Benedict breathed a sigh of relief as he saw the village of Rosemeade approaching. Rosemeade meant that his cottage was a mere five minutes away, and lud, but he couldn’t wait to get inside and throw himself into a steaming tub of water.
He glanced over at Miss Beckett. She, too, was shivering, but, he thought with a touch of admiration, she hadn’t let out even a peep of complaint. Benedict tried to think of another woman of his acquaintance who would have stood up to the elements with such fortitude and came up empty-handed. Even his sister Daphne, who was as good a sport as any, would have been howling about the cold by now.
“We’re almost there,” he assured her.
“I’m all—Oh! Are you all right?”
Benedict was gripped by wave of coughs, the deep, hacking kind that rumble down in one’s chest. His lungs felt as if they were on fire, and his throat like someone had taken a razor blade to it.
“I’m fine,” he gasped, jerking slightly on the reins to make up for the lack of direction he’d given the horses while he was coughing.
“You don’t sound fine.”
“Had a head cold last week,” he said with a wince. Damn, but his lungs felt sore.
“That didn’t sound like your head,” she said, giving him what she obviously hoped was a teasing smile. But it didn’t look like a teasing smile. In truth, she looked terribly concerned.
“Must’ve moved,” he muttered.
“I don’t want you getting sick on my account.”
He tried to grin, but his cheekbones ached too much. “I would’ve been caught in the rain whether I’d taken you along or not.”
“Still—”
Whatever she’d intended to say was lost under another stream of deep, chesty coughs.
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
“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.”
“And where did you acquire that skill?”
“The same family that allowed me to share in their daughters’ lessons,” Sophie lied. “I learned to drive a team when the girls learned.”
“The lady of the house must have taken quite a liking to you,” he said.
“She did quite,” Sophie replied, trying not to laugh. Araminta had been the lady of the house, and she’d fought tooth and nail every time her father had insisted that she be allowed to receive the same instruction as Rosamund and Posy. They’d all three learned how to drive teams the year before the earl had died.
“I’ll drive, thank you,” Benedict said sharply. Then he ruined the entire effect by launching into yet another coughing fit.
Sophie reached for the reins. “For the love of—”
“Here,” he said, thrusting them toward her, as he wiped his eyes. “Take them. But I’ll be watching you.”
“I would expect no less,” she said peevishly. The rain didn’t exactly make for ideal driving conditions, and it had been years since she’d held reins in her hands, but she thought she acquitted herself rather nicely. There were some things one didn’t forget, she supposed.
It felt rather nice, actually, to do something she hadn’t done since her previous life, when she’d been, officially at least, an earl’s ward. She’d had fine clothes then, and good food, and interesting lessons, and . . .
She sighed. It hadn’t been perfect, but it had been better than anything that had come after.
“What’s wrong?” Benedict asked.
“Nothing. Why should you think something is wrong?”
“You sighed.”
“You heard me over the wind?” she asked incredulously.
“I’ve been paying close attention. I’m sick enough”—cough cough—“without you landing us in a ditch.”
Sophie decided not even to credit him with a reply.
“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.
“The previous owner coined the name,” Benedict said as he directed her toward the stables, “but it seemed to fit me as well.”
Sophie looked over at the house, which, while fairly small, was no humble dwelling. “You call this a cottage?”
“No, the previous owner did,” he replied. “You should have seen his other house.”
A moment later they were out of the rain, and Benedict had hopped down and was unhitching the horses. He was wearing gloves, but they were completely sodden and slipping on the bridle, and so he peeled them off and flung them away. Sophie watched him as he went about his work. His fingers were wrinkled like prunes and trembling from the cold. “Let me help,” she said, stepping forward.
“I can do it.”
“Of course you can,” she said placatingly, “but you can do it faster with my help.”
He turned, presumably to refuse her again, then doubled over as he was wracked by coughs. Sophie quickly rushed in and led him to a nearby bench. “Sit down, please,” she implored him. “I’ll finish up the job.”
