by Julia Quinn
“I pray you never have to find out.”
He nodded grimly. “As do I.”
They rode on, silence cloaking the night. Sophie remembered the masquerade ball, when they hadn’t lacked for conversation, even for a moment. It was different now, she realized. She was a housemaid, not a glorious woman of the ton. They had nothing in common.
But still, she kept waiting for him to recognize her, to yank the carriage to a halt, clasp her to his chest, and tell her he’d been looking for her for two years. But that wasn’t going to happen, she soon realized. He couldn’t recognize the lady in the housemaid, and in all truth, why should he?
People saw what they expected to see. And Benedict Bridgerton surely didn’t expect to see a fine lady of the ton in the guise of a humble housemaid.
Not a day had gone by that she hadn’t thought of him, hadn’t remembered his lips on hers, or the heady magic of that costumed night. He had become the centerpiece of her fantasies, dreams in which she was a different person, with different parents. In her dreams, she’d met him at a ball, maybe her own ball, hosted by her devoted mother and father. He courted her sweetly, with fragrant flowers and stolen kisses. And then, on a mellow spring day, while the birds were singing and a gentle breeze ruffled the air, he got down on one knee and asked her to marry him, professing his everlasting love and adoration.
It was a fine daydream, surpassed only by the one in which they lived happily ever after, with three or four splendid children, born safely within the sacrament of marriage.
But even with all her fantasies, she never imagined she’d actually see him again, much less be rescued by him from a trio of licentious attackers.
She wondered if he ever thought of the mysterious woman in silver with whom he’d shared one passionate kiss. She liked to think that he did, but she doubted that it had meant as much to him as it had to her. He was a man, after all, and had most likely kissed dozens of women.
And for him, that one night had been much like any other. Sophie still read Whistledown whenever she could get her hands on it. She knew that he attended scores of balls. Why should one masquerade stand out in his memory?
Sophie sighed and looked down at her hands, still clutching the drawstring to her small bag. She wished she owned gloves, but her only pair had worn out earlier that year, and she hadn’t been able to afford another. Her hands looked rough and chapped, and her fingers were growing cold.
“Is that everything you own?” Benedict asked, motioning to the bag.
She nodded. “I haven’t much, I’m afraid. Just a change of clothing and a few personal mementos.”
He was silent for a moment, then said, “You have quite a refined accent for a housemaid.”
He was not the first to make that observation, so Sophie gave him her stock answer. “My mother was a housekeeper to a very kind and generous family. They allowed me to share some of their daughters’ lessons.”
“Why do you not work there?” With an expert twist of his wrists, he guided his team to the left side of the fork in the road. “I assume you do not speak of the Cavenders.”
“No,” she replied, trying to devise a proper answer. No one had ever bothered to probe deeper than her offered explanation. No one had ever been interested enough to care. “My mother passed on,” she finally replied, “and I did not deal well with the new housekeeper.”
He seemed to accept that, and they rode on for a few minutes. The night was almost silent, save for the wind and the rhythmic clip-clop of the horses’ hooves. Finally, Sophie, unable to contain her curiosity, asked, “Where are we going?”
“I have a cottage not far away,” he replied. “We’ll stay there a night or two, then I’ll take you to my mother’s home. I’m certain she’ll find a position for you in her household.”
Sophie’s heart began to pound. “This cottage of yours . . .”
“You will be properly chaperoned,” he said with a faint smile. “The caretakers will be in attendance, and I assure you that Mr. and Mrs. Crabtree are not likely to let anything untoward occur in their house.”
“I thought it was your house.”
His smile grew deeper. “I have been trying to get them to think of it as such for years, but I have never been successful.”
Sophie felt her lips tug up at the corners. “They sound like people I would like very much.”
“I expect you would.”
And then there was more silence. Sophie kept her eyes scrupulously straight ahead. She had the most absurd fear that if their eyes met, he would recognize her. But that was mere fancy. He’d already looked her squarely in the eye, more than once even, and he still thought her nothing but a housemaid.
After a few minutes, however, she felt the oddest tingling in her cheek, and as she turned to face him she saw that he kept glancing at her with an odd expression.
“Have we met?” he blurted out.
“No,” she said, her voice a touch more choked than she would have preferred. “I don’t believe so.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” he muttered, “but still, you do seem rather familiar.”
“All housemaids look the same,” she said with a wry smile.
“I used to think so,” he mumbled.
She turned her face forward, her jaw dropping. Why had she said that? Didn’t she want him to recognize her? Hadn’t she spent the last half hour hoping and wishing and dreaming and—
And that was the problem. She was dreaming. In her dreams he loved her. In her dreams he asked her to marry him. In reality, he might ask her to become his mistress, and that was something she’d sworn she would never do. In reality, he might feel honor bound to return her to Araminta, who would probably turn her straightaways over to the magistrate for stealing her shoe clips (and Sophie didn’t for one moment think that Araminta hadn’t noticed their disappearance.)
No, it was best if he did not recognize her. It would only complicate her life, and considering that she had no source of income, and in fact very little beyond the clothes on her back, her life did not need complications at this point.
