by Julia Quinn
“Well, she didn’t have time to prepare a proper breakfast with beef pie and fish,” Mr. Crabtree said, “but I believe she has bacon and ham and eggs and toast.”
Sophie’s stomach positively growled. She clapped a hand to her belly, just barely resisting the urge to hiss, “Be quiet!”
“You should have told us you were coming,” Mr. Crabtree added, shaking a finger at Benedict. “We never would have gone visiting if we’d known to expect you.”
“It was a spur-of-the-moment decision,” Benedict said, stretching his neck from side to side. “Went to a bad party and decided to leave.”
Mr. Crabtree jerked his head toward Sophie. “Where’d she come from?”
“She was at the party.”
“I wasn’t at the party,” Sophie corrected. “I just happened to be there.”
Mr. Crabtree squinted at her suspiciously. “What’s the difference?”
“I wasn’t attending the party. I was a servant at the house.”
“You’re a servant?”
Sophie nodded. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
“You don’t look like a servant.” Mr. Crabtree turned to Benedict. “Does she look like a servant to you?”
Benedict shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know what she looks like.”
Sophie scowled at him. It might not have been an insult, but it certainly wasn’t a compliment.
“If she’s somebody else’s servant,” Mr. Crabtree persisted, “then what’s she doing here?”
“May I save my explanations until Mrs. Crabtree returns?” Benedict asked. “Since I’m certain she’ll repeat all of your questions?”
Mr. Crabtree looked at him for a moment, blinked, nodded, then turned back to Sophie. “Why’re you dressed like that?”
Sophie looked down and realized with horror that she’d completely forgotten she was wearing men’s clothes. Men’s clothes so big that she could barely keep the breeches from falling to her feet. “My clothes were wet,” she explained, “from the rain.”
Mr. Crabtree nodded sympathetically. “Quite a storm last night. That’s why we stayed over at our daughter’s. We’d planned to come home, you know.”
Benedict and Sophie just nodded.
“She doesn’t live terribly far away,” Mr. Crabtree continued. “Just on the other side of the village.” He glanced over at Benedict, who nodded immediately.
“Has a new baby,” he added. “A girl.”
“Congratulations,” Benedict said, and Sophie could see from his face that he was not merely being polite. He truly meant it.
A loud clomping sound came from the stairway; surely Mrs. Crabtree returning with breakfast. “I ought to help,” Sophie said, jumping up and dashing for the door.
“Once a servant, always a servant,” Mr. Crabtree said sagely.
Benedict wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw Sophie wince.
A minute later, Mrs. Crabtree entered, bearing a splendid silver tea service.
“Where’s Sophie?” Benedict asked.
“I sent her down to get the rest,” Mrs. Crabtree replied. “She should be up in no time. Nice girl,” she added in a matter-of-fact tone, “but she needs a belt for those breeches you lent her.”
Benedict felt something squeeze suspiciously in his chest at the thought of Sophie-the-housemaid, with her breeches ’round her ankles. He gulped uncomfortably when he realized the tight sensation might very well be desire.
Then he groaned and grabbed at his throat, because uncomfortable gulps were even more uncomfortable after a night of harsh coughing.
“You need one of my tonics,” Mrs. Crabtree said.
Benedict shook his head frantically. He’d had one of her tonics before; it had had him retching for three hours.
“I won’t take no for an answer,” she warned.
“She never does,” Mr. Crabtree added.
“The tea will work wonders,” Benedict said quickly, “I’m sure.”
But Mrs. Crabtree’s attention had already been diverted. “Where is that girl?” she muttered, walking back to the door and looking out. “Sophie! Sophie!”
“If you can keep her from bringing me a tonic,” Benedict whispered urgently to Mr. Crabtree, “it’s a fiver in your pocket.”
Mr. Crabtree beamed. “Consider it done!”
“There she is,” Mrs. Crabtree declared. “Oh, heaven above.”
“What is it, dearie?” Mr. Crabtree asked, ambling toward the door.