She thought he’d disagree, but this time he gave in. “I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. “I—”
“There’s nothing to feel sorry about,” she said, making quick work of the job. Or as quick as she could; her fingers were still numb, and bits of her skin had turned white from having been wet for so long.
“Not very . . .” He coughed again, this one lower and deeper than before. “. . . gentlemanly of me.”
“Oh, I think I can forgive you this time, considering the way you saved me earlier this evening.” Sophie tried to give him a jaunty smile, but for some reason it wobbled, and without warning she found herself inexplicably near tears. She turned quickly away, not wanting him to see her face.
But he must have seen something, or maybe just sensed that something was wrong, because he called out, “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine!” she replied, but her voice came out strained and choked, and before she knew it, he was next to her, and she was in his arms.
“It’s all right,” he said soothingly. “You’re safe now.”
The tears burst forth. She cried for what could have been her fate that evening, and she cried for what had been her fate for the past nine years. She cried for the memory of when he’d held her in his arms at the masquerade, and she cried because she was in his arms right now.
She cried because he was so damned nice, and even though he was clearly ill, even though she was, in his eyes, nothing but a housemaid, he still wanted to care for her and protect her.
She cried because she hadn’t let herself cry in longer than she could remember, and she cried because she felt so alone.
And she cried because she’d been dreaming of him for so very long, and he hadn’t recognized her. It was probably best that he did not, but her heart still ached from it.
Eventually her tears subsided, and he stepped back, touching her chin as he said, “Do you feel better now?”
She nodded, surprised that it was true.
“Good. You had a scare, and—” He jerked away from her, doubling over as he coughed.
“We really need to get you inside,” Sophie said, brushing away the last streaks of her tears. “Inside the house, that is.”
He nodded. “I’ll race you to the door.”
Her eyes widened in shock. She couldn’t believe that he had the spirit to make a joke of this, when he was obviously feeling so poorly. But she wrapped the drawstring of her bag around her hands, hitched up her skirts, and ran for the front door to the cottage. By the time she reached the steps, she was laughing from the exertion, giggling at the ridiculousness of running wildly to get out of the rain when she was already soaked to the bone.
Benedict had, not surprisingly, beaten her to the small portico. He might have been ill, but his legs were significantly longer and stronger. When she skidded to a halt at his side, he was banging on the front door.
“Don’t you have a key?” Sophie yelled. The wind was still howling, making it difficult to be heard.
He shook his head. “I wasn’t planning on stopping here.”
“Do you think the caretakers will even hear you?”
“I bloody well hope so,” he muttered.
Sophie wiped away the rivulets of water running over her eyes and peeked in a nearby window. “It’s very dark,” she told him. “Do you think they might not be home?”
“I don’t know where else they’d be.”
“Shouldn’t there at least be a maid or a footman?”
Benedict shook his head. “I’m so rarely here it seemed foolish to hire a full staff. The maids only come in for the day.”
Sophie grimaced. “I’d suggest we look for an open window, but that’s rather unlikely in the rain.”
“Not necessary,” Benedict said grimly. “I know where the spare key is hidden.”
Sophie looked at him in surprise. “Why do you sound so glum about it?”
He coughed several times before answering, “Because it means I have to go back out into the bloody storm.”
Sophie knew he was truly reaching the end of his patience. He’d already sworn twice in front of her, and he didn’t seem the sort to curse in front of a woman, even a mere housemaid.
“Wait here,” he ordered, and then before she could reply, he’d left the shelter of the portico and dashed away.
A few minutes later she heard a key turning in the lock, and the front door swung open to reveal Benedict, holding a candle and dripping all over the floor. “I don’t know where Mr. and Mrs. Crabtree are,” he said, his voice raspy from all his coughing, “but they’re definitely not here.”
Sophie gulped. “We’re alone?”
He nodded. “Completely.”
She edged toward the stairs. “I’d better find the servants’ quarters.”
“Oh, no you won’t,” he growled, grabbing hold of her arm.
“I won’t?”
He shook his head. “You, dear girl, aren’t going anywhere.”