“It suddenly made sense. Only twice in his life had he felt this inexplicable, almost mystical attraction to a woman. He’d thought it remarkable, to have found two, when in his heart he’d always believed there was only one perfect woman out there for him.
His heart had been right. There was only one.”
“In her heart she longed for this man, dreamed of a life that could never be.”
“I'm leaving!" she said, with, in her opinion, great drama and resolve.
But he just answered her with a sly half smile, and said, "I'm following."
And the bloody man remained two strides behind her the entire way home.”
“Turn right up ahead," he directed. "It'll take us directly to my cottage."
She did as he asked. "Does your cottage have a name?"
"My Cottage."
"I might have known," she muttered.
He smirked. Quite a feat, in her opinion, since he looked sick as a dog. "I'm not kidding," he said.
Sure enough, in another minute they pulled up in front of an elegant country house, complete with a small, unobtrusive sign in front reading, MY COTTAGE”
“It has oft been said that physicians make the worst patients, but it is the opinion of This Author that any man makes a terrible patient. One might say it takes patience to be a patient, and heaven knows, the males of our species lack an abundance of patience.”
“If you cannot recognize the problem, there is no way that I could explain it to you."
He laughed, damn the man. "My goodness," he said, "that was an expert sidestep.”
“He ought to buy her a new dress. She would never accept it, of course, but maybe if her current garments were accidentally burned...
...But how could he manage to burn her dress? She’d have to not be wearing it, and that posed a certain challenge in and of itself...”
“What are you smiling about?" Benedict demanded.
She didn't bother to glance up as she replied, "I'm plotting your demise."
He grinned-not that she was looking at him, but it was one of those smiles she could hear in the way he breathed.
She hated that she as that sensitive to his every nuance. Especially since she had a sneaking suspicion that he was the same way about her.
"At least it sounds entertaining,"he said.
"What does?" she asked, finally moving her eyes from the lower hem of the curtain, which she'd been staring at for what seemed like hours.
"My demise," he said, his smile crooked and amused. "If you're going to kill me, you might as well enjoy yourself while you're at it, because Lord knows, I won't."
Her jaw dropped a good inch. "You're mad," she said.”
“It's very bad form to spy on one's host," he said, planting his hands on his hips and somehow managing to look both authoritative and relaxed at the same time.
"It was an accident," she grumbled.
"Oh, I believe you there," he said. "But even if you didn't intend to spy on me, the fact remains that when the opportunity arose, you took it."
"Do you blame me?"
He grinned. "Not at all. I would have done precisely the same thing."
Her mouth fell open.
"Oh, don't pretend to be offended," he said.
"I'm not pretending."
He leaned a bit closer. “To tell the truth, I'm quite flattered."
"It was academic curiosity," she ground out. "I assure you."
His smile grew sly. "So you're telling me that you would have spied upon any naked man you'd come across?"
"Of course not!"
"As I said," he drawled, leaning back against a tree, "I'm flattered."
"Well, now that we have that settled," Sophie said with a sniff, "I'm going back to Your Cottage.”
“She slid a slim volume of poetry off the shelf and returned to her chair, swishing her rather unnattractive skirts before she sat down.
Benedict frowned. He'd never really noticed before how ugly her dress was. Not as bad as the one Mrs. Cabtree had lent her, but certainly not anything designed to bring out the best in a woman.
He ought to buy her a new dress. She would never accept it,of course, but maybe if her current garments were accidentally burned...
"Mr. Bridgerton?"
But how could he manage to burn her dress? She'd have to not be wearing it, and that posed a certain challenge in and of itself...
"Are you even listening to me?" Sophie demanded.
"Hmmm?"
"You're not listening to me."
"Sorry," he admitted. "My apologies. My mind got away from me. Please continue."
She began anew, and in his attempt to show how much attention he was paying her, he focused his eyes on her lips, which proved to be a big mistake.
Because suddenly those lips were all he could see, and he couldn't stop thinking about kissing her, and he knew- absolutely knew-that if one of them didn't leave the room in the next thirty seconds, he was going to do something for which he'd owe her a thousand apologies.
Not that he didn't plan to seduce her. Just that he'd rather do it with a bit more finesse.
"Oh, dear," he blurted out.
Sophie gave him an odd look. He didn't blame her. He sounded like a complete idiot. He didn't think he'd uttered the phrase, "Oh,dear," in years. If ever.
Hell,he sounded like his mother.
"Is something wrong?" Sophie asked.
"I just remembered something," he said, rather stupidly, in his opinion.
She raised her brows in question.
"Something that I'd forgotten," Benedict said.
"The things one remembers," she said, looking exceedingly amused, "are most often things one had forgotten.”
