Chapter Text
I am a terribile mother.
It was in moments like these that seeing Violet sleeping so peacefully would have melted her heart—if it hadn’t come after an endless afternoon of tears.
Sophie had to admit it: at just nine months old, her daughter was already far more determined than most adults.
Perhaps it was to be expected, given that both she and Benedict were incredibly stubborn people.
There was really no other possible outcome than a little princess just as strong-willed as her parents.
Violet seemed to have set her own rule: afternoon naps were to take place only on Daddy’s chest.
Around three o’clock, she would start getting restless, and if Benedict happened to step away, she had conveniently learned just how fast she could crawl after him.
She wouldn’t stop following him until he picked her up.
And on those recent days when he had stayed longer at the studio, their daughter had absolutely refused to nap either in her cot or even on her mother’s chest.
Just as she was doing now.
Like every evening.
And with the most peaceful expression in the world.
Small and chubby, Violet’s breathing followed Sophie’s in perfect rhythm.
Lying on her tummy in her lilac onesie, one hand tucked near her mouth, she was the picture of calm.
Sophie sighed, running her hand gently over her daughter’s back while holding the tablet steady with the other.
Of course, it would have been easier if she could have used both hands.
And if she didn’t have to lie there with one knee propped up like a human easel to accommodate her daughter’s nap.
Violet gave a little murmur, as if she had read her thoughts.
“Yes, you’re right,” Sophie replied automatically, her eyes fixed on the moodboard on the screen. “This palette doesn’t convince me either.”
Almost in response, Violet scrunched up her nose.
Sophie nodded and made a note with her stylus. Apparently, Violet had given her approval.
“Yes, I agree, a warm cream would work better for the walls,” she said, scrolling with her finger while the other hand gently stroked the baby’s hair.
As the months went by, Sophie had begun to notice that Violet’s hair was turning the same deep brown as her father’s; even the way it curled at the ends in soft little half-moons was pure Benedict.
Sophie smiled and kissed her daughter’s head as she began to stir.
“What do you think—would a cottagecore style suit the Crabtrees?” Violet sighed softly, relaxing again.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Sophie chuckled, pressing another kiss to her tiny head.
I’m definitely a terrible mother.
She shook her head, trying to chase away that thought which had haunted her all morning.
God only knew how much she loved her daughter. And though she was grateful for these small slices of daily life, often wondering how she and Benedict had ever lived without their little Violet, Sophie felt utterly exhausted.
Violet was the sweetest child—her giggles filled the house, and no one in the family could quite tell which parent she favoured. It was easy to assume she adored them both equally.
One moment she’d be on the sofa, babbling happily as Sophie cuddled her, and the next, the sound of a key in the lock would have her throwing herself to the floor, ready to crawl as fast as she could towards Benedict.
She was both Daddy’s girl and Mummy’s girl—and that suited them perfectly fine.
Sometimes, Sophie thought, she was the one who felt like the spoiled one between her husband and daughter for how much they adored her.
But those moments… alternated with others when she wanted to scream until she lost her voice.
She couldn’t remember ever arguing so much with Benedict as in recent weeks.
Not even when he’d discovered she was the mysterious woman in silver he’d met at his mother’s gala, or when she had refused, time and again, to tell him the truth about who she really was.
After years of learning to navigate every disagreement with maturity, it was absurd to find themselves bickering over the temperature of the milk or a missing stuffed toy.
Just a few hours earlier, they’d had yet another argument.
“Believe me, my mother always did it this way, and it worked perfectly to get Hyacinth to sleep.”
Sophie had been this close to strangling him when he’d dared to take the bottle from her hands to put it back in the warmer.
“It just so happens our daughter prefers her milk barely warm,” she replied through gritted teeth. If she hadn’t been holding Violet, she might well have yanked the plug out of that ridiculous contraption.
That he had insisted on buying, of course.
It was convenient, yes—but that wasn’t the point!
“We’re trying to get her to sleep, aren’t we?” Benedict said with infuriating calm, a touch of smugness in his tone. “Maybe following the advice of a woman who’s raised eight children might help.”
“You mean your mother knows my daughter better than I do?”
The silence fell like a curtain.
Benedict turned his head slowly, as though he’d just realised there was a tiger behind him. Judging by Sophie’s glare, he wasn’t far off the mark.
“Sophie…” he began, hands raised defensively, “when did I ever say anything like that?” His tone hovered somewhere between cautious and offended.
“And yet,” she shot back, “my judgement seems to count for less than your mother’s brilliant advice.”
Right. She probably shouldn’t have said that.
But six hours of sleep were hardly the ideal conditions for rational thought—let alone diplomacy.
After an entire afternoon spent failing to get their daughter to nap, this was an argument just waiting to happen.
