by Julia Quinn
But he must have seen something, or maybe just sensed that something was wrong, because he called out, “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine!” she replied, but her voice came out strained and choked, and before she knew it, he was next to her, and she was in his arms.
“It’s all right,” he said soothingly. “You’re safe now.”
The tears burst forth. She cried for what could have been her fate that evening, and she cried for what had been her fate for the past nine years. She cried for the memory of when he’d held her in his arms at the masquerade, and she cried because she was in his arms right now.
She cried because he was so damned nice, and even though he was clearly ill, even though she was, in his eyes, nothing but a housemaid, he still wanted to care for her and protect her.
She cried because she hadn’t let herself cry in longer than she could remember, and she cried because she felt so alone.
And she cried because she’d been dreaming of him for so very long, and he hadn’t recognized her. It was probably best that he did not, but her heart still ached from it.
Eventually her tears subsided, and he stepped back, touching her chin as he said, “Do you feel better now?”
She nodded, surprised that it was true.
“Good. You had a scare, and—” He jerked away from her, doubling over as he coughed.
“We really need to get you inside,” Sophie said, brushing away the last streaks of her tears. “Inside the house, that is.”
He nodded. “I’ll race you to the door.”
Her eyes widened in shock. She couldn’t believe that he had the spirit to make a joke of this, when he was obviously feeling so poorly. But she wrapped the drawstring of her bag around her hands, hitched up her skirts, and ran for the front door to the cottage. By the time she reached the steps, she was laughing from the exertion, giggling at the ridiculousness of running wildly to get out of the rain when she was already soaked to the bone.
Benedict had, not surprisingly, beaten her to the small portico. He might have been ill, but his legs were significantly longer and stronger. When she skidded to a halt at his side, he was banging on the front door.
“Don’t you have a key?” Sophie yelled. The wind was still howling, making it difficult to be heard.
He shook his head. “I wasn’t planning on stopping here.”
“Do you think the caretakers will even hear you?”
“I bloody well hope so,” he muttered.
Sophie wiped away the rivulets of water running over her eyes and peeked in a nearby window. “It’s very dark,” she told him. “Do you think they might not be home?”
“I don’t know where else they’d be.”
“Shouldn’t there at least be a maid or a footman?”
Benedict shook his head. “I’m so rarely here it seemed foolish to hire a full staff. The maids only come in for the day.”
Sophie grimaced. “I’d suggest we look for an open window, but that’s rather unlikely in the rain.”
“Not necessary,” Benedict said grimly. “I know where the spare key is hidden.”
Sophie looked at him in surprise. “Why do you sound so glum about it?”
He coughed several times before answering, “Because it means I have to go back out into the bloody storm.”
Sophie knew he was truly reaching the end of his patience. He’d already sworn twice in front of her, and he didn’t seem the sort to curse in front of a woman, even a mere housemaid.
“Wait here,” he ordered, and then before she could reply, he’d left the shelter of the portico and dashed away.
A few minutes later she heard a key turning in the lock, and the front door swung open to reveal Benedict, holding a candle and dripping all over the floor. “I don’t know where Mr. and Mrs. Crabtree are,” he said, his voice raspy from all his coughing, “but they’re definitely not here.”
Sophie gulped. “We’re alone?”
He nodded. “Completely.”
She edged toward the stairs. “I’d better find the servants’ quarters.”
“Oh, no you won’t,” he growled, grabbing hold of her arm.
“I won’t?”
He shook his head. “You, dear girl, aren’t going anywhere.”
Chapter 8
It seems one cannot take two steps at a London ball these days without stumbling across a society matron lamenting the difficulties of finding good help. Indeed, This Author thought that Mrs. Featherington and Lady Penwood were going to come to blows at last week’s Smythe-Smith musicale. It seems that Lady Penwood stole Mrs. Featherington’s lady’s maid right out from under her nose one month ago, promising higher wages and free cast-off clothing. (It should be noted that Mrs. Featherington also gave the poor girl cast-off clothing, but anyone who has ever observed the attire of the Featherington girls would understand why the lady’s maid would not view this as a benefit.)
The plot thickened, however, when the lady’s maid in question fled back to Mrs. Featherington, begging to be rehired. It seemed that Lady Penwood’s idea of a lady’s maid included duties more accurately ascribed to the scullery maid, upstairs maid, and cook.
Someone ought to tell the woman that one girl cannot do the work of three.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 2 MAY 1817
“We’re going to build a fire,” Benedict said, “and get warm before either of us goes off to bed. I didn’t save you from Cavender just so you could die of influenza.”
Sophie watched him cough anew, the spasms wracking his body and forcing him to bend over at the waist. “Begging your pardon, Mr. Bridgerton,” she could not help commenting, “but of the two of us, I should think you’re more in danger of contracting influenza.”
“Just so,” he gasped, “and I assure you I have no desire to be so afflicted, either. So—” He bent over again as he was once again engulfed by coughs.
“Mr. Bridgerton?” Sophie asked, concern in her voice.
He swallowed convulsively and barely managed to say, “Just help me get a fire blazing before I cough myself into oblivion.”
