Chapter Text
The handle had only just begun to turn under his palm when a familiar voice floated down the corridor.
“Benedict.”
He froze.
Damn.
With slow resignation, Benedict let his forehead fall against the door.
He had, he felt, been remarkably patient about the whole ordeal. Was this to be his reward, then? It did not seem wholly fair.
All evening he had behaved with the utmost dignity. He had remained in his room across the house, pacing a steady circle across the rug until he’d nearly worn a path straight through the weave. Each time the house creaked, or a door snapped shut, or a babe cried, he had paused, listening, hoping—praying, even—that the last of the Bridgertons had finally gone to bed.
Benedict loved his family dearly. Truly, he did.
But there were just so many of them now.
His already bountiful family had multiplied in recent years with an alarming enthusiasm, and My Cottage, although generous in its proportions, was proving somewhat insufficient for a determined gentleman attempting to conduct a private and harmless visit to his future wife. It was, in fact, nearly impossible to cross a corridor without encountering at least one Bridgerton whose sole purpose in life seemed to be to thwart him.
A long suffering sigh escaped him as he turned to face his apprehenders.
Daphne stood halfway down the hall, one shoulder resting lightly against the wall. In one hand she held aloft a candle in its brass holder, which illuminated her curious expression. Beside her stood Francesca. She, too, was dressed for bed, though she looked far less accusatory than her eldest sister. Nevertheless, even in the darkness it was hard to miss the elegant curve of her mouth, which plainly suggested she was enjoying the situation more than she ought.
“Good evening, brother,” Daphne whispered pleasantly. “Or possibly good morning. I am uncertain what the proper word is when a gentleman begins prowling the corridors at midnight.”
Benedict rolled his eyes.
“Daphne, Francesca,” he murmured. He’d been so close. So very close. If his sisters had waited another blessed moment or two, he might already have been inside. Mourning the missed opportunity, he commented, “You are both still awake. Are the rooms not to your liking?”
“Oh no,” Francesca replied quickly, shaking her head. “They are most comfortable, in fact..”
“Indeed, you and Mother have outdone yourselves,” Daphne agreed, stepping a little farther into the corridor, the candlelight bobbing in her hand. “You know, I’d forgotten how charming this part of the countryside was.”
“So had I!” Francesca added warmly. “I should like to visit more often.”
“You are welcome here any time, Francesca,” Benedict said, smiling with what he hoped passed for goodwill. If his sisters wished to hold a thorough discussion on the merits of Wiltshire, he would gladly encourage it. Ideally somewhere else in the house. Preferably without his presence. “You need only send word. Not even that, if I am honest.”
“You are too kind to me,” Francesca beamed, a sight so rare these days that Benedict found himself grinning in spite of himself.
“Exceedingly so,” Daphne agreed.
For a moment the three of them stood there in the darkened corridor. Then Francesca inclined her head toward the door behind him.
“Were you intending to knock, brother?”
Benedict glanced at the handle still beneath his hand and released it with an exaggerated nonchalance that deceived no one.
“I was, erm, merely examining whether the brasswork has been polished,” he said. “Everything must be perfect for tomorrow, no?”
Daphne raised both brows. “You are a dreadful liar.”
“I am not lying,” he protested. “Is it not unbecoming to accuse your brother of such things?”
“Not if it is true,” Daphne retorted.
Francesca, still half within her doorway, regarded him with pity.
“Benedict,” she said mildly, “might it not save us all time if you simply admit what you are doing?”
“I am doing nothing,” he replied, tugging at his collar.
His sisters gave him a bemused look.
With light footsteps, he covered the remaining distance between them, dragging a hand through his hair, which had already suffered greatly from the past three hours of his restless pacing.
“I simply wish to speak with her,” he confessed, ignoring their looks of glee.
Daphne tilted her head. “At midnight?”
“Is that the time? I hadn’t noticed.”
“In her bedchamber,” Francesca added, folding her hands.
“Coincidence. It is just where she is at the moment.”
“The night before your wedding?”
Benedict spread his hands in frustration. “You make it sound scandalous.”
“It is scandalous.”
Daphne, he thought, looked rather delighted as she said this.
“My dear sisters,” he tried again, “it is very late. Surely you must both be tired. Why do you not return to your rooms? I shall conclude my entirely respectable conversation and be gone again in a moment.”
“Just one?”
“Two, perhaps,” Benedict amended.
Francesca shifted but did not retreat into her room. “And, pray tell, what pressing matter requires a discussion at this hour?”
“A great many things. Important things.”
“Such as?”
