoes to polish.”
Sophie ran up the stairs—the servants’ stairs—and didn’t look back.
o O o
He next found her in the garden—that tiny patch of green she’d so recently (and accurately) mocked as the size of a pound note. The Bridgerton sisters had gone off to visit the Featherington sisters, and Lady Bridgerton was taking a nap. Sophie had all of their gowns pressed and ready for that evening’s social event, hair ribbons were selected and matched to each dress, and enough shoes had been polished to last a week.
With all her work done, Sophie decided to take a short break and read in the garden. Lady Bridgerton had told her that she might borrow freely from her small library of books, so Sophie selected a recently published novel and settled herself into a wrought-iron chair on the small patio. She’d only read a chapter before she heard footsteps approaching from the house. Somehow she managed not to look up until a shadow fell across her. Predictably, it was Benedict.
“Do you live here?” Sophie asked dryly.
“No,” he said, plopping down into the chair next to her, “although my mother is constantly telling me to make myself right at home.”
She could think of no witty rejoinder, so she merely “hmmphed” and stuck her nose back in her book.
He plunked his feet on the small table in front. “And what are we reading today?”
“That question,” she said, snapping the book shut but leaving her finger in to mark her place, “implies that I am actually reading, which I assure you I am unable to do while you are sitting here.”
“My presence is that compelling, eh?”
“It’s that disturbing.”
“Better than dull,” he pointed out.
“I like my life dull.”
“If you like your life dull, then that can only mean that you do not understand the nature of excitement.”
The condescension in his tone was appalling. Sophie gripped her book so hard her knuckles turned white. “I have had enough excitement in my life,” she said through gritted teeth. “I assure you.”
“I would be pleased to participate in this conversation to a greater degree,” he drawled, “except that you have not seen fit to share with me any of the details of your life.”
“It was not an oversight on my part.”
He clucked disapprovingly. “So hostile.”
Her eyes bugged out. “You abducted me—”
“Coerced,” he reminded her.
“Do you want me to hit you?”
“I wouldn’t mind it,” he said mildly. “And besides, now that you’re here, was it really so very terrible that I browbeat you into coming? You like my family, don’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
“And they treat you fairly, right?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then what,” he asked, his tone most supercilious, “is the problem?”
Sophie almost lost her temper. She almost jumped to her feet and grabbed his shoulders and shook and shook and shook, but at the last moment she realized that that was exactly what he wanted her to do. And so instead she merely sniffed and said, “If you cannot recognize the problem, there is no way that I could explain it to you.”
He laughed, damn the man. “My goodness,” he said, “that was an expert sidestep.”
She picked up her book and opened it. “I’m reading.”
“Trying, at least,” he murmured.
She flipped a page, even though she hadn’t read the last two paragraphs. She was really just trying to make a show of ignoring him, and besides, she could always go back and read them later, after he left.
“Your book is upside down,” he pointed out.
Sophie gasped and looked down. “It is not!”
He smiled slyly. “But you still had to look to be sure, didn’t you?”
She stood up and announced, “I’m going inside.”
He stood immediately. “And leave the splendid spring air?”
“And leave you,” she retorted, even though his gesture of respect was not lost on her. Gentlemen did not ordinarily stand for mere servants.
“Pity,” he murmured. “I was having such fun.”
Sophie wondered how much injury he’d sustain if she threw the book at him. Probably not enough to make up for the loss to her dignity.
It amazed her how easily he could infuriate her. She loved him desperately—she’d long since given up lying to herself about that—and yet he could make her entire body shake with anger with one little quip.
“Good-bye, Mr. Bridgerton.”
He waved her off. “I’ll see you later, I’m sure.”
Sophie paused, not sure she liked his dismissive demeanor.
“I thought you were leaving,” he said, looking faintly amused.
“I am,” she insisted.
He cocked his head to the side but didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. The vaguely mocking expression in his eyes did the job quite well.
She turned and walked toward the door leading inside, but when she was about halfway to her destination, she heard him call out, “Your new dress is quite fetching.”
She stopped and sighed. She might have gone from faux-guardian of an earl to a mere lady’s maid, but good manners were good manners, and there was no way she could ignore a compliment. Turning around, she said, “Thank you. It was a gift from your mother. I believe it used to belong to Francesca.”