Sophie’s brow knit with worry. His coughing fits were coming closer and closer together, and each time they were deeper, more rumbly, as if they were coming from the very pit of his chest.
She made easy work of the fire; she’d certainly had enough experience setting them as a housemaid, and soon they were both holding their hands as close to the flames as they dared.
“I don’t suppose your change of clothing remained dry,” Benedict said, nodding toward Sophie’s sodden satchel.
“I doubt it,” she said ruefully. “But it’s no matter. If I stand here long enough, I’ll dry out.”
“Don’t be silly,” he scoffed, turning around so that the fire might heat his back. “I’m sure I can find you a change of clothing.”
“You have women’s clothing here?” she asked doubtfully.
“You’re not so fussy that you can’t wear breeches and a shirt for one evening, are you?”
Until that very moment, Sophie had probably been exactly that fussy, but put that way, it did seem a little silly. “I suppose not,” she said. Dry clothing certainly sounded appealing.
“Good,” he said briskly. “Why don’t you light the furnaces in two bedrooms, and I’ll find us both some clothing?”
“I can stay in the servants’ quarters,” Sophie said quickly.
“Not necessary,” he said, striding out of the room and motioning for her to follow. “I’ve extra rooms, and you are not a servant here.”
“But I am a servant,” she pointed out, hurrying after him.
“Do whatever you please then.” He started to march up the stairs, but had to stop halfway up to cough. “You can find a tiny little room in the servants’ quarters with a hard little pallet, or you can avail yourself of a guest bedroom, all of which I assure you come equipped with feather mattresses and goosedown coverlets.”
Sophie knew that she should remember h
er place in the world and march right up the next flight of stairs to the attic, but by God above, a feather mattress and down coverlet sounded like heaven on earth. She hadn’t slept in such comfort in years. “I’ll just find a small guest bedroom,” she acceded. “The, er, smallest you have.”
Half of Benedict’s mouth quirked up in a dry, I-told-you-so sort of smile. “Pick whichever room you like. But not that one,” he said, pointing to the second door on the left. “That’s mine.”
“I’ll get the furnace started in there immediately,” she said. He needed the warmth more than she did, and besides, she found herself inordinately curious to see what the inside of his bedroom looked like. One could tell a lot about a person by the décor of his bedchamber. Provided, of course, she thought with a grimace, that one possessed enough funds to decorate in the manner one preferred. Sophie sincerely doubted that anyone could have told anything about her from her little attic turret at the Cavenders’—except for the fact that she had not a penny to her name.
Sophie left her satchel in the hall and scurried into Benedict’s bedchamber. It was a lovely room, warm and masculine and very comfortable. Despite the fact that Benedict had said he was rarely in residence, there were all sorts of personal items on the desk and tables—miniatures of what had to be his brothers and sisters, leather-bound books, and even a small glass bowl filled with . . .
Rocks?
“How odd,” Sophie murmured, moving forward even though she knew she was being dreadfully invasive and nosy.
“Each one is meaningful in some way,” came a deep voice from behind her. “I’ve collected them since—” He stopped to cough. “Since I was a child.”
Sophie’s face flushed red at having been caught so shamelessly snooping, but her curiosity was still piqued, so she held one up. It was of a pinkish hue, with a ragged grey vein running straight through the middle. “What about this one?”
“I picked that one up on a hike,” Benedict said softly. “It happened to be the day my father died.”
“Oh!” Sophie dropped the rock back on the pile as if burned. “I’m so sorry.”
“It was long ago.”
“I’m still sorry.”
He smiled sadly. “As am I.” Then he coughed, so hard that he had to lean against the wall.
“You need to get warm,” Sophie said quickly. “Let me get to work on that fire.”
Benedict tossed a bundle of clothing onto the bed. “For you,” he said simply.
“Thank you,” she said, keeping her attention focused on the small furnace. It was dangerous to remain in the same room as him. She didn’t think he was likely to make an untoward advance; he was far too much of a gentleman to foist himself on a woman he barely knew. No, the danger lay squarely within herself. Frankly, she was terrified that if she spent too much time in his company she might fall head over heels in love.
And what would that get her?
Nothing but a broken heart.
Sophie huddled in front of the small iron furnace for several minutes, stoking the flame until she was confident that it would not flicker out. “There,” she announced once she was satisfied. She stood up, arching her back slightly as she stretched and turned around. “That should take care of—Oh my!”
Benedict Bridgerton looked positively green.
“Are you all right?” she asked, hurrying to his side.
“Don’ feel too well,” he slurred, leaning heavily against the bedpost. He sounded vaguely intoxicated, but Sophie had been in his company for at least two hours, and she knew that he had not been drinking.
“You need to get into bed,” she said, stumbling under his weight when he decided to lean against her instead of the bedpost.
He grinned. “You coming?”
She lurched back. “Now I know you’re feverish.”
He lifted his hand to touch his forehead, but he smacked his nose instead. “Ow!” he yelped.
Sophie winced in sympathy.
His hand crept up to his forehead. “Hmmm, maybe I am a bit hot.”
It was horribly familiar of her, but a man’s health was at stake, so Sophie reached out and touched her hand to his brow. It wasn’t burning, but it certainly wasn’t cool. “You need to get out of those wet clothes,” she said. “Immediately.”
