This Author has it on the finest authority that two days ago, whilst taking tea at Gunter’s, Lady Penwood was hit on the side of her head with a flying biscuit.
This Author is unable to determine who threw the biscuit, but all suspicions point to the establishment’s youngest patrons, Miss Felicity Featherington and Miss Hyacinth Bridgerton.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 21 MAY 1817
Sophie had been kissed before—she had been kissed by Benedict before— but nothing, not a single moment of a single kiss, prepared her for this.
It wasn’t a kiss. It was heaven.
He kissed her with an intensity she could barely comprehend, his lips teasing hers, stroking, nibbling, caressing. He stoked a fire within her, a desire to be loved, a need to love in return. And God help her, when he kissed her, all she wanted to do was kiss him back.
She heard him murmuring her name, but it barely registered over the roaring in her ears. This was desire. This was need. How foolish of her ever to think that she could deny this. How self-important to think that she could be stronger than passion.
“Sophie, Sophie,” he said, over and over, his lips on her cheek, her neck, her ear. He said her name so many times it seemed to soak into her skin.
She felt his hands on the buttons of her dress, could feel the fabric loosening as each slipped through its buttonhole. This was everything she’d always sworn she would never do, and yet when her bodice tumbled to her waist, leaving her shamelessly exposed, she groaned his name and arched her back, offering herself to him like some sort of forbidden fruit.
Benedict stopped breathing when he saw her. He’d pictured this moment in his mind so many times—every night as he lay in bed, and in every dream when he actually slept. But this—reality—was far sweeter than a dream, and far more erotic.
His hand, which had been stroking the warm skin on her back, slowly slid over her rib cage. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, knowing that the words were hopelessly inadequate. As if mere words could describe what he felt. And then, when his trembling fingers finished their journey and cupped her breast, he let out a shuddering groan. Words were impossible now. His need for her was so intense, so primitive. It robbed him of his ability to speak. Hell, he could barely think.
He wasn’t certain how this woman had come to mean so much to him. It seemed that one day she was a stranger, and the next she was as indispensable as air. And yet it hadn’t happened in a blinding flash. It had been a slow, sneaky process, quietly coloring his emotions until he realized that without her, his life lacked all meaning.
He touched her chin, lifting her face until he could peer into her eyes. They seemed to glow from within, glistening with unshed tears. Her lips were trembling, too, and he knew that she was as affected by the moment as he.
He leaned forward . . . slowly, slowly. He wanted to give her the chance to say no. It would kill him if she did, but it would be far worse to listen to her regrets in the proverbial morning.
But she didn’t say no, and when he was but a few inches away, her eyes closed and her head tilted slightly to the side, silently inviting him to kiss her.
It was remarkable, but every time he kissed her, her lips seemed to grow sweeter, her scent more beguiling. And his need grew, too. His blood was racing with desire, and it was taking his every last shred of restraint not to push her back onto the sofa and tear her clothes from her body.
That would come later, he thought with a secret smile. But this—surely her first time—would be slow and tender and everything a young girl dreamed.
Well, maybe not. His smile turned into an outright grin. Half the things he was going to do to her, she wouldn’t have even thought to dream about.
“What are you smiling about?” she asked.
He drew back a few inches, cupping her face with both hands. “How did you know I was smiling?”
“I could feel it on my lips.”
He brought a finger to those lips, tracing the outline, then running the edge of his fingernail along the plump skin. “You make me smile,” he whispered. “When you don’t make me want to scream, you make me smile.”
Her lips trembled, and her breath was hot and moist against his finger. He took her hand and brought it to his mouth, rubbing one finger against his lips in much the same way he had done with hers. But as he watched her eyes widen, he dipped her finger into his mouth, softly sucking at the fingertip, tickling her skin with his teeth and tongue.
She gasped, and the sound was sweet and erotic at the same time.
There were a thousand things that Benedict wanted to ask her— How did she feel? What did she feel? But he was so damned afraid that she’d change her mind if he gave her the opportunity to put any of her thoughts into words. And so instead of questions, he gave her kisses, returning his lips to hers in a searing, barely controlled dance of desire.
