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Morning light spilled like honey across the thatched roof of the little cottage tucked beyond the trees of My Cottage (or rather Our Cottage). It was here, away from the expectations of the Ton and rank, that they had stolen a fragment of forever.
Sophie stirred first as she always does. She lay for a moment beneath the quilt, listening to the soft rhythm of her husband’s breathing, the steady warmth of him at her back. The scent of clean linen and autumn air drifted through the cracked window. For one blissful instant she imagined the world held nothing beyond this bed and the strong arm curved possessively about her waist.
Then that arm tightened. Benedict shifted closer, burrowing his face into the curve of her neck as though he meant to anchor himself there. His breath was warm against her skin, familiar and grounding. One of his hands slid upward, those enormous fingers gentling as they cradled her face, his thumb brushing along her cheek with startling tenderness for a man so large. He tilted her toward him, holding her as though she were something both precious and entirely his.
“Do not even consider it,” Benedict murmured against her skin.
Sophie smiled, though she attempted to rise. “Consider what?”
“Abandoning me,” he replied gravely, tugging her back into the hollow of his chest.
She turned within his embrace, brushing her fingertips across his jaw. Time had not dulled him. If anything, marriage had sharpened him, made him steadier, deeper, though no less wicked in the gleam of his eye.
“You are incorrigible,” she whispered.
“And you are attempting to escape.”
“I am attempting,” she corrected gently, “to greet the morning.”
“The morning,” he said, lowering his mouth to her shoulder, “can wait.”
He rolled her onto her back with an ease that stole her breath. His hair fell into his eyes; she brushed it away, smiling up at him. There was something perpetually boyish about him as though he still carried within him the reckless second son who had once believed himself destined only for art and mischief.
“And what of responsibility?” she asked softly.
“I am being entirely responsible,” he murmured, tracing the line of her collarbone. “A husband must see to his wife’s happiness.”
She laughed, though it dissolved into a soft gasp when his lips followed the path his fingers had charted. For a moment the world narrowed again, just breath and warmth and the languid promise of morning indulgence.
“Sophie,” he said, voice roughened, “we have not been alone in-”
A sharp knock split the quiet.
Both froze.
Another knock followed, firmer this time.
And then-
“Papa!” came a small, indignant voice from beyond the door.
Benedict dropped his forehead to Sophie’s shoulder. “I blame you,” he muttered.
“You blame me?” she whispered, laughter trembling through her.
“Yes. If you had not been so very irresistible-”
“Papa!”
Sophie gently pushed him back. “That,” she said, “is your daughter.”
“Our daughter,” he corrected automatically, though he made no move to rise.
There came the softer rap of a more measured hand. “Mr. and Mrs. Bridgerton” the nurse called politely, “Miss Violet is quite determined this morning.”
Sophie slipped from beneath the covers despite Benedict’s half-hearted attempt to capture her wrist. “I shall only be a moment,” she said.
“You wound me.”
She bent and kissed him anyway. “Recover quickly.”
Wrapping her robe about herself, Sophie opened the door to find a tousled-haired child vibrating with impatience.
Little Violet launched herself forward. “Mama! Want Papa!”
Sophie crouched to carry her daughter close. How strange and beautiful it was, that she, a girl once relegated to shadows, should now stand in morning light with a child who bore both her gentleness and her father’s vivid imagination.
“Papa will be with you shortly,” she assured. “He is....dressing.”
From within the chamber came a muffled groan.
Violet giggled and wriggled out of her mother's arms, then scampered down the hall under Nurse’s watchful eye.
Sophie closed the door and turned to find Benedict sitting upright at last, running a hand through his hair with theatrical suffering.
“You see what you have wrought?” he said.
By the time breakfast was laid in the drawing room, My Cottage had fully awakened. Sunlight filtered through tall windows, illuminating the modest elegance Benedict had insisted upon-fresh flowers, a scattering of sketches upon a side table, Violet’s wooden horse abandoned near the hearth.
Mr. Crabtree, ever solemn in his duties, stepped inside with a bow.
“Pardon, Mr. Bridgerton. Your brothers are at the door.”
Benedict arched a brow. “Which ones?”
“All of them, sir.”
Sophie stilled.
“And,” Mr. Crabtree continued delicately, “they are inquiring after Miss Eloise.”
Benedict blinked. “After Eloise?”
Heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor before anyone could speculate further. The drawing room doors were thrust open with unmistakable authority. Anthony stood on the threshold, dark coat still fastened, gloves clenched in one hand, his expression carved from pure command. Colin and Gregory hovered just behind him, both attempting varying degrees of composure, Colin with polite restraint, Gregory with open curiosity.
Anthony did not bow. He did not greet. He did not so much as glance at the tea tray.
“Is Eloise here with you?”
His tone cut clean through the room.
Colin, recovering first, broke into a warm smile and crossed toward Sophie. “Sister,” he greeted, far more civil than his elder brother. He bent to press a fond kiss to Violet’s hair. “And how is my favorite niece this afternoon?”
Gregory followed eagerly. “Has she begun terrorizing the household yet?” he asked, peering down at the baby with exaggerated suspicion before grinning.
Sophie laughed softly, shifting Violet so her uncles might admire her properly.
Benedict, however, had risen.
Anthony’s rigid posture had not relaxed. If anything, it had sharpened.
“No,” Benedict said slowly, a thread of alarm slipping into his voice. “She isn’t here.”
He stepped forward. “Why? Where is she?”