Bridgerton Collection Volume 1 (Bridgertons)

by Julia Quinn

  “It’s very bad form to spy on one’s host,” he said, planting his hands on his hips and somehow managing to look both authoritative and relaxed at the same time.

  “It was an accident,” she grumbled.

  “Oh, I believe you there,” he said. “But even if you didn’t intend to spy on me, the fact remains that when the opportunity arose, you took it.”

  “Do you blame me?”

  He grinned. “Not at all. I would have done precisely the same thing.”

  Her mouth fell open.

  “Oh, don’t pretend to be offended,” he said.

  “I’m not pretending.”

  He leaned a bit closer. “To tell the truth, I’m quite flattered.”

  “It was academic curiosity,” she ground out. “I assure you.”

  His smile grew sly. “So you’re telling me that you would have spied upon any naked man you’d come across?”

  “Of course not!”

  “As I said,” he drawled, leaning back against a tree, “I’m flattered.”

  “Well, now that we have that settled,” Sophie said with a sniff, “I’m going back to Your Cottage.”

  She made it only two steps before his hand shot out and grabbed a small measure of the fabric of her dress. “I don’t think so,” he said.

  Sophie turned back around with a weary sigh. “You have already embarrassed me beyond repair. What more could you possibly wish to do to me?”

  Slowly, he reeled her in. “That’s a very interesting question,” he murmured.

  Sophie tried to plant her heels into the ground, but she was no match for the inexorable tug of his hand. She stumbled slightly, then found herself mere inches away from him. The air suddenly felt hot, very hot, and Sophie had the bizarre sense that she no longer quite knew how to work her hands and feet. Her skin tingled, her heart raced, and the bloody man was just staring at her, not moving a muscle, not pulling her the final few inches against him.

  Just staring at her.

  “Benedict?” she whispered, forgetting that she still called him Mr. Bridgerton.

  He smiled. It was a small, knowing sort of smile, one that sent chills right down her spine to another area altogether. “I like when you say my name,” he said.

  “I didn’t mean to,” she admitted.

  He touched a finger to her lips. “Shhh,” he admonished. “Don’t tell me that. Don’t you know that’s not what a man wishes to hear?”

  “I don’t have much experience with men,” she said.

  “Now that’s what a man wishes to hear.”

  “Really?” she asked dubiously. She knew men wanted innocence in their wives, but Benedict wasn’t about to marry a girl like her.

  He touched her cheek with one fingertip. “It’s what I want to hear from you.”

  A soft rush of air crossed Sophie’s lips as she gasped. He was going to kiss her.

  He was going to kiss her. It was the most wonderful and awful thing that could possibly happen.

  But oh, how she wanted this.

  She knew she was going to regret this tomorrow. She let out a smothered, choking sort of laugh. Who was she kidding? She’d regret it in ten minutes. But she had spent the last two years remembering what it felt like to be in his arms, and she wasn’t sure she’d make it through the rest of her days without at least one more memory to keep her going.

  His finger floated across her cheek to her temple, and then from there traced her eyebrow, ruffling the soft hairs as it moved to the bridge of her nose. “So pretty,” he said softly, “like a storybook fairy. Sometimes I think you couldn’t possibly be real.”

  Her only reply was a quickening of breath.

  “I think I’m going to kiss you,” he whispered.

  “You think?”

  “I think I have to kiss you,” he said, looking as if he couldn’t quite believe his own words. “It’s rather like breathing. One doesn’t have much choice in the matter.”

  Benedict’s kiss was achingly tender. His lips brushed across hers in a feather-light caress, back and forth with just the barest hint of friction. It was utterly breathtaking, but there was something more, something that made her dizzy and weak. Sophie clutched at his shoulders, wondering why she felt so off-balance and strange, and then it suddenly came to her—

  It was just like before.

  The way his lips brushed hers so soft and sweet, the way he began with gentle titillation, rather than forcing entry—it was just what he’d done at the masquerade. After two years of dreams, Sophie was finally reliving the single most exquisite moment of her life.