“He'd thought he would stop looking for her. He was a practical man, and he'd assumed that eventually he would simply give up. And in some ways, he had. After a few months he found himself back in the habit of turning down more invitations than he accepted. A few months after that, he realized that he was once again able to meet women and not automatically compare them to her.
But he couldn't stop himself from watching for her. He might not feel the same urgency, but whenever he attended a ball or took a seat at a musicale, he found his eyes sweeping across the crowd, his ears straining for the lilt of her laughter.
She was out there somewhere. He'd long since resigned himself to the fact that he wasn't likely to find her, and he hadn't searched actively for over a year, but...
He smiled wistfully. He just couldn't stop from looking. It had become, in a very strange way, a part of who he was. His name was Benedict Bridgerton, he had seven brothers and sisters, was rather skilled with both a sword and a sketching crayon, and he always kept his eyes open for the one woman who had touched his soul.”
“Her hand tightened around the handle of the serving spoon.
"Don't do it," he warned.
"Do what?"
"Throw the spoon."
"I wouldn't dream of it," she said tightly.
He laughed aloud. "Oh,yes you would. You're dreaming of it right now. You just wouldn't do it."
Sophie's hand was gripping the spoon so hard it shook.
Benedict was chuckling so hard his bed shook.
Sophie stood,still holding the spoon.
Benedict smiled. "Are you planning to take that with you?"
Remember your place, Sophie was screaming at herself. Remember your place.
"Whatever could you be thinking." Benedict mused, "to look so adorably ferocious? No,don't tell me," he added. "I'm sure it involves my untimely and painful demise."
Slowly and carefully, Sophie turned her back to him and put the spoon down on the table. She didn't want to risk any sudden movements. One false move and she knew she'd be hurling it at his head.
Benedict raised his brows approvingly. "That was very mature of you."
Sophie turned around slowly. "Are you this charming with everyone or only me?"
"Oh,only you." He grinned. "I shall have to make sure you take me up on my offer to find you employment with my mother.You do bring out the best in me, Miss Sophie Beckett."
"This is the best?" she asked with obvious disbelief.
"I'm afraid so.”
“She glared at him. "I'm not asking you to apologize."
"Well, that's a relief.I doubt I could find the words.”
“Does that feel better?" she asked, not expecting any sort of an answer but feeling nonetheless that she ought to continue with her one-sided conversation. "I really don't know very much about caring for the ill, but it just seems to me like you'd want something cool on your brow. I know if I were sick, that's how I'd feel."
He shifted restlessly, mumbling something utterly incoherent.
"Really?" Sophie replied, trying to smile but failing miserably. "I'm glad you feel that way."
He mumbled something else.
"No," she said, dabbing the cool cloth on his ear, "I'd have to agree with what you said the first time." He went still again.
"I'd be happy to reconsider," she said worriedly. "Please don't take offense." He didn't move.
Sophie sighed. One could only converse so long with an unconscious man before one started to feel extremely silly.”
“Why didn't you just let me run home?" she asked.
"I wanted you here," he said simply.
"But why?" she persisted.
He shrugged. "I don't know.Punishment, perhaps, for spying on me."
"I wasn't-" Sophie's denial was automatic, but she cut herself off halfway through, because of course she'd been spying on him.
"Smart girl," he murmured.
She scowled at him. She would have liked to have said something utterly droll and witty, but she had a feeling that anything emerging from her mouth just then would have been quite the opposite,so she held her tongue. Better to be a silent fool than a talkative one.
"It's very bad to spy on one's host," he said, planting his hands on his hips and somehow managing to look both authoritative and relaxed at the same time.
"It as an accident," she grumbled.
"Oh,I believe you there," he said. "But even if you didn't intend to spy on me, the fact remains that when the opportunity arose, you took it."
"Do you blame me?"
He grinned. "Not at all.I would have done precisely the same thing."
Her mouth fell open.
"Oh,don't pretend to be offended," he said.
"I'm not pretending."
He leaned a bit closer. "To tell the truth, I'm quite flattered."
"It was academic curiosity," she ground out, "I assure you."
His smile grew sly. "So you're telling me that you would have spied upon any naked man you'd come across?"
"Of course not!"
"As I said," he drawled, leaning back against a tree, "I'm flattered.”
“I like my life dull.'
'If you like your life dull, then that can only mean that you do not understand the nature of excitement.”
“Let me drive," she said, reaching for the reins.
He turned to her in disbelief. "This is a phaeton, not a single-horse wagon."
Sophie fought the urge to throttle him. His nose was running, his eyes were red, he couldn't stop coughing, and still he found the energy to act like an arrogant peacock. "I assure you," she said slowly, "that I know how to drive a team of horses.”
