Archive of Our Own

"I have the day off?"

Mrs. Wilson nodded. "Lady Violet gives all the staff a day off each month, and with all the hard work you've been doing recently, I thought it best to make sure you used your day."

Sophie frowned. Staring at the older woman in confusion, she tried to think of an occasion, any occasion, where she recalled another staff member she worked with saying they'd been given individual days off. She had never had one since becoming a maid, certainly not with Araminta, and minus her periods of unemployment since leaving Penwood House, time off was unheard of in her life. 

She studied the older housekeeper skeptically. Was Mrs. Wilson lying to her?

"I really do not need it," Sophie told her. "I already promised Miss Hyacinth I'd help her with her French work. And I'm helping Miss Francesca with preparing for tonight's ball. Not to mention all the work needed for Lady Bridgerton's ball later this week. I'm far too busy to be taking the day off work." 

Somehow, Mrs. Wilson was able to force the kind smile on her face to stay and not let it turn into one of alarm and surprise as she watched the young woman continue to ramble on about all the tasks she had to attend to, what it was she had already done and what currently needed to be completed. She listed the different chores that she’d planned to complete that day, ones Mrs. Wilson had not realized were lacking and had been overlooked. And it was her job to manage Number 5. 

Getting the young Miss Sophie out of the house would be more challenging than she thought. 

"I've already promised Lady Bridgerton you'd be notified, and with only a few days left in the month, it's best you use it now or lose it," she told her, shooing the girl towards the servant's door. She'd at least already been able to get a cloak around Sophie's far too-thin shoulders and a basket of food in her arms, so she had something to eat later.

Sophie's little confused frown deepened. "But…what do I even do?"

Oh, this sweet summer child was going to need more help than Mrs. Wilson realized.

"Well, you can go for a walk. Get some air. It will be good for you. And I made sure you have some of your pay with you," she motioned towards the basket, held in the crook of Sophie's arm. "I put it in the basket. Consider it a little gift. The markets should also be open if you want to get something small. There is a chocolatier near Piccadilly who sells quite wonderful treats for a good price. Maybe you could go there?" 

"Um…alright, then," Sophie told her, still looking completely lost at the concept of not working for the day. Making it all the more apparent to the old housekeeper that something was truly off with her. 

It wasn't normal for a girl of her age to be so adamant about working. Not that Mrs. Wilson wasn't grateful for her; Sophie was good at what she did. And she did it quickly, too, without question. Everything was done perfectly, but Mrs. Wilson noticed how Sophie tended to overstep, taking on tasks she should not have been doing as a maid. While some of the older staff had been happy about having less work to do when they woke up and found Sophie had already done it, the younger staff were the opposite. 

Some of the younger, more gossip-minded maids weren't entirely happy about how close Sophie was getting with the three Bridgerton sisters. Their employers. It couldn't be ignored how Sophie was one of the only servants to repeatedly sit for tea with the three sisters and their mother, not that it was by her own choice, and Mrs. Wilson couldn't ignore how Benedict had suddenly begun showing up more. The same Bridgerton son who got her the job.

And the poor girl was going to work herself to death if she didn't slow down. She needed at least a day to breathe and relax. 

"I'll see you this afternoon," Mrs. Wilson remarked, gently pushing Sophie closer to the door and outside. "See you later, Sophie. Have fun."

She then promptly shut the door in Sophie's face before she even had the chance to change her mind and return inside. Waving her off from the window, Mrs. Wilson waited until Sophie made it most of the way down the servant's alley, rather slowly as she kept looking back at the kitchen door, wondering if she should really leave and looking terribly lost in her thoughts, before finally disappearing around the corner, to which Mrs. let out the breath she'd been holding, her body sagging with relief.

"Is Lady Bridgerton planning to implement this day off for all staff? Or just the new little maids with blonde curls and big green eyes?" Bessie, the cook who'd worked for the Bridgertons for years, inquired knowingly as she continued stirring the morning porridge. 

Bessie knew well enough what it was her old colleague was doing, seeing as Mrs. Wilson had waited till all the other staff members had gone off to attend to their duties before she caught Sophie for a private little chat. 

"Oh, hush you," Mrs. Wilson shushed. "That girl's been working herself to the bone. You saw her this morning. She looked about to collapse from exhaustion."

"And what do you plan to tell her ladyship or the young ladies when they come looking for her?" Bessie asked. 

Mrs. Wilson shrugged. "I'll just tell her she went to run some errands for me. I think we can manage one day without her." 

—

Sophie was completely lost.

Not really. She knew where she was: Regent Street, the hustle of early morning business happening around her as she wandered down the road and through the city. Horse-drawn carriages passed her on the street while Londoners of all classes did their business around her. Her worry of Araminta being in town meant she’d stuck to the back roads, the quieter streets of London.

But she barely heard any noises around her as she continued down the road, lost in thought. 

She was at a loss about what to do with herself for the day. 

She'd never had a day off before, not since Araminta had forced her into a life of servitude. Not even with the Cavanders or the brief jobs she held between leaving London and arriving in Wiltshire. She'd worked every day from sunrise to sunset, sometimes even into the evenings since her father’s death. 

Yes, she'd been a guest while staying with Benedict in the country, but she'd also done work around the home, helping the Crabtrees manage the manor and helping Benedict recover from his fever. She'd not been as busy as she'd usually been as a maid, not even now with the Bridgertons at Number 5, but she hadn't taken an entire day of just doing nothing. No matter how much Mrs. Crabtree demanded her to. 

But the thought of Wiltshire, of her time at My Cottage, brought up a bigger problem in her life. 

Benedict.

It was probably why she’d been keeping herself so busy. Without anything to do to keep her mind elsewhere, she was stuck thinking about him. His charming looks, his crooked smile, how passionate he spoke about his artworks with her, how sweet he looked whenever he attended to his nieces and nephews when they were visiting. The days she'd spent getting to know him better had shaped the fantasize she still had over him. For better or worse.

