Chapter Text
Benedict looked down at the silk glove in his hands, running his thumb over the embroidered crest. His mind was transported back to a masquerade ball at Bridgerton House two years earlier, and the lady in silver was ensconced in his arms as they waltzed around the terrace. It was a magical evening, the most wonderful and most devastating night of his thirty years. He had found the love of his life, the very reason for his existence… and then she was gone. And all he had to show for it was a blasted glove. If Colin hadn’t found them on the terrace, he’d be sure he had dreamed the whole thing. But then there was the glove. Benedict pulled the silk through his fingers, studied the crest, smelled it, desperately hoping it would bestow some new piece of information to lead him to the lady in silver. He kept it in a drawer in his bedside table, and every few months he would bring it out. The fever dreams of the night before had brought it to mind again. He could have sworn she was in the room with him that night, even kissed him, but that was impossible…
Sophie adjusted the tray, balancing it on her hip while she quickly turned the doorknob. Taking hold of the tray again, she bustled into Benedict’s room. He was sitting up in bed, examining something long and white with a sheen like silk. A glove ? Sophie fumbled the breakfast tray, narrowly avoiding disaster as she slid it onto the desk. She struggled for nonchalance, though her heart was in her throat.
“Good morning, Mr. Bridgerton.”
“Benedict.”
She ignored his correction, thoughts and pulse racing. The night of the masquerade, startled by the tolling of the bells, she had fled so abruptly that she had left her glove in his hand. Surely that couldn’t be her glove? After all this time? Don’t be daft , she thought. She tried to focus on the breakfast tray; the teacup rattled in her shaky fingers.
“Are you all right, Sophie?”
“Yes, Mr. Bridgerton—“
“ Benedict ,” he cut in.
“—just a little tired,” she said briskly. “Ham or sausage?"
“Both. Did you not sleep well?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” She hardly knew what she said as she busied herself with fixing his plate and pouring his tea— milk, no sugar. She took slow, measured breaths, trying to calm herself before she had to turn and face him
“If your bed is uncomfortable, you could try another one tonight,” he offered. Mine, perhaps. Trying to shake the mental image, he cleared his throat. “I have a few other rooms.”
“No, thank you, it’s quite all right. I simply have trouble sleeping in new places.” Feeling calmer, Sophie straightened from the desk and retrieved the breakfast tray, settling it on his lap. There was no sign of the glove. Well, everyone has their secrets, she thought. I certainly have mine.
Benedict froze as Sophie leaned in with the tray, hardly daring to breathe. One of her curls swung wide to brush his cheek, sending a tingle down his spine. And other places. Having her hands so close to his hips was decidedly unnerving. He felt like a green boy of sixteen, instead of a grown man of thirty. He was suddenly glad of the tray in his lap. Was he blushing? Benedict relaxed after she set down his food and moved a few feet away.
“You look a little flushed. Are you feeling warm?” Brows furrowed, Sophie was filled with a businesslike concern, leaning in again to place a cool hand on his forehead. “Hmm, only a little. I don’t think you’re in any danger.”
“That’s a relief.” Benedict shied away from her touch, though he really wanted to lean into it. That feeling of magic was back in the air, that electric spark that he had felt the night of the masquerade— and when he met Sophie the other night. What could it mean? "Have you had breakfast already?"
"Yes, I ate with Mr. and Mrs. Crabtree."
"Will you sit for a cup of tea? Tell me what you have planned for the day." He watched her chew her lip in thought, debating, before pouring herself a cup of tea. He noted that she took two lumps of sugar. "I would take you for a walk of the property, but Mrs. Crabtree would have my hide if I left this room before she gave me leave." Benedict tucked into his breakfast as Sophie settled into a chair by his bedside.
"I hardly know what to do," she began. "Mrs. Crabtree won't allow me to do much to make myself useful. I thought I might read in the garden," she mused. "Mr. Crabtree does a marvelous job with the landscaping. I haven't had this kind of free time since I was— since I was a girl." She paused, cleared her throat before continuing in brisk tones. "But I'll change your sheets when you're done eating."
Setting down her teacup, Sophie left to retrieve the linens while Benedict finished his breakfast. Then she cleaned up the breakfast things and took the dishes down to the kitchen. It felt good to be doing something. She hadn't known leisure time in eight years and didn't know what to do with herself. She never wanted to slave away as she had done under Araminta's thumb, but it felt good to be busy.
"Right then, let's change these sheets." Stepping up to the far side of the bed, Sophie folded back the coverlet halfway, preparing to remove the sheet underneath, and there it was. The glove. The need to know whether it was hers overcame her sense of propriety and she reached for it, fingers closing around the white silk.
Benedict cursed internally. He had forgotten that he had shoved the damned thing under the blanket when she came in with his breakfast, and he was so distracted by her presence that he neglected to put it away when she went for the sheets. Panicked, Benedict snatched it up, his hand taking hold of the glove at the same time she did. One blink and—
—they stood on a terrace at night. Benedict wore evening clothes and Sophie… Sophie wore a silver ball gown, a demi mask covering the top half of her face. His heart stopped. "It's you!" he breathed.