And to be fair, he didn’t look much better than she did—his hair was ruffled, his shirt half untucked, and he’d already reheated the bottle twice. The patience that had miraculously held so far had flown straight out the window, and by the time Violet started crying again, both parents had forgotten what they were even arguing about.
In the end, the irony was that she’d fallen asleep without the bottle at all.
Sophie sighed, silently calling herself an idiot.
She had overreacted—and Benedict, for all his stubbornness, never provoked her on purpose.
It wasn’t as though he wasn’t trying.
She’d been the one to encourage him to take on his latest commission, the one currently consuming his studio hours. She’d even reminded him of the meetings with the gallery, urged him to keep showing his work. It had been months since his last exhibition; many of his canvases lay unfinished, abandoned in favour of fatherhood.
His secondary art account had all but turned into an illustrated love letter to their daughter.
Benedict had always had a soft spot for drawing—contemporary art, he said, sometimes lacked the authenticity he found in illustration. More than once Sophie had caught him sketching her and Violet on his iPad, lost in concentration, the faint sound of the stylus scratching against the glass.
The little illustrated journal chronicling their life as new parents had started almost by accident. But soon, the digital Violet had begun to grow alongside the real one—week by week, milestone by milestone—so much so that Sophie had started checking the account’s gallery to remind herself of what she might have missed in the blur of motherhood.
Benedict was an extraordinary father.
A thousand times better than the one fate had given her.
She would never forget his face the first time he’d held Violet.
Speechless.
Tears in his eyes, his mouth opening and closing in mute attempts to form words that refused to come. And when they finally did, it was in the form of soft, trembling laughter as he kissed their newborn’s tiny head, then bent to kiss a weary but glowing Sophie.
“Thank you, my love,” he’d whispered, his voice breaking, kissing first her cheek and then the baby’s.
Perfect. I’m not just a terrible mother—I’m a terrible wife, too.
Violet yawned, nestling closer to her chest, and for a fleeting moment Sophie thought she could have stayed like that forever. But the dull, throbbing weight behind her temples reminded her of the secret she’d been carrying—and of the small travel bag hidden under the bed.
“Someone’s ready for her own bed,” came Benedict’s voice.
Sophie looked up to find him leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, that crooked smile playing at his lips—the very smile that had made her fall in love with him.
He watched her and their daughter as though they’d hung the moon and stars in the sky.
I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve him.
“She could sleep with us,” Sophie suggested softly, adjusting Violet on her chest.
Benedict stifled a laugh, shaking his head.
“Do you remember what happened the last time she heard me snore? I’m not risking another punch to the nose.”
He was already crossing the room, the warm, clean scent of sandalwood and soap replacing the lingering sour trace of baby sick.
With one hand beneath Violet’s head and the other under her back, he lifted her effortlessly from Sophie’s arms. The baby didn’t even stir.
“We’re both tired tonight, aren’t we?” he murmured, rocking her gently. Violet yawned again, her tiny face pressing into his chest, her nose brushing against his shirt.
“I’ll put her in her cot,” he whispered, before slipping quietly from the room.
Sophie watched him go, then exhaled a long, trembling breath as she switched on the baby monitor beside her bed.
With Violet gone, her thoughts were once again off the leash.
I have to tell him.
She’d been repeating it for hours—no, for days.
She was a married woman, a mother, not a frightened girl. She could face Benedict and tell him the truth.
He hadn’t run when he’d discovered who she really was, nor when he’d found her working as a maid for the Crabtrees, nor even after she’d refused him time and again, convinced they would never work.
But what if this time, he didn’t take it well?
She didn’t have time to dwell on it—he was already back.
“Do you think we should change the ceiling colour?” Benedict asked lightly, following her gaze upwards.
Sophie let out a small laugh, rubbing her face with one hand. “Our room’s perfect as it is.”
She’d designed it herself, after all, making sure it suited them both.
The pale turquoise walls—a perfect blend of his favourite blue and her favourite green—paired with the natural wood furniture and practical layout. Yet the abstract canvases on the walls broke the orderliness with bursts of life and colour.
She and Benedict had painted them together, experimenting with fluid acrylics and pouring techniques until the patterns seemed almost alive.
Creating spaces that reflected their owners was her bread and butter as an interior designer, but even now, Sophie believed she’d never done a better job than with their bedroom. Especially since so many of their best memories had been built there.
Benedict moved closer, cautiously, as though uncertain how she’d react. His brows were drawn, the smile fading. Perhaps he thought she was still angry.
“And the company?” he teased softly as he lay down beside her.
Sophie turned onto her side until their faces were just inches apart, their breaths mingling.