Not to mention, thinking about him always led to her thinking about the pond incident. The image of him coming out of the water all those weeks ago, completely nude, after she'd stumbled upon him during his morning swim. Her cheeks burned as she remembered that, making her shake her head as if she could rattle the thoughts out of her mind. 

She had to stop thinking about him. It was embarrassing and childish. Not to mention improper. He was nothing more than a distraction, a gnat that constantly flew around her head, annoying her. And she knew her feelings for him would only lead to further pain and heartbreak. 

"Well, isn't this a surprise? Off to do some morning shopping, are we?" the sweet sounds of Benedict's voice floated around in her skull as if he was sitting on her shoulder, guiding her through her day. 

Sophie sighed. "And now I'm hearing him," she muttered to herself sarcastically. "Wonderful."

"Sophie, I'm standing right behind you," Benedict's voice said with an amused chuckle, and this time, Sophie realized it wasn't in her head. 

She spun around quickly, shocked to find that Benedict was, in fact, standing right behind her. Where the hell had he come from? Glancing around the streets, she tried to figure out where it was he'd appeared from or if he'd been following her this entire time. Not realizing she'd walked right past him as he exited White's a few doors behind them, her head so far up in the clouds that she hadn't seen him wave her down or hear him call out after her. She certainly hadn't heard his footsteps as he moved to catch up with her as she walked on. 

Oh, she was never taking another day off again. Ever again.

"How do you do that?" she asked him, stunned.

A dark brow quirked up. "Do what?" he asked back.

"Find me," she clarified an annoyed edge in her tone this time.

But Benedict only smiled. Slowly his sly, lopsided smirk, dragged the corner of his lips upwards as he stepped towards her, towering over her. Looming over her. She mentally cursed him for being as tall as he was. Making Sophie have to tilt her head back just to look up at him. Just so she could see the mischievous glint in his pale, morning-blue eyes as he looked down at her. Tried to ignore the building desire within her that made her want to climb him.

"Like I could ever lose you. Only a fool would let you go," he told her, voice soft.

She stared at him, lips parting, hating how her heart began to start beating erratically in her chest. His voice sounded soft and loving, giving her goosebumps despite the sun shining brightly on them, keeping them warm. All she wanted to do was listen to his voice. 

"Besides, you are far too irresistible to ignore. All the more reason to keep you all to myself. I wouldn't have to worry about you disappearing," he said, more flirtatiously this time. His eyes roamed over her gown of pale green.

Or maybe not.

She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. 

"Good day, Mr. Bridgerton," she told him curtly as she opened her eyes and stepped around him, making her way back down the street in the direction she'd come from

He seemed surprised by her dismissing him as if that wasn't a common occurrence for them as of late. She heard him call out behind her. "Sophie, wait!" 

"I'm not in the mood," she told him loudly as he followed her, catching up with her in only a few quick strides. Barely breaking a sweat as she huffed and puffed next to him as she tried increasing her pace. Damn those long legs of him. It was entirely unfair for him to use her short height against her. 

"What exactly are you doing?" he asked, easily keeping up with her. "Shouldn't you be working?"

"I have the day off," she told him bluntly.

He frowned. "The day off?"

"Yes, Mrs. Wilson says your mother gives all the staff a day off each month. She made me use mine today since the month is almost over," Sophie continued without even looking at him.

Benedict gave her a confused look, opening his mouth to tell her that was most certainly not true before quickly stopping himself. He slowly realized what Mrs. Wilson had done was a gift. If Sophie had the day off, then she finally had free time. No longer running after his sisters or attending to household chores at Number 5. She was free. 

Free to spend time with him. 

"And what do you plan to do? With your day off?" he inquired curiously. 

"I am not spending it with you. That's for certain," she replied back swiftly as if knowing what he would say next. "I think I'll go to the park. Or maybe just walk around the area. Or buy some chocolates."

He smiled. "You have no idea what to do, do you?"

She stopped dead in her tracks, making Benedict stop too. Her head whipping in his direction to look at him. He watched her dark emerald eyes narrowed into slits as she glared, but she'd proved him right. And even Sophie knew that as she took another deep breath.

"I do not need to explain myself to you," she told him with a huff.

"Have you never had a day off?" he asked.

"Coming from someone who has never worked a day in his life, I'm surprised you would even know what a day off is," she snapped before continuing on in her hasty walk down the street. Her cheeks turning pink.

All Benedict could do was laugh, a loud one bursting from his lips, almost sounding like a snort, as he watched her try to escape him. 

He truly adored annoying her. It always brought out that stubborn personality she kept hidden behind polite submissiveness. It had slipped out here and there while she was working for his family. He'd noticed her snarky little remarks were more likely to come out if she was chatting with Francesca about her suitors. He was pretty sure it was why Eloise had come to like Sophie; her biting remarks tended to go unnoticed by his mother, much to his and his sisters' amusement. 

He loved knowing that he was probably the only one in all of London she'd shown her true self to, her wit and intellect, her fiery passion and kind compassion.

And there was no one else whose company he'd rather keep right now than hers. She filled a hole in his heart, left there by his silver-dressed companion after she disappeared on him two years ago. 

"Come with me," he told her.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Did you not hear me? When I said I had no interest in spending my day with you?"

"I know something you can do."

"Thank you for the offer, Mr. Bridgerton, but I'm not interested."

"You're certain?"

"Absolutely," she replied defiantly. 

"What a shame," he remarked with a mock pout. "I was so excited to show you my paintings."

She stopped in the tracks, again, slowly turning to look at him once more. "What paintings?"

"The ones the Royal Academy is exhibiting this weekend," he told her.

Her eyes widened in surprise. "You went through with it?" 