Sophie felt the blood drain from her face as she froze, staring up at Benedict, the glove still clutched between them. This couldn't be real. How? She looked around wildly. Yes, this was the private terrace at Bridgerton House. It was night, she wore her grandmother's dress, and strains of Handel floated up from below.
And Benedict knew.
She had to get away. Immediately. He wouldn't possibly want her knowing that she was a servant; this could only end in disaster. Sophie turned to run, but her hand seemed to be stuck to the glove, and she stumbled. Benedict caught her elbow awkwardly with one hand.
"Sophie? Is it really you? Are you— Were you— How?" His mind was reeling. Finding himself transported back in time two years wasn't even the most mind-blowing part of this scenario. Sophie was the lady in silver. He had so many questions.
"Please." A sob broke from her throat. "Please just let me go." Sophie was bewildered. She tried to make sense of the situation, but there was none to be found. Nothing could explain how they had been in his sunny bedchamber one moment, and the next a terrace at night two years earlier. He still held her elbow, his touch burning through her sleeve.
"Not until you tell me who you are," Benedict said roughly, "and why you ran that night."
"I told you, my name is Sophie Beckett." She struggled in his grip, feeling like a rabbit caught in a snare. Her vision blurred as tears welled in her eyes.
"Who are you?"
"I shouldn't have been here. I wasn't supposed to be here. I didn't have an invitation. I'm a nobody. Nobody! Just a housemaid playing pretend." She was rambling, on the edge of hysteria. She had to get away. Sophie clawed at the collar of her gown, trying to get some air and cool her heated skin.
"You are not 'just a housemaid.' Your diction, your posture, even the way you pour a cup of tea say otherwise. Who. Are. You?"
She broke down, tears rolling down her cheeks as she sagged against him. She gulped air into her lungs. "I'm a bastard. The natural daughter of the late Earl of Penwood."
Benedict let out the breath he was holding. A bastard. That made sense, but there had to be more. His free hand left her elbow to slide around her back, stroking up and down in soothing motions. He pressed kisses to the top of her head. "Tell me everything," he whispered. "I spent six months searching for you in earnest, and you have haunted me for two years. I need to know everything ."
Sophie gasped. She had been pining for him since the night of the masquerade, but she never let herself believe that he felt the same way. The moment didn't seem real. Explanations tumbled from her lips. "After my— the Earl died, Araminta— Lady Penwood made me her virtual slave. I was a lady's maid, housemaid, and scullery maid all in one. She would never have allowed me to go to that masquerade. If she had seen me, she would have had me thrown in jail for theft. But the housekeeper, Mrs. Gibbons, she dressed me up and sent me off, said I deserved to have one night, but I never thought— never thought I'd…" fall in love, she wanted to say. "The carriage was to take me home at midnight to be back for Araminta and the girls so I had to go. Do you understand? I had to leave. I didn't have a choice."
Benedict tried to keep up with her rambling. It was some consolation to know he had been on the right trail. His hand left her back to wipe away her tears with his thumb. He kissed her tenderly on the cheek, tasting the salt on his lips. "I tracked you to Penwood House," he said quietly. "I went there the morning after to look for you. I had to endure twenty minutes in that awful woman's presence, meet her daughters, and didn't see you. Did you hide from me?"
Sophie blinked, pieces falling into place as realization dawned. "That’s why she threw me out," she began, face slack, talking more to herself than to him. "All those years she had kept me, even after the money stopped, and that day… she had me locked in the closet to polish her shoes, and then she threw me out. I didn't understand why. But it's because you came looking for me. I had a little pocket money saved from years before, so I made my way to the country and found a position at the Cavenders'."
Benedict gasped. He was the reason she had been at the Cavenders'. It was his fault that she had nearly fallen victim to— he couldn't finish the thought. He held her tightly, cradling her head to his chest as anxiety washed over him. He had to remind himself that she was safe, he had found her in time. But dear God if he hadn't… If his other hand weren’t trapped between them, clutching the glove, it would be balled into a fist.
Sophie let herself be held for a moment, basking in his warmth. She took a deep breath, inhaling his scent. She could feel his heartbeat racing against her own. Then she leaned back, determined to finish her story. She had to get it all out now or she might never find the words again. She looked at the ground, the candles, the sky, anywhere but at him. She allowed her hand to come to rest on his chest, twisting the loose ends of his cravat between her fingers.
"She only kept me for so long because of the money, or she would have turned me out at fourteen. Her portion was trebled if she sheltered me until the age of twenty, but it wasn't stipulated that she would treat me kindly," she added bitterly. "The work was easier at the Cavenders', but the son made it impossible for me to stay. And then you found me. I don’t know how, but you found me." Finally she looked up and met his eyes, tears threatening to overwhelm her again.
Benedict felt the spark between them kindle into something fierce as she met his eyes. She was his missing piece, like a part of his soul wandering around outside his body. He could feel the string tied from her heart to his, holding them together. He had felt hollow the past two years, heartbroken, and now the cracks were filling up again. His hand came up to cup her face as their lips were drawn together. A tender brush, once, twice, before the fire consumed him. Frustrated with the loss of one arm, his free hand snaked around her body to bind her to him.