“Are you introducing me to someone new?” she joked, mirroring his pose—head resting on one hand, the other lying between them. Without thinking, Benedict reached out and covered her fingers with his own.
Then he smiled that smile—the one that began in his eyes before it ever reached his lips, the one that made the tiny crinkles appear at the corners whenever it was real.
“God, no,” he murmured, drawing her closer with the same hand that had touched hers. “You’re mine.” A quick kiss. “And I’m yours. You should’ve thought of that before marrying me.”
I’m horrible.
It was the kind of line that should have made her laugh—but the way he looked at her, with such unguarded adoration, made her chest tighten painfully.
She didn’t deserve him. Not this gentle, loving man.
“I’m sorry… for earlier.”
And for what I’m about to do, she thought.
“You’ve nothing to apologise for,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You spend far more time with Violet than I do. I shouldn’t have pushed.”
Sophie dropped her gaze. “But you’ve more experience with children,” she insisted, though even to her own ears it sounded weak.
Their voices had softened, sentence by sentence, until the whole world seemed to shrink to the space between them.
It had always been that way—when they were together, the rest of the world simply ceased to exist.
“Being the eldest brother’s not the same as being a parent,” he said gently, pulling her closer. “Besides, Violet’s nothing compared to Eloise as a baby.”
Sophie bit her lip at the mention of his sister’s name, unable to laugh as he’d expected.
He’s going to fight with his sister because of me. I have to tell him.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, frowning.
Sophie rested a hand against his chest, trying to steady herself.
“Benedict, I…”
Say it.
He stayed silent, his grey eyes fixed on hers.
That look—the tenderness that always undid her—was the same one that had made her crash a gala in a borrowed gown and shoes that weren’t her own.
It was the look that reminded her that loving and being loved by this man was the very reason she existed.
But the lump in her throat made the words impossible.
“I think I’m just… overwhelmed,” she managed, forcing a weary smile. “Between the Crabtrees’ bakery restoration, Violet’s new obsession with crawling, and your exhibition… I’m just tired.” She paused, lips twitching faintly. “Granted, it’s not quite as bad as living with Araminta, but—”
“Let’s take a break.”
She blinked.
“Sorry, what?”
“Tomorrow,” he said, propping himself on one elbow, “we’ll stay home. Or go out, if you’d rather. I’ll ask my mother to look after Violet.” His grin widened with each word, eyes lighting up at the thought of giving her something she needed—peace.
He’d do anything for her. Always had.
You fool, she thought. Why didn’t you just tell him from the start?
It’s too late now.
“But your exhibition—Benedict, you’ve got to finish by Monday,” she reminded him.
He shook his head firmly. “I’ve nearly finished anyway. I can take a day off.”
Her heart began to race as she watched him reach for his phone—he looked ready to ring his mother right there and then. And knowing Lady Bridgerton, it would take a miracle to make her refuse an afternoon alone with her beloved granddaughter. She doted on little Violet as if she were a tiny princess, proudly parading her around Mayfair whenever she could.
Sophie caught his wrist just in time.
“Please, Benedict, I don’t want to bother your mother,” she said—knowing full well it was a flimsy excuse. “And last time you said that, you barely made it..”
He stuck out his lower lip in mock offence, and she had to fight the urge to laugh. He looked like a little boy caught with his hand in the biscuit tin—and it only made her want to kiss him until he smiled again. Which, in the end, was exactly what she did.
Cupping his face in her hands, Sophie brushed her lips against the corner of his mouth. Then again. And again.
What began as a harmless kiss was quickly turning into something else—a slow, teasing game of seduction.
Her mouth trailed down to his neck; Benedict pulled her closer, erasing the space between them. She could feel his heartbeat quicken under her palm, his breath turning shallow.
That hadn’t been her intention. She’d only wanted to soothe him—but Benedict always had that effect on her.
“Sophie…” he murmured, his hands gliding up her back, slipping under the thin fabric of her nightdress.
“I just need a quiet day at home,” she whispered. “Then, when your exhibition’s done, we’ll go out to celebrate. Just the two of us.”
Benedict looked at her for a long moment before smiling softly.
“Promise?” he asked, tilting his head.
Sophie nodded.
“Good.”
And before she could react, he rolled over, and she found herself beneath him.
Forgive me.
Sophie woke with a start, the sunlight already streaming through the curtains, and the space beside her empty.
“Oh no…” she muttered, covering her face with her hands.
She’d set the alarm for seven. But as soon as she’d opened her eyes, she remembered Benedict reaching across her to silence it, mumbling, “Five more minutes?”
And she’d actually nodded. Half asleep, lulled by his warmth, the last thing she remembered were his lips brushing her shoulder—and then, nothing.