She'd been the only one to know about it, about him contemplating returning to the Royal Academy. He wasn't confident he would at this point. The knowledge his original acceptance had been tainted, paid for by his brother, had continued to cloud his confidence in reapplying, but the Royal Academy had a yearly summer exhibition, an event where any artist, known or unknown, could submit their works in the hopes they'd be chosen. Only three pieces were allowed to be submitted to the committee, and Benedict had to pay a fee for each one, but the stress had come from picking which works he would submit. It was why he'd been in Wiltshire to begin with, to focus on his selections. The committee could not guarantee any would be selected, but after finally impulsively entering his choices, he'd heard word the day prior that all three of his paintings had been accepted.

And Sophie had been the cause of it all. He'd told her about it in Wiltshire. About his hopes and dreams of being a famous artist. About how he'd stopped painting after discovering Anthony's role in helping him get that dream. The only reason he'd reopened his box of paints that he'd tucked away after leaving the Royal Academy had been because of the Lady of Silver, the only way he could get her out of his head was by drawing her. Painting that night over and over again. And other pieces because of it. She'd become his muse, reigniting his skills, but Sophie had become his champion, batting away his anxieties with her own confidence and support. Pushing him to submit the paintings, telling him it was better to live with a rejection than never knowing what would have happened if he hadn’t gone through with it. 

When he'd mentioned the exhibition, Sophie had immediately told him to do it, having seen his old and new works hidden around My Cottage. Peeking at his drawings and sketches while he'd slept off a fever. Her encouragement had been the final push he needed to get over himself.

He hadn't even told his family yet. He couldn't. Only after he told her first would he be able to. 

"You got in?" Sophie seemed surprised, stunned by the news. 

"All three of the works I submitted were accepted," he told her, chest puffing up with pride. 

Her stunned shock shifted to delight as she smiled at him, excitement buzzing through her. Excitement she felt on his behalf because of him. 

"Oh, Benedict, that's wonderful!" she remarked, and Benedict felt his heart swell as she used his first name instead of the formal 'Mr. Bridgerton'. 

In her giddy excitement, she threw her arms around him to hug him, and Benedict was all too willing to accept, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her body against his, lifting her off the ground, breathing in the smell of vanilla and nutmeg as he held her. For a moment, the whole world around them disappeared, and Benedict only felt utter content by having her against him. 

Then, Sophie snapped away from him, as if she'd been burned, making him quickly put her back down. As if she'd just remembered that only moments ago, she'd been annoyed with him. And that touching him was certainly not something she'd been allowing between them since they both arrived in London. 

But instead of getting angry again, she just grew embarrassed.

"Um…congratulations," she told him nervously, her cheeks turning pink. 

"Would you like to see them?" he asked, trying, and failing to ignore the emptiness that had returned within him the moment she pulled away. The moment her touch left him.

"Oh, I do not believe I will have the time to attend–" she started.

"I mean right now," he clarified quickly. 

She frowned. "How would we do that?" 

Benedict only shrugged. "Let's call it an artist's privilege. I'm allowed to check on my works before the exhibit."

"Um…I don't know…" she trailed off hesitantly, catching her lower lip between her teeth as she thought it over. 

"The Academy is just down the road," he told her, motioning towards the street ahead of them that would lead them both to it. "I'll have you in and out before you know it. It shouldn't take less than an hour. Promise."

She studied him. "You promise?"

"Absolutely," he told her, even though he planned to keep her there as long as possible.

After a moment, she nodded. "Alright. Lead the way." 

Benedict smiled, excitement flaring within him. He held out his arm for her to take, but Sophie merely shook her head and began walking, making him let out a small chuckle as he followed, directing her towards the grand gray and white stone building used by the Academy for its classes and exhibits. He still knew the back entrance Tessa had once shown him, leading Sophie towards it so no one would see them sneak in.

Technically, he hadn't lied to Sophie when he said he could see his works before the exhibit. That was true. He could come and go as needed, but waltzing through the front door with a woman who was not his wife nor known to the Academy, he was bound to get looks and questions from the others. 

But Sophie made no remark as they entered through the back, quietly following him as he brought her towards the exhibition rooms, which, mercifully, were empty. It was still early enough in the morning that the majority of students and teachers weren't roaming the halls yet. And Benedict had it on good authority that the curator would be sleeping off a rather horrid hangover this morning, given his piss poor performance at cards the night before. They had the place all to themselves for now. 

Shutting the door quietly behind him, he watched as Sophie glanced around the room, taking in the many paintings of varying sizes that decorated the walls as she walked around the statues of marble and bronze placed throughout the rooms. 

"Are these all submissions too?" she asked him. 

"Some are," he answered. "Others are donations or works that have been loaned out temporarily from private collections."

"They're quite good," she told him, studying a painting of Cupid and Psyche lounging on a chaise together, one Benedict had been told was on loan from Brussels, made by a French painter while in exile. 

"Really?" he asked her, coming up to stand next to her. 

"You don't like it?" she asked back. 

"It's not that I don't like it, it's…" Benedict paused, trying to figure out what to say next. It wasn't bad, the painting of Cupid and Psyche, it was rather well done, if not more hyper-realistic then the other paintings hanging around them. 

It was just better than his. All the paintings around them were. The one in front of them was from an already established painter, as were the other donated and loaned ones hanging around the room.

At least his works were in the next one. Not put hanging next to established and known painters. 

Maybe he should have them taken out and pull them from the exhibition. It was too good to be true for all three of his works to get picked on his first submission to the contest, but he hadn't spoken to anyone except Sophie about it. There was no way Anthony could have learned about this and involved himself in this without Benedict noticing.

This was a mistake. His heart began to hammer away in his chest. He shouldn't have taken Sophie here. His paintings shouldn't be hanging on these walls. This was wrong. The exhibition wasn't opening till next week; he could get Sophie out of there and wait till the curator arrived, make up some excuse, and get the paintings removed before–

"I doubt it's any better than yours," Sophie commented, her calm voice slicing through his thoughts, stopping his heart momentarily and dragging his attention back towards her, away from his anxious thoughts. 

"I wouldn't go that far," Benedict said sheepishly, motioning towards the painting. "This one is from a far more established painter than me." 

