More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
Her beauty came from within. She shimmered. She glowed. She was utterly radiant, and Benedict suddenly realized that it was because she looked so damned happy. Happy to be where she was, happy to be who she was. Happy in a way Benedict could barely remember. His was a good life, it was true, maybe even a great life. He had seven wonderful siblings, a loving mother, and scores of friends. But this woman— This woman knew joy. And Benedict had to know her.
“A beautiful lady who cannot dance. It seems a crime against nature.”
“Then we shall begin right now,” he vowed. “And tomorrow you shall be transformed.” “Tonight I am transformed,” she whispered. “Tomorrow I shall disappear.” Benedict drew her close and dropped the softest, most fleeting of kisses onto her brow. “Then we must pack a lifetime into this very night.”
“I won’t speak. I won’t say a word.” And then, before she even had a second to breathe, his lips were on hers, exquisitely gentle and achingly tender.
“I want—” His voice dropped to a whisper, and his eyes looked vaguely surprised, as if he couldn’t quite believe the truth of his own words. “I want your future. I want every little piece of you.”
“The maids are a pack of idiots,” Araminta replied. “What they know could fit on my littlest fingernail.”
rudeeeee
This Author thinks, as dreadful as that of Mrs. Featherington and her two eldest daughters, who went as a bowl of fruit—Philippa as an orange, Prudence as an apple, and Mrs. Featherington as a bunch of grapes. Sadly, none of the three looked the least bit appetizing.
“One of these days I’m going to have to give Sophie the boot,” the countess said with a sniff. “She cannot do anything right.”
He made a point of fawning over the chubby one, if only because her mother so obviously preferred the other. Mothers like that, he decided, didn’t deserve to be mothers.
“He came here looking for her,” Araminta whispered. “Who?” Rosamund asked. “The woman in silver.” “Well, he isn’t going to find her here,” Posy replied, “as I was a mermaid and Rosamund was Marie Antoinette. And you, of course, were Queen Elizabeth.” “The shoes,” Araminta gasped. “The shoes.” “What shoes?” Rosamund asked irritably. “They were scuffed. Someone wore my shoes.”
“Pack your things,” Araminta said in a low, cruel voice. “I want you out of this house by sunrise.”
uh ohhhh
“You are unfit to mingle with polite society,” she continued, “and yet you dared to pretend you are as good as the rest of us by attending the masquerade.” “Yes, I dared,” Sophie cried out, well past caring that Araminta had somehow discovered her secret. “I dared, and I’d dare again. My blood is just as blue as yours, and my heart far kinder, and—” One minute Sophie was on her feet, screaming at Araminta, and the next she was on the floor, clutching her cheek, made red by Araminta’s palm. “Don’t you ever compare yourself to me,” Araminta warned.
She took the shoe clips. And then, several hours later when Posy came (against her mother’s wishes) and let her out, she packed up all of her belongings and left. Much to her surprise, she didn’t look back.
She was about to be raped; that much was clear. But her panicked mind wanted to hold on to some last shred of dignity, and she refused to allow these men to spill her every last belonging onto the cold ground.
“I’ll find her a position in my mother’s household.” He looked over at her and raised a brow. “I assume that’s acceptable?”
“Oh, for the love of God,” Benedict snarled. “Will you let go of her or will I have to shoot your damned hand off?”
“You can’t just take her!” Phillip yelled. Benedict gave him a supercilious look. “I just did.” “You’ll be sorry you did this,” Phillip said. “I doubt it. Now get out of my sight.”
“Don’t think you shall ever receive another invitation to one of my parties.” “My heart is breaking,” Benedict drawled.
And then, all of a sudden, there was Benedict Bridgerton, standing before her like a hero from her dreams, and she’d thought maybe she had died, because why else would he be here with her unless she was in heaven?
He acted as if he actually liked her and enjoyed her company. And maybe he did. But that was the cruelest twist of all, because he was making her love him, making a small part of her think she had the right to dream about him.
And she saw a man. A naked man. A naked … Benedict?
“Benedict?” she whispered, forgetting that she still called him Mr. Bridgerton. 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 think I have to kiss you,” he said, looking as if he couldn’t quite believe his own words. “It’s rather like breathing. One doesn’t have much choice in the matter.”
“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.”
“You’re not being fair!” “And you’re not being intelligent.” Benedict thought that his argument was most reasonable, if a little overbearing, but Sophie obviously did not agree, because, much to his surprise, he found himself lying faceup on the ground, having been felled by a remarkably quick right hook. “Don’t you ever call me stupid,” she hissed.
“You are despicable,” she spat. “And you sound like the heroine of a very poorly written novel,” he replied.
“I can live with you hating me,” he said to the closed door. “I just can’t live without you.”
“They say that a smart person learns from her mistakes,” she interrupted, her voice forcefully ending his protest. “But a truly smart person learns from other people’s mistakes.”