“The poor thing can’t carry a tray and keep her breeches up at the same time,” she replied, clucking sympathetically.
“Aren’t you going to help her?” Benedict asked from the bed.
“Oh yes, of course.” She hurried out.
“I’ll be right back,” Mr. Crabtree said over his shoulder. “Don’t want to miss this.”
“Someone get the bloody girl a belt!” Benedict yelled grumpily. It didn’t seem quite fair that everyone got to go out to the hall and watch the sideshow while he was stuck in bed.
And he definitely was stuck there. Just the thought of getting up made him dizzy.
He must have been sicker than he’d realized the night before. He no longer felt the urge to cough every few seconds, but his body felt worn-out, exhausted. His muscles ached, and his throat was damned sore. Even his teeth didn’t feel quite right.
He had vague recollections of Sophie taking care of him. She’d put cool compresses on his forehead, watched over him, even sung him a lullaby. But he’d never quite seen her face. Most of the time he hadn’t had the energy to open his eyes, and even when he had, the room had been dark, always leaving her in shadows, reminding him of—
Benedict sucked in his breath, his heart thumping crazily in his chest as, in a sudden flash of clarity, he remembered his dream.
He’d dreamed of her.
It was not a new dream, although it had been months since he’d been visited by it. It was not a fantasy for the innocent, either. Benedict was no saint, and when he dreamed of the woman from the masquerade, she was not wearing her silver dress.
She was not, he thought with a wicked smile, wearing anything.
But what perplexed him was why this dream would return now, after so many months of dormancy. Was there something about Sophie that had triggered it? He’d thought—he’d hoped—that the disappearance of the dream had meant he was over her.
Obviously not.
Sophie certainly didn’t look like the woman he’d danced with two years earlier. Her hair was all wrong, and she was far too thin. He distinctly remembered the lush, curvy feel of the masked woman in his arms; in comparison, Sophie could only be called scrawny. He supposed their voices were a bit similar, but he had to admit to himself that as time passed, his memories of that night grew less vivid, and he could no longer recall his mystery woman’s voice with perfect clarity. Besides, Sophie’s accent, while exceptionally refined for a housemaid, was not as upper-crust as hers had been.
Benedict let out a frustrated snort. How he hated calling her her. That seemed the cruelest of her secrets. She’d kept from him even her name. Part of him wished she’d just lied and given him a false name. At least then he’d have something to think of her by in his mind.
Something to whisper in the night, when he was staring out the window, wondering where in hell she was.
Benedict was saved from further reflection by the sounds of stumbling and bumbling in the hallway. Mr. Crabtree was the first to return, staggering under the weight of the breakfast tray.
“What happened to the rest?” Benedict asked suspiciously, eyeing the door.
“Mrs. Crabtree went off to find Sophie some proper clothing,” Mr. Crabtree replied, setting the tray down on Benedict’s desk. “Ham or bacon?”
“Both. I’m famished. And what the devil does she mean by ‘proper clothing’?”
“A dress, Mr. Bridgerton. That’s what women wear.”
Benedict seriously considered lobbing a candle stump
at him. “I meant,” he said with what he considered saintly patience, “where is she going to find a dress?”
Mr. Crabtree walked over with a plate of food on a footed tray that would fit over Benedict’s lap. “Mrs. Crabtree has several extras. She’s always happy to share.”
Benedict choked on the bite of egg he’d shoveled into his mouth. “Mrs. Crabtree and Sophie are hardly the same size.”
“Neither are you,” Mr. Crabtree pointed out, “and she wore your clothes just fine.”
“I thought you said the breeches fell off in the hall.”
“Well, we don’t have to worry about that with the dress, do we? I hardly think her shoulders are going to slip through the neck hole.”
Benedict decided it was safer for his sanity to mind his own business, and he turned his full attention to his breakfast. He was on his third plate when Mrs. Crabtree bustled in.
“Here we are!” she announced.