Benedict looked down, blinking as if the sight of his sodden clothing was a surprise. “Yes,” he murmured thoughtfully. “Yes, I believe I do.” His fingers went to the buttons on his shirt, but they were clammy and numb and kept slipping and sliding. Finally, he just shrugged at her and said helplessly, “I can’t do it.”
“Oh, dear. Here, I’ll . . .” Sophie reached out to undo his buttons, jerked her hands back nervously, then finally gritted her teeth and reached out again. She made quick work of the buttons, doing her best to keep her gaze averted as each undone button revealed another two inches of his skin. “Almost done,” she muttered. “Just a moment now.”
He didn’t say anything in reply, so she looked up. His eyes were closed, and his entire body was swaying slightly. If he weren’t standing up, she’d have sworn that he was asleep.
“Mr. Bridgerton?” she asked softly. “Mr. Bridgerton!”
Benedict’s head jerked up violently. “What? What?”
“You fell asleep.”
He blinked confusedly. “Is there a reason that’s bad?”
“You can’t fall asleep in your clothing.”
He looked down. “How’d my shirt get undone?”
Sophie ignored the question, instead nudging him until his behind was leaning against the mattress. “Sit,” she ordered.
She must have sounded suitably bossy, because he did.
“Have you something dry we can change you into?” she asked.
He shrugged the shirt off, letting it land on the floor in a messy heap. “Never sleep with clothes.”
Sophie felt her stomach lurch. “Well, tonight I think you should, and—What are you doing?”
He looked over at her as if she’d asked the most inane question in the world. “Taking my breeches off.”
“Couldn’t you at least wait until I’d turned my back?”
He stared at her blankly.
She stared back.
He stared some more. Finally, he said, “Well?”
“Well what?”
“Aren’t you going to turn your back?”
“Oh!” she yelped, spinning around as if someone had lit a fire under her feet.
Benedict shook his head wearily as he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his stockings. God save him from prudish misses. She was a housemaid, for God’s sake. Even if she was a virgin—and given her behavior, he rather suspected she was—she’d surely seen a male form before. Housemaids were always slipping in and out of rooms without knocking, carrying towels and sheets and what have you. It was inconceivable she’d never accidentally barged in on a naked man.
He stripped off his breeches—not an easy task considering they were still more than a little damp and he had quite literally to peel them from his skin. When he was well and truly naked, he quirked a brow in the direction of Sophie’s back. She was standing rigidly, her hands fisted tightly at her sides.
With surprise, he realized the sight of her made him smile.
He was starting to feel a bit sluggish, and it took him two tries before he was able to lift his leg high enough to climb into bed. With considerable effort he leaned forward and grabbed the edge of his coverlet, dragging it over his body. Then, completely worn-out, he sagged back against the pillows and groaned.
“Are you all right?” Sophie called.
He made an effort to say, “Fine,” but it came out more like, “Fmmph.”
He heard her moving about, and when he summoned up the energy to lift one eyelid halfway open, he saw that she’d moved to the side of the bed. She looked concerned.
For some reason that seemed rather sweet. It had been quite a long time since any woman who wasn’t related to him had been
concerned for his welfare.
“I’m fine,” he mumbled, trying to give her a reassuring smile. But his voice sounded like it was coming through a long, narrow tunnel. He reached up and tugged at his ear. His mouth felt like he was talking properly; the problem must be with his ears.
“Mr. Bridgerton? Mr. Bridgerton?”
He pried an eyelid open again. “Go da bed,” he grunted. “Get dry.”
“Are you certain?”
He nodded. It was getting too difficult to speak.
“Very well. But I’m going to leave your door open. If you need me in the night, just call out.”
He nodded again. Or at least he tried to. Then he slept.
It took Sophie barely a quarter of an hour to get ready for bed. A surfeit of nervous energy kept her going as she changed into dry clothing and readied the furnace in her room, but once her head hit her pillow, she felt herself succumbing to an exhaustion so total it seemed to come from her very bones.
It had been a long day, she thought groggily. A really long day, between attending to her morning chores, dashing around the house to escape Cavender and his friends . . . Her eyelids drifted shut. It had been an extraordinarily long day, and . . .
Sophie sat up suddenly, her heart pounding. The fire in the furnace had burned low, so she must have fallen asleep. She’d been dead tired, though, so something must have woken her. Was it Mr. Bridgerton? Had he called out? He’d not looked well when she’d left him, but neither had he seemed at death’s door.
Sophie hopped out of bed, grabbed a candle, then dashed toward the door of her room, grabbing hold of the waistband of the too-big breeches Benedict had lent her when they started to slip down her hips. When she reached the hall she heard the sound that must have woken her up.
It was a deep groan, followed by a thrashing noise, followed by what could only be called a whimper.
Sophie dashed into Benedict’s room, stopping briefly at the furnace to light her candle. He was lying in his bed, almost preternaturally still. Sophie edged toward him, her eyes focusing on his chest. She knew he couldn’t possibly be dead, but she’d feel an awful lot better once she saw his chest rise and fall.