He murmured her name like a benediction as he lowered her onto the sofa, her bare back rubbing up against the upholstery. “I want you,” he groaned. “You have no idea. No idea.”
Her only response was a soft mewling sound that came from deep in her throat. For some reason that was like oil on the fire within him, and his fingers clutched at her even tighter, pressing into her skin, as his lips traveled down the swanlike column of her throat.
He moved lower, lower, burning a hot trail on her skin, pausing only briefly when he reached the gentle swell of her breast. She was completely beneath him now, her eyes glazed with desire, and it was so much better than any of his dreams.
And oh, how he’d dreamed of her.
With a low, possessive growl, Benedict took her nipple into his mouth. She let out a soft squeal, and he was unable to suppress his own low rumble of satisfaction. “Shhh,” he crooned, “just let me—”
“But—”
He pressed one of his fingers against her lips, probably a little too roughly, but it was getting harder and harder to control his movements.
“Don’t think,” he murmured. “Just lie back and let me pleasure you.”
She looked dubious, but when he moved his mouth to her other breast and renewed his sensual onslaught, her eyes grew dazed, her lips parted, and her head lolled back against the cushions.
“Do you like this?” he whispered, tracing the peak of her breast with his tongue.
Sophie couldn’t quite manage to open her eyes, but she nodded.
“Do you like this?” Now his tongue moved to the underside of her breast, and he nibbled the sensitive skin over her rib cage.
Her breath shallow and fast, she nodded again.
“What about this?” He pushed her dress further down, nibbling a trail along her skin until he reached her navel.
This time Sophie couldn’t even manage a nod. Dear God, she was practically naked before him, and all she could do was moan and sigh and beg for more.
“I need you,” she panted.
His words were murmured into the soft skin of her abdomen. “I know.” Sophie squirmed beneath him, unnerved by this primitive need to move.
Something very strange was growing within her, something hot and tingling. It was as if she were growing, getting ready to burst through her skin. It was as if, after twenty-two years of life, she were finally coming alive.
She wanted desperately to feel his skin, and she grabbed at the fine linen of his shirt, bunching it in her hands until it came loose of his breeches. She touched him, skimming her hands along his lower back, surprised and delighted when his muscles quivered beneath her fingers.
“Ah, Sophie,” he grunted, shuddering as her hands slipped under his shirt to caress his skin.
His reaction emboldened her, and she stroked him more, moving up until she reached his shoulders, broad and firmly muscled.
He groaned again, then cursed under his breath as he lifted himself off of her. “Damn thing is in the way,” he muttered, tearing the shirt off and flinging it across the room. Sophie had just an instant to stare at his bare chest before he was atop her again, and this time they were skin against skin.
It was the most glorious feeling she could ever imagine.
He was so warm, and even though his muscles were hard and powerful, his skin was seductively soft. He even smelled good, a warm masculine mixture of sandalwood and soap.
Sophie touched her fingers to his hair as he moved to nuzzle her neck. It was thick and springy, and it tickled her chin as he tickled her neck. “Oh, Benedict,” she sighed. “This is so perfect. I can’t imagine anything better.”
He looked up, his dark eyes as wicked as his smile. “I can.”
She felt her lips part and knew she must look terribly foolish, just lying there staring at him like an idiot.
“Just you wait,” he said. “Just you wait.”
“But— Oh!” She let out a squeal as he flipped off her shoes. One of his hands wrapped around her ankle, then teased its way up her leg.
“Did you imagine this?” he asked, tracing the crease at the back of her knee.
She shook her head frantically, trying not to squirm.
“Really?” he murmured. “Then I’m sure you didn’t imagine this.” He reached up and unsnapped her garters.
“Oh, Benedict, you mustn’t—”
“Oh, no, I must.” He slid her stockings down her legs with agonizing slowness. “I really must.”
Sophie watched with openmouthed delight as he tossed them over his head. Her stockings weren’t of the highest quality, but they were nonetheless fairly light, and they floated through the air like dandelion tufts until they landed, one on a lamp and the other on the floor.
