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“Are all the rooms prepared?” Sophie asked.
“They are,” Benedict replied, descending the stairs behind her. “As well as everything in the drawing room and the dining room.”
Sophie reached the floor of their hall and turned to him, her mouth slightly open.
“And,” Benedict added before she could speak, “the gardens have also been arranged for the evening,” he assured her. Sophie smiled at him, she loved how he always seemed to know what she was thinking. He gently ran his hands over her upper arms. “Mrs. Crabtree has taken care of everything, you don’t have to worry about it.”
“Of course she has,” she agreed. “She wouldn’t be Mrs. Crabtree if she didn’t have everything under control,” she said with a laugh. “I just want this weekend to be perfect.”
“We’ll be fine,” he said. “We’ve got plenty of alcohol, and that’s all they really care about.”
She chuckled. “I thought you guys got together to discuss art, new perspectives, and techniques to improve your work,” Sophie said in a playful smug tone, repeating the words Benedict used when they planned this weekend with his friends.
Benedict gave a quick little shrug. “That was more like an optional plan,” he joked.
Sophie laughed. Just then, they heard the sound of horses and carriage wheels approaching the house, so they stepped outside to greet their guests.
After a few carriages had arrived and guests started to gather in the drawing room, Benedict and Sophie still waited outside as they saw more carriages arriving in the distance.
“Oh, that one must be Andrew Jenkins,” Benedict said.
“How do you know?”
“I recognize his valet,” he explained, gesturing towards the man riding beside the coachman. “He said he was bringing a friend .”
“Oh, how fun!” she said excitedly. “Do we know who she is?”
“He didn’t say, but I don’t believe this friend is a she ,” he hinted.
“Oh…” Sophie understood immediately. She had grown quite accustomed to the eccentricities of Benedict’s circle, and in truth, she was glad that they felt their home was a safe place, free from society's conventions, even if only for a weekend.
When the carriage drew up in front of them, Andrew Jenkins stepped down with a broad smile. He hadn’t seen Benedict in nearly a year. They had met at one of Henry Granville's parties and had been friends ever since.
Benedict was happy to see him too, but as Andrew's friend descended from the carriage, his smile faded.
Paul Suarez was there.
The same Paul Suarez with whom Benedict had shared… certain encounters.
Five years ago he parted ways with both Tilley and Paul, and he’d been around, met people, attended parties, yet he had never crossed paths with either of them again. But now Paul was here. At My Cottage, his family home. Where he lived with his wife and daughter.
Something about it felt wrong, but perhaps it was just him who had an issue with the situation. He was glad to be standing behind Sophie, certain his face must look as if he had just seen a ghost, he could feel the blood draining from his cheeks. He must be as pale as freshly fallen snow. He noticed that Paul, too, seemed a little taken aback when he saw him, yet he maintained his characteristic smooth and serene manner as they both made their way towards the entrance.
“Good day, gentlemen,” Sophie greeted, her face lighting up with a broad smile.
“Mr. and Mrs. Bridgerton,” Andrew greeted them first, kissing the back of Sophie's hand before giving Benedict a tight hug and a pat on the back. “Thank you for having us,” he said to him.
“You’re always welcome,” Benedict replied, a warm smile on his lips.
“This is Mr. Paul Suarez,” Andrew introduced.
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Paul said, kissing Sophie's hand before locking eyes with Benedict. "Mr. Bridgerton," he nodded.
“Mr. Suarez,” Benedict nodded back, and one glance was all that was needed for them to leave it at that.
“You must be exhausted from your journey,” Sophie said, oblivious of the tension in the air. “There’s tea in the drawing room, please make yourselves comfortable.”
“We’ll join you in a minute,” Benedict added, as another carriage appeared in the distance.
The two men nodded and made their way inside.
“Is everything alright?” Sophie asked once they were gone.
“Yes, of course,” Benedict said, somewhat distracted, his gaze fixed on the approaching carriage.
“You’re quite… jumpy,” she observed, glancing at him from head to toe. His body was jittery, his heels lifting off the ground in quick, nervous motions. His hands were clasped behind his back, but Sophie could swear his fingers were twitching. "If you need the bathroom, I can greet your friends on my own..."
“What?” he snapped out of his thoughts. “No need, I’m perfectly fine.”
Sophie wasn’t entirely convinced. Only moments ago, Benedict had been calm and relaxed, yet now he seemed the embodiment of restlessness. Naturally, she would have pressed further, but the next carriage was stopping in front of them, so perhaps this was a conversation for another time.
