More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
“Has anyone ever told you that you are exceedingly nosy?” “Oh, all the time. Where were you?” “And persistent, too.” “It’s the only way to be. Where were you?” “Have I mentioned I’m considering investing in a company that manufactures human-sized muzzles?” She threw a pillow at him. “Where were you?”
“Is there any reason,” he asked, glancing about the room as if he were directing his question at someone other than Eloise, “why I am allowing myself to be insulted by my ninnyhammer of a younger sister?” “Probably because I do it so well.”
“Because I brought her here.” “The maid?” “No, Mother. Of course the maid.”
“But have no fear,” she finally said, “I shall discover her identity within a month.” “I’d recommend asking Eloise for help,” Benedict said dryly. Violet nodded thoughtfully. “Good idea. That girl could get Napoleon to spill his secrets.”
she thought about Lady Bridgerton’s friendly manner and easy smile . . . She just couldn’t help wishing that she could stay forever. But that was impossible.
She was furious with him right now—beyond furious, in all truth—but she knew, deep down, that anger could only be short-lived. How could she resist him, day in and day out, when the mere sight of him made her weak with longing? Someday soon he’d smile at her, one of those sideways, crooked sorts of smiles, and she’d find herself clutching on to the furniture, just to keep herself from melting into a pathetic pool on the floor.
But what she said and what she felt weren’t always one and the same. In her heart she longed for this man, dreamed of a life that could never be.
she’d had a taste of luxury as a child. She’d been reared gently, if without love, and the experience had shaped her ideals and values. Now she was forever stuck between two worlds, with no clear place in either.
“Your secrets are eating you alive,” he said sharply.
“I didn’t think,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. “I know.” He smiled. “I know. I hate it when you think. It always ends badly for me.”
Lady Bridgerton’s lips curved into a small, secret smile.
Lady Bridgerton sipped at her tea. “You have been working on the same piece of embroidery for quite some time, Hyacinth. Since February, if my memory serves.” “Her memory always serves,” Francesca said to Sophie. Hyacinth glared at Francesca, who smiled into her teacup.
Lady Bridgerton lifted her cup to her lips and held it there for what seemed like a rather long time.
“That was different,” Lady Bridgerton said. “How so?” This, from Francesca, who was wearing her usual sly smile. “He’d said he was going to that awful Cavender boy’s party, and then never came back, whereas this time . . .” Lady Bridgerton stopped, pursing her lips. “Why am I explaining myself to you?” “I can’t imagine,” Sophie murmured. Eloise, who was sitting closest to Sophie, choked on her tea.
Francesca whacked Eloise on the back as she leaned forward to inquire, “Did you say something, Sophie?” Sophie shook her head as she stabbed her needle into the dress she was mending, completely missing the hem. Eloise gave her a dubious sideways glance.
“Benedict!” Eloise called out, rising to her feet. “We were just talking about you.” He looked at Sophie. “Were you?” “I wasn’t,” Sophie muttered. “Did you say something, Sophie?” Hyacinth asked. “Ow!” “I’m going to have to take that mending away from you,” Lady Bridgerton said with an amused smile. “You’ll have lost a pint of blood before the day is through.”
“Where is that insufferable girl?” she heard Araminta said. Sophie immediately felt sorry for the girl in question. As Araminta’s former “insufferable girl,” she knew that the position came with few benefits.
“If he’s not listening,” Lady Bridgerton said, “then shouting isn’t going to get his attention.” “Throwing a scone might work,” Hyacinth suggested. “Hyacinth, don’t you da—” But Hyacinth had already lobbed the scone.
I’m merely”—he smiled ruefully—“a Bridgerton. Specifically, Number Two.” Her lips trembled, then they smiled. “You’re much more than that,” she said. “I’d like to think so, but most of the world doesn’t see it that way.” “Most of the world are fools.” He laughed at that. There was nothing more fetching than Sophie with a scowl. “You will not find disagreement here,” he said.