“But Benedict Bridgerton was obviously determined not to be a gentleman this afternoon, because when she moved one of her feet-just to flex her toes, which were falling asleep in her shoes, honest!-barely half a second passed before he growled, "Don't even think about it."
"I wasn't!" she protested. "My foot was falling asleep. And hurry up! It can't possibly take so long to get dressed."
"Oh?" he drawled.
"You're doing this just to torture me," she grumbled.
"You may feel free to face me at any time," he said, his voice laced with quiet amusement. "I assure you that I asked you to turn your back for the sake of your sensibilities, not mine.”
“What are you up to?" she asked.
"Why would you think I'm up to anything?"
Her lips pursed before she said, "You wouldn't be you if you weren't up to something."
He smiled at that. "I do believe that was a compliment."
"It wasn't necessarily intended as such."
"But nonetheless," he said mildly, "that's how I choose to take it.”
“He saw nothing but the gentle ruffling of the leaves in the wind, but as he finished his sweep of the area, he somehow knew.
"Sophie!"
He heard a gasp, followed by a huge flurry of activity.
"Sophie Beckett," he yelled, "if you run from me right now, I swear I will follow you,and I will not take the time to don my clothing."
The noises coming from the shore slowed.
"I will catch up with you," he continued, "because I'm stronger and faster. And I might very well feel compelled to tackle you to the ground, just to be certain you do not escape."
The sounds of her movements ceased.
"Good," he grunted. "Show yourself."
She didn't.
"Sophie," he warned.
There was a beat of silence, followed by the sound of slow, hesitant footsteps, and then he saw her, standing on the shore in one of those awful dresses he'd like to see sunk to the bottom of the Thames.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded.
"I went for a walk.What are you doing here?" she countered. "You're supposed to be ill.That-" she waved her arm toward him and, by extension, the pond- "can't possibly be good for you."
He ignored her question and comment. "Were you following me?"
"Of course not," she replied, and he rather believed her. He didn't think she possessed the acting talents to fake that level of righteousness.
"I would never follow you to a swimming hole," she continued. "It would be indecent."
And then her face went completely red, because they both knew she hadn't a leg to stand on with that argument. If she had truly been concerned about decency, she'd have left the pond the second she'd seen him, accidentally or not.”
“You'll stay," he said firmly.
"But-"
He crossed his arms. "Do I look like a man in the mood to be argued with?"
She stared at him mutinously.
"If you run," he warned, "I will catch you."
Sophie eyed the distance between them, then tried to judge the distance back to My Cottage.If he stopped to pull on his clothing she might have a chance of escaping, but if he didn't...
"Sophie," he said, "I can practically see the steam coming out of your ears. Stop taxing your brain with useless mathematical computations and do as I asked."
One of her feet twitched. Whether it was itching to run home or merely turn around, she'd never know.
"Now," he ordered.
With a loud sigh and grumble, Sophie crossed her arms and turned around to stare at a knothole in the tree trunk in front of her as if her very life depended on it The inferal man wasn't being particularly quiet as he went about his business, and she couldn't seem to keep herself from listening to and trying to identify every sound that rustled and splashed behind her.Now he was emerging from the water, now he was reaching for his breeches, now he was...
It was no use.She had a dreadfully wicked imagination, and there was no getting around it.
He should have just let her return to the house. Instead she was forced to wait, utterly mortified, while he dressed. Her skin felt like it was on fire, and she was certain her cheeks must be eight different shades of red. A gentleman would have let her weasle out of her embarrassment and hole up in her room back at the house for at least three days in hopes that he'd just forget about the entire affair.”
“Sophie stared at the door, trying desperately to keep her eyes focused on anything but Benedict. She'd spent all week hoping for a glimpse,but now that he was here, all she wanted was to escape. If she looked at his face, her eyes inevitably strayed to his lips. And if she looked at his lips, her thoughts immediately went to their kiss. And if she thought about the kiss...
"I need that thimble," she blurted out, jumping to her feet. There were some things one just shouldn't think about in public.
"So you said," Benedict murmured, one of his eyebrows quirking up into a perfect-and perfectly arrogant-arch.
"It's downstairs," she muttered. "In my room."
"But your room is upstairs," Hyacinth said.
Sophie could have killed her. "That's what I said," she ground out.
"No," Hyacinth said in a matter-of-fact tone, "you didn't."
"Yes," Lady Bridgerton said, "she did. I heard her."
Sophie twisted her head sharply to look at Lady Bridgerton and knew in an instant that the older woman had lied. "I have to get that thimble," she said, for what seemed like the thirtieth time. She hurried toward the doorway, gulping as she grew close to Benedict.
"Wouldn't want you to hurt yourself," he said, stepping aside to allow her through the doorway.But as she brushed past him, he leaned forward, whispering, "Coward.”
