by Julia Quinn
His eyes flashed furiously. “I don’t believe you. No one would make that choice.”
“I did.”
“You’re a fool.”
She said nothing.
“Do you understand what you’re giving up?” he persisted, his arm waving wildly as he spoke. She’d hurt him, she realized. She’d hurt him and insulted his pride, and he was lashing out like a wounded bear.
Sophie nodded, even though he wasn’t looking at her face.
“I could give you whatever you wanted,” he bit off. “Clothes, jewels—Hell, forget about the clothes and jewels, I could give you a bloody roof over your head, which is more than you have now.”
“That is true,” she said quietly.
He leaned forward, his eyes burning hot into hers. “I could give you everything.”
Somehow she managed to stand up straight, and somehow she managed not to cry. And somehow she even managed to keep her voice even as she said, “If you think that’s everything, then you probably wouldn’t understand why I must refuse.”
She took a step back, intending to head to His Cottage and pack her meager bag, but he obviously wasn’t through with her yet, because he stopped her with a strident, “Where are you going?”
“Back to the cottage,” she said. “To pack my bag.”
“And where do you think you’re going to go with that bag?”
Her mouth fell open. Surely he didn’t expect her to stay.
“Do you have a job?” he demanded. “A place to go?”
“No,” she replied, “but—”
He planted his hands on his hips and glared at her. “And you think I’m going to just let you leave here, with no money or prospects?”
Sophie was so surprised she started to blink uncontrollably. “W-well,” she stammered, “I didn’t think—”
“No, you didn’t think,” he snapped.
She just stared at him, eyes wide and lips parted, unable to believe what she was hearing.
“You bloody fool,” he swore. “Do you have any idea how dangerous it is in the world for a woman alone?”
“Er, yes,” she managed. “Actually, I do.”
If he heard her, he gave no indication, just went on about “men who take advantage” and “helpless women” and “fates worse than death.” Sophie wasn’t positive, but she thought she even heard the phrase, “roast beef and pudding.” About halfway through his tirade, she lost all ability to focus on his words. She just kept watching his mouth and hearing the tone of his voice, all the while trying to comprehend the fact that he seemed remarkably concerned for her welfare, considering that she’d just summarily rejected him.
“Are you even listening to a word I’m saying?” Benedict demanded.
Sophie didn’t nod or shake her head, instead doing an odd combination of both.
Benedict swore under his breath. “That’s it,” he announced. “You’re coming back to London with me.”
That seemed to wake her up. “I just said I’m not!”
“You don’t have to be my damned mistress,” he bit off. “But I’m not leaving you to fend for yourself.”
“I was fending for myself quite adequately before I met you.”
“Adequately?” he sputtered. “At the Cavenders’? You call that adequate?”
“You’re not being fair!”
“And you’re not being intelligent.”
Benedict thought that his argument was most reasonable, if a little overbearing, but Sophie obviously did not agree, because, much to his surprise, he found himself lying faceup on the ground, having been felled by a remarkably quick right hook.
“Don’t you ever call me stupid,” she hissed.
Benedict blinked, trying to get his eyesight back to the point where he only saw one of her. “I wasn’t—”
“Yes, you were,” she replied in a low, angry voice. Then she turned on her heel, and in the split second before she stalked away, he realized he had only one way to stop her. He certainly wasn’t going to make it to his feet with anything resembling speed in his current befuddled state, so he reached out and grabbed one of her ankles with both of his hands, sending her sprawling onto the ground right next to him.
It wasn’t a particularly gentlemanly maneuver, but beggars really couldn’t be choosers, and besides, she had thrown the first punch.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he growled.
Sophie slowly lifted her head, spitting out dirt as she glared at him. “I cannot believe,” she said scathingly, “that you just did that.”
Benedict let go of her foot and hauled himself to a crouching position. “Believe it.”
“You—”
He held up a hand. “Don’t say anything now. I beg you.”
Her eyes bugged out. “You’re begging me?”
“I hear your voice,” he informed her, “therefore you must be speaking.”
“But—”
“And as for begging you,” he said, effectively cutting her off again, “I assure you it was merely a figure of speech.”
She opened her mouth to say something, then obviously thought the better of it, clamping her lips shut with the petulant look of a three-year-old. Benedict let out a short breath, then offered her his hand. She was, after all, still sitting in the dirt and not looking especially happy about it.
She stared at his hand with remarkable revulsion, then moved her gaze to his face and glared at him with such ferocity that Benedict wondered if he had recently sprouted horns. Still not saying a word, she ignored his offer of help and hefted herself to her feet.
“As you like,” he murmured.
“A poor choice of words,” she snapped, then started marching away.
As Benedict was on his feet this time, he felt no need to incapacitate her. Instead, he dogged her every step, remaining a mere (and annoying, he was sure) two paces behind her. Finally, after about a minute, she turned around and said, “Please leave me alone.”
“I’m afraid I can’t,” he said.