Sophie slunk in, practically drowning in Mrs. Crabtree’s voluminous dress. Except, of course, at her ankles. Mrs. Crabtree was a good five inches shorter than Sophie.
Mrs. Crabtree beamed. “Doesn’t she look smashing?”
“Oh, yes,” Benedict replied, lips twitching.
Sophie glared at him.
“You’ll have plenty of room for breakfast,” he said gamely.
“It’s only until I get her clothing cleaned up,” Mrs. Crabtree explained. “But at least it’s decent.” She waddled over to Benedict. “How is your breakfast, Mr. Bridgerton?”
“Delicious,” he replied. “I haven’t eaten so well in months.”
Mrs. Crabtree leaned forward and whispered, “I like your Sophie. May we keep her?”
Benedict choked. On what, he didn’t know, but he choked nonetheless. “I beg your pardon?”
“Mr. Crabtree and I aren’t as young as we used to be. We could use another set of hands around here.”
“I, ah, well . . .” He cleared his throat. “I’ll think about it.”
“Excellent.” Mrs. Crabtree crossed back to the other side of the room and grabbed Sophie’s arm. “You come with me. Your stomach has been growling all morning. When was the last time you ate?”
“Er, sometime yesterday, I should think.”
“When yesterday?” Mrs. Crabtree persisted.
Benedict hid a smile under his napkin. Sophie looked utterly overwhelmed. Mrs. Crabtree tended to do that to a person.
“Er, well, actually—”
Mrs. Crabtree planted her hands on her hips. Benedict grinned. Sophie was in for it now.
“Are you going to tell me that you didn’t eat yesterday?” Mrs. Crabtree boomed.
Sophie shot a desperate look at Benedict. He replied with a don’t-look-to-me-for-help shrug. Besides, he rather enjoyed watching Mrs. Crabtree fuss over her. He’d be willing to bet that the poor girl hadn’t been fussed over in years.
“I was very busy yesterday,” Sophie hedged.
Benedict frowned. She’d probably been busy running from Phillip Cavender and the pack of idiots he called friends.
Mrs. Crabtree shoved Sophie into the seat behind the desk. “Eat,” she ordered.
Benedict watched as Sophie tucked into the food. It was obvious that she was trying to put on her best manners, but eventually hunger must have gotten the best of her, because after a minute she was practically shoveling the food into her mouth.
It was only when Benedict noticed that his jaw was clamped together like a vise that he realized he was absolutely furious. At whom, he wasn’t precisely certain. But he did not like seeing Sophie so hungry.
They had an odd little bond, he and the housemaid. He’d saved her and she’d saved him. Oh, he doubted his fever from the night before would have killed him; if it had been truly serious, he’d still be battling it now. But she had cared for him and made him comfortable and probably hastened his road to recovery.
“Will you make certain she eats at least another plateful?” Mrs. Crabtree asked Benedict. “I’m going to make up a room for her.”
“In the servants’ quarters,” Sophie said quickly.
“Don’t be a silly. Until we hire you on, you’re not a servant here.”
“But—”
“Nothing more about it,” Mrs. Crabtree interrupted.
“Would you like my help, dearie?” Mr. Crabtree asked.
Mrs. Crabtree nodded, and in a moment the couple was gone.
Sophie paused in her quest to consume as much food as humanly possible to stare at the door through which they’d just disappeared. She supposed they considered her one of their own, because if she’d been anything but a servant, they’d never have left her alone with Benedict. Reputations could be ruined on far less.
“You didn’t eat at all yesterday, did you?” Benedict asked quietly.
Sophie shook her head.
“Next time I see Cavender,” he growled, “I’m going to beat him to a bloody pulp.”
If she were a better person, she would have been horrified, but Sophie couldn’t quite prevent a smile at the thought of Benedict further defending her honor. Or of seeing Phillip Cavender with his nose relocated to his forehead.
“Fill up your plate again,” Benedict said. “If only for my sake. I assure you that Mrs. Crabtree counted how many eggs and strips of bacon were on the platter when she left, and she’ll have my head if the numbers haven’t gone down by the time she returns.”