The day passed as Sophie and Benedict entertained their guests. My Cottage wasn’t a particularly large house, but they managed to comfortably host nearly twenty people. They enjoyed the afternoon tea between conversations, card games, and occasional music played at the pianoforte by some of Benedict’s friends.
Sophie hadn’t realised how much there was to say about the vanishing point, but she had just spent the last forty minutes listening to a discussion on the subject. Muttering something about helping Mrs. Crabtree, she managed to excuse herself from the conversation, which seemed to have no end in sight.
She stood by the tea table, collecting empty cups on a tray as she used to do years ago. It was entirely unnecessary, but it allowed her to maintain her little white lie.
“Mrs. Bridgerton,” she heard behind her. She turned to see Paul approaching.
“Mr. Suarez,” she greeted him with a smile. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
“Very much, indeed,” he replied, though she detected a trace of hesitation in his manner. “I wanted to express my gratitude for welcoming me to your home.”
“Of course,” she said warmly. “You and Mr. Jenkins are both most welcome here. There is no cause for concern.”
Paul let out a relieved exhale, a shy smile forming in his lips. “I must confess, Andrew never informed me we were coming here,” he explained. “I would not wish for you or Mr. Bridgerton to feel as though I am imposing upon your family home. I never intended for anything to become… awkward.”
Sophie was puzzled. “You are not— Why would it be awkward?” she asked, her brow furrowing.
“Well I—” he stopped himself. He saw in her eyes that she clearly had no idea what he was talking about.
But suddenly her face changed. She glanced across the room at her husband, who stood with his back to them, engaged in conversation, seemingly oblivious to their exchange. And she remembered how uncharacteristically awkward he got after they received Andrew and Paul. All the pieces instantly fell into place.
“Oh…” was all that came out of her mouth. “Oh…” again, it was almost involuntary.
“My word, you didn’t know...” Paul muttered as he realised his error.
“No, no… I did, I did know, I—” she faltered, then paused to compose herself. “I knew,” she assured him, which seemed to ease his nerves a little. “I just didn’t know the whole story,” she added.
“I am deeply sorry,” he apologized, and she could see the sincerity in his eyes.
“Don’t be, you don’t have to,” she said kindly. “Please, make yourself at home and enjoy the weekend,” she said, slowly walking away, leaving him by the tea table, still wearing a rather troubled expression.
She headed to the back of the room, a small corner separated from the guests. She glanced over at Benedict when she passed by his side, and he immediately finished his conversation and followed his wife.
“Hello, darling,” he greeted her with a smile, standing beside her, their backs to the wall. “Are you having a good time?”
“I spoke to Paul,” she said dryly, and by her expression, Benedict knew exactly what they had talked about.
“Oh…”
“It’s alright,” she reassured him, a soft smile on her face. “I would’ve appreciated a little heads-up, though.”
“I had no idea he was coming,” he whispered to her.
“He didn’t know he was coming here either,” she replied, looking over at Paul in the distance. “Now I know why you got all quirky earlier.”
Benedict sighed. “I was going to tell you, I just didn’t find the right time.”
“Is there anyone else…?”
“No.”
“Anyone else that is not in this room? Anyone I know?”
“No— well…” he hesitated.
“You can tell me,” she said, her voice gentle. “Truly, I don’t mind.”
“Madame Delacroix.”
“The modiste?” she gasped, still in a whisper. “She made my wedding dress,” she giggled.
He let out a small smile. “It happened many years ago,” he added.
“It’s alright, darling, you don’t have to explain yourself.”
He found it odd, but Sophie was quite amused by this new information. He supposed it was a good thing she didn’t consider his past a taboo topic of conversation, in fact, she seemed quite interested in it.
All the years they’ve been together, they never talked about this kind of thing. She knew he’d been with other women before, and he’d told her about his experiences with men too, and she took it quite well, actually, but that was it. There had never been a need to dig further. He never thought she might be interested in knowing more about it, and he never felt the need to think about anyone else who had passed through his life once he met Sophie. Well, he did spend some time thinking about a certain lady in silver, but that was a whole other story.
“He’s quite handsome,” she whispered to him.
He blinked, coming back from his train of thought. “Who?” he asked. Was she calling another man handsome? Out loud? In front of him?
“Paul,” she whispered again, a playful smile on her face. “I never doubted your taste, Mr. Bridgerton,” she teased.
Benedict chuckled, a little shyly. He grabbed her and pulled her closer to him, leaning her back on his chest, his arms wrapped around her waist, her arms resting on his.
