by Julia Quinn
“Well, I for one would like to know where he went,” Mrs. Crabtree continued. “He shouldn’t be out of bed, and he knows it.”
“I’m sure he’ll return soon,” Sophie said placatingly. “In the meantime, do you need any help in the kitchen?”
Mrs. Crabtree shook her head. “No, no. All that stew needs to do now is cook. And besides, Mr. Bridgerton has been scolding me for allowing you to work.”
“But—”
“No arguments, if you please,” Mrs. Crabtree cut in. “He’s right, of course. You’re a guest here, and you shouldn’t have to lift a finger.”
“I’m not a guest,” Sophie protested.
“Well, then, what are you?”
That gave Sophie pause. “I have no idea,” she finally said, “but I’m definitely not a guest. A guest would be . . . A guest would be . . .” She struggled to make sense of her thoughts and feelings. “I suppose a guest would be someone who is of the same social rank, or at least close to it. A guest would be someone who has never had to wait upon another person, or scrub floors, or empty chamber pots. A guest would be—”
“Anyone the master of the house chooses to invite as a guest,” Mrs. Crabtree retorted. “That’s the beauty of being the master of the house. You can do anything you please. And you should stop belittling yourself. If Mr. Bridgerton chooses to regard you as a houseguest, then you should accept his judgment and enjoy yourself. When was the last time you were able to live in comfort without having to work your fingers to the bone in return?”
“He can’t truly regard me as a houseguest,” Sophie said quietly. “If he did, he would have installed a chaperone for the protection of my reputation.”
“As if I would allow anything untoward in my house,” Mrs. Crabtree bristled.
“Of course you wouldn’t,” Sophie assured her. “But where reputations are at stake, appearance is just as important as fact. And in the eyes of society, a housekeeper does not qualify as a chaperone, no matter how strict and pure her morals may be.”
“If that’s true,” Mrs. Crabtree protested, “then you need a chaperone, Miss Sophie.”
“Don’t be silly. I don’t need a chaperone because I’m not of his class. No one cares if a housemaid lives and works in the household of a single man. No one thinks any less of her, and certainly no one who would consider her for marriage would consider her ruined.” Sophie shrugged. “It’s the way of the world. And obviously it’s the way Mr. Bridgerton thinks, whether he’ll admit it or not, because he has never once said a word about it being improper for me to be here.”
“Well, I don’t like it,” Mrs. Crabtree announced. “I don’t like it one bit.”
Sophie just smiled, because it was so sweet of the housekeeper to care. “I think I’m going to take myself off for a walk,” she said, “as long as you’re certain you don’t need any help in the kitchen. And,” she added with a sly grin, “as long as I’m in this strange, hazy position. I might not be a guest, but it is the first time in years I’m not a servant, and I’m going to enjoy my free time while it lasts.”
Mrs. Crabtree gave her a hearty pat on the shoulder. “You do that, Miss Sophie. And pick a flower for me while you’re out there.”
Sophie grinned and headed out the front door. It was a lovely day, unseasonably warm and sunny, and the air held the gentle fragrance of the first blooms of spring. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d taken a walk for the simple pleasure of enjoying the fresh air.
Benedict had told her about a nearby pond, and she thought she might amble that way, maybe even dip her toes in the water if she was feeling particularly daring.
She smiled up at the sun. The air might be warm, but the water was surely still freezing, so early in May. Still, it would feel good. Anything felt good that represented leisure time and peaceful, solitary moments.
She paused for a moment, frowning thoughtfully at the horizon. Benedict had mentioned that the lake was south of My Cottage, hadn’t he? A southward route would take her right through a rather densely wooded patch, but a bit of a hike certainly wouldn’t kill her.
Sophie picked her way through the forest, stepping over tree roots, and pushing aside low-lying branches, letting them snap back behind her with reckless abandon. The sun barely squeaked through the canopy of leaves above her, and down at ground level, it felt more like dusk than midday.
Up ahead, she could see a clearing, which she assumed must be the pond. As she drew closer, she saw the glint of sunlight on water, and she breathed a little sigh of satisfaction, happy to know that she’d gone in the correct direction.
But as she drew even closer, she heard the sound of someone splashing about, and she realized with equal parts terror and curiosity that she was not alone.
She was only ten or so feet from the edge of the pond, easily visible to anyone in the water, so she quickly flattened herself behind the trunk of a large oak. If she had a sensible bone in her body, she’d turn right around and run back to the house, but she just couldn’t quite keep herself from peeking around the tree and looking to see who might be mad enough to splash about in a lake so early in the season.
With slow, silent movements, she crept out from behind the tree, trying to keep as much of herself concealed as possible.
And she saw a man.
A naked man.
A naked . . .
Benedict?
Chapter 11
The housemaid wars rage on in London. Lady Penwood called Mrs. Featherington a conniving, ill-bred thief in front of no less than three society matrons, including the very popular dowager Viscountess Bridgerton!