“Can’t or won’t?”
He thought about that for a moment. “Can’t.”
She scowled at him and kept walking.
“I find it as difficult to believe as you do,” Benedict called out, keeping pace with her.
She stopped and turned around. “That is impossible.”
“I can’t help it,” he said with a shrug. “I find myself completely unwilling to let you go.”
“‘Unwilling’ is a far cry from ‘can’t.’”
“I didn’t save you from Cavender just to let you squander your life away.”
“That isn’t your choice to make.”
She had a point there, but he wasn’t inclined to give it to her. “Perhaps,” he allowed, “but I’m going to make it, anyway. You’re coming with me to London. We will discuss it no further.”
“You’re trying to punish me,” she said, “because I refused you.”
“No,” he said slowly, considering her words even as he answered. “No, I’m not. I’d like to punish you, and in my current state of mind I’d even go so far as to say you deserve to be punished, but that’s not why I’m doing it.”
“Then why are you?”
“It’s for your own good.”
“That’s the most condescending, patronizing—”
“I’m sure you’re right,” he allowed, “but nonetheless, in this particular case, at this particular moment, I know what’s best for you, and you clearly don’t, so—don’t hit me again,” he warned.
Sophie looked down at her fist, which she hadn’t even realized was pulled back and ready to fly. He was turning her into a monster. There was no other explanation. She didn’t think she’d ever hit anyone in her life, and here she was ready to do it for the second time that day.
Eyes never leaving her hand, she slowly unclenched her fist, stretching her fingers out like a starfish and holding them there for the count of three. “How,” she said in a very low voice, “do you intend to stop me
from going my way?”
“Does it really matter?” he asked, shrugging nonchalantly. “I’m sure I’ll think of something.”
Her mouth fell open. “Are you saying you’d tie me up and—”
“I didn’t say anything of the sort,” he cut in with a wicked grin. “But the idea certainly has its charms.”
“You are despicable,” she spat.
“And you sound like the heroine of a very poorly written novel,” he replied. “What did you say you were reading this morning?”
Sophie felt the muscles working frenetically in her cheek, felt her jaw clenching to the point where she was certain her teeth would shatter. How Benedict managed to be the most wonderful and the most awful man in the world at the very same time, she would never understand. Right now, though, the awful side seemed to be winning, and she was quite certain—logic aside—that if she remained in his company one more second, her head would explode.
“I’m leaving!” she said, with, in her opinion, great drama and resolve.
But he just answered her with a sly half smile, and said, “I’m following.”
And the bloody man remained two strides behind her the entire way home.
Benedict didn’t often go out of his way to annoy people (with the notable exception of his siblings), but Sophie Beckett clearly brought out the devil in him. He stood in the doorway to her room as she packed, casually lounging against the doorframe. His arms were crossed in a manner that he somehow knew would vex her, and his right leg was slightly bent, the toe of his boot stubbed up against the floor.
“Don’t forget your dress,” he said helpfully.
She glared at him.
“The ugly one,” he added, as if clarification were necessary.
“They’re both ugly,” she spat out.
Ah, a reaction. “I know.”
She went back to shoving her belongings into her satchel.
He waved an arm expansively. “Feel free to take a souvenir.”
She straightened, her hands planted angrily on her hips. “Does that include the silver tea service? Because I could live for several years on what that would fetch.”
“You may certainly take the tea service,” he replied genially, “as you will not be out of my company.”
“I will not be your mistress,” she hissed. “I told you, I won’t do it. I can’t do it.”
Something about her use of the word “can’t” struck him as significant. He mulled that over for a few moments while she gathered up the last of her belongings and cinched shut the drawstring to her satchel.
“That’s it,” he murmured.
She ignored him, instead marching toward the door and giving him a pointed look.
He knew she wanted him to get out of the way so she could depart. He didn’t move a muscle, save for one finger that thoughtfully stroked the side of his jaw. “You’re illegitimate,” he said.
The blood drained from her face.
“You are,” he said, more to himself than to her. Strangely, he felt rather relieved by the revelation. It explained her rejection of him, made it into something that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with her.
It took the sting out.
“I don’t care if you’re illegitimate,” he said, trying not to smile. It was a serious moment, but by God, he wanted to break out in a grin because now she’d come to London with him and be his mistress. There were no more obstacles, and—
“You don’t understand anything,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s not about whether I’m good enough to be your mistress.”
“I would care for any children we might have,” he said solemnly, pushing himself away from the doorframe.
Her stance grew even more rigid, if that were possible. “And what about your wife?”
“I don’t have a wife.”
“Ever?”
He froze. A vision of the masquerade lady danced through his mind. He’d pictured her many ways. Sometimes she wore her silver ballgown, sometimes nothing at all.
Sometimes she wore a wedding dress.
Sophie’s eyes narrowed as she watched his face, then she snorted derisively as she stalked past him.
He followed. “That’s not a fair question, Sophie,” he said, dogging her heels.