And yet she felt unaccountably disappointed that he had not instantly known who she was.
“Is that a raindrop?” Sophie asked, eager to keep the conversation on more benign topics.
Benedict looked up. The moon was now obscured by clouds. “It didn’t look like rain when we left,” he murmured. A fat raindrop landed on his thigh. “But I do believe you’re correct.”
She glanced at the sky. “The wind has picked up quite a bit. I hope it doesn’t storm.”
“It’s sure to storm,” he said wryly, “as we are in an open carriage. If I had taken my coach, there wouldn’t be a cloud in the sky.”
“How close are we to your cottage?”
“About half an hour away, I should think.” He frowned. “Provided we are not slowed by the rain.”
“Well, I do not mind a bit of rain,” she said gamely. “There are far worse things than getting wet.”
They both knew exactly what she was talking about.
“I don’t think I remembered to thank you,” she said, her words quiet.
Benedict turned his head sharply. By all that was holy, there was something damned familiar about her voice. But when his eyes searched her face, all he saw was a simple housemaid. A very attractive housemaid, to be sure, but a housemaid nonetheless. No one with whom he would ever have crossed paths.
“It was nothing,” he finally said.
“To you, perhaps. To me it was everything.”
Uncomfortable with such appreciation, he just nodded and gave one of those grunts men tended to emit when they didn’t know what to say.
“It was a very brave thing you did,” she said.
He grunted again.
And then the heavens opened up in earnest.
It took about one minute for Benedict’s clothes to be soaked through. “I’ll get there as quickly as I can,” he yelled, trying to make himself heard over the wind.
“Don’t worry about me!” Sophie called back, but when he looked over at her, he saw that she was huddling into herself, her arms wrapped tightly over her chest as she tried to conserve the heat of her body.
“Let me give you my coat.”
She shook her head and actually laughed. “It’ll probably make me even wetter, soaked as it is.”
He nudged the horses into a faster pace, but the road was growing muddy, and the wind was whipping the rain every which way, reducing the already mediocre visibility.
Bloody hell. This was just what he needed. He’d had a head cold all last week, and he probably wasn’t completely recovered. A ride in the freezing rain would most likely set him back, and he’d spend the next month with a runny nose, watery eyes . . . all those infuriating, unattractive symptoms.
Of course . . .
Benedict couldn’t quite contain a smile. Of course, if he were ill again, his mother couldn’t try to cajole him into attending every single party in town, all in the hopes that he would find some suitable young lady and settle down into a quiet and happy marriage.
To his credit, he always kept his eyes open, was always on the lookout for a prospective bride. He certainly wasn’t opposed to marriage on principle. His brother Anthony and his sister Daphne had made splendidly happy matches. But Anthony’s and Daphne’s marriages were splendidly happy because they’d been smart enough to wed the right people, and Benedict was quite certain he had not yet met the right person.
No, he thought, his mind wandering back a few years, that wasn’t entirely true. He’d once met someone . . .
The lady in silver.
When he’d held her in his arms and twirled her around the balcony in her very first waltz, he’d felt something different inside, a fluttering, tingling sensation. It should have scared the hell out of him.
But it hadn’t. It had left him breathless, excited . . . and determined to have her.
But then she’d disappeared. It was as if the world were actually flat, and she’d fallen right off the edge. He’d learned nothing in that irritating interview with Lady Penwood, and when he’d queried his friends and family, no one knew anything about a young woman wearing a silver dress.
She hadn’t arrived with anyone and she hadn’t left with anyone. For all intents and purposes, she hadn’t even existed.
He’d watched for her at every ball, party, and musicale he attended. Hell, he attended twice as many functions as usual, just in the hopes that he’d catch a glimpse of her.
But he’d always come home disappointed.
He’d thought he would stop looking for her. He was a practical man, and he’d assumed that eventually he would simply give up. And in some ways, he had. After a few months he found himself back in the habit of turning down more invitations than he accepted. A few months after that, he realized that he was once again able to meet women and not automatically compare them to her.
But he couldn’t stop himself from watching for her. He might not feel the same urgency, but whenever he attended a ball or took a seat at a musicale, he found his eyes sweeping across the crowd, his ears straining for the lilt of her laughter.
She was out there somewhere. He’d long since resigned himself to the fact that he wasn’t likely to find her, and he hadn’t searched actively for over a year, but . . .
He smiled wistfully. He just couldn’t stop from looking. It had become, in a very strange way, a part of who he was. His name was Benedict Bridgerton, he had seven brothers and sisters, was rather skilled with both a sword and a sketching crayon, and he always kept his eyes open for the one woman who had touched his soul.
He kept hoping . . . and wishing . . . and watching. And even though he told himself it was probably time to marry, he just couldn’t muster the enthusiasm to do so.
Because what if he put his ring on some woman’s finger, and the next day he saw her?
It would be enough to break his heart.
No, it would be more than that. It would be enough to shatter his soul.
Benedict breathed a sigh of relief as he saw the village of Rosemeade approaching. Rosemeade meant that his cottage was a mere five minutes away, and lud, but he couldn’t wait to get inside and throw himself into a steaming tub of water.