  “You’re crying,” Benedict said, touching her cheek.

  Sophie blinked, then reached up to wipe away the tears she hadn’t even known were falling.

  “Do you want me to stop?” he whispered.

  She shook her head. No, she didn’t want him to stop. She wanted him to kiss her just as he had at the masquerade, the gentle caress giving way to a more passionate joining. And then she wanted him to kiss her some more, because this time the clock wasn’t going to strike midnight, and she wouldn’t have to flee.

  And she wanted him to know that she was the woman from the masquerade. And she desperately prayed that he would never recognize her. And she was just so bloody confused, and . . .

  And he kissed her.

  Really kissed her, with fierce lips and probing tongue, and all the passion and desire a woman could ever want. He made her feel beautiful, precious, priceless. He treated her like a woman, not some serving wench, and until that very moment, she hadn’t realized just how much she missed being treated like a person. Gentry and aristocrats didn’t see their servants, they tried not to hear them, and when they were forced to converse, they kept it as short and perfunctory as possible.

  But when Benedict kissed her, she felt real.

  And when he kissed her, he did so with his entire body. His lips, which had begun the intimacy with such gentle reverence, were now fierce and demanding on hers. His hands, so large and strong they seemed to cover half her back, held her to him with a strength that left her breathless. And his body—dear God, it ought to be illegal the way it was pressed against hers, the heat of it seeping through her clothing, searing her very soul.

  He made her shiver. He made her melt.

  He made her want to give herself to him, something she’d sworn she would never do outside the sacrament of marriage.

  “Oh, Sophie,” he murmured, his voice husky against her lips. “I’ve never felt—”

  Sophie stiffened, because she was fairly certain he’d intended to say he’d never felt that way before, and she had no idea how she felt about that. On the one hand, it was thrilling to be the one woman who could bring him to his knees, make him dizzy with desire and need.

  On the other hand, he’d kissed her before. Hadn’t he felt the same exquisite torture then, too?

  Dear God, was she jealous of herself?

  He pulled back a half inch. “What’s wrong?”

  She gave her head a little shake. “Nothing.”

  Benedict touched his fingers to the tip of her chin and tilted her face up. “Don’t lie to me, Sophie. What’s wrong?”

  “I’m—I’m only nervous,” she stammered. “That’s all.”

  His eyes narrowed with concerned suspicion. “Are you certain?”

  “Absolutely certain.” She tugged herself from his grasp and took a few steps away from him, her arms hugging over her chest. “I don’t do this sort of thing, you know.”

  Benedict watched her walk away, studying the bleak line of her back. “I know,” he said softly. “You’re not the sort of girl who would.”

  She gave a little laugh at that, and even though he could not see her face, he could well imagine its expression. “How do you know that?” she asked.

  “It’s obvious in everything you do.”

  She didn’t turn around. She didn’t say anything.

  And then, before he had any idea what he was saying, the mo
st bizarre question tumbled from his mouth. “Who are you, Sophie?” he asked. “Who are you, really?”

  She still didn’t turn around, and when she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. “What do you mean?”

  “Something isn’t quite right about you,” he said. “You speak too well to be a maid.”

  Her hand was nervously fidgeting with the folds of her skirt as she said, “Is it a crime to wish to speak well? One can’t get very far in this country with a lowborn accent.”

  “One could make the argument,” he said with deliberate softness, “that you haven’t gotten very far.”

  Her arms straightened into sticks. Straight rigid sticks with little tight fists at the end. And then, while he waited for her to say something, she started walking away.

  “Wait!” he called out, and he caught up with her in under three strides, grabbing hold of her wrist. He tugged at her until she was forced to turn around. “Don’t go,” he said.

  “It is not my habit to remain in the company of people who insult me.”

  Benedict nearly flinched, and he knew he would be forever haunted by the stricken look in her eyes. “I wasn’t insulting you,” he said, “and you know it. I was speaking the truth. You’re not meant to be a housemaid, Sophie. It’s clear to me, and it ought to be clear to you.”

