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Sophie’s eyes blinked open and, for one dizzy, disorienting second, she could not place where she was.
She pushed herself up on her elbows, the heavy fabric of the duvet gathering at her chest. Early morning light streamed in bright beams, dust motes dancing in golden stripes across the wooden floor.
A soft groan sounded beside her as an arm shifted around her waist, gently tugging her back into the mattress.
“Too early,” Benedict murmured into her hair as he drew her closer.
“It is likely close to six already,” she replied, turning slightly so her back rested against his chest. “I should rise, I need—”
“No, you do not.”
A quiet laugh escaped her. “You do not even know what I was going to say.”
“You were going to say something about some matter that needs tending to,” he muttered. “And you do not need to tend. Not today.”
Her mouth opened, then closed again. “Mrs. Crabtree will have breakfast ready soon.”
“No, Mrs. Crabtree will not,” Benedict replied. “I gave the Crabtrees the day off.”
Sophie turned in his arms.
“They deserved a break,” he said with that easy certainty. “And we will not be needing them today, because we are having a lazy day.”
Sophie hesitated. The words hovered on her tongue, fragile and unfamiliar. “A lazy day?”
“A lazy day.”
“And what,” Sophie asked, “does one do on a lazy day?”
“Nothing,” he answered, pressing a kiss to her temple. “We do nothing.”
“That sounds—”
“Lovely?”
“I’m not quite sure,” she admitted. “The last time you were confined to this bed, all you did was look for an excuse to escape.”
“That was entirely different,” he admitted. “I did not have you beside me then. Had I, I surely would have found a far more captivating use of our time.”
He kissed her then, one hand cupping her jaw as the other drew her into him.
“This does not feel like doing nothing,” Sophie muttered when he pulled away.
“It is more a state of mind than a physical state of being.”
“So I could tidy, if I maintained the proper mindset?”
“No, no. No tidying. No to-do lists. No chores. I will ensure the house is in its proper shape when Mr. and Mrs. Crabtree return tomorrow, but you are not lifting a single finger.”
Her hand straightened the covers, as if they could not manage themselves.
“What if I want tea?” she asked.
“Then I will prepare some for you.”
“You will prepare it?”
“I happen to know how to prepare tea.”
Sophie raised one questioning brow.
“After I asked Mrs. Crabtree to teach me,” he clarified. “She declared me an exceptional student.”
A laugh bubbled up at the thought.
“Would you like some?” he asked.
“I am perfectly capable—”
“Oh, I am aware of all your capabilities, Mrs. Bridgerton,” he said with a small smirk. “But today, I am the capable one.”
He stood, reaching for his dressing gown and tying it loosely at his waist.
“I will return with tea,” he said from the door. “You are not to set foot out of that bed.”
She crossed her arms in protest, but ultimately agreed, knowing it was useless to argue with Benedict on the matter.
Her head fell back against the pillow and she stared at the ceiling. Her hands smoothed the blanket flat over her waist—once, twice—before folding together. They did not remain that way for long.
Her fingers found a loose thread. Twisted. Released.
Found it again.
She shifted, rolling one shoulder, then the other.
Adjusted the pillow. Re-adjusted it.
It was useless trying to remain still—not when so much could be accomplished in the meantime.
A sharp breath escaped her as she forced herself to lie flat, willing her mind quiet. Trying to let herself relax.
Trying to simply be.
Failure crept closer with every passing second.
And frustration finally won.
She sat up, punched the pillow into submission, and propped herself against the headboard.
That was when her gaze landed on a pair of Benedict’s socks—strewn and forgotten just a foot from the bed.
She looked away before temptation could take root.
A book was snatched from the nightstand and flipped open to the last page she had read. She fixed her eyes on the words—and promptly read the same line four times. The corner of the cover dipped as her attention slid, traitorously, back to the disorder on the floor.
She lowered the book.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
Leaning over the edge of the bed, she stretched for the socks, fingertips just brushing the wool before her weight shifted too far.
The mattress betrayed her, and she slid forward with a startled gasp.
Clutching the socks, she scrambled backward, hair tumbling into her face as her heels dug into the mattress in a frantic effort to right herself. For one absurd moment she teetered there, half-sprawled, as though gravity itself had taken offense.
Footsteps sounded in the hall.
Her heart leapt as if she had narrowly escaped catastrophe rather than…physics.
One final push forced her upright. She shoved the offending garments beneath the duvet, patted the cover smooth, and dragged her fingers through her hair in a futile attempt at order.
Back against the pillow she went, hands folded primly in her lap just as the footsteps reached the door.
“You are still in bed,” Benedict observed, sounding pleased as he entered carrying the tea tray.
“I am capable of relaxing,” she replied far too quickly.
He set the tray on the small table, the faint clink of porcelain loud in the quiet room. The scent of tea curled upward—slightly over-steeped, if she were honest—but her chest still tightened at the gesture.
“No escapes attempted?” he asked mildly, handing her a cup.
“None whatsoever.”
Benedict’s mouth twitched.
He shed his dressing gown and climbed back into bed beside her, propping himself against the headboard. The mattress dipped; the hidden socks shifted traitorously beneath the covers.
He stilled.
Slowly, he reached down and withdrew the offending garments from somewhere near his hip, holding them up between two fingers.
“Hmm,” he hummed curiously. “I do recall these being somewhere in that,” he gestured to the floor, "vicinity."
“I do not know how those got here.”
He simply raised his brows in question as he dropped the socks over the edge of the bed once more.
“Fine,” she said, setting the teacup down on the end table and rising as if by instinct. “I do not know how to be still!”
She was pacing now, stopping only to push in a chair or adjust a flower in a vase. “I have never been allowed. Being still is…simply not an option.”
Benedict did not rise. He did not laugh.
He only reached for her hand.
With a slight roll of her eyes, she gave it to him.
“You are allowed now,” he said, tugging her gently back into the bed. “If being still is too hard, then do not think about it in terms of stillness. Just think about being here.”
“Here?” she asked.
“With me.”
Sophie’s gaze drifted to the floor, to the place where the socks had lain—and where they now lay again, abandoned without ceremony.
Nothing had happened. No sharp voice. No punishment. No consequence at all.
Her shoulders loosened a fraction.
“With you,” she echoed, softer this time.
Benedict settled back against the pillows, drawing her with him until her head rested beneath his chin. He did not speak again.
Sunlight crept across the coverlet. The tea cooled, forgotten.
And for the first time in longer than she could remember, Sophie let the morning pass without trying to earn it.