He touched her cheek. “You look serious.” “I’m trying to decide how this feels,” she admitted. “If you have the presence of mind to do that, then I’m certainly not doing a good enough job.” Startled, she looked up. He was smiling at her, that crooked grin that never failed to reduce her to mush. “Stop thinking so hard,” he whispered.
And that will be difficult for one such as you to bear.” “One such as me?” he asked, bristling at her choice of words.
“It is not easy to be a wallflower.” And suddenly Benedict understood why his mother was always forcing him to dance with the girls like Penelope Featherington. The ones who stood at the fringes of the ballroom, the ones who always pretended they didn’t actually want to dance. She had been a wallflower herself.
The nursery was located on the second floor. Benedict didn’t often come up that high; most of his siblings’ bedrooms were on the first floor. Only Gregory and Hyacinth still lived adjacent to the nursery, and with Gregory off at Eton most of the year and Hyacinth usually terrorizing someone in some other section of the house, Benedict simply didn’t have much reason to visit.
Only twice in his life had he felt this inexplicable, almost mystical attraction to a woman. He’d thought it remarkable, to have found two, when in his heart he’d always believed there was only one perfect woman out there for him. His heart had been right. There was only one.
“A maid? Who cares? What is going to happen to you if you marry her?” Colin asked with a devil-may-care shrug of his shoulders. “People you couldn’t care less about will ostracize you? Hell, I wouldn’t mind being ostracized by some of the people with whom I’m forced to socialize.”
The Penwoods also experienced a great deal of activity, culminating in a public row right on the front steps between the countess and her daughter, Miss Posy Reiling. As This Author has never liked Lady Penwood, she can only say, “Huzzah for Posy!”
Sophie took a quick gasp as a sudden stab of pain pierced her heart. Of the two dreams, she feared that the genocide of the rats might be the more likely to come true.
Benedict turned to his mother. “Is there any reason I need to consult Lady Penwood about this?” “None that I can think of,” Lady Bridgerton replied.
Benedict had her by the throat before anyone was even aware that he had moved. “Don’t,” he warned, “make me hit you.” The magistrate tapped Benedict on the shoulder. “You really ought to let her go.” “Might I muzzle her?”
“I am a countess!” Araminta hissed. “And I am more popular,” Lady Bridgerton returned, the snide words so out of character that both Benedict’s and Sophie’s mouths dropped open.
“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 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.”
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!”
“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!”
“Well, I suppose she might. Why on earth would you want her to?” “I’ve been reading her column for years. I always dreamed of seeing my name there.” He shook his head. “You have very strange dreams.” “Benedict!”
Sophie didn’t speak for some time, and Benedict would have resumed his perusal of the newspaper, except that it was too interesting watching her face. She’d chew on her lip, then let out a weary sigh, then straighten a bit, as if she’d got a good thought, then frown. Really, he could have watched her all afternoon.
She gave him a look. A whom-else-might-I-be-speaking-of look.
“What?” “I didn’t tell you?” Posy eyed her suspiciously. Most people thought Sophie was a poor liar, but that was only because she had such an angelic look about her. And she rarely lied. So everyone assumed that if she did, she’d be dreadful at it. Posy, however, knew better.
“How do you take it?” Posy asked. “However you wish.” Oh now, this was too much. No man fell so blindingly into love that he no longer held a preference for his tea. This was England, for heaven’s sake. More to the point, this was tea. “We have both milk and sugar,” Sophie said, unable to help herself. She’d intended to sit and watch, but really, even the most hopeless romantic couldn’t have remained silent.
Benedict’s eyes widened. He turned to the door, then to the window. “Where are they?” “In the back. We can’t see them from here.” He chewed thoughtfully. “But we could from my studio.” For about two seconds neither moved. But only two seconds. They ran for the door, pushing and shoving their way down the hall to Benedict’s studio,