He leaned against the fence, his posture deceptively lazy. “That’s a custom, isn’t it, to share frocks with one’s maid?”
Sophie nodded. “When one is through with them, of course. No one would give a new frock away.”
“I see.”
Sophie eyed him suspiciously, wondering why on earth he cared about the status of her new dress.
“Didn’t you want to go inside?” he inquired.
“What are you up to?” she asked.
“Why would you think I’m up to anything?”
Her lips pursed before she said, “You wouldn’t be you if you weren’t up to something.”
He smiled at that. “I do believe that was a compliment.”
“It wasn’t necessarily intended as such.”
“But nonetheless,” he said mildly, “that’s how I choose to take it.”
She wasn’t sure how best to respond, so she said nothing. She also didn’t move toward the door. She wasn’t sure why, since she’d been quite vocal about her desire to be alone. But what she said and what she felt weren’t always one and the same. In her heart she longed for this man, dreamed of a life that could never be.
She shouldn’t be so angry with him. He shouldn’t have forced her against her wishes to come to London, that was true, but she couldn’t fault him for offering her a position as his mistress. He had done what any man in his position would have done. Sophie had no illusions about her place in London society. She was a maid. A servant. And the only thing that separated her from other maids and servants was that she’d had a taste of luxury as a child. She’d been reared gently, if without love, and the experience had shaped her ideals and values. Now she was forever stuck between two worlds, with no clear place in either.
“You look very serious,” he said quietly.
Sophie heard him, but she couldn’t quite break herself from her thoughts.
Benedict stepped forward. He reached out to touch her chin, then checked himself. There was something untouchable about her just then, something unreachable. “I can’t bear it when you look so sad,” he said, surprised by his own words. He hadn’t intended to say anything; it had just slipped out.
She looked up at that. “I’m not sad.”
He gave his head the tiniest shake. “There’s a sorrow deep in your eyes. It’s rarely gone.”
Her hand flew to her face, as if she could actually touch that sorrow, as if it were solid, something that could be massaged away.
Benedict took her hand and raised it to his lips. “I wish you would share your secrets with me.”
“I have no—”
“Don’t lie,” he cut in, his tone harsher than he’d intended. “You have more secrets than any woman I’ve—” He broke off, a sudden image of the woman from the masquerade flashing through his mind. “More than almost any woman I’ve known,” he finished.
Her eyes met his for the briefest of seconds, and then she looked away. “There is nothing wrong with secrets. If I choose—”
“Your secrets are eating you alive,” he said sharply. He didn’t want to stand there and listen to her excuses, and his frustration gnawed at his patience. “You have the opportunity to change your life, to reach out and grasp happiness, and yet you won’t do it.”
“I can’t,” she said, and the pain in her voice nearly unmanned him.
“Nonsense,” he said. “You can do anything you choose. You just don’t want to.”
“Don’t make this harder than it already is,” she whispered.
When she said that, something snapped inside of him. He felt it palpably, a strange popping sensation that released a rush of blood, feeding the frustrated anger that had been simmering inside of him for days. “You think it’s not hard?” he asked. “You think it’s not hard?”
“I didn’t say that!”
He grabbed her hand and pulled her body against his, so she could see for herself just how hard he was. “I burn for you,” he said, his lips touching her ear. “Every night, I lie in bed, thinking of you, wondering why the hell you’re here with my mother, of all people, and not with me.”
“I didn’t want—”
“You don’t know what you want,” he cut in. It was a cruel statement, condescending in the extreme, but he was beyond caring. She’d wounded him in a way he hadn’t even known was possible, with a power he’d never dreamed she possessed. She’d chosen a life of drudgery over a life with him, and now he was doomed to see her almost every day, to see her and taste her and smell her just enough to keep his desire sharp and strong.
It was his own fault, of course. He could have let her stay in the country, could have saved himself this wrenching torture. But he’d surprised even himself by insisting that she come to London. It was odd, and he was almost afraid to analyze what it meant, but he needed to know that she was safe and protected more than he needed her for himself.
She said his name, but her voice was laced with longing, and he knew that she was not indifferent to him. She might not fully understand what it meant to want a man, but she wanted him all the same.
He captured her mouth with his, swearing to himself as he did so that if she said no, if she made any sort of indication that she didn’t want this, he’d stop. It’d be the hardest thing he’d ever done, but he would do it.
