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The fire in the hearth crackled as a log split in the flames, the sharp break quickly swallowed by the steady burning wood. It was the only sound in the room, save for their soft and even breathing unconsciously settling into the same gentle rhythm.
They had exchanged scarcely a word since Sophie entered. Truthfully, she had half expected to find Benedict asleep. She could not forget how exhausted he had appeared earlier as Lady Bridgerton recounted in heavy detail, Mrs. Mondrich's plan after Sophie's return from Penwood House with news of the will. The strain of the past few days weighing so visibly upon him that even his usual easy smile had become difficult to summon.
When the footman finally withdrew from his post outside the door, Sophie crossed the hallway and into his room without speaking, finding Benedict at the small desk in his room staring at the fire. She simply held out her hand and with the smallest inclination of her head towards the bed, silently invited him to lie beside her. Benedict had looked at her for only a moment before taking her hand, as though relieved that no conversation was expected of him, only her quiet company.
Now they lay upon the bed, the firelight casting a gentle warmth across the room as the flames danced low in the grate. Benedict remained in his nightshirt and breeches, his head resting upon Sophie’s chest, while she lay in her nightgown, her fingers moving lazily through his hair in slow, repetitive strokes, each of their thoughts far beyond the quiet of the room.
“If the plan does not work, we go to Italy.”
“Italy?” Sophie repeated, unable to hide the surprise in her voice.
Benedict lifted his head, resting his chin upon her chest as he looked up at her, the firelight softening the edges of his expression. “I shall tell everyone I have decided to move there to study art. You'll travel with me, of course. After a month, Mother can begin informing her circle I've met someone. A governess, perhaps. Someone intelligent, kind, and entirely too beautiful.”
A smile tugged at Sophie’s lips.
“We shall marry,” he continued, his imagination already carrying him far beyond the room they occupied. “Then we remain abroad until my siblings are all married and settled. Eventually, we return quietly, disappear back to Our Cottage, and live out the rest of our days happily ever after.”
Sophie let out a soft laugh, her eyes tracing his face in the dim light. There was something so wonderfully earnest about him, the way he spoke of the future as though they were merely decisions waiting to be made. She lifted her hand, brushing her fingers gently along his cheek.
“Or we simply stay in Italy. My Italian is far better than my French,” he continued, a teasing smile appearing. “Not that my French is particularly dreadful.”
Sophie smiles at him remembering the conversation. “Let's hear it shall we.”
“Non posso vivere senza di te.”
“I shall concede,” she says solemnly, “your Italian does indeed outperform your French. Which is not to say your French is poor,” she added quickly. “Only that it requires… some refinement. A little finesse.”
He gave her a look of mock offence, though the mirth in his eyes betrayed him. “Parla italiano?” Benedict asked, a hint of curiosity and amusement in his voice.
Sophie shrugged, her fingers continuing their gentle path through his hair. “Sì, la parlo, ma non molto bene.”
Benedict hummed with satisfaction, clearly pleased by this small victory, before settling his head back against her chest. “I am glad to know I have bested you somewhere,” he said, the smugness in his voice impossible to miss.
Sophie laughed softly, her hand pausing briefly against his hair. “I did not realise this was a competition.”
“Of course it is,” he replied without hesitation.
She looked down at him, amusement brightening her expression. “Of course it is?”
“Everything is a competition when one is trying to impress the woman he loves.”
The words lingered between them for a moment, softer than he had intended, though he made no attempt to take them back. Sophie’s expression gentled. “Say something else for me.”
Benedict glanced up at her, considering the request, and then a mischievous smile touched his lips. “Anything?”
“Anything,” she agreed.
He thought for a moment before speaking in Italian, his voice quieter now. “Voglio togliermi questa camicia da notte e baciarti tutta la pelle nuda. Ti bacerò il seno, la pancia, le cosce. Voglio fare l'amore con te tutta la notte e ogni notte.”
Sophie hummed thoughtfully, her fingers continuing their lazy path through his hair. “I think I understood only some of that,” she admitted, a smile beginning to form. “Perhaps a physical demonstration is required.”
Benedict lifted an eyebrow, looking up at her with an amused grin. “A demonstration?”
She nodded with complete seriousness, though the sparkle in her eyes betrayed her. “Naturally. It is the only proper way to ensure I have understood correctly.” Benedict’s smile widened, but before he could respond, Sophie continued. “You know,” she said, tracing her fingers lightly along his cheek, “if you had spoken to me in Italian instead of French that night when I ventured into your library looking for a book, I may have asked you to lock the door.”
For a moment Benedict simply stared at her. Then a quiet laugh escaped him, low and warm against her. “If that had happened,” Benedict murmured, his voice filled with amusement and affection, “My Cottage would have been renamed Our Cottage much sooner.”
Sophie let out a quiet laugh, though there was a softness beneath it that betrayed how much the words meant. She allowed her head to fall back against the pillow, her gaze drifting upwards as she considered the strange path their lives had taken. The near misses, all the moments when they had stood so close to happiness yet remained convinced they could never reach it.
“But it did not,” she said gently, turning her fingers through his hair once more. “And we are here now.”
Benedict lifted his head slightly, looking at her. “We are,” he agreed. There was no regret in his voice, only acceptance.
The simplicity of it settled between them. After all the uncertainty, all the rules that had told them they could not have this, all the obstacles placed between them by birth and circumstance and expectation, they had somehow found their way to this quiet room, to this bed, to each other.
“Still,” he said after a moment, a decidedly pleased smile tugging at his lips, “it gives me great confidence my Italian has the power to seduce you.”
“Your confidence remains astonishing.”
“Your confession only encouraged me.”
She shook her head, unable to suppress her smile. “You are very fortunate I am fond of you, Mr Bridgerton.”
He smiled to himself as he lowered his head once more against her chest, listening to the steady beat of her heart. “I have spent my entire life wanting to be this fortunate,” he murmured.
Sophie was quiet for a moment, her fingers combing gently through his hair before they came to rest at the nape of his neck. “I would go anywhere with you, Benedict.”
He closed his eyes, the words settling deep within him. “I would go anywhere with you, Sophie.”
Silence returned, gentle and unhurried. Neither of them spoke again, content to remain as they were, the fire burning low while the warmth of each other's embrace eased the weight of the days behind them and the uncertainty of those yet to come. Before long, their thoughts gave way and together they drifted into sleep.