"I've seen your works, Benedict," Sophie told him, giving him a small smile. Nothing but genuine kindness in her eyes. "I liked them much more than this one. Then the works of other more established painters I've seen." 

"Really?" he asked, hopeful. 

She nodded. "And well, you have far more talent than that one," she pointed quickly towards the muddled painting of some kind of animal hanging nearby. "I can't tell if it's supposed to be a terrier or a chicken." 

Benedict laughed. "I think it's supposed to be a horse." 

"Oh, that just makes it worse," she replied, looking horrified, and Benedict could only laugh harder. Her smile returned as she saw him laughing, saw the tension easing away from his shoulders as he relaxed.

"The one next to it would have probably been saved if it had been skied," he told her, playing along, pointing to the portrait of an older, gruff, and angry-looking gentleman with a cane hanging next to the supposed horse painting. The background needed to be lighter and looked unfinished as a result. A window in the background or a few trees would have helped. 

Sophie cringed as she saw it. "Forgive me for not noticing, but I was rather distracted by the model's severe expression." 

An expression that made the man look rather…constipated.

He was unable to prevent the smile on his face from dropping, pointing towards another painting nearby. Seeking her opinion still.

"What about that one?"

Sophie leaned closer toward the wall, studying the painting for a moment. 

"The hound deserves better," she told him as she leaned back, making him chuckle.

He hummed. "And the one next to it?"

"I can tell you with complete confidence that a woman's chest is not supposed to look like that," Sophie replied, looking rather insulted by the female model's appearance. 

He couldn't stop smiling at this point. And when Sophie saw his, she only returned it with one of her own. 

 "You are quite the critic. You're certain you aren't an artist?" he said to her.  

"I can barely draw a flower," Sophie remarked back, giving him a look.

"How do you know so much about it then?" he asked, and Sophie frowned, looking away from him. 

"My father," she answered softly, the smile on her face dropping and Benedict stiffened. "He had quite the collection of works in his home. From different painters. Practically decorated every inch of his home. He liked art. It was the only thing we ever talked about. When he talked to me, that was."

"I didn't mean to bring him up," Benedict told her apologetically. 

She shook her head. "It's fine. I used to study the paintings growing up. Tried to imagine what the words within them were like. Got pretty good at noticing all the little details and how they differed from one another, but I never had the talent for it, though, I'm afraid. But my father would tell me more about them if I asked. He was quite good at noting the flaws and errors. Could even tell two of them had been painted over by the original artist and that one his grandfather had purchased was a fake. He was a very…critical man." 

Critical. Critical could mean cruel. 

"He never said anything to you about–?" Benedict gently started, and Sophie shook her head again, knowing where he was going with this.

"He never spoke up about it to begin with. I could never tell if he just didn't want to talk about it or didn't know how to. It was just one big elephant sitting in the room whenever we were together," Sophie told him. "And he rarely ever told me off. He left that to the servants. The housekeeper and my governess specifically. He'd left them to raise me anyway; might as well let them handle the tougher conversations or discipline."

An uncomfortable pit began forming in his stomach. It was hard to imagine what it was like for Sophie growing up. Besides the matter of her being an illegitimate child, Benedict couldn't begin to imagine not being close with his father, who had been nothing but loving and supportive. A man who had been the complete opposite of Sophies, who supported his artistic interests. Charcoal and some paper were an easy way for his father to keep him distracted when he was little. He'd do it whenever he was watching him and Anthony while working in his office. Benedict had always been the calmer one of the two, Anthony had been more excitable and rowdier when they were little, so his father would keep Benedict quietly drawing so he could keep a closer eye on Anthony.

Even though it annoyed Benedict's mother to no end when she would come to check on them and find Benedict covered in black smears of coal.

" He's got talent , Violet ," his father would tell her with a chuckle as she huffed, wiping at Benedict's cheeks in an effort to clean him up. " I'm only trying to nurture it ." 

And his father would keep his little doodles. Little inside jokes Benedict would draw and leave on his desk for his father to find, to give the old man a good laugh. Weeks after his death, Benedict found some hidden away in his desk drawer after he'd been helping an overwhelmed Anthony locate documents. He was so surprised to see it, having never thought his father had actually kept them, that the grief he'd been struggling to control had clawed its way back up his throat, and he'd had to excuse himself so he could try (and fail) to get a hold of his emotions. 

His parents had both supported him in any endeavor he took, not just his father. His mother had wanted him to further his skills after he finished at Cambridge, offered to help send him to Paris or Florence so he could study, but he declined, not wanting to leave his family behind. His brother was now the viscount and Colin was starting at University himself, but there were still five other young Bridgertons their mother was left raising on her own, two of whom were only toddlers. Benedict couldn’t leave them behind like that. 

But he had support. He had love. 

Sophie never had any of that. 

And he hated it.

"But he's gone now, not much that can be done about it. No point lingering in the past," she added stiffly, as if trying to convince herself of that. 

There was an anger in her tone whenever Sophie spoke about her father, but now it sounded less like anger and more like disappointment. She didn't seem to hate him, though, which Benedict couldn't believe; however, he didn't think Sophie hated anyone. 

Well, maybe him. Sometimes.

She then straightened out her back, holding her head high as she glanced over at him and forced a bright smile. "But enough about me, you said you were going to show me your works." 

"There in the other rooms," he told her, still feeling guilty about inadvertently bringing up her dead father.

She nodded, making her way towards the opening leading into the next room. A room just as extensively decorated as the one they'd just been in. Benedict slowly followed her in, lingering a little ways behind and watching as she did the same as she had when they arrived. Carefully making her way around the room and looking at the works hanging around her. 

"Which ones are yours?" she asked.

"You don't know?" 

"Well, you didn't tell me which ones you submitted." 

Benedict felt a slight tug at his lips. "And here I thought you liked my works."

She stuck her tongue out at him for that.

"Guess," he told her, chuckling.

"Benedict," she whined softly, head tilting to the side . 