But she didn’t say no, and she didn’t push against him or struggle or squirm. Instead, she positively melted into him, her hands twining in his hair as her lips parted beneath his. He didn’t know why she’d suddenly decided to let him kiss her—no, to kiss him—but he wasn’t about to lift his lips from hers to wonder why.
He seized the moment, tasting her, drinking her, breathing her. He was no longer quite so confident that he would be able to convince her to become his mistress, and it was suddenly imperative that this kiss be more than just a kiss. It might have to last him a lifetime.
He kissed her with renewed vigor, pushing away the niggling voice in his head, telling him that he’d been here, done this before. Two years earlier he’d danced with a woman, kissed her, and she’d told him that he’d have to pack a lifetime into a single kiss.
He’d been overconfident then; he hadn’t believed her. And he’d lost her, maybe lost everything. He certainly hadn’t met anyone since with whom he could even imagine building a life.
Until Sophie.
Unlike the lady in silver, she wasn’t someone he could hope to marry, but also unlike the lady in silver, she was here.
And he wasn’t going to let her get away.
She was here, with him, and she felt like heaven. The soft scent of her hair, the slight taste of salt on her skin—she was, he thought, born to rest in the shelter of his arms. And he was born to hold her.
“Come home with me,” he whispered in her ear.
She said nothing, but he felt her stiffen.
“Come home with me,” he repeated.
“I can’t,” she said, the breath of each word whispering across his skin.
“You can.”
She shook her head, but she didn’t pull away, so he took advantage of the moment and brought his lips to hers one more time. His tongue darted in, exploring the warm recesses of her mouth, tasting the very essence of her. His hand found the swell of her breast and he squeezed gently, his breath catching as he felt her pucker beneath him. But it wasn’t enough. He wanted to feel her skin, not the fabric of her dress.
But this was not the place. They were in his mother’s garden, for God’s sake. Anyone could come across them, and to be frank, if he hadn’t pulled her into the alcove right by the door, anyone could have seen them. It was the sort of thing that could cause Sophie to lose her job.
Maybe he should be pulling her out into the open, where all the world would see, because then she’d be on her own again, and she’d have no choice but to be his mistress.
Which was, he reminded himself, what he wanted.
But it occurred to him—and frankly, he was rather surprised he had the presence of mind at such a moment for anything to occur to him—that part of the reason he cared so much for her was her remarkably solid and unflinching sense of herself. She knew who she was, and unfortunately for him, that person didn’t stray from the bounds of respectable society.
If he ruined her so publicly, in front of people she admired and respected, he’d break her spirit. And that would be an unforgivable crime.
Slowly, he pulled away. He still wanted her, and he still wanted her to be his mistress, but he wasn’t going to force the issue by compromising her in his mother’s household. When she came to him—and she would, he vowed—it would be of her own free will.
In the meantime, he would woo her, wear her down. In the meantime, he’d—
“You stopped,” she whispered, looking surprised.
“This isn’t the place,” he replied.
For a moment her face showed no change of expression. Then, almost as if someone were pulling a shade over her face, horror dawned. It started in her eyes, which grew impossibly round and somehow even more green than usual, then it reached her mouth, her lips parting as a gasp of air rushed in.
“I didn’t think,” she whispered, more to herself than to him.
“I know.” He smiled. “I know. I hate it when you think. It always ends badly for me.”
“We can’t do this again.”
“We certainly can’t do it here.”
“No, I mean—”
“But—”
“You’re spoiling it.”
“But—”
“Humor me,” he said, “and let me believe the afternoon ended without your telling me this will never happen again.”
“But—”
He pressed a finger to her lips. “You’re not humoring me.”
“But—”
“Don’t I deserve this one little fantasy?”
At last, he broke through. She smiled.
“Good,” he said. “That’s more like it.”
Her lips quivered, then, amazingly, her smile grew.
“Excellent,” he murmured. “Now then, I’m going to leave. And you have only one task while I go. You will stay right here, and you will keep smiling. Because it breaks my heart to see any other expression on your face.”
“You won’t be able to see me,” she pointed out.
He touched her chin. “I’ll know.”
And then, before her expression could change from that enchanting combination of shock and adoration, he left.
