Posy shook her head.

Violet’s eyes turned sad as she gave Posy’s hand a little squeeze. “We shall make new memories for you, my dear.”

Araminta rose to her feet, gave Posy one last horrific glare, then stalked away.

“Well,” Violet declared, planting her hands on her hips. “I thought she would never leave.”

Benedict disengaged his arm from Sophie’s waist with a murmur of, “Don’t move a muscle,” then walked quickly to his  mother’s side.

“Have I told you lately,” he whispered in her ear, “how much I love you?”

“No,” she said with a jaunty smile, “but I know, anyway.”

“Have I mentioned that you’re the best of mothers?”

“No, but I know that, too.”

“Good.” He leaned down and dropped a kiss on her cheek. “Thank you. It’s a privilege to be your son.”

His mother, who had held her own throughout the day, and indeed proven herself the most hardheaded and quickwitted  of them all, burst into tears.

“What did you say to her?” Sophie demanded.

“It’s all right,” Violet said, sniffling mightily. “It’s ...” She threw her arms around Benedict. “I love you, too!”

Posy turned to Sophie and said, “This is a nice family.”

Sophie turned to Posy and said, “I know.”

*  *  *

One hour later Sophie was in Benedict’s sitting room, perched on the very same sofa on which she had lost her innocence  just a few weeks earlier. Lady Bridgerton had questioned the wisdom (and propriety) of Sophie’s going to Benedict’s home  by herself, but he had given her such a look that she had quickly backed down, saying only, “Just have her home by seven.”

Which gave them one hour together.

“I’m sorry,” Sophie blurted out, the instant her bottom touched the sofa. For some reason they hadn’t said anything during  the carriage ride home. They’d held hands, and Benedict had brought her fingers to his lips, but they hadn’t said anything.

Sophie had been relieved. She hadn’t been ready for words. It had been easy at the jail, with all the commotion and so  many people, but now that they were alone ...

She didn’t know what to say.

Except, she supposed, “I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Benedict replied, sitting beside her and taking her hands in his.

“No, I’m—” She suddenly smiled. “This is very silly.”

“I love you,” he said.

Her lips parted.

“I want to marry you,” he said.

She stopped breathing.

“And I don’t care about your parents or my mother’s bargain with Lady Penwood to make you respectable.” He stared  down at her, his dark eyes meltingly in love. “I would have married you no matter what.”

Sophie blinked. The tears in her eyes were growing fat and hot, and she had a sneaking suspicion that she was about to  make a fool of herself by blubbering all over him. She managed to say his name, then found herself completely lost from there.

Benedict squeezed her hands. “We couldn’t have lived in London, I know, but we don’t need to live in London. When I thought about what it was in life I really needed—not what I wanted, but what I needed—the only thing that kept coming up was you.”

“I...”

“No, let me finish,” he said, his voice suspiciously hoarse. “I shouldn’t have asked you to be my mistress. It wasn’t right of me.”

“Benedict,” she said softly, “what else would you have done? You thought me a servant. In a perfect world we could have married, but this isn’t a perfect world. Men like you don’t marry—”

“Fine. I wasn’t wrong to ask, then.” He tried to smile. It came out lopsided. “I would have been a fool not to ask. I wanted  you so badly, and I think I already loved you, and—”

“Benedict, you don’t have to—”

“Explain? Yes, I do. I should never have pressed the issue once you refused my offer. It was unfair of me to ask, especially when we both knew that I would eventually be expected to marry. I would die before sharing you. How could I ask you to  do the same?”

She reached out and brushed something off of his cheek. Jesus, was he crying? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d  cried. When his father had died, perhaps? Even then, his tears had fallen in private.

“There are so many reasons I love you,” he said, each word emerging with careful precision. He knew that he had won her.  She wasn’t going to run away; she would be his wife. But he still wanted this to be perfect. A man only got one shot at declaring himself to his true love; he didn’t want to muck it up completely.

“But one of the things I love best,” he continued, “is the fact that you know yourself. You know who you are, and what you value. You have principles, Sophie, and you stick by them.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “That is so rare.”

Her eyes were filling with tears, and all he wanted to do was hold her, but he knew he had to finish. So many words had  been welling up inside of him, and they all had to be said.

“And,” he said, his voice dropping in volume, “you took the time to see me. To know me. Benedict. Not Mr. Bridgerton,  not ‘Number Two.’ Benedict.”

She touched his cheek. “You’re the finest person I know. I adore your family, but I love you.’’




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