"I'm not telling you. You have to guess," he informed her. 

She let out an over dramatic sigh. "Fine," she told him, turning back away from him and scanning the walls. 

He watched her slowly waltz around the room, studying each and every painting. He watched how her curls swayed with every moment of her head. Her day off meant she hadn't pinned any of them up. Her ringlet curls hung loosely around her face, the tips brushing against her shoulders. Soft, perfect circular curls that looked like they were made from gold, shining whenever the sun caught them, and Benedict wanted nothing more than to run his hands through them.

She gave each portrait a moment of her time, and for a second, Benedict thought she'd walk right past them. She looked just about to, and then she stopped. 

"This one," she told him, pointing to it.

A smile tugged at his lips. "You're sure?"

"Yes."

"You're absolutely certain it's mine?"

She nodded. "I know that pond anywhere."

He came to stand next to her, glancing at the landscape painting he'd submitted. The one of the small pond behind My Cottage, with the little hill leading to it, the two large willow trees rooted by its banks, and the expansive field behind it that led towards a forest far off in the distance. 

The very pond he'd had the most awkward encounters of his life with Sophie at.

But that hadn't stopped him from painting it. He'd gone out one early morning to get it right as the sun was coming up. The sky of the landscape was a soft, dewy pink, and gentle orange, with just a few dabs and swipes of white to be clouds. He'd even added a tiny little detail. 

In the distance of the painting, right under one of the willow trees and sitting on a blanket, was a small figure resting against the trunk. Dressed in white. 

Sophie had come outside while he was painting that day. He'd already gotten most of the painting done and was focusing more on the leaves of the trees and bunches of daisies that were growing around the pond, but he couldn't help himself when he saw her relaxing under the tree, reading one of his books as she munched on an apple. His hands had moved without his brain telling them to, adding her to the painting. The angle he'd gotten her at meant most wouldn't notice her at first. One would have to look closer to find her hidden behind the tree, golden curls blowing in the breeze. 

"Is that supposed to be me?" Sophie asked, pointing to her mini-painted form. 

"Hmm, I suppose it is. How did that get there?" Benedict hummed playfully, getting a gentle tap to the arm from Sophie. 

"You didn't need to include me in it," she told him. "I would have moved if you had asked."

"And disturb the quiet respite you were enjoying at the time?" Benedict shook his head. "I'm a gentleman, Sophie."

A dark blond brow rose on her smooth face, telling Benedict she was having a hard time believing that, but she didn't push it.

"That's one," she nodded towards the painting in front of them. "You said three works were accepted, so where are the other two?"

"That's number two," Benedict told her, pointing towards the still life hanging next to the landscape. 

He'd gone with one of each; landscape, a portrait, and a still life. Frankly, Benedict was surprised his still life painting was accepted. It wasn't anything new or interesting. Some fruits on a plate with a goblet. Nothing extraordinary by any means. It was even smaller than the other two. Simple.

"I like it," Sophie remarked, once again cutting apart the anxious thoughts before they had a chance to sink their claws into him. "It shows off your skills. How good you are with light and detail. And the silver looks almost real. The blues and oranges you have from the fruit and plates makes it more eye-catching, too." 

Maybe she was right. Maybe the addition of his mother's blue china to hold the citrus fruits he'd used and the lighting work he'd done on the silver goblet to give it its metallic shine had been intriguing enough to have it hanging amongst the rest. 

"You need to stop second-guessing yourself," Sophie told him, and he looked to see she was watching him. "You are a talented artist, Benedict. People will see that when they see your work. And I'm certain your family will also be proud of you when they see them." 

He didn't doubt her. He couldn't. The certainty in her voice, the sincerity shining in her eyes was all he needed to know for a fact she meant what she said.

"You are far too kind," he told her. "Kinder than I deserve." 

She shrugged. "I meant what I said. You are a talented artist." 

He blushed and Benedict Bridgerton was not the kind of man who blushed. But he actually blushed at her words, like he was some young schoolboy seeing a pretty woman for the first time. He just couldn't help how Sophie set something off within him. Made him feel pride and confidence with a few little sentences and a soft smile. How he felt more than just happy when he was around her. He felt content, as if all the missing pieces in his life had just slid back into place. 

"Now, the third one," she glanced around. "That one in here too?"

"In the next room. They thought it went better with the paintings hanging in there," he told her. 

"Alright, then," Sophie said, heading off. 

Benedict waited before following. Needing a few moments to let his heart relax and for his cheeks to stop burning, regaining his composure and confidence before he headed in after her.

He found her already standing before his last piece, staring up at it. Frozen in place. He smiled. She found it already. 

"It's not my best portrait," he told her as he approached. "I had difficulty getting the face right. Unfortunately, the model could not sit for it, so I had to go off my memory alone."

The Lady in Silver. His muse. He thought it only fitting to have her amongst his submissions. Of the three, she was the one he hoped would be accepted if the others weren't.

He’d made it so she was standing by a stone railing, leaning against it as she looked away from the viewer. It was the only way Benedict could conceal the fact that he couldn't paint her full face without using a mask, having to do a side profile instead. He'd painted the scene like it had been that night, with the moon shining down on her. It was the only one hanging on the wall that had set at night. And that was how it should hang, contrasting sharply against its neighbors and drawing in the eye of anyone who passed it. 

It was, in all frankness, his best work. 

Hair pinned up with pearls, dressed in silver satin, Benedict had spent hours getting each pinned curl perfect, each strand of hair just right, and making the dress look like liquid silver in the moonlight. The lace detail he'd done on the sleeves and bodice had almost killed him. He'd been forced to take multiple breaks due to his hand cramping under pressure.

Sophie was silent as she stood beside him, staring at the painting with wide, surprised eyes. 

"I wanted to have her facing the viewer, but…well, it didn't look right," he explained, feeling nervous now as Sophie continued to say nothing. 

"It's good, Benedict," she told him suddenly, sounding breathless. "It's really, really good."