They stood in silence for a moment, staring at the rest of the room. Their guests were scattered around the drawing room, seemingly enjoying themselves, having a genuinely good time at their house. Benedict had spent years of his life so afraid of commitment and stability, and when he thought about those times, he felt as if that was a whole different person. He was now happily married to the most wonderful woman on earth, the father of a beautiful daughter who was napping upstairs, living in the coziest cottage away from the chaos of the city. He’d collected wonderful friends over the years, and he could now share his home and family with them, and it all truly warmed his heart. The last couple of years had been the happiest of his life. How could he have been so afraid of this?
But Sophie’s mind seemed to be elsewhere. There was something about her conversation with Paul that she couldn’t shake off. It was… curiosity, perhaps? She had never truly cared about Benedict’s past relationships, encounters, or adventures. He never mentioned them, and she’d been so happy with her life with him that she had never felt the need to ask about it. There simply wasn’t a point, they both just didn’t care.
But now this little part of his past was here, at their house, and there was no way to ignore it. She wasn’t angry or offended at all, she wasn’t precisely thrilled about it either, but it was there, and something in her mind just wouldn’t let it go. She supposed, after all this time, she did care a little about it. She wasn’t sure why, and she wasn’t sure exactly how she felt about it, but she had questions.
“Do you ever miss it?” she asked him, still staring straight ahead, where Paul was joining a conversation in the sitting area.
Benedict frowned, her question seemed to come so out of nowhere. “Miss what?”
“Being with men,” she said, her tone smooth and thoughtful. After Benedict said nothing, she continued. “I suppose it is different from being with a woman.”
“Well…” he pondered how to respond to that, but she spoke again before he could.
“Would you do it?” she turned her head to ask him.
He looked at her with a puzzled expression, but her eyes were so sincere, so confident in what she was asking, and he knew she wanted an answer. “I would never be with anybody else, I love you , Sophie.”
“I know,” she turned her head again. “But I’m not talking about love, Benedict.”
And he truly didn’t know how to follow her. Trust Sophie to always leave him speachless, she was probably the only person in the world who could manage not to get at least a witty, evasive answer out of him without even trying.
“If we weren’t married,” she continued, “would you do it?”
“With Paul?” was probably not what he should’ve said, but it was all that came out. Was Sophie thinking about him and Paul being intimate?
“With anyone,” she shrugged.
“I was a different person before we got married.”
“I know, but…” she seemed to be getting a little exasperated, which baffled him. Wasn’t he the one who should feel uncomfortable in this conversation? She sighed deeply before asking again. “Do you ever have… different needs?”
“Darling, that is not how it works,” he said patiently. “Just because I've been with men doesn't mean I’ll always have the need to be with men, just as I don't always have the need to be with women.”
She scowled at him. “What am I? A piece of furniture?”
Benedict let out a little chuckle, but she still seemed confused, even a little offended. “You’re my wife ,” he said slowly. “My needs are very much fulfilled because I get to be with you. You are all I need because I love you.”
“But I’m not talking about—”
“About love, I know,” he finished. “You’re asking me if I would be with other people just for fun.”
“Would you?” she nodded, that was exactly what she meant. “If I say I don’t have a problem with it.”
“You wouldn’t have a problem with it?” he inquired.
She turned her head again, gazing at Paul, but this time, in her mind, it was not Paul, it was someone who had also been with her husband. It was a person whom Benedict would likely choose to be intimate with besides her, and the thought of it caused a little something in her stomach. Not a very good feeling, actually. But then again, Paul was the embodiment of a life Benedict had left behind just to be with her, and even if he said he didn’t need it, she supposed it wouldn’t be so bad if he ever wanted to spend a night with someone else.
He loved her, she knew he loved her. She was sure of it. She had never spent a day of her married life without Benedict letting her know how much he loved her. Whether it was bringing her flowers, making love to her, painting her, or doodling little things about her. Some days, just a kiss or a hug were enough to manifest his feelings. And all of that without her even asking for it, she could tell he was genuine about everything he did. Benedict was not a person of untruthful manners, he would never demonstrate something he didn’t truly feel.
“I suppose I wouldn’t care,” she finally said, thoughtfully.
And Benedict was back at a loss of words. He never needed her permission because he had never even felt the urge to be with other people, so he wasn’t quite sure how to feel about it.
