Bridgerton Collection Volume 1 (Bridgertons)

by Julia Quinn

  Posy threw a panicked look at Violet, who immediately stepped forward and linked their arms together.

  “It’s all right, Posy,” Violet said softly. “You may stay with us as long as you wish.”

  Sophie stepped forward and slid her arm through Posy’s free one. “Now we will be sisters truly,” she said, leaning forward and giving her a kiss on the cheek.

  “Oh, Sophie,” Posy cried out, a well of tears bursting forth. “I’m so sorry! I never stood up for you. I should have said something. I should have done something, but—”

  Sophie shook her head. “You were young. I was young. And I know better than anyone how difficult it is to defy her.” She threw a scathing glare at Araminta.

  “Don’t you speak to me that way,” Araminta seethed, raising her hand as if to strike.

  “Ah ah ah!” Violet cut in. “The solicitors, Lady Penwood. Don’t forget the solicitors.”

  Araminta dropped her hand, but she looked as if she might spontaneously burst into flame at any moment.

  “Benedict?” Violet called out. “How quickly could we be at the solicitors’ office?”

  Grinning inside, he gave his chin a thoughtful stroke. “They’re not too terribly far away. Twenty minutes? Thirty if the roads are full.”

  Araminta shook with rage as she directed her words at Violet. “Take her then. She’s never been anything to me but a disappointment. And you can expect to be stuck with her until your dying day, as no one is likely to offer for her. I have to bribe men just to ask her to dance.”

  And then the strangest thing occurred. Sophie began to shake. Her skin turned red, her teeth clenched, and the most amazing roar burst forth from her mouth. And before anyone could even think to intervene, she had planted her fist squarely into Araminta’s left eye and sent the older woman sprawling.

  Benedict had thought that nothing could have surprised him more than his mother’s heretofore undetected Machiavellian streak.

  He was wrong.

  “That,” Sophie hissed, “is not for stealing my dowry. It’s not for all the times you tried to boot me out of my house before my father died. And it’s not even for turning me into your personal slave.”

  “Er, Sophie,” Benedict said mildly, “what, then, is it for?”

  Sophie’s eyes never wavered off of Araminta’s face as she said, “That was for not loving your daughters equally.”

  Posy began to bawl.

  “There’s a special place in hell for mothers like you,” Sophie said, her voice dangerously low.

  “You know,” the magistrate squeaked, “we really do need to clear this cell out for the next occupant.”

  “He’s right,” Violet said quickly, stepping in front of Sophie before she decided to start kicking Araminta. She turned to Posy. “Have you any belongings you wish to retrieve?”

  Posy shook her head.

  Violet’s eyes turned sad as she gave Posy’s hand a little squeeze. “We shall make new memories for you, my dear.”

  Araminta rose to her feet, gave Posy one last horrific glare, then stalked away.

  “Well,” Violet declared, planting her hands on her hips. “I thought she would never leave.”

  Benedict disengaged his arm from Sophie’s waist with a murmur of, “Don’t move a muscle,” then walked quickly to his mother’s side.

  “Have I told you lately,” he whispered in her ear, “how much I love you?”

  “No,” she said with a jaunty smile, “but I know, anyway.”

  “Have I mentioned that you’re the best of mothers?”

  “No, but I know that, too.”

  “Good.” He leaned down and dropped a kiss on her cheek. “Thank you. It’s a privilege to be your son.”

  His mother, who had held her own throughout the day, and indeed proven herself the most hardheaded and quick-witted of them all, burst into tears.

  “What did you say to her?” Sophie demanded.

  “It’s all right,” Violet said, sniffling mightily. “It’s . . .” She threw her arms around Benedict. “I love you, too!”

  Posy turned to Sophie and said, “This is a nice family.”

  Sophie turned to Posy and said, “I know.”

