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Never mind that Sophie’s moss green eyes and dark blond hair matched the earl’s precisely. Never mind that the shape of her face looked remarkably like that of the earl’s recently deceased mother, or that her smile was an exact replica of the earl’s sister’s. No one wanted to hurt Sophie’s feelings—or risk their livelihoods—by pointing that out.
But she was no gently bred lady, she thought defiantly. She was a bastard, a nobleman’s by-blow. She was not a member of the ton and never would be. Did she really have to abide by their rules?
There was no joy in her aspect, no mischief in her smile.
His name was Benedict Bridgerton, he had seven brothers and sisters, was rather skilled with both a sword and a sketching crayon, and he always kept his eyes open for the one woman who had touched his soul.
He realized he wanted her. He really, really wanted her.
Not that he didn’t plan to seduce her. Just that he’d rather do it with a bit more finesse.
And from there it was straight to the lake. To the very cold lake. To take a very cold swim.
And in the eyes of society, a housekeeper does not qualify as a chaperone, no matter how strict and pure her morals may be.”
He smiled. It was a small, knowing sort of smile, one that sent chills right down her spine to another area altogether. “I like when you say my name,” he said.
“I don’t have much experience with men,” she said. “Now that’s what a man wishes to hear.”
“So pretty,” he said softly, “like a storybook fairy. Sometimes I think you couldn’t possibly be real.”
“Mr. Bridgerton!” she yelped. “Benedict,” he corrected, his lips at her ear. “Let me—” “Say my name,” he persisted. He could be very stubborn when it suited his interests, and he wasn’t going to let her go until he heard his name cross her lips.
“Be mine,” he said, his voice thick and urgent. “Be mine right now. Be mine forever. I’ll give you anything you want. All I want in return is you.”
“Deep inside,” she murmured, “you’ve the soul of an artist.”
Something softened in her eyes, and the color seemed to melt right then and there, from a shiny, glowing emerald to a soft and lilting moss.
He needed her the way he needed air.
that without her, his life lacked all meaning.
It was as if, after twenty-two years of life, she were finally coming alive.
for once in her life she was going to do something wild and crazy and completely out of character.
Gone was the gentle, languorous lover. In his place was a man gripped by desire.
He needed her to love him.
He loved her. He needed her. He had to make her see reason.
“I won’t do it! I love you, but not that much. I don’t love anyone that much.”
“He’s good at art,” Sophie repeated. “Quite a bit better than any of you, I imagine.”
“The point is,” Colin said forcefully, “that I have known her forever, and I can assure you I am not likely to fall in love with her.”
And in that moment, Benedict realized what he’d probably been too stupid (and stupidly male) to notice: Penelope Featherington was in love with his brother.
she looked straight at Colin and said, “I never asked you to marry me.”
Love. He loved Sophie. That was all that should have mattered.
Blood really was thicker than just about anything else, especially when it was Bridgerton blood.
“In my heart,” he vowed, settling her against the quilts and pillows, “you are my wife.”
“You are the reason I exist,” she said softly, “the very reason I was born.”
And so Lady Whistledown set down her quill and walked to her window, pushing aside her sage green curtains and looking out into the inky night. “Time for something new,” she whispered. “Time to finally be me.”
“And he doesn’t even look at my bosom!” “Posy!” “It’s my only good feature.” “It is not!” Sophie
She saw him, and it was as if, after twenty-five years of life, her heart finally began to beat.
Mr. Woodson looked as if he thought he was saying something, but the truth was, he was staring at Posy as if he’d just met Aphrodite.
“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.
It was a splendid wedding. And that kiss at the end … No one was surprised when Posy produced a baby nine months later, and then at yearly intervals after that.
Never had she heard a baby enter this world with as loud a cry as little Minty. “This one,” she said firmly, “is going to lead you a merry chase.” And she did. But that, dear reader, is another story …