He did love how open-minded Sophie was. Not that he ever thought otherwise of her, ever since the masquerade, he had been captivated by her mind. She was always so witty, so clever, and kind, but it wouldn’t have been strange if there was a little conservative side to her. After all, despite being raised as an earl’s ward, she still lived for many years a life of service, protocol and standards. It wouldn't have surprised him if she had turned out to be a little intolerant about a few things. But of course, she wasn't. She was perfect. As he always said, Sophie was perfect. Of course she’d never had a problem with any of this, not with his sexuality nor with any of his acquaintances who chose different paths in life.
But it was definitely something new to learn that she wouldn’t have a problem with him being with other people, and it sent his mind spiraling. He felt tempted to ask her if she ever felt the need to be with someone else, but the mere thought of it made him sick. He couldn’t handle it. He had always taken pride in his bohemian way of living, always a free spirit, but it seemed Sophie had a mind far more open than his. He could not bear the thought of sharing her with anyone else.
And he felt the need to tell her that, but before the words came out of his mouth, Mrs. Crabtree was already talking to them.
“Everything is ready in the dining room for supper,” she informed them.
“Thank you, Mrs. Crabtree,” Sophie said, opening Benedict’s arms, which were still wrapped around her waist.
And he watched as she walked away from him, moving through their guests to lead everyone to the dining room.
After a delicious dinner, everyone retired to the gardens. It was a wonderful summer night, and Sophie and Mrs. Crabtree had the idea of transforming their beautiful garden into a gathering spot for the evening. They used torches to illuminate the lawn, along with candles, and arranged chairs and tables with the benches in their yard. Of course there were all kinds of beverages and appetizers available.
Some of Benedict’s friends suggested organizing a game, so they brought out easels, brushes, and paint palettes. The game involved painting sketches of random objects, with points awarded for the best artwork. The prize? The last piece of the cake they had for dessert, which was remarkably delicious. Occasionally a bunch of laughter could be heard from their circle, followed by a brief silence when they were concentrating on their painting, and cheers from the other people gathered around to watch the game.
Sophie was engaged in a lively conversation with two wives of Benedict’s friends, the only other non-artists present, which made for a refreshing change.
She occasionally glanced around to ensure everyone was having a good time. She caught a glimpse of Benedict talking to someone in a distant corner, somewhat hidden in the shadows. But it wasn’t just anyone, it was Paul. And she hated that she cared so much that it was him, because Paul was genuinely a nice guy, he was nothing but kind and respectful to her, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the scene.
Her heart sank when she saw them walk inside together. She followed their movements until they disappeared through the doorway. But she didn’t stop. She kept staring at the house, her eyes fixed at the empty doors. Surely, they would come out soon, wouldn’t they? She just had to wait.
She just had to sit there and wait.
And she waited.
But then, only a minute or two later, she stood up.
And she walked to the house, her heart racing and her mind swirling with a million different scenarios. Then something caught her gaze, and her legs stopped moving.
There was light in a room upstairs. It wasn’t Violet’s room, her window overlooked the front of the house. No, this light was coming from their room, Sophie and Benedict’s room. A cold shiver ran down her spine. Was he really up there with Paul? Could he be that spiteful? Taking someone else to their room, sharing their bed with another person who wasn’t her? The room where they would spend entire days and nights together. The bed where they conceived their daughter, the very bed where she had given birth to her. He could have taken Paul anywhere else in the house, yet he chose their bedroom. Was he truly that sinister?
Her legs began moving again, firm steps leading her inside. Once she was in the house, she headed for the stairs, but then she suddenly froze.
She couldn’t stop him, she had given him permission.
So she stood there, alone in the dark hallway of her home, muffled voices and laughter drifting in from outside. She didn’t know her heart could beat so fast, so loud. It was all she could hear, all she could feel, the frantic pounding of her heart in her chest. And it hurt. A pain she’d never felt before. All her life, she had heard people talk about heartbreak, thinking it was just a saying. God knows she had been miserable before, but never like this. No one had ever hurt her this way. She could feel her heart shattering in a million tiny pieces, and it pained her so thoroughly. Like a cold dagger stabbing her chest, she could physically sense the cold metal sliding through her flesh.
There was no way she could return to the party now, so she made her way to the drawing room, directly to the little table where they kept the alcohol and glasses. She had stopped breastfeeding Violet a week ago, so now she could drink as much as she wanted.
She poured herself a generous measure of bourbon and downed it in one go, scrunching her nose as the liquid burned her throat. She wasn’t much of a drinker, she would occasionally enjoy some wine or a little champagne, but nothing more. Yet tonight, she felt like going through the whole bottle.
She poured herself another glass, again taking it all at once. It felt nice. It burned so much that it almost muffled the pain in her chest.