Then, while she was still laughing and looking at the stocking, hanging drunkenly from the lampshade, he sneaked up on her, sliding his hands back up her legs until they reached all the way to her thighs.
“I daresay no one has ever touched you here,” he said wickedly. Sophie shook her head.
“And I daresay you never imagined it.” She shook her head again.
“If you didn’t imagine this . . .” He squeezed her thighs, causing her to squeal and arch off the sofa. “. . . then I’m sure you won’t have imagined this.” He trailed his fingers ever upward as he spoke, the rounded curves of his nails lightly grazing her skin until he reached the soft thatch of her womanhood.
“Oh, no,” she said, more out of reflex than anything else. “You can’t—” “Oh, but I can. I assure you.”
“But— Ooooooh.” It was suddenly as if her brain had flown right out the window, because it was near impossible to think of anything while his fingers were tickling her. Well, almost anything. She seemed able to think about how utterly naughty this was and how very much she didn’t want him to stop.
“What are you doing to me?” she gasped, her every muscle tightening as he moved his fingers in a particularly wicked manner.
“Everything,” he returned, capturing her lips with his. “Anything you want.”
“I want— Oh!”
“Like that, do you?” His words were murmured against her cheek. “I don’t know what I want,” she breathed.
“I do.” He moved to her ear, nibbling softly on her lobe. “I know exactly what you want. Trust me.”
And it was as easy as that. She gave herself over to him completely— not that she hadn’t been nearly to that point already. But when he said, “Trust me,” and she realized that she did, something changed slightly inside. She was ready for this. It was still wrong, but she was ready, and she wanted it, and for once in her life she was going to do something wild and crazy and completely out of character.
Just because she wanted to.
As if he’d read her thoughts, he pulled away a few inches and cupped one cheek with his large hand. “If you want me to stop,” he said, his voice achingly hoarse, “you need to tell me now. Not in ten minutes, not even in one. It has to be now.”
Touched that he would even take the time to ask, she reached up and cupped his cheek in the same way he held hers. But when she opened her mouth to speak, the only word she could manage was, “Please.”
His eyes flared with need, and then, as if something snapped within him, he changed in an instant. Gone was the gentle, languorous lover. In his place was a man gripped by desire. His hands were everywhere, on her legs, around her waist, touching her face. And before Sophie knew it, her dress was gone, on the floor next to one of her stockings. She was completely
nude, and it felt very odd but somehow also very right as long as he was touching her.
The sofa was narrow, but that didn’t seem to matter as Benedict yanked off his boots and breeches. He perched alongside her as his boots went flying, unable to stop touching her, even as he divested himself of his clothing. It took longer to get naked, but on the other hand, he had the oddest notion that he might perish on the spot if he moved from her side.
He’d thought he’d wanted a woman before. He’d thought he’d needed one. But this—this went beyond both. This was spiritual. This was in his soul.
His clothes finally gone, he lay back on top of her, pausing for one shuddering moment to savor the feel of her beneath him, skin to skin, head to toe. He was hard as a rock, harder than he could ever remember, but he fought against his impulses, and tried to move slowly.
This was her first time. It had to be perfect. Or if not perfect, then damn good.
He snaked a hand between them and touched her. She was ready—more than ready for him. He slipped one finger inside of her, grinning with satisfaction as her entire body jerked and tensed around him.
“That’s very—” Her voice was raspy, her breathing labored. “Very—” “Strange?” he finished for her.
She nodded.
He smiled. Slowly, like a cat. “You’ll get used to it,” he promised. “I plan to get you very used to it.”
Sophie’s head lolled back. This was madness. Fever. Something was building inside of her, deep in her gut, coiling, pulsing, making her rigid. It was something that needed release, something that grabbed at her, and yet even with all this pressure, it felt so spectacularly wonderful, as if she’d been born for this very moment.
“Oh, Benedict,” she sighed. “Oh, my love.”