"You think so?" he asked, giving the portrait another look. 

Sophie's wide eyes darted towards him, a fearful glint settled in them as she watched him, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to realize how suspiciously similar she looked to the woman in the portrait before him. But the recognition never appeared on Benedict's face as he stared at his masterpiece, glancing over towards her to flash a proud smile.

"When did you–?" she started, her eyes snapping back towards the painting. 

"I've been working on this one for almost two years," he told her as he chuckled. "I didn't think I would finish, let alone in time to submit it here. It was killing me not getting her face right, but I finally did. I finally finished it." 

He still hadn't realized. She couldn't believe it. The evidence was standing right in front of him. She was standing right before a portrait of herself, and he still hadn't realized. 

That stupid, gorgeous, idiotic, wonderful fool. She wanted to scream at him.

But she couldn't. It was better he didn't realize, she reminded herself. He couldn't know who she really was. It would just make all of this worse.

"You know what I just realized?" Benedict asked.

If she hadn't already been rooted in place, frozen stiff to the point she looked like the marble statues around them, Sophie might have run. Instead, she slowly looked back towards him, waiting to hear what he had to say, praying he hadn't figured it out.

"One of my classmates. Wilkes. He submitted a piece I was told was accepted. He's a god-awful portrait painter, and if that's what he submitted, I'm sure you'll get a good laugh," he chuckled. "Come on."

Relief and disappointment filled her. It was better he didn't realize, she reminded herself again.

He reached out and grabbed her hand. The moment his fingers touched hers, she felt a shock go through her, making her snatch her hand back quickly as Benedict seemed to feel it, too.

"Sorry," he told her. 

She shook her head. "It's fine."

"Are you alright?" he asked, finally noticing her worried expression.

She nodded. "Of course." 

"Sophie, what's wrong?" he asked earnestly, his hand coming to rest on her arm. 

"Nothing. Nothing, I'm fine. Really," she said, forcing a smile. 

"You're still enjoying this, right?" he asked carefully.

"Of course. I was just…I was just a little surprised by the last one."

"In a bad way or…" Benedict gave her a concerned look.

"A good way," she clarified, chuckling. "I mean it, Benedict. I don't know why you keep making me say it, but you're good. Really good. Far better than the rest of them."

Benedict beamed. His expression was soft as he looked at her, a crinkle around his glittering eyes as he smiled. "You are a phenomenal woman, you know that?" he told her gently, and Sophie felt her cheeks begin to warm.

"Oh, I don't know about that," she replied, shaking her head as she let out a nervous laugh.

"I'm serious. I wouldn't have done any of this if it wasn't for you," he said. "I only submitted them because you pushed me to. If you hadn't strong-armed me into doing this, I would still be caught up in my own insecurities."

"I don't think I needed to strong-armed you into doing anything," Sophie said back, a little defensive. 

"Still, I owe you. A lot. For all of this," Benedict continued. He shook his head. "I haven't even told my family."

Sophie blinked at his admission, surprised, but he only continued. 

"I wanted you to know first. Need you to know before I tell the rest of them," he admitted. "I love my family, but they're not why these paintings are hanging here. You are." 

Her warm cheeks only got hotter, burning hotly now. Sophie caught her lower lip between her teeth, chewing nervously on it. There was warmth pooling below her navel, a tightness building. 

"You know," he smirked. "Nobody's around. We can do whatever we want."

Sophie closed her eyes, taking a deep breath as Benedict only chuckled softly. 

Of all the moments for him to ruin. 

She sighed, shaking her head. No matter how much she was enjoying herself right now, there was no chance in hell that she would lose herself in the desire she felt for him.

Then a hand came to rest on her hip, a gentle tug, and her feet moved without her telling them to, stepping closer to him. 

"Benedict," she warned softly, placing her hand over his. She wrapped her fingers around it, ready to pull it off–

"We're alone," he whispered, leaning in closer. 

"Benedict…" she repeated again, swallowing as his face came closer to hers. Her heart was drumming against her sternum now.

"No one will know," he assured her quietly, rotating his hand to catch hers now. 

"This can never work. You know that right?" she looked up at him with pleading eyes. "So stop it. Please."

Benedict stared at her. A small arrow appeared between his brows as he watched her, trying to understand why she kept refusing him when they both knew the desire was there. But he didn’t say anything. 

Then he sighed, leaning forward, and rested his forehead on hers. Well, more like the top of her head, with her height, his nose pressed into her curls, his lips hovering over her forehead. 

"Must you remind me?" he asked with a sad little laugh. He was joking, but his voice was still laced with disappointment. 

She only huffed a sigh, training her eyes toward his chest. "I'm trying to make this as painless as possible. For both of us." 

His hand was clutching hers tightly but not painfully. It was more desperate like he didn't want to let go of her. Sophie waited quietly, not moving. She trusted him; no matter how often he tried to push her boundaries, he always stopped when she asked, and she didn't want him to let go of her. Instead, she focused on one of the buttons on his scarlet red vest, waiting for him to pull away. 

Finally, he did. Benedict sighed, his lips gently brushed over her forehead as he gave her a soft kiss before pulling away, releasing her hand as he moved back.

"You'll be the death of me," he joked lightly, to her or himself she wasn't sure. He was smiling again, but it was a forced one this time. 

"I should go," she told him softly. The warmth had evaporated, leaving only an uncomfortable feeling of sadness behind. Disappointment of her own. 

"Sophie–" Benedict started.

She shook her head. "No, it's for the best. I should–"

"Oh!" another voice interrupted her. "I didn't realize anyone was here." 

Turning around to where the voice had come from, Sophie saw a tall, pretty brunette standing in the doorway. A woman she didn’t recognize. 

But Benedict did. 

"Tessa?" Benedict asked behind her.

The tall brunette glanced away from Sophie and towards Benedict. A smile lit up her face as she saw him.

"Benedict? Is that you?" she asked, stepping towards them–towards Benedict. "God, how long has it been?"