Sophie melted in his arms. If not for Benedict’s arm laid across her lower back, his hand gripping her side, she would surely be a puddle of skirts on the ground. Her hand crept up to wind in his hair, gripping the back of his head to help keep her upright. His lips left hers, allowing her to catch her breath, but his kisses moved to her jaw, her ear, her neck, stealing it away again. A low moan escaped her throat, answered by a rumbling deep in his own.
"I don't care that you're a servant," he rasped. "I only care that you're mine. Be mine, Sophie, mine forever. Come back to London and live with me."
Something snapped. Sophie froze, eyes wide, as the fog of romance left her brain and allowed her to think a moment. "You want me to be your mistress," she said slowly.
"Yes, if that's what you want to call it! I don't care that you're illegitimate and a housemaid. I want you to stay with me," he begged.
She pushed away from him, finding that her hand came free of the glove and—
—they were back in his bedchamber, the sudden brightness of the room putting her off balance with sunspots in her vision. She caught herself against the desk, staring down at her rough woolen work dress. Sophie looked up at him, supporting himself with a hand on the bed as he stood in his nightshirt.
"No," she whispered before continuing more strongly. "I won't be your mistress. I can't ." Her body went rigid, lips compressed into a hard line.
Benedict watched her bosom heave with angry breaths and tried to understand where he had gone wrong. He needed her, but she had to know… "Society is cruel. If we married, you would never be accepted by the ton . I won't subject you to their snide remarks and looks of disdain—"
"But you would subject me to a life of lies and secrecy. I won't be hidden away in the shadows, a kept woman like— like my mother," she bawled, turning away from him.
Benedict reached for her uselessly, wanting to comfort her. Seeming to sense his movements, she moved further away. He studied the hard line of her back as she stared out the window, scrubbing at her eyes, her arms wrapped tightly about herself. He raked his fingers through his hair, pulling at the chestnut locks and gritting his teeth.
"She was a servant in the Earl's household, my mother," Sophie said abruptly. "She returned home when she learned she was with child. She died giving birth to me. No longer able to care for me due to her own illness, my grandmother dropped me off at Penwood Park when I was three."
She sniffled, turning to face him again. He stood motionless, biting his tongue to keep from interrupting. Her lip trembled, and he ached to soothe her. He took a half step forward; her hand came up in a halting motion.
"I haven't finished yet." Sophie took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. "The Earl took me in. He told everyone that I was his ward, but anyone with eyes could see the truth. The servants were kind enough to me, but there always whispers. I never had any doubt about the baseness of my birth. And the pity ," her lips twisted on the word. "Yes, I was fed and clothed and sheltered, but I never knew love . I was trotted out for inspection when he came from London, he’d inquire politely about my lessons, and send me right back to the nursery. And then he married her —" a deep, shuddering breath, "—and my isolation in the country turned into hell on earth.
"She couldn't stand having me in the same house with her and her daughters. One look at me and she knew what I was. She tried several times to turn me out, but he denied her. I continued my lessons, and Rosamund became her instrument of torture. No one asked or cared about the bruises on my arms. And then he died. My father died and cared so little about me that he left me in her dubious care. I refuse to put any child of mine through that."
Sophie collapsed into a chair, folded in on herself, wracked with sobs. Benedict’s heart broke for her. He crept forward as though she were an injured bird, careful not to startle her. Ever so slowly, he knelt beside the chair and reached out to tip up her chin. Unrestrained tears dropped onto her skirts.
"I can't do it, Benedict. I won't ."
He could see that now. The pain outlined in her every feature, from her red-rimmed eyes to her raspy voice, the splotches on her face to her hunched shoulders, robbed him of any illusion that she would be content as his mistress. He would not ask her again. His mind went into overdrive, wracking his brain for a solution. He had to fix this. He had to find a way to take away all the pain he had inadvertently caused her. The second son of a viscount marrying a servant was nigh on impossible, but an earl’s ward was another thing… It wouldn’t be without its challenges, of course, but for her, he would endure anything.
He cupped her face in his hands, stroking her cheeks with his thumbs. Once he said the words, he couldn’t take them back, but he had never been more sure of anything in his life. He would have to consult his mother and brother about how to smooth things over with society. If Lady Whistledown caught any hint of scandal… Benedict would not suffer Sophie’s name to be dragged through the mud.
“Marry me,” he whispered.
She blinked in surprise. Unable to stop herself, she quipped, “Are you asking me or telling me?”
Benedict’s mouth turned up at the corners. Life would never be dull with this woman. “Sophie Beckett, will you do me the very great honor of becoming my wife?”
“But what about--”
“I don’t care. Whatever it is, I don’t care. I only care that I wake up next to you every morning for the rest of my life.”
Sophie threw her arms around his neck, smiling through her tears like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. The force of her embrace nearly knocked him over, and suddenly they were laughing together. Yes, they would have a fine life indeed.