He froze—just for a fraction of a second, but it was long enough for her to know that he’d heard her. But he didn’t say a word, just kissed her neck and squeezed her leg as he positioned himself between her thighs and nudged at her entrance.
Her lips parted with shock.
“Don’t worry,” he said in an amused voice, reading her mind as always. “It will work.”
“But—”
“Trust me,” he said, the words murmured against her lips.
Slowly, she felt him entering her. She was being stretched, invaded, and yet she wouldn’t say it felt bad, exactly. It was . . . It was . . .
He touched her cheek. “You look serious.”
“I’m trying to decide how this feels,” she admitted.
“If you have the presence of mind to do that, then I’m certainly not doing a good enough job.”
Startled, she looked up. He was smiling at her, that crooked grin that never failed to reduce her to mush.
“Stop thinking so hard,” he whispered.
“But it’s difficult not to— Oh!” And then her eyes rolled back as she arched beneath him.
Benedict buried his head in her neck so she wouldn’t see his amused expression. It seemed the best way for him to keep her from overanalyzing a moment that should have been pure sensation and emotion was for him to keep moving.
And he did. Inexorably forward, sliding in and out until he reached the fragile barrier of her maidenhead.
He winced. He’d never been with a virgin before. He’d heard it hurt, that there was nothing a man could do to eliminate the pain for the woman, but surely if he was gentle, it would go easier for her.
He looked down. Her face was flushed, and her breath was rapid. Her eyes were glazed, dazed, clearly rapt with passion.
It fueled his own fire. God, he wanted her so badly his bones ached. “This might hurt,” he lied. It would hurt. But he was stuck between
wanting to give her the truth so that she would be prepared and giving her the softer version so that she would not be nervous.
“I don’t care,” she gasped. “Please. I need you.”
Benedict leaned down for one final, searing kiss as his hips surged forward. He felt her stiffen slightly around him as he broke through her maidenhead, and he bit—he actually bit his hand to keep himself from coming at that very second.
It was like he was a green lad of sixteen, not an experienced man of thirty.
She did this to him. Only her. It was a humbling thought.
Gritting his teeth against his baser urges, Benedict began to move within her, slowly stroking when what he really wanted to do was let go completely.
“Sophie, Sophie,” he grunted, repeating her name, trying to remind himself that this time was about her. He was here to please her needs, not his own.
It would be perfect. It had to be perfect. He needed her to love this. He needed her to love him.
She was quickening beneath him, and every wiggle, every squirm whipped up his own frenzy of desire. He was trying to be extra gentle for her, but she was making it so damn hard to hold back. Her hands were everywhere—on his hips, on his back, squeezing his shoulders.
“Sophie,” he moaned again. He couldn’t hold off much longer. He wasn’t strong enough. He wasn’t noble enough. He wasn’t—
“Ohhhhhhhhhhhh!”
She convulsed beneath him, her body arching off the sofa as she screamed. Her fingers bit into his back, nails raking his skin, but he didn’t care. All he knew was that she’d found her release, and it was good, and for the love of God, he could finally—
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!”
He exploded. There was simply no other word for it.
He couldn’t stop moving, couldn’t stop shaking, and then, in an instant, he collapsed, dimly aware that he was probably crushing her, but unable to move a single muscle.
He should say something, tell her something about how wonderful it had been. But his tongue felt thick and his lips felt heavy, and on top of all that, he could barely open his eyes. Pretty words would have to wait. He was only a man, and he had to catch his breath.
“Benedict?” she whispered.
He flopped his hand slightly against her. It was the only thing he could manage to indicate that he’d heard.
“Is it always like this?”
He shook his head, hoping that she’d feel the motion and know what it meant.
She sighed and seemed to sink deeper into the cushions. “I didn’t think so.”
Benedict kissed the side of her head, which was all that he could reach. No, it wasn’t always like this. He’d dreamed of her so many times, but this .
. . This . . .
This was more than dreams.