She didn’t know how she would return to her life after tonight. How could she live with Benedict after this? How could she look at his face every day? She felt like taking her daughter and running away, maybe she could stay at Eloise’s house for a few weeks. She was the only one nearby, and it would be difficult to handle a longer journey with Violet. That’s it, first thing in the morning, she would—
“Got bored already?” she heard his voice behind her. She turned around. Benedict’s gaze darted to her right hand, still clutching the bourbon bottle, then met her eyes, her tear-streaked cheeks glistening in the candlelight. “Are you alright? Did something happen?” he rushed to her side.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice low and raspy.
But he didn’t seem to hear her. “Have you been drinking this?” he glanced at the glass on the table, which held only a few drops of bourbon.
Sophie slammed the bottle down, drawing his gaze back to her face. “Where did you go?” she asked again, her voice louder this time, steadier, yet still shaky.
“I was at the library,” he replied.
She scowled at him. “The library?”
“Yes,” he said simply, his wide eyes staring at her, completely clueless about what was going on.
“I thought you were with Paul,” she said, shifting to a softer tone, still tinged with doubt.
“I was, I showed him the library. He mentioned he was interested in some Shakespeare books we have and…” he sighed, realizing there was no need to go into detail right now. “Darling, what’s wrong? Did something happen at the party? Did someone say something to you?”
“No, no… I thought you were…” she stuttered, bewildered, trying to make sense of her own thoughts. She realized then how she had made a fuss over nothing. Benedict would never be with someone else, at least not without talking to her before, he respected her enough to do that. And the light in their bedroom? Surely it was just her maid arranging her nightgown or something, as she always did. Every. Single. Night. Oh, how stupid she was. “I’m sorry… I’m…” she raised her hand to her temple, and that simple movement made her world spin, staggering on her feet. Benedict caught her by the arms and guided her to the nearest couch.
“How many glasses did you have?”
“Only two,” she mumbled. “I guess it’s a little stronger than wine,” she added sarcastically.
“And,” he gently brushed a lock of hair from her forehead, “you haven't had a drop of alcohol in sixteen months,” he noted.
She swayed back on the couch, resting her head. Benedict sat next to her.
“Are you going to tell me what happened?” he asked softly.
Her eyes remained closed, but she opened them and turned her head toward him. “I thought you were with Paul,” she repeated.
“I was with Pa— Oh…”
“Yeah,” she muttered. “Turns out I do care,” she said, her voice breaking, tears began to spill from her eyes again. “I don’t want to share you, Benedict. I don’t want you to be with anybody else. I couldn’t handle it,” she sobbed.
He pulled her into his arms, holding her tight as she wept against his chest. “I would never even think about being with someone else,” he said, his hand rubbing her back soothingly.
“Sometimes I feel like you gave up so much of your freedom to be with me,” she confessed, her tone shy.
“My love, I sacrificed nothing, I chose this life with you. And I would make that choice a thousand times again. In every life, I will always choose you.”
Her tears flowed even harder as she buried her face in his chest. She felt so guilty for the way she distrusted him.
“I almost ran away with Violet,” she whimpered, her voice muffled by his waistcoat, and Benedict began to laugh. He probably shouldn't have, but then she started laughing as well. The whole situation now felt so absurd.
“I love you so much,” he said slowly, emphasizing every word.
Sophie lifted her face to meet his gaze, no longer crying, a soft smile on her lips. “I know you do,” she said. “Literally, I know. You actively love me every single day. I should have never doubted you, Benedict, I’m sorry.”
Benedict shrugged, smiling back at her. “You did give me permission,” he pointed out.
She rolled her eyes, suppressing a laugh. “Well, you don’t have permission anymore,” she rested her head on his chest again.
“I don’t need it,” he kissed her head.
She exhaled deeply. “You’re always so nice to me, so patient.”
“Me? You’re the angel. You’ve been entertaining my friends all day, and I know how Robert gets when someone mentions the vanishing point.”
Sophie chuckled. “He can be a little redundant,” she admitted, and he laughed with her.
“I should take you to bed,” he said, caressing her hair.
"I don't think I can manage the stairs."
“I’ll carry you,” he replied, standing up and lifting her effortlessly, hooking his left arm under her knees and supporting her back with his right arm. She clung to his neck and rested her head on his shoulder as he began to walk toward the stairs.
“Aw, you’re like my prince charming,” she smiled, her words beginning to slur.
“You won’t remember any of this tomorrow, will you?”
“Not at all.”