Chapter 12
Speculation continues to abound concerning the disappearance of Benedict Bridgerton. According to Eloise Bridgerton, who as his sister ought to know, he was due back in town several days ago.
But as Eloise must be the first to admit, a man of Mr. Bridgerton’s age and stature need hardly report his whereabouts to his younger sister.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 9 MAY 1817
“You want me to be your mistress,” she said flatly.
He gave her a confused look, although she couldn’t be sure whether that was because her statement was so obvious or because he objected to her choice of words. “I want you to be with me,” he persisted.
The moment was so staggeringly painful and yet she found herself almost smiling. “How is that different from being your mistress?”
“Sophie—”
“How is it different?” she repeated, her voice growing strident.
“I don’t know, Sophie.” He sounded impatient. “Does it matter?”
“It does to me.”
“Fine,” he said in a short voice. “Fine. Be my mistress, and have this.”
Sophie had just enough time to gasp before his lips descended on hers with a ferocity that turned her knees to water. It was like no kiss they’d ever shared, harsh with need, and laced with an odd, strange anger.
His mouth devoured hers in a primitive dance of passion. His hands seemed to be everywhere, on her breasts, around her waist, even under her skirt. He touched and squeezed, caressed and stroked.
And all the while, he had her pressed up so tightly against him she was certain she’d melt into his skin.
“I want you,” he said roughly, his lips finding the hollow at the base of her throat. “I want you right now. I want you here.”
“Benedict—”
“I want you in my bed,” he growled. “I want you tomorrow. And I want you the next day.”
She was wicked, and she was weak, and she gave in to the moment, arching her neck to allow him greater access. His lips felt so good against her skin, sending shivers and tingles to the very center of her being. He made her long for him, long for all the things she couldn’t have, and curse the things she could.
And then somehow she was on the ground, and he was there with her, half-on and half-off of her body. He seemed so large, so powerful, and in that moment, so perfectly hers. A very small part of Sophie’s mind was still functioning, and she knew that she had to say no, had to put a stop to the madness, but God help her, she couldn’t. Not yet.
She’d spent so long dreaming about him, trying desperately to remember the scent of his skin, the sound of his voice. There had been many nights when the fantasy of him had been all that had kept her company.
She had been living on dreams, and she wasn’t a woman for whom many had come true. She didn’t want to lose this one just yet.
“Benedict,” she murmured, touching the crisp silkiness of his hair and pretending—pretending that he hadn’t just asked her to be his mistress, that she was someone else—anyone else.
Anyone but the bastard daughter of a dead earl, with no means of support besides waiting on others.
Her murmurings seemed to embolden him, and his hand, which had been tickling her knee for so long, started to inch upward, squeezing the soft skin of her thigh. Years of hard work had made her lean, not fashionably curvy, but he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she could feel his heart begin to beat even more rapidly, hear his breath coming in hoarser gasps.
“Sophie, Sophie, Sophie,” he groaned, his lips moving frantically along her face until they found her mouth again. “I need you.” He pressed his hips hotly against hers. “Do you feel how I need you?”
“I need you, too,” she whispered. And she did. There was a fire burning within her that had been simmering quietly for years. The sight of him had ignited it anew, and his touch was like kerosene, sending her into a conflagration.
His fingers wrestled with the large, poorly made buttons on back of her dress. “I’m going to burn this,” he grunted, his other hand relentlessly stroking the tender skin at the back of her knee. “I’ll dress you in silks, in satins.” He moved to her ear, nipping at her lobe, then licking the tender skin where her ear met her cheek. “I’ll dress you in nothing at all.”
Sophie stiffened in his arms. He’d managed to say the one thing that could remind her why she was here, why he was kissing her. It wasn’t love, or any of those tender emotions she’d dreamed about, but lust. And he wanted to make her a kept woman.
Just as her mother had been.
Oh, God, it was so tempting. So impossibly tempting. He was offering her a life of ease and luxury, a life with him.
At the price of her soul.
No, that wasn’t entirely true, or entirely a problem. She might be able to live as a man’s mistress. The benefits—and how could she consider life with Benedict anything but a benefit—might outweigh the drawbacks. But while she might be willing to make such decisions with her own life and reputation, she would not do so for a child. And how could there not be a child? All mistresses eventually had children.
With a tortured cry, she gave him a shove and wrenched herself away, rolling to the side until she found herself on her hands and knees, stopping to catch her breath before hauling herself to her feet.
“I can’t do this, Benedict,” she said, barely able to look at him.
“I don’t see why not,” he muttered.
“I can’t be your mistress.”
He rose to his feet. “And why is that?”
Something about him pricked at her. Maybe it was the arrogance of his tone, maybe it was the insolence in his posture. “Because I don’t want to,” she snapped.
His eyes narrowed, not with suspicion, but with anger. “You wanted to just a few seconds ago.”
“You’re not being fair,” she said in a low voice. “I wasn’t thinking.”
His chin jutted out belligerently. “You’re not supposed to be thinking. That’s the point of it.”