She moved down the hall, not even pausing when she reached the stairs. “I think it’s more than fair.”
He raced down the stairs until he was below her, halting her progress. “I have to marry someday.”
Sophie stopped. She had to; he was blocking her path. “Yes, you do,” she said. “But I don’t have to be anyone’s mistress.”
“Who was your father, Sophie?”
“I don’t know,” she lied.
“Who was your mother?”
“She died at my birth.”
“I thought you said she was a housekeeper.”
“Clearly I misrepresented the truth,” she said, past the point of caring that she’d been caught in a lie.
“Where did you grow up?”
“It’s of no interest,” she said, trying to squirm her way past him.
One of his hands wrapped itself around her upper arm, holding her firmly in place. “I find it very interesting.”
“Let me go!”
Her cry pierced the silence of the hall, loud enough so that the Crabtrees would certainly come running to save her. Except that Mrs. Crabtree had gone to the village, and Mr. Crabtree was outside, out of earshot. There was no one to help her, and she was at his mercy.
“I can’t let you go,” he whispered. “You’re not cut out for a life of servitude. It will kill you.”
“If it were going to kill me,” she returned, “it would have done so years ago.”
“But you don’t have to do this any longer,” he persisted.
“Don’t you dare try to make this about me,” she said, nearly shaking with emotion. “You’re not doing this out of concern for my welfare. You just don’t like being thwarted.”
“That is true,” he admitted, “but I also won’t see you cast adrift.”
“I have been adrift all my life,” she whispered, and she felt the traitorous sting of tears prick her eyes. God above, she didn’t want to cry in front of this man. Not now, not when she felt so off-balance and weak.
He touched her chin. “Let me be your anchor.”
Sophie closed her eyes. His touch was painfully sweet, and a not very small part of her was aching to accept his offer, to leave the life she’d been forced to live and cast her lot with him, this marvelous, wonderful, infuriating man who had haunted her dreams for years.
But the pain of her childhood was still too fresh. And the stigma of her illegitimacy felt like a brand on her soul.
She would not do this to another child.
“I can’t,” she whispered. “I wish—”
“What do you wish?” he asked urgently.
She shook her head. She’d been about to tell him that she wished that she could, but she knew that such words would be unwise. He would only latch on to them, and press his cause anew.
And that would make it all the harder to say no.
“You leave me no choice, then,” he stated grimly.
Her eyes met his.
“Either you come with me to London, and—” He held up a silencing hand when she tried to protest. “And I will find you a position in my mother’s household,” he added pointedly.
“Or?” she asked, her voice sullen.
“Or I will have to inform the magistrate that you have stolen from me.”
Her mouth abruptly tasted like acid. “You wouldn’t,” she whispered.
“I certainly don’t want to.”
“But you would.”
He nodded. “I would.”
“They’d hang me,” she said. “Or send me to Australia.”
“Not if I requested otherwise.”
“And what would you request?”
His brown eyes looked strangely flat, and she sudd
enly realized that he wasn’t enjoying the conversation any more than she was.
“I would request,” he said, “that you be released into my custody.”
“That would be very convenient for you.”
His fingers, which had been touching her chin all the while, slid down to her shoulder. “I’m only trying to save you from yourself.”
Sophie walked to a nearby window and looked out, surprised that he hadn’t tried to stop her. “You’re making me hate you, you know,” she said.
“I can live with that.”
She gave him a curt nod. “I will wait for you in the library, then. I would like to leave today.”
Benedict watched her walk away, stood utterly still as the door to the library closed behind her. He knew she would not flee. She was not the sort to go back on her word.
He couldn’t let this one go. She had left—the great and mysterious “she,” he thought with a bitter smile—the one woman who had touched his heart.
The same woman who had not even given him her name.
But now there was Sophie, and she did things to him. Things he hadn’t felt since her. He was sick of pining for a woman who practically didn’t exist. Sophie was here, and Sophie would be his.
And, he thought with grim determination, Sophie was not going to leave him.
“I can live with you hating me,” he said to the closed door. “I just can’t live without you.”
Chapter 13
It was previously reported in this column that This Author predicted a possible match between Miss Rosamund Reiling and Mr. Phillip Cavender. This Author can now say that this is not likely to occur. Lady Penwood (Miss Reiling’s mother) has been heard to say that she will not settle for a mere mister, even though Miss Reiling’s father, while certainly wellborn, was not a member of the aristocracy.
Not to mention, of course, that Mr. Cavender has begun to show a decided interest in Miss Cressida Cowper.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 9 MAY 1817
Sophie started feeling ill the minute the carriage departed My Cottage. By the time they stopped for the night at an inn in Oxfordshire, she was downright queasy. And when they reached the outskirts of London . . . Well, she was quite convinced she would throw up.
Somehow she managed to keep the contents of her stomach where they belonged, but as their carriage wended farther into the tangled streets of London, she was filled with an intense sense of apprehension.