He glanced over at Miss Beckett. She, too, was shivering, but, he thought with a touch of admiration, she hadn’t let out even a peep of complaint. Benedict tried to think of another woman of his acquaintance who would have stood up to the elements with such fortitude and came up empty-handed. Even his sister Daphne, who was as good a sport as any, would have been howling about the cold by now.
“We’re almost there,” he assured her.
“I’m all—Oh! Are you all right?”
Benedict was gripped by wave of coughs, the deep, hacking kind that rumble down in one’s chest. His lungs felt as if they were on fire, and his throat like someone had taken a razor blade to it.
“I’m fine,” he gasped, jerking slightly on the reins to make up for the lack of direction he’d given the horses while he was coughing.
“You don’t sound fine.”
“Had a head cold last week,” he said with a wince. Damn, but his lungs felt sore.
“That didn’t sound like your head,” she said, giving him what she obviously hoped was a teasing smile. But it didn’t look like a teasing smile. In truth, she looked terribly concerned.
“Must’ve moved,” he muttered.
“I don’t want you getting sick on my account.”
He tried to grin, but his cheekbones ached too much. “I would’ve been caught in the rain whether I’d taken you along or not.”
“Still—”
Whatever she’d intended to say was lost under another stream of deep, chesty coughs.
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
“Let me drive,” she said, reaching for the reins.
He turned to her in disbelief. “This is a phaeton, not a single-horse wagon.”
Sophie fought the urge to throttle him. His nose was running, his eyes were red, he couldn’t stop coughing, and still he found the energy to act like an arrogant peacock. “I assure you,” she said slowly, “that I know how to drive a team of horses.”
“And where did you acquire that skill?”
“The same family that allowed me to share in their daughters’ lessons,” Sophie lied. “I learned to drive a team when the girls learned.”
“The lady of the house must have taken quite a liking to you,” he said.
“She did quite,” Sophie replied, trying not to laugh. Araminta had been the lady of the house, and she’d fought tooth and nail every time her father had insisted that she be allowed to receive the same instruction as Rosamund and Posy. They’d all three learned how to drive teams the year before the earl had died.
“I’ll drive, thank you,” Benedict said sharply. Then he ruined the entire effect by launching into yet another coughing fit.
Sophie reached for the reins. “For the love of—”
“Here,” he said, thrusting them toward her, as he wiped his eyes. “Take them. But I’ll be watching you.”
“I would expect no less,” she said peevishly. The rain didn’t exactly make for ideal driving conditions, and it had been years since she’d held reins in her hands, but she thought she acquitted herself rather nicely. There were some things one didn’t forget, she supposed.
It felt rather nice, actually, to do something she hadn’t done since her previous life, when she’d been, officially at least, an earl’s ward. She’d had fine clothes then, and good food, and interesting lessons, and . . .
She sighed. It hadn’t been perfect, but it had been better than anything that had come after.
“What’s wrong?” Benedict asked.
“Nothing. Why should you think something is wrong?”
“You sighed.”
“You heard me over the wind?” she asked incredulously.
“I’ve been paying close attention. I’m
sick enough”—cough cough—“without you landing us in a ditch.”
Sophie decided not even to credit him with a reply.
“Turn right up ahead,” he directed. “It’ll take us directly to my cottage.”
She did as he asked. “Does your cottage have a name?”
“My Cottage.”
“I might have known,” she muttered.
He smirked. Quite a feat, in her opinion, since he looked sick as a dog. “I’m not kidding,” he said.
Sure enough, in another minute they pulled up in front of an elegant country house, complete with a small, unobtrusive sign in front reading, MY COTTAGE.
“The previous owner coined the name,” Benedict said as he directed her toward the stables, “but it seemed to fit me as well.”
Sophie looked over at the house, which, while fairly small, was no humble dwelling. “You call this a cottage?”
“No, the previous owner did,” he replied. “You should have seen his other house.”
A moment later they were out of the rain, and Benedict had hopped down and was unhitching the horses. He was wearing gloves, but they were completely sodden and slipping on the bridle, and so he peeled them off and flung them away. Sophie watched him as he went about his work. His fingers were wrinkled like prunes and trembling from the cold. “Let me help,” she said, stepping forward.
“I can do it.”
“Of course you can,” she said placatingly, “but you can do it faster with my help.”
He turned, presumably to refuse her again, then doubled over as he was wracked by coughs. Sophie quickly rushed in and led him to a nearby bench. “Sit down, please,” she implored him. “I’ll finish up the job.”
She thought he’d disagree, but this time he gave in. “I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. “I—”
“There’s nothing to feel sorry about,” she said, making quick work of the job. Or as quick as she could; her fingers were still numb, and bits of her skin had turned white from having been wet for so long.
“Not very . . .” He coughed again, this one lower and deeper than before. “. . . gentlemanly of me.”
“Oh, I think I can forgive you this time, considering the way you saved me earlier this evening.” Sophie tried to give him a jaunty smile, but for some reason it wobbled, and without warning she found herself inexplicably near tears. She turned quickly away, not wanting him to see her face.