“A man only got one shot at declaring himself to his true love; he didn't want to muck it up completely.”
“Forty-five minutes later, Benedict was slouching in his chair, his eyes glazed. Every now and then he had to stop and make sure his mouth wasn't hanging open.
His mother's conversation was that boring.
The young lady she had wanted to discuss with him had actually turned out to be seven young ladies, each of which she assured him was better than the last.
Benedict thought he might go mad. Right here in his mother's sitting room he was going to go stark, raving mad. He'd suddenly pop out of his chair, fall to the floor in a frenzy his arms and legs waving, mouth frothing-
"Benedict, are you even listening to me?"
He looked up and blinked. Damn. Now he would have to focus on his mother's list of possible brides. The prospect of losing his sanity had been infinitely more appealing.”
“It was cold. Really cold. And there was an awful scurrying noise that definitely belong to a small, four-legged creature.Or even worse, a large, four-legged creature. Or to be more precise, a large version of a small, four-legged creature.
Rats.
"Oh,God," Sophie moaned. She didn't often take the Lord's name in vain, but now seemed as good a time as any to start. Maybe He would hear, and maybe He would smite the rats. Yes, that would do very nicely.A big jolt of lightning. Huge. Of biblical proportions. It could hit the earth, spread little electrical tentacles around the globe, and sizzle all the rats dead.
It was a lovely dream. Right up there with the ones in which she found herself living happily ever after as Mrs. Benedict Bridgerton.
Sophie took a quick gasp as a sudden stab of pain pierced her heart. Of the two dreams, she feared that the genocide of the rats might be the more likely to come true.”
“So now you're jumping out at me from closets?"
"Of course not." He looked affronted. "That was a staircase."
Sophie peered around him. It was the side staircase. The servants' staircase. Certainly not anyplace a family member would just happen to be walking. "Do you often creep down the side staircase?" she asked, crossing her arms.
He leaned forward, just close enough to make her slightly ucomfortable, and, although she would never admit it to anyone, barely even herself, slightly excited. "Only when I want to sneak up on someone.”
“If he heard her, he gave no indication, just went on about "men who take advantage" and "helpless women" and "fates worse than death." Sophie wasn't positive, but she thought she even heard the phrase "roast beef and pudding".”
“What can I do for you, Mother?" he asked. "And don't say 'Dance with Hermione Smythe-Smith.' Last time I did that I nearly lost three toes in the process."
"I wasn't going to ask anything of the sort," Violet replied. "I was going to ask you to dance with Prudence Featherington."
"Have Mercy, Mother," he moaned. "She's even worse."
"I'm not asking you to marry the chit," she said. "Just dance with her."
Benedict fought a groan. Prudence Featherington, while essentially a nice person, had a brain the size of a pea and a laugh so grating he'd seen grown men flee with their hands over their ears. "I'll tell you what," he wheedled. "I'll dance with Penelope Featherington if you keep Prudence at bay."
"That'll do," his mother said with a satisfied nod, leaving Benedict with the sinking sensation that she'd wanted him to dance with Penelope all along.
"She's over there by the lemonade table," Violet said, "dressed as a leprechaun, poor thing.The color is good for her,but someone really must take her mother in hand next time they venture out to the dressmaker. A more unfortunate costume,I can't imagine."
"You obviously haven't seen the mermaid," Benedict murmured.
She swatted him lightly on the arm. "No poking fun at the guests."
"But they make it so easy.”
“It was strange, to find a woman who could make him happy just with her mere presence. He didn’t even have to see her, or hear her voice, or even smell her scent. He just had to know that she was there.”
“Mr. Bridgerton?" she asked softly. "Mr. Bridgerton!" Benedict's head jerked up violently.
"What? What?"
"You fell asleep."
He blinked confusedly. "Is there a reason that's bad?"
"You can't fall asleep in your clothing.”
“I love what you’ve done with your hair. No doubt the whole bullseye on top of your head is fun for birds when you’re outside.”
“Etsuko had failed in this important way—she had not taught her children to hope, to believe in the perhaps-absurd possibility that they might win. Pachinko was a foolish game, but life was not.”
“I wasn't doing magic, but I was in it, surrounded on all sides by incredible, beautiful things. It made me feel like a wizard even though I wasn't one, even though I never could be one. p. 306”
“The only rule that counted was to not get caught.”
“The problem, however, is that I have yet to meet anyone, materialist or otherwise, who was able to dispense with value judgements. On the contrary, the literature of materialism is peculiarly marked by its wholesale profusion of denunciations of all sorts. Starting with Marx and Nietzsche, materialists have never been able to refrain from passing continuous moral judgement on all and sundry, which their whole philosophy might be expected to discourage them from doing.”
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