  She laughed—a hard, brittle sound he’d never thought to hear from her. “And what do you suggest I do, Mr. Bridgerton?” she asked. “Find work as a governess?”

  Benedict thought that was a fine idea, and he started to tell her so, but she interrupted him, saying, “And who do you think will hire me?”

  “Well . . .”

  “No one,” she snapped. “No one will hire me. I have no references, and I look far too young.”

  “And pretty,” he said grimly. He’d never given much thought to the hiring of governesses, but he knew that the duty usually fell to the mother of the house. And common sense told him that no mother wanted to bring such a pretty young thing into her household. Just look what Sophie had had to endure at the hands of Phillip Cavender.

  “You could be a lady’s maid,” he suggested. “At least then you wouldn’t be cleaning chamber pots.”

  “You’d be surprised,” she muttered.

  “A companion to an elderly lady?”

  She sighed. It was a sad, weary sound, and it nearly broke his heart. “You’re very kind to try to help me,” she said, “but I have already explored all of those avenues. Besides, I am not your responsibility.”

  “You could be.”

  She looked at him in surprise.

  In that moment, Benedict knew that he had to have her. There was a connection between them, a strange, inexplicable bond that he’d felt only one other time in his life, with the mystery lady from the masquerade. And while she was gone, vanished into thin air, Sophie was very real. He was tired of mirages. He wanted someone he could see, someone he could touch.

  And she needed him. She might not realize it yet, but she needed him. Benedict took her hand and tugged, catching her off-balance and wrapping her to him when she fell against his body.

  “Mr. Bridgerton!” she yelped.

  “Benedict,” he corrected, his lips at her ear.

  “Let me—”

  “Say my name,” he persisted. He could be very stubborn when it suited his interests, and he wasn’t going to let her go until he heard his name cross her lips.

  And maybe not even then.

  “Benedict,” she finally relented. “I—”

  “Hush.” He silenced her with his mouth, nibbling at the corner of her lips. When she went soft and compliant in his arms, he drew back, just far enough so that he could focus on her eyes. They looked impossibly green in the late-afternoon light, deep enough to drown in.

  “I want you to come back to London with me,” he whispered, the words tumbling forth before he had a chance to consider them. “Come back and live with me.”

  She looked at him in surprise.

  “Be mine,” he said, his voice thick and urgent. “Be mine right now. Be mine forever. I’ll give you anything you want. All I want in return is you.”

  Chapter 12

  Speculation continues to abound concerning the disappearance of Benedict Bridgerton. According to Eloise Bridgerton, who as his sister ought to know, he was due back in town several days ago.

  But as Eloise must be the first to admit, a man of Mr. Bridgerton’s age and stature need hardly report his whereabouts to his younger sister.

  LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 9 MAY 1817

  “You want me to be your mistress,” she said flatly.

  He gave her a confused look, although she couldn’t be sure whether that was because her statement was so obvious or because he objected to her choice of words. “I want you to be with me,” he persisted.

  The moment was so staggeringly painful and yet she found herself almost smiling. “How is that different from being your mistress?”

  “Sophie—”

  “How is it different?” she repeated, her voice growing strident.

  “I don’t know, Sophie.” He sounded impatient. “Does it matter?”

  “It does to me.”

  “Fine,” he said in a short voice. “Fine. Be my mistress, and have this.”

  Sophie had just enough time to gasp before his lips descended on hers with a ferocity that turned her knees to water. It was like no kiss they’d ever shared, harsh with need, and laced with an odd, strange anger.

  His mouth devoured hers in a primitive dance of passion. His hands seemed to be everywhere, on her breasts, around her waist, even under her skirt. He touched and squeezed, caressed and stroked.

  And all the while, he had her pressed up so tightly against him she was certain she’d melt into his skin.

  “I want you,” he said roughly, his lips finding the hollow at the base of her throat. “I want you right now. I want you here.”