“She’s a very nice lady,” Sophie said, reaching for the eggs. The first plate of food had barely touched upon her hunger; she needed no further urging to eat.
“The best.”
Sophie expertly balanced a slice of ham between a serving fork and spoon and moved it to her plate. “How are you feeling this morning, Mr. Bridgerton?”
“Very well, thank you. Or if not well, then at least a damn sight better than I did last night.”
“I was very worried about you,” she said, spearing a corner of the ham with her fork and then cutting a piece off with her knife.
“It was very kind of you to care for me.”
She chewed, swallowed, then said, “It was nothing, really. Anyone would have done it.”
“Perhaps,” he said, “but not with such grace and good humor.”
Sophie’s fork froze in midair. “Thank you,” she said softly. “That is a lovely compliment.”
“I didn’t . . . er . . .” He cleared his throat.
Sophie eyed him curiously, waiting for him to finish whatever it was he wanted to say.
“Never mind,” he mumbled.
Disappointed, she put a piece of ham in her mouth.
“I didn’t do anything for which I ought to apologize, did I?” he suddenly blurted out.
Sophie spat the ham out into her napkin.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he muttered.
“No!” she said quickly. “Not at all. You merely startled me.”
His eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t lie to me about this, would you?”
Sophie shook her head as she remembered the single, perfect kiss she’d given him. He hadn’t done anything that required an apology, but that didn’t mean that she hadn’t.
“You’re blushing,” he accused.
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes,” he said, “you are.”
“If I’m blushing,” she replied pertly, “it’s because I’m wondering why you would think you had any reason to apologize.”
“You have a rather smart mouth for a servant,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” Sophie said quickly. She had to remember her place. But that was hard to do with this man, the one member of the ton who had treated her—if only for a few hours—as an equal.
“I meant it as a compliment,” he said. “Do not stifle yourself on my account.”
She said nothing.
“I find you rather . . .” He paused, obviously searching for the correct word. “Refreshing.”
“Oh.” She set her fork down. “Than
k you.”
“Have you plans for the rest of the day?” he asked.
She looked down at her huge garments and grimaced. “I thought I’d wait for my clothes to be readied, and then I suppose I’ll see if any of the nearby houses are in need of housemaids.”
Benedict scowled at her. “I told you I would find you a position with my mother.”
“And I do appreciate that,” she said quickly. “But I would prefer to stay in the country.”
He shrugged the shrug of one who has never been thrown one of life’s great stumbles. “You can work at Aubrey Hall, then. In Kent.”
Sophie chewed on her lower lip. She couldn’t exactly come out and say she didn’t want to work for his mother because then she’d have to see him.
She couldn’t think of a torture that would be more exquisitely painful.
“You shouldn’t think of me as your responsibility,” she finally said.
He gave her a rather superior glance. “I told you I would find you a new position.”
“But—”
“What could there possibly be to discuss?”
“Nothing,” she grumbled. “Nothing at all.” Clearly, it was no use arguing with him just then.
“Good.” He leaned back contentedly against his pillows. “I’m glad you see it my way.”
Sophie stood. “I should be going.”
“To do what?”
She felt rather stupid as she said, “I don’t know.”
He grinned. “Have fun with it, then.”
Her hand tightened around the handle of the serving spoon.
“Don’t do it,” he warned.
“Do what?”
“Throw the spoon.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she said tightly.
He laughed aloud. “Oh, yes you would. You’re dreaming of it right now. You just wouldn’t do it.”
Sophie’s hand was gripping the spoon so hard it shook.
Benedict was chuckling so hard his bed shook.
Sophie stood, still holding the spoon.
Benedict smiled. “Are you planning to take that with you?”
Remember your place, Sophie was screaming at herself. Remember your place.
“Whatever could you be thinking,” Benedict mused, “to look so adorably ferocious? No, don’t tell me,” he added. “I’m sure it involves my untimely and painful demise.”