Mrs. Featherington responded by calling Lady Penwood’s home no better than a workhouse, citing the ill treatment of her lady’s maid (whose name, This Author has learned, is not Estelle as was originally claimed, and furthermore, she is not remotely French. The girl’s name is Bess, and she hails from Liverpool.)
Lady Penwood stalked away from the altercation in quite a huff, followed by her daughter, Miss Rosamund Reiling. Lady Penwood’s other daughter, Posy (who was wearing an unfortunate green gown) remained behind with a somewhat apologetic look in her eyes until her mother returned, grabbed her by the sleeve, and dragged her off.
This Author certainly does not make up the guest lists at society parties, but it is difficult to imagine that the Penwoods will be invited to Mrs. Featherington’s next soirée.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 7 MAY 1817
It was wrong of her to stay.
So wrong.
So very, very wrong.
And yet she did not move an inch.
She found a large, bald-pated rock, mostly obscured by a short, squat bush, and sat down, never once taking her eyes off of him.
He was naked. She still couldn’t quite believe it.
He was, of course, partially submerged, with the edge of the water rippling against his rib cage.
The lower—she thought giddily—edge of his rib cage.
Or perhaps if she were to be honest with herself, she’d have to rephrase her previous thought to: He was, unfortunately, partially submerged.
Sophie was as innocent as the next . . . as, well, the next innocent, but dash it all, she was curious, and she was more than halfway in love with this man. Was it so very wicked to wish for a huge gust of wind, powerful enough to create a small tidal wave that would whip the water away from his body and deposit it somewhere else? Anywhere else?
Very well, it was wicked. She was wicked, and she didn’t care.
She’d spent her life taking the safe road, the prudent path. Only one night in her short life had she completely thrown caution to the wind. And that night had been the most thrilling, the most magical, the most stupendously wonderful night of her life.
And so she decided to remain right where she was, stay the course, and see what she saw. It wasn’t as if she had anything to lose. She had no job, no prospects save for Benedict’s promise to find her a position in his mother’s
household (and she had a feeling that would be a very bad idea, anyway.)
And so she sat back, tried not to move a muscle, and kept her eyes wide, wide open.
Benedict had never been a superstitious man, and he’d certainly never thought himself the sort with a sixth sense, but once or twice in his life, he’d experienced a strange surge of awareness, a sort of mystical tingling feeling that warned him that something important was afoot.
The first time had been the day his father had died. He’d never told anyone about this, not even his older brother Anthony, who’d been utterly devastated by their father’s death, but that afternoon, as he and Anthony had raced across the fields of Kent in some silly horse race, he’d felt an odd, numb feeling in his arms and legs, followed by the strangest pounding in his head. It hadn’t hurt, precisely, but it had sucked the air from his lungs and left him with the most intense sensation of terror he could ever imagine.
He’d lost the race, of course; it was difficult to grip reins when one’s fingers refused to work properly. And when he’d returned home, he’d discovered that his terror had not been unwarranted. His father was already dead, having collapsed after being stung by a bee. Benedict still had difficulty believing that a man as strong and vital as his father could be felled by a bee, but there had been no other explanation.
The second time it had happened, however, the feeling had been completely different. It had been the night of his mother’s masquerade, right before he’d seen the woman in the silver dress. Like the time before, the sensation had started in his arms and legs, but instead of feeling numb, this time he felt an odd tingling, as if he’d just suddenly come alive after years of sleepwalking.
Then he’d turned and seen her, and he’d known she was the reason he was there that night; the reason he lived in England; hell, the very reason he’d been born.
Of course, she had gone and proven him wrong by disappearing into thin air, but at the time he’d believed all that, and if she’d let him, he would have proven it to her as well.
Now, as he stood in the pond, the water lapping at his midriff, just above his navel, he was struck once again by that odd sense of somehow being more alive than he’d been just seconds earlier. It was a good feeling, an exciting, breathless rush of emotion.
It was like before. When he’d met her.
Something was about to happen, or maybe someone was near.
His life was about to change.
And he was, he realized with wry twist of his lips, naked as the day he was born. It didn’t exactly put a man at an advantage, at least not unless he was in between a pair of silk sheets with an attractive young woman at his side.
Or underneath.
He took a step into slightly deeper waters, the soft sludge of the pondbottom squishing between his toes. Now the water reached a couple of inches higher. He was bloody well freezing, but at least he was mostly covered up.
He scanned the shore, looking up into trees and down in the bushes. There had to be someone there. Nothing else could account for the strange, tingling feeling that had now spread throughout his body.
And if his body could tingle while submerged in a lake so cold, he was terrified to see his own privates (the poor things felt like they’d shrunk to nothing, which was not what a man liked to imagine), then it must be a very strong tingle indeed.
“Who is out there?” he called out.