  “Benedict—”

  “I want you in my bed,” he growled. “I want you tomorrow. And I want you the next day.”

  She was wicked, and she was weak, and she gave in to the moment, arching her neck to allow him greater access. His lips felt so good against her skin, sending shivers and tingles to the very center of her being. He made her long for him, long for all the things she couldn’t have, and curse the things she could.

  And then somehow she was on the ground, and he was there with her, half-on and half-off of her body. He seemed so large, so powerful, and in that moment, so perfectly hers. A very small part of Sophie’s mind was still functioning, and she knew that she had to say no, had to put a stop to the madness, but God help her, she couldn’t. Not yet.

  She’d spent so long dreaming about him, trying desperately to remember the scent of his skin, the sound of his voice. There had been many nights when the fantasy of him had been all that had kept her company.

  She had been living on dreams, and she wasn’t a woman for whom many had come true. She didn’t want to lose this one just yet.

  “Benedict,” she murmured, touching the crisp silkiness of his hair and pretending—pretending that he hadn’t just asked her to be his mistress, that she was someone else—anyone else.

  Anyone but the bastard daughter of a dead earl, with no means of support besides waiting on others.

  Her murmurings seemed to embolden him, and his hand, which had been tickling her knee for so long, started to inch upward, squeezing the soft skin of her thigh. Years of hard work had made her lean, not fashionably curvy, but he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she could feel his heart begin to beat even more rapidly, hear his breath coming in hoarser gasps.

  “Sophie, Sophie, Sophie,” he groaned, his lips moving frantically along her face until they found her mouth again. “I need you.” He pressed his hips hotly against hers. “Do you feel how I need you?”

  “I need you, too,” she whispered. And she did. There was a fire burning within her that had been simmering quietly for years
. The sight of him had ignited it anew, and his touch was like kerosene, sending her into a conflagration.

  His fingers wrestled with the large, poorly made buttons on back of her dress. “I’m going to burn this,” he grunted, his other hand relentlessly stroking the tender skin at the back of her knee. “I’ll dress you in silks, in satins.” He moved to her ear, nipping at her lobe, then licking the tender skin where her ear met her cheek. “I’ll dress you in nothing at all.”

  Sophie stiffened in his arms. He’d managed to say the one thing that could remind her why she was here, why he was kissing her. It wasn’t love, or any of those tender emotions she’d dreamed about, but lust. And he wanted to make her a kept woman.

  Just as her mother had been.

  Oh, God, it was so tempting. So impossibly tempting. He was offering her a life of ease and luxury, a life with him.

  At the price of her soul.

  No, that wasn’t entirely true, or entirely a problem. She might be able to live as a man’s mistress. The benefits—and how could she consider life with Benedict anything but a benefit—might outweigh the drawbacks. But while she might be willing to make such decisions with her own life and reputation, she would not do so for a child. And how could there not be a child? All mistresses eventually had children.

  With a tortured cry, she gave him a shove and wrenched herself away, rolling to the side until she found herself on her hands and knees, stopping to catch her breath before hauling herself to her feet.

  “I can’t do this, Benedict,” she said, barely able to look at him.

  “I don’t see why not,” he muttered.

  “I can’t be your mistress.”

  He rose to his feet. “And why is that?”

  Something about him pricked at her. Maybe it was the arrogance of his tone, maybe it was the insolence in his posture. “Because I don’t want to,” she snapped.

  His eyes narrowed, not with suspicion, but with anger. “You wanted to just a few seconds ago.”

  “You’re not being fair,” she said in a low voice. “I wasn’t thinking.”

  His chin jutted out belligerently. “You’re not supposed to be thinking. That’s the point of it.”

  She blushed as she redid her buttons. He’d done a very good job of making her not think. She’d almost thrown away a lifetime of vows and morals, all at one wicked kiss. “Well, I won’t be your mistress,” she said again. Maybe if she said it enough, she’d feel more confident that he wouldn’t be able to break down her defenses.