  One hour later Sophie was in Benedict’s sitting room, perched on the very same sofa on which she had lost her innocence just a few weeks earlier. Lady Bridgerton had questioned the wisdom (and propriety) of Sophie’s going to Benedict’s home by herself, but he had given her such a look that she had quickly backed down, saying only, “Just have her home by seven.”

  Which gave them one hour together.

  “I’m sorry,” Sophie blurted out, the instant her bottom touched the sofa. For some reason they hadn’t said anything during the carriage ride home. They’d held hands, and Benedict had brought her fingers to his lips, but they hadn’t said anything.

  Sophie had been relieved. She hadn’t been ready for words. It had been easy at the jail, with all the commotion and so many people, but now that they were alone . . .

  She didn’t know what to say.

  Except, she supposed, “I’m sorry.”

  “No, I’m sorry,” Benedict replied, sitting beside her and taking her hands in his.

  “No, I’m—” She suddenly smiled. “This is very silly.”

  “I love you,” he said.

  Her lips parted.

  “I want to marry you,” he said.

  She stopped breathing.

  “And I don’t care about your parents or my mother’s bargain with Lady Penwood to make you respectable.” He stared down at her, his dark eyes meltingly in love. “I would have married you no matter what.”

  Sophie blinked. The tears in her eyes were growing fat and hot, and she had a sneaking suspicion that she was about to make a fool of herself by blubbering all over him. She managed to say his name, then found herself completely lost from there.

  Benedict squeezed her hands. “We couldn’t have lived in London, I know, but we don’t need to live in London. When I thought about what it was in life I really needed—not what I wanted, but what I needed—the only thing that kept coming up was you.”

  “I—”

  “No, let me finish,” he said, his voice suspiciously hoarse. “I shouldn’t have asked you to be my mistress. It wasn’t right of me.”

  “Benedict,” she said softly, “what else would you have done? You thought me a servant. In a perfect world we could have married, but this isn’t a perfect world. Men like you don’t marry—”

  “Fine. I wasn’t wrong to ask, then.” He tried to smile. It came out lopsided. “I would have been a fool not to ask. I wanted you so badly, and I think I already loved you, and—”

  “Benedict, you don’t have to—”

  “Explain? Yes, I do. I should never have pressed the issue once you refused my offer. It was unfair of me to ask, especially when we both knew that I would eventually be expected to marry. I would die before sharing you. How could I ask you to do the same?”

  She reached out and brushed something off of his cheek. Jesus, was he crying? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried. When his father had died, perhaps? Even then, his tears had fallen in private.

  “There are so many reasons I love you,” he said, each word emerging with careful precision. He knew that he had won her. She wasn’t going to run away; she would be his wife. But he still wanted this to be perfect. A man only got one shot at declaring himself to his true love; he didn’t want to muck it up completely.

  “But one of the things I love best,” he continued, “is the fact that you know yourself. You know who you are, and what you value. You have principles, Sophie, and you stick by them.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “That is so rare.”

  Her eyes were filling with tears, and all he wanted to do was hold her, but he knew he had to finish. So many words had been welling up inside of him, and they all had to be said.

  “And,” he said, his voice dropping in volume, “you took the t
ime to see me. To know me. Benedict. Not Mr. Bridgerton, not ‘Number Two.’ Benedict.”

  She touched his cheek. “You’re the finest person I know. I adore your family, but I love you.”

  He crushed her to him. He couldn’t help it. He had to feel her in his arms, to reassure himself that she was there and that she would always be there. With him, by his side, until death did they part. It was strange, but he was driven by the oddest compulsion to hold her . . . just hold her.

  He wanted her, of course. He always wanted her. But more than that, he wanted to hold her. To smell her, to feel her.

  He was, he realized, comforted by her presence. They didn’t need to talk. They didn’t even need to touch (although he wasn’t about to let go just then). Simply put, he was a happier man—and quite possibly a better man—when she was near.

  He buried his face in her hair, inhaling her scent, smelling . . .