She blushed as she redid her buttons. He’d done a very good job of making her not think. She’d almost thrown away a lifetime of vows and morals, all at one wicked kiss. “Well, I won’t be your mistress,” she said again. Maybe if she said it enough, she’d feel more confident that he wouldn’t be able to break down her defenses.
“And what are you going to do instead?” he hissed. “Work as a housemaid?”
“If I have to.”
“You’d rather wait on people—polish their silver, scrub out their damned chamber pots—than come and live with me.”
She said only one word, but it was low and true. “Yes.”
His eyes flashed furiously. “I don’t believe you. No one would make that choice.”
“I did.”
“You’re a fool.”
She said nothing.
“Do you understand what you’re giving up?” he persisted, his arm waving wildly as he spoke. She’d hurt him, she realized. She’d hurt him and insulted his pride, and he was lashing out like a wounded bear.
Sophie nodded, even though he wasn’t looking at her face.
“I could give you whatever you wanted,” he bit off. “Clothes, jewels—Hell, forget about the clothes and jewels, I could give you a bloody roof over your head, which is more than you have now.”
“That is true,” she said quietly.
He leaned forward, his eyes burning hot into hers. “I could give you everything.”
Somehow she managed to stand up straight, and somehow she managed not to cry. And somehow she even managed to keep her voice even as she said, “If you think that’s everything, then you probably wouldn’t understand why I must refuse.”
She took a step back, intending to head to His Cottage and pack her meager bag, but he obviously wasn’t through with her yet, because he stopped her with a strident, “Where are you going?”
“Back to the cottage,” she said. “To pack my bag.”
“And where do you think you’re going to go with that bag?”
Her mouth fell open. Surely he didn’t expect her to stay.
“Do you have a job?” he demanded. “A place to go?”
“No,” she replied, “but—”
He planted his hands on his hips and glared at her. “And you think I’m going to just let you leave here, with no money or prospects?”
Sophie was so surprised she started to blink uncontrollably. “W-well,” she stammered, “I didn’t think—”
“No, you didn’t think,” he snapped.
She just stared at him, eyes wide and lips parted, unable to believe what she was hearing.
“You bloody fool,” he swore. “Do you have any idea how dangerous it is in the world for a woman alone?”
“Er, yes,” she managed. “Actually, I do.”
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.” About halfway through his tirade, she lost all ability to focus on his words. She just kept watching his mouth and hearing the tone of his voice, all the while trying to comprehend the fact that he seemed remarkably concerned for her welfare, considering that she’d just summarily rejected him.
“Are you even listening to a word I’m saying?” Benedict demanded.
Sophie didn’t nod or shake her head, instead doing an odd combination of both.
Benedict swore under his breath. “That’s it,” he announced. “You’re coming back to London with me.”
That seemed to wake her up. “I just said I’m not!”
“You don’t have to be my damned mistress,” he bit off. “But I’m not leaving you to fend for yourself.”
“I was fending for myself quite adequately before I met you.”
“Adequately?” he sputtered. “At the Cavenders’? You call that adequate?”
“You’re not being fair!”
“And you’re not being intelligent.”
Benedict thought that his argument was most reasonable, if a little overbearing, but Sophie obviously did not agree, because, much to his surprise, he found himself lying faceup on the ground, having been felled by a remarkably quick right hook.
“Don’t you ever call me stupid,” she hissed.
Benedict blinked, trying to get his eyesight back to the point where he only saw one of her. “I wasn’t—”
“Yes, you were,” she replied in a low, angry voice. Then she turned on her heel, and in the split second before she stalked away, he realized he had only one way to stop her. He certainly wasn’t going to make it to his feet with anything resembling speed in his current befuddled state, so he reached out and grabbed one of her ankles with both of his hands, sending her sprawling onto the ground right next to him.
It wasn’t a particularly gentlemanly maneuver, but beggars really couldn’t be choosers, and besides, she had thrown the first punch.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he growled.
Sophie slowly lifted her head, spitting out dirt as she glared at him. “I cannot believe,” she said scathingly, “that you just did that.”
Benedict let go of her foot and hauled himself to a crouching position. “Believe it.”
“You—”
He held up a hand. “Don’t say anything now. I beg you.”
Her eyes bugged out. “You’re begging me?”
“I hear your voice,” he informed her, “therefore you must be speaking.”
“But—”
“And as for begging you,” he said, effectively cutting her off again, “I assure you it was merely a figure of speech.”
She opened her mouth to say something, then obviously thought the better of it, clamping her lips shut with the petulant look of a three-year-old. Benedict let out a short breath, then offered her his hand. She was, after all, still sitting in the dirt and not looking especially happy about it.
She stared at his hand with remarkable revulsion, then moved her gaze to his face and glared at him with such ferocity that Benedict wondered if he had recently sprouted horns. Still not saying a word, she ignored his offer of help and hefted herself to her feet.
“As you like,” he murmured.
“A poor choice of words,” she snapped, then started marching away.