Benedict let out a small chuckle as he moved past Sophie and towards her, giving her a quick hug to greet her, leaving Sophie standing awkwardly behind him. 

So, they were friends. That was…okay. 

"How are you?" he asked as he pulled back.

"Well, well," Tessa replied. "Bored, though. Everything got so dreadfully boring around here after you left. No one throws a party like you did.”

Benedict chuckled.

“Not to mention, I was rather insulted that you didn't tell me you were leaving,” Tessa added. 

"Well, I um…I didn't want to be a bother," Benedict awkwardly replied. 

"You shouldn't have taken your brother's actions to heart," Tessa told him. "You had talent, Benedict. It wasn’t something to waste. But I heard you'll be in the summer showcase?"

He nodded. "Yeah. A few of my pieces were accepted." 

"I'm glad to hear," Tessa said, still smiling. 

"Enough about me. What about you? What are you doing here? Have this lot finally recognized your talents and given you a spot?" Benedict questioned.

Tessa chuckled. "I'm afraid I'm still modeling. The Academy refuses to consider women capable of using a paintbrush or a chisel, but I got one of my pieces selected for the exhibit. And something far better than the Royal Academy." 

"And what's that?" 

"A position studying in Florence. Apparently, they are a bit more accepting of women learning the arts in Italy," Tessa replied happily. 

"That's wonderful, Tessa," Benedict remarked. 

"I'll still have to work for it, but I certainly have you to thank for my male figures being more accurate. It certainly was what got me accepted in the first place," she explained.

Benedict chuckled. "You deserve it, Tessa," he told her.

Tessa's dark eyes glanced over towards Sophie, who was lingering in the shadows behind them, trying to stay out of sight. The brunette cocked her head to the side, studying her. A sly smile still ghosted over her lips.  

"Who's your friend?" she asked. 

"Oh, Tessa, this is Sophie. Sophie, this is Tessa, an old friend from when I was studying here," Benedict introduced them quickly.

Sophie nodded politely. "Nice to meet you." 

"Is she your latest? She's a pretty little thing. Wherever did you find her?" Tessa whispered loudly as she leaned towards Benedict, teasing him. 

"Tessa," Benedict warned. 

"You should get her to model here? She'd be well received," Tessa commented to Benedict. "Those looks are divine, and those curls. You must tell me how you get them like that, Sophie. Mine refuse to listen to me. Maybe you could come over to my place before I leave. I'm certain we could exchange tips and–" 

"Tessa," Benedict almost snapped, making the young woman perk up a brow at him in intrigue. 

"Ah, not the sharing sort, are you?" she said knowingly before turning back towards Sophie. "Apologies, I didn't mean any offense." 

Sophie only nodded her understanding, still unsure of what to say or do. She couldn't see any maliciousness in Tessa. The tone of her voice was playful yet kind, flirty even.

Flirty. She was flirting, Sophie realized. And that was when Sophie finally understood Tessa's remark about her male figures and Benedict. The way Tessa brushed a hand over his arm when they had greeted one another, trailing it slowly down. 

They weren't friends. They were former lovers. 

She should have realized there had been others. The charming, gorgeous Benedict Bridgerton wouldn't have much difficulty getting any woman he wanted into his bed. 

No wonder he had no issue asking her to be his mistress. He'd probably already done the same with others. Maybe even with Tessa. Sophie was just another name on a list of women he'd been with and cast aside. Another conquest for him. 

And Tessa had already assumed she was.

God, she was so stupid. Was this just an attempt at forcing her hand? She should never have agreed to come here with him. 

"I-I think it's best I go," she told them.

"Sophie, are you alright?" Benedict frowned, sensing her discomfort. 

"You're welcome to stay. The more the merrier, I always say," Tessa smiled sweetly, oblivious to the chaos occurring. "You can tell me what this one has been up to since I last saw him. I'm certain it was nothing good."

"Oh no, no. I think it's best I let him tell you," Sophie said quickly, shaking her head as she stepped away from them. "I should get going anyway. It's been a long day. Excuse me." 

"Sophie! Sophie, wait!" Benedict called out after her.

But she'd already disappeared into the next room, fleeing towards the exit, forcing Benedict to chase after her. He left a surprised Tessa behind, not even turning back to explain or say goodbye as he ran after her. He didn’t even think, he just made a split second decision when he saw her flee to follow her. And that's what he did.

And he caught up with her quickly enough. Those damn legs once again. Sophie grabbed the basket she'd left by the door, and had already slipped into the hallway and then out the side entrance when Benedict caught her in the alleyway. His hand snatched her wrist to stop her, pulling her back.

"Let me go," she ordered, shrugging him off her. 

"Let me explain," he shot back, grabbing her arm.

"Get off me!" she shouted, ripping herself away from him. "I do not wish to speak to you."

"Sophie, please–" he started to plead. 

"What?!" she snapped. "What could you possibly have to say to explain this?" 

"She didn't mean any harm. Tessa was just being herself," Benedict told her. "If she offended you, I know she didn't mean to."

Sophie scoffed. "You mean when she assumed I was your mistress, and you didn't correct her?"

Benedict frowned. "When–she didn't say anything–?"

He stopped. She had. He hadn't even noticed. Just happy to see a familiar face, he didn't notice she'd implied he and Sophie were together. And when he stopped her from propositioning Sophie, he'd only confirmed his interests.

He sighed. "Sophie–"

"I have no need to involve myself with whores," she snapped at him. 

"That's out of line, Sophie," he told her sternly as if admonishing one of his sisters for a cruel remark. "Just because you're upset with me doesn't mean you need to refer to Tessa as a whore."

Sophie stopped, blinking at him, her mouth open in stunned surprise. Staring at him as if he'd just grown another head. As if she couldn't believe what he had just said to her. 

Then, the shock changed to something else. Amusement. With a look of disbelief still on her face, she started laughing at him. Hysterically. Enough that she was left clutching her side as her chuckles descended into a fit, and Benedict found himself uncomfortable with her reaction, unsure what he'd done to cause it. 