  Smelling . . .

  He drew back. “Would you care for a bath?”

  Her face turned an instant scarlet. “Oh, no,” she moaned, the words muffled into the hand she’d clapped over her mouth. “It was so filthy in jail, and I was forced to sleep on the ground, and—”

  “Don’t tell me any more,” he said.

  “But—”

  “Please.” If he heard more he might have to kill someone. As long as there had been no permanent damage, he didn’t want to know the details.

  “I think,” he said, the first hint of a smile tugging at the left corner of his mouth, “that you should take a bath.”

  “Right.” She nodded as she rose to her feet. “I’ll go straight to your mother’s—”

  “Here.”

  “Here?”

  The smile spread to the right corner of his mouth. “Here.”

  “But we told your mother—”

  “That you’d be home by nine.”

  “I think she said seven.”

  “Did she? Funny, I heard nine.”

  “Benedict . . .”

  He took her hand and pulled her toward the door. “Seven sounds an awful lot like nine.”

  “Benedict . . .”

  “Actually, it sounds even more like eleven.”

  “Benedict!”

  He deposited her right by the door. “Stay here.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Don’t move a muscle,” he said, touching his fingertip to her nose.

  Sophie watched helplessly as he slipped out into the hall, only to return two minutes later. “Where did you go?” she asked.

  “To order a bath.”

  “But—”

  His eyes grew very, very wicked. “For two.”

  She gulped.

  He leaned forward. “They happened to have water heating already.”

  “They did?”

  He nodded. “It’ll only take a few minutes to fill the tub.”

  She glanced toward the front door. “It’s nearly seven.”

  “But I’m allowed to keep you until twelve.”

  “Benedict!”

  He pulled her close. “You want to stay.”

  “I never said that.”

  “You don’t have to. If you really disagreed with me, you’d have something more to say than, ‘Benedict’!”

  She had to smile; he did that good an imitation of her voice.

  His mouth curved into a devilish grin. “Am I wrong?”

  She looked away, but she knew her lips were twitching.

  “I thought not,” he murmured. He motioned with his head toward the stairs. “Come with me.”

  She went.

  To Sophie’s great surprise, Benedict vacated the room while she undressed for her bath. She held her breath as she pulled her dress over her head. He was right; she did smell rank.

  The maid who had drawn the bath had scented it with oil and a sudsy soap that left bubbles floating on the surface. Once Sophie had shed all of her clothing, she dipped her toe into the steaming water. The rest of her soon followed.

  Heaven. It was hard to believe it had only been two days since she’d had a bath. One night in jail made it feel more like a year.

  Sophie tried to clear her mind and enjoy the hedonism of the moment, but it was difficult to enjoy with the anticipation growing within her veins. She knew when she’d decided to stay that Benedict planned on joining her. She could have refused; for all his wheedling and cajoling, he would have taken her back home to his mother’s.

  But she had decided to stay. Somewhere between the sitting-room doorway and the base of the stairs she’d realized she wanted to stay. It had been such a long road to this moment, and she wasn’t quite ready to relinquish him, even if it would only be until the following morning, when he was sure to come by his mother’s for breakfast.

  He would be here soon. And when he was . . .

  She shivered. Even in the steaming hot tub, she shivered. And then, as she was sinking deeper into the water, allowing it to rise above her shoulders and neck, even right up to her nose, she heard the click of the door opening.

  Benedict. He was wearing a dark green dressing gown, tied with a sash at his waist. His feet were bare, as were his legs from the knees down.

  “I hope you don’t mind if I have this destroyed,” he said, glancing down at her dress.

  She smiled at him and shook her head. It wasn’t what she’d been expecting him to say, and she knew that he’d done it to set her at ease.

  “I’ll send someone to fetch you another,” he said.

  “Thank you.” She shifted slightly in the water to make room for him, but he surprised her by walking to her end of the tub.

  “Lean forward,” he murmured.