And clearly, those “five minutes” had turned into much more. One look at the clock confirmed her worst fear: only thirty minutes until Eloise arrived.
And Benedict was still at home.
In a movement worthy of a startled cat, she threw off the sheets, grabbed her underwear, and pulled on her dressing gown.
Maybe—maybe—he’d already left?
The smell of freshly toasted bread and the sound of childish laughter reached her before she even stepped into the kitchen.
Under any other circumstances, the sight before her would have melted her heart.
Benedict stood at the stove, sleeves rolled up, completely at ease.
Normally, she would have gone up behind him, wrapped her arms around his waist, buried her face against his back. But now? She was in full-blown panic.
And then she saw Violet.
Their daughter sat proudly in her highchair, pounding her hands on the tray, her legs kicking in delight. At the sight of her mother, she squealed with laughter and stretched out her little arms.
“Mama!”
Benedict turned, grinning broadly, apparently oblivious to her expression.
“Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” he said cheerfully. “I was going to bring you breakfast in bed.” He wiped his hands on a tea towel.
“Weren’t you supposed to be at the studio?” she blurted before she could stop herself.
He frowned slightly, then shrugged. “It’s my studio, Sophie. No one’s going to fire me if I’m late.”
He placed a colourful bowl in front of Violet—who immediately tried to grab the spoon.
“Just a bit of breakfast with my girls—Violet, no, we don’t put our fingers in the porridge,” he chided, fighting a laugh.
Violet pouted dramatically. Benedict leaned over to kiss her forehead.
“My little princess already wants to do everything herself—just like her eomma, hmm? Won’t you let Daddy spoil you a bit longer?”
Whether it was the voice he used or simply the warmth in his tone, Violet burst into delighted giggles, chanting “Dada! Dada!” over and over.
How am I supposed to ruin this moment?
Sophie sighed, summoning every ounce of calm she had left.
She just needed to get through breakfast. Then she could see him off with a smile, shut the door, and carry on with her plan.
“Tell me you didn’t give her yoghurt,” she said, moving closer. “Last time she threw it all up.”
“Of course not. I happen to like this shirt,” he replied lightly, guiding the spoon to Violet’s mouth.
Sophie’s gaze lingered on him a moment too long—the way the fabric stretched over his shoulders, the quiet grace of his movements.
“That shirt looks very good on you,” she murmured, running a teasing finger down his back as she passed behind him.
She saw the shiver it caused and felt a spark of satisfaction. It was always gratifying, knowing she still had that effect on him.
“Careful,” he said in a low voice, turning his head just slightly. “My offer still stands.”
Sophie rolled her eyes, trying not to smile. “Benedict…” she sighed, turning back to the sink to load the dishes.
“You know it’s better if you finish early,” she added without looking at him.
He only chuckled and spooned another mouthful to Violet, who made an indignant noise at the brief pause.
“No exhibition is more important than my wife’s happiness,” he said, and the lump in her throat returned instantly.
“Really, it’s fine if I don’t work today, I could—”
But his sentence was cut off by the ring of his phone. Sophie nearly sagged with relief.
“Can you…?” he gestured at Violet.
She nodded, taking the spoon from his hand as he stepped into the next room.
When she caught sight of the caller ID—Henry Granville—she raised an eyebrow. His old mentor. They still worked together often. But he’d never felt the need to leave the room to answer before.
A soft whimper from Violet drew her attention back—she’d accidentally pulled the spoon too far away.
“Sorry, darling,” she murmured, guiding it back toward her mouth.
A few minutes later, Benedict returned, looking apologetic.
“Sorry, love—completely forgot Henry was dropping by this morning,” he said.
Sophie blinked, momentarily stunned by her own luck.
“I really have to go,” he added.
“I suppose you can’t leave him standing outside the studio,” she said lightly.
He chuckled, stepping closer to cup her face in his hands. “I love you,” he murmured.
Her heart skipped a beat. “I love you too.”
The kiss that followed was meant to be brief—but it deepened before either of them could stop it. Sophie felt her knees weaken, her hand clutching his arm for balance.
Benedict held her tightly, one hand on her waist, his lips moving against hers with a tenderness that bordered on desperation—like he was trying to memorise the feel of her.
Then Violet, scandalised, let out a loud squeal and smacked her hands against the tray in protest.
“Right, right,” Benedict laughed, pulling away and scooping her up. “I love you too, little one,” he said, kissing her chubby cheek.
Ten minutes later, he was out the door—and the storm had passed without her having to lift a finger.
Sophie looked over at Violet, who was now contentedly playing in her playpen, gnawing on a soft toy.
It was too late to turn back now.
She was ready to go when her phone buzzed with a message.
Eloise:
I’m in the lift.
Kate and Penelope are waiting for you in the car.