"She was not the one I was referring to as a whore," she finally told him as the chuckles subsided, looking at him like he was a fool.

Benedict frowned at her, confused, as he slowly processed the words she'd just said. Then, like hers had, his pale eyes widened in stunned surprise. She'd been speaking of him. And the glower she now had told him it was most certainly him she'd been referring to. Sophie was focusing on keeping her breathing steady to prevent herself from yelling at him.

His frown deepened. Appalled, he asked. Just to make sure. 

"Me?"

"Yes, you!" she shot at him, louder this time. The anger began burning brightly again in her mossy eyes. 

As if struck by a bullet, Benedict stumbled back from her as the insult hit his ego. He won't deny that he'd slept around, finding himself in the company of a new woman each season these past few seasons, but that had been before Sophie. That had all stopped after he met the Lady in Silver, probably even before that, too, if he thought about it. Watching his siblings fall in love and marry, seeing them start their own families, had stirred something deep within him. He realized he was pretty lonely and wished for more than a fleeting fling.

Sophie had probably been the first woman he'd found himself falling for in two years, unable to tear his eyes from her petite form, blonde curls, and bright jeweled eyes. Every time she stepped into the room, he found himself drawn to her like a moth to a flame. She was the first woman in years he'd desired, even when his mind still harassed him about his silver-dressed companion. The one he had yet to find. 

Not to mention, he was a gentleman. His mother had raised him better. He'd been nothing but respectable to all his previous partners and to any lady of the ton he met. 

And being a gentleman meant he knew marriage was not an option when it came to Sophie, no matter how much his heart screamed at him to ignore society. To just flee to Scotland with her. 

Maybe he should. It would make everything easier. 

But, somehow, even though he knew he was not some cad, that his gender granted him only respect from his peers when they learned of his sexual exploits, being compared to that of a high-class cyprian or some light-skirted doxy was a comparison he found himself not entirely comfortable with. 

Especially when it was coming from Sophie. 

She was still glaring at him, her small chest expanding and contracting with each hasty breath she took. Her nostrils flaring. She was furious; her round cheeks had gone pink from rage, her eyes rimmed red, and why wouldn't she be upset. Intentional or not, he'd embarrassed her. 

He knew Tessa's remarks were not said in judgment but in a friendly jest, mocking him more than Sophie if he was honest, but Sophie, a young woman whose own birth had been the result of premarital affairs and who he knew, from his own teasings, was not comfortable with conversations of sex, had seen it as degrading. An insult. 

He'd stood there like an idiot while Tessa implied Sophie was his latest lover.

He sighed. He was a fool. A giant damn fool. "Sophie, I'm sorry–"

"I don't want to hear your apologies," she snapped. "I've heard enough." 

"Sophie, I don't think of you like that," Benedict told her. "You're far more important to me than some little fling. That’s all it was for Tessa too." 

“You asked me to be your mistress?” she retorted, furiously.

“You said it yourself, we cannot be together,” he shot at her, repeating her earlier statement back.

“And yet you continue to try. To try and ruin me just so you can have me all to yourself,” she angrily remarked.

“Sophie, I love you,” he replied quickly.

He’d said before, but even then Sophie hadn’t believed him. Even though he knew she felt the same towards him, she wouldn’t say it back and she wouldn’t believe him when he said it to her. 

And she didn’t this time either. Sophie only scoffed at him as she shook her head. She turned to leave, moving away from him, but Benedict wouldn't let her get away. Reaching out and grabbing her again, he pulled her back. 

"I said let go of me–" Sophie started, fighting against him as he pushed to turn around. 

And then his lips were on hers. 

She should have pushed him away, told him no, and been done with it. He would have let her leave.

But the moment his lips were touching hers, any capability she had at being rational evaporated. 

Because she did love him, she did, and kissing Benedict was like being set alight. Not in the painful, burning way, but the exhilarating, being sent over the edge and back that felt like every one of Sophie's nerves had just ignited, all buzzing with desire and excitement. Even furious with him, her anger only shifted to passion. The tightness below her belly returned as she felt herself get warm. 

Benedict let go of her shoulders to catch her waist again, snaking around her to come and rest on her back. A spin of the feet and Sophie was against the brick wall. His grip on her waist pulled her hips closer to him, his fingers digging into muscle. She tilted her head back, letting him kiss her harder, her hands clutching at his shirt, then his neck, nails scratching lightly over skin before pushing up into his hair, making him groan against her. The smell of citrus and sandalwood filling her nose. 

His hands were pulling at the fabric of her dress, dragging the skirts up her legs until it was brushing at the back of her calves, then going higher, but Sophie was too caught up in the desperate passion she was more focused on pulling him closer to realize what he was getting close to. 

And she couldn't help it. A small moan left her lips when his fingers lightly skimmed over the skin of her thigh, almost tickling. Slipping from her lips like a desperate gasp as she got a moment to breathe. To pull air back into her lungs.

Reality followed close behind.

Her reaction was instant. Like a bucket of ice-cold water had been dumped on her, dosing the fire racing through her veins, Sophie jumped away from Benedict, pushing him back.

"Stop it," she ordered.

"Sophie–" he stepped towards her.

"No, just stop!" she almost screamed at him.

He stopped, hands up in surrender. He looked guilt-ridden. Unsure what to say. A desperate, lonely look in his eyes. 

Good, she thought, he should be. 

"I'm… I'm sorry, Sophie. Just let me at least walk you back to Number 5," he offered sincerely. "Please, Sophie." 

She shook her head, jaw clenched, as she turned away from him.

"I think it's best if I return alone . Good day, Mr. Bridgerton." 

Then she slipped away from him without another word, not bothering to glance back as she left him standing there in the thin alleyway. Alone. Despair and regret lingered in the air.

But the feeling of his lips on hers, the ghost of their kiss, burned the entire walk back.