He hesitated. In truth, he just wished to see her one last time before they began the rest of their lives together. To be certain she was still here, still happy, still his as he was hers, and to promise in return that he would be waiting for her at the end of the aisle tomorrow.
“They are…matters of…great emotional significance,” he managed at last.
Daphne’s mouth twitched.
“How very solemn, brother.”
“Indeed,” Benedict said firmly. “Now, if you will excuse me–”
He began edging backward toward the door, but most unfortunately found his progress halted again almost immediately.
“Benedict,” Daphne interrupted, “if you open that door, I will send for Mother.”
“You would not!”
“I absolutely would.”
Benedict ran both hands through his hair, abandoning all pretense of composure. Few indignities in life rivaled being outmaneuvered by one’s younger sisters, that too in a man’s own home.
“This is absurd. I have not spoken to Sophie since the day before,” he reminded his sisters, who, much to his chagrin, watched on with mounting amusement.
“You had dinner together,” Francesca pointed out delicately. “Yesterday.”
“There were seventeen other people there. And Gregory talked to her the entire time.”
“Perhaps she enjoys his company.”
Benedict scoffed.
“Gregory can find his own fiancée if he wishes to discuss rowing techniques over pudding.”
Francesca laughed outright at that.
“Good heavens, Benedict,” Daphne said, pressing a hand briefly to her lips. It did very little to stifle her giggles. “Are you jealous of Gregory?”
Benedict felt offended by the mere suggestion.
“I am not jealous,” he insisted, lifting his chin and rearranging his expression into one he hoped passed for respectable.
It only made his sisters laugh harder.
He looked from one to the other in disbelief. “You are both enjoying this.”
Daphne nodded. “Immensely.”
“It is the most excitement I have had all evening,” Francesca shared conspiratorially.
Benedict took in a deep, slow breath, then gestured helplessly toward Sophie’s door. “I only require a few minutes.”
Francesca stepped forward, tugging at his sleeve and saying softly, “You will see her in the morning.”
“Dawn is an eternity away,” Benedict replied, throwing his head back.
“It is only one more night.”
“A very, very long one. I am not certain I will survive it.”
“Oh, you tragic hero, you. How evil we must all seem,” Daphne crooned, patting his arm. Then she gestured down the corridor, away from Sophie’s room. “Off you go.”
Benedict scowled, glancing once more at Sophie’s door, then back at his unrelenting sisters. Finally, he groaned dramatically and turned away from them. “I shall never forget the heartless manner in which I was denied.”
“Goodnight, Benedict,” Francesca sang.
“Goodnight,” he muttered dully as he passed her by.
He had crossed half the length of the corridor, his shoulders slumped in despair, when Daphne spoke again.
“Benedict?”
He spun on his heel.
She was regarding him thoughtfully. Then–
“Oh, come back.”
Benedict blinked, certain he had misheard.
“I beg your pardon?”
Daphne merely lifted her brows and crooked a finger in his direction.
He did not wait to be asked twice. Within seconds he had retraced the length of the corridor, his previous despair vanishing with remarkable efficiency. Once he was near enough, Daphne leaned closer, lowering her voice.
“I shall allow you five minutes,” she whispered. Beside her, Francesca bit back a smile.
“Five–”
“Five,” she repeated firmly, sounding much the Duchess of Hastings she was. “And if there is even the slightest hint of improper behavior, I will fetch Mother myself.”
Benedict’s entire face lit up.
“Are you serious?”
“Most unfortunately.”
“Daph, you are indeed my very favorite sister.” Benedict leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “Do not tell Eloise I said that.”
Daphne rolled her eyes, whilst Francesca muttered under her breath, “How quickly loyalties shift…”
Benedict scarcely heard her. His heart had already leapt ahead of the rest of him, and he hurried along with a single-minded determination. Sisters, he reflected with deep affection, were an extraordinary blessing. And he possessed six of them now, if one counted his sisters-in-law. What a fortunate fellow he was.
Truly, he was the luckiest man in all of England.
He reached his intended destination in three quick strides, shot a grateful glance down the corridor, and carefully twisted the knob before slipping inside.
The moment his eyes met Sophie’s, the tension that had gripped him all evening eased. Sophie, dressed in a pale blue nightgown with her hair braided over one shoulder, sat by the window. She was bathed in moonlight and looked entirely unsurprised to find him in her bedchamber. When her gamine smile appeared, a small, triumphant laugh tumbled from his own lips; the entire evening had been well worth the trouble, after all.
The door clicked shut behind him, but not before he heard Francesca murmur, her voice threaded with fondness:
“Utterly hopeless.”
“Quite so,” came Daphne’s reply, along with a melodic laugh of her own. “Love truly has him by the cravat, does it not?”