  She did, and sighed with pleasure as he began to wash her back.

  “I’ve dreamed of doing this for years.”

  “Years?” she asked, amused.

  “Mmm-hmm. I had many dreams about you after the masquerade.”

  Sophie was glad she was leaning forward, her forehead resting on her bent knees, because she blushed.

  “Dunk your head so I can wash your hair,” he ordered.

  She slid under the water, then quickly came back up.

  Benedict rubbed the bar of soap in his hands and then began to work the lather through her hair. “It was longer before,” he commented.

  “I had to cut it,” she said. “I sold it to a wigmaker.”

  She wasn’t sure, but she thought she might have heard him growl.

  “It used to be much shorter,” she added.

  “Ready to rinse.”

  She dunked back in the tub, swishing her head this way and that under the water before coming back up for air.

  Benedict cupped his hands and filled them with water. “You’ve still got some in the back,” he said, letting the water pour over her hair.

  Sophie let him repeat that process a few times, then finally asked, “Aren’t you coming in?” It was dreadfully brazen of her, and she knew she must be blushing like a raspberry, but she simply had to know.

  He shook his head. “I’d planned to, but this is too much fun.”

  “Washing me?” she asked doubtfully.

  One corner of his mouth quirked into the faintest of half smiles. “I’m rather looking forward to drying you off as well.” He reached down and picked up a large white towel. “Up you go.”

  Sophie chewed on her lower lip in indecision. She had, of course, already been as close to him as two people could be, but she wasn’t so sophisticated that she could rise naked from the tub without a large degree of embarrassment.

  Benedict smiled faintly as he stood and unfolded the towel. Holding it wide, he averted his gaze and said, “I’ll have you all wrapped up before I can see a thing.”

  Sophie took a deep breath and stood, somehow feeling that that one action might mark the beginning of the rest of her life.

  Benedict gently wrapped the towel around her, his hands bringing the corners to her face when he was done. He dabbed at her cheeks, whe
re light droplets of water were still clinging to her skin, then leaned down and kissed her nose. “I’m glad you’re here,” he murmured.

  “I’m glad, too.”

  He touched her chin. His eyes never left hers, and she almost felt as if he’d touched those as well. And then, with the softest, most tender caress imaginable, he kissed her. Sophie didn’t just feel loved; she felt revered.

  “I should wait until Monday,” he said, “but I don’t want to.”

  “I don’t want you to wait,” she whispered.

  He kissed her again, this time with a bit more urgency. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured. “Everything I ever dreamed of.”

  His lips found her cheek, her chin, her neck, and every kiss, every nibble robbed her of balance and breath. She was sure her legs would give out, sure her strength would fail her under his tender onslaught, and just when she was convinced she’d crumple to the floor, he scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bed.

  “In my heart,” he vowed, settling her against the quilts and pillows, “you are my wife.”

  Sophie’s breath caught.

  “After our wedding it will be legal,” he said, stretching out alongside her, “blessed by God and country, but right now—” His voice grew hoarse as he propped himself up on one elbow so that he could gaze into her eyes. “Right now it is true.”

  Sophie reached up and touched his face. “I love you,” she whispered. “I have always loved you. I think I loved you before I even knew you.”

  He leaned down to kiss her anew, but she stopped him with a breathy, “No, wait.”

  He paused, mere inches from her lips.

  “At the masquerade,” she said, her voice uncharacteristically shaky, “even before I saw you, I felt you. Anticipation. Magic. There was something in the air. And when I turned, and you were there, it was as if you’d been waiting for me, and I knew that you were the reason I’d stolen into the ball.”

  Something wet hit her cheek. A single tear, fallen from his eye.

  “You are the reason I exist,” she said softly, “the very reason I was born.”

  He opened his mouth, and for a moment she was certain he would say something, but the only sound that emerged was a rough, halting noise, and she realized that he was overcome, that he could not speak.