No answer. He hadn’t really expected one, but it had been worth a try.
He squinted as he searched the shore again, turning a full three hundred and sixty degrees as he watched for any sign of movement. He saw nothing but the gentle ruffling of the leaves in the wind, but as he finished his sweep of the area, he somehow knew.
“Sophie!”
He heard a gasp, followed by a huge flurry of activity.
“Sophie Beckett,” he yelled, “if you run from me right now, I swear I will follow you, and I will not take the time to don my clothing.”
The noises coming from the shore slowed.
“I will catch up with you,” he continued, “because I’m stronger and faster. And I might very well feel compelled to tackle you to the ground, just to be certain you do not escape.”
The sounds of her movement ceased.
“Good,” he grunted. “Show yourself.”
She didn’t.
“Sophie,” he warned.
There was a beat of silence, followed by the sound of slow, hesitant footsteps, and then he saw her, standing on the shore in one of those awful dresses he’d like to see sunk to the bottom of the Thames.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“I went for a walk. What are you doing here?” she countered. “You’re supposed to be ill. That”—she waved her arm toward him and, by extension, the pond—“can’t possibly be good for you.”
He ignored her question and comment. “Were you following me?”
“Of course not,” she replied, and he rather believed her. He didn’t think she possessed the acting talents to fake that level of righteousness.
“I would never follow you to a swimming hole,” she continued. “It would be indecent.”
And then her face went completely red, because they both knew she hadn’t a leg to stand on with that argument. If she had truly been concerned about decency, she’d have left the pond the second she’d seen him, accidentally or not.
He lifted one hand from the water and pointed toward her, twisting his wrist as he motioned for her to turn around. “Give me your back while you wait for me,” he ordered. “It will only take me a moment to pull on my clothing.”
“I’ll go home right now,” she offered. “You’ll enjoy greater privacy, and—”
“You’ll stay,” he said firmly.
“But—”
He crossed his arms. “Do I look like a man in the mood to be argued with?”
She stared at him mutinously.
“If you run,” he warned, “I will catch you.”
Sophie eyed the distance between them, then tried to judge the distance back to My Cottage. If he stopped to pull on his clothing she might have a chance of escaping, but if he didn’t . . .
“Sophie,” he said, “I can practically see the steam coming out of your ears. Stop taxing your brain with useless mathematical computations and do as I asked.”
One of her feet twitched. Whether it was itching to run home or merely turn around, she’d never know.
“Now,” he ordered.
With a loud sigh and grumble, Sophie crossed her arms and turned around to stare at a knothole in the tree trunk in front of her as if her very life depended on it. The infernal man wasn’t being particularly quiet as he went about his business, and she couldn’t seem to keep herself from listening to and trying to identify every sound that rustled and splashed behind her. Now he was emerging from the water, now he was reaching for his breeches, now he was . . .
It was no use. She had a dreadfully wicked imagination, and there was no getting around it.
He should have just let her return to the house. Instead she was forced to wait, utterly mortified, while he dressed. Her skin felt like it was on fire, and she was certain her cheeks must be eight different shades of red. A gentleman would have let her weasel out of her embarrassment and hole up in her room back at the house for at least three days in hopes that he’d just forget about the entire affair.
But Benedict Bridgerton was obviously determined not to be a gentleman this afternoon, because when she moved one of her feet—just to flex her toes, which were falling asleep in her shoes, honest!—barely half a second passed before he growled, “Don’t even think about it.”
“I wasn’t!” she protested. “My foot was falling asleep. And hurry up! It can’t possibly take so long to get dressed.”
“Oh?” he drawled.
“You’re doing this just to torture me,” she grumbled.
“You may feel free to face me at any time,” he said, his voice laced with quiet amuse
ment. “I assure you that I asked you to turn your back for the sake of your sensibilities, not mine.”
“I’m just fine where I am,” she replied.
After what seemed like an hour but what was probably only three minutes, she heard him say, “You may turn around now.”
Sophie was almost afraid to do so. He had just the sort of perverse sense of humor that would compel him to order her around before he’d donned his clothing.
But she decided to trust him—not, she was forced to admit, that she had much choice in the matter—and so she turned around. Much to her relief and, if she was to be honest with herself, a fair bit of disappointment, he was quite decently dressed, save for a smattering of damp spots where the water from his skin had seeped through the fabric of his clothing.
“Why didn’t you just let me run home?” she asked.
“I wanted you here,” he said simply.
“But why?” she persisted.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Punishment, perhaps, for spying on me.”
“I wasn’t—” Sophie’s denial was automatic, but she cut herself off halfway through, because of course she’d been spying on him.
“Smart girl,” he murmured.
She scowled at him. She would have liked to have said something utterly droll and witty, but she had a feeling that anything emerging from her mouth just then would have been quite the opposite, so she held her tongue. Better to be a silent fool than a talkative one.
“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.