Sophie wouldn’t have thought it possible, but she must’ve dozed off, even with the thrilling weight of Benedict pressing her down against the sofa, making it slightly difficult to breathe. He must’ve fallen asleep, too, and she woke when he woke, aroused by the sudden rush of cool air when he lifted himself off of her body.
He placed a blanket on top of her before she even had a chance to be embarrassed by her nakedness. She smiled even as she blushed, for there was little that could be done to ease her embarrassment. Not that she regretted her actions. But a woman didn’t lose her virginity on a sofa and not feel a little bit embarrassed. It simply wasn’t possible.
Still, the blanket had been a thoughtful gesture. Not a surprising one, though. Benedict was a thoughtful man.
He obviously didn’t share her modesty, though, because he made no attempt to cover himself as he crossed the room and gathered his carelessly flung garments. Sophie stared shamelessly as he pulled on his breeches. He stood straight and proud, and the smile he gave her when he caught her watching was warm and direct.
God, how she loved this man. “How do you feel?” he asked.
“Fine,” she answered. “Good.” She smiled shyly. “Splendid.”
He picked up his shirt and stuck one arm into it. “I’ll send someone over to collect your belongings.”
Sophie blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he’s discreet. I know it might be embarrassing for you now that you know my family.”
Sophie clutched the blanket to her, wishing that her dress wasn’t out of reach. Because she suddenly felt ashamed. She’d done the one thing she’d always sworn she would never do, and now Benedict assumed she would be his mistress. And why shouldn’t he? It was a fairly natural assumption.
“Please don’t send anyone over,” she said, her voice small. He glanced at her in surprise. “You’d rather go yourself?”
“I’d rather my things stayed where they were,” she said softly. It was so much easier saying that than telling him directly that she would not become his mistress.
Once, she could forgive. Once, she could even cherish. But a lifetime with a man who was not her husband—that she knew she could not do.
Sophie looked down at her belly, praying that there would be no child to be brought into the world illegitimately.
“What are you telling me?” he said, his eyes intent upon her face.
Damn. He wasn’t going to allow her to take the easy way out. “I’m saying,” she said, gulping against the boulder-sized lump that had suddenly developed in her throat, “that I cannot be your mistress.”
“What do you call this?” he asked in a tight voice, waving his arm at
her.
“I call it a lapse in judgment,” she said, not meeting his eyes.
“Oh, so I’m a lapse?” he said, his tone unnaturally pleasant. “How nice.
I don’t believe I’ve ever been someone’s lapse before.” “You know that’s not the way I meant it.”
“Do I?” He grabbed one of his boots and perched on the arm of a chair so that he could yank it on. “Frankly, my dear, I have no idea what you mean anymore.”
“I shouldn’t have done this—”
He whipped his head around to face her, his hot, flashing eyes at odds with his bland smile. “Now I’m a shouldn’t? Excellent. Even better than a lapse. Shouldn’t sounds much naughtier, don’t you think? A lapse is merely a mistake.”
“There is no need to be so ugly about this.”
He cocked his head to the side as if he were truly considering her words. “Is that what I’m being? I rather thought I was acting in a most friendly and understanding manner. Look, no yelling, no histrionics . . .”
“I’d prefer yelling and histrionics to this.”
He scooped up her dress and threw it at her, none too gently. “Well, we don’t always get what we prefer, do we, Miss Beckett? I can certainly attest to that.”
She grabbed her dress and stuffed it under the covers with her, hoping that she’d eventually find a way to don it without moving the blanket.
“It’ll be a neat trick if you figure out how to do it,” he said, giving her a condescending glance.
She glared at him. “I’m not asking you to apologize.” “Well, that’s a relief. I doubt I could find the words.” “Please don’t be so sarcastic.”
His smile was mocking in the extreme. “You’re hardly in a position to ask me anything.”
“Benedict . . .”
He loomed over her, leering rudely. “Except, of course, to rejoin you, which I’d gladly do.”
She said nothing.
“Do you understand,” he said, his eyes softening slightly, “what it feels like to be pushed away? How many times do you expect you can reject me before I stop trying?”
“It’s not that I want to—”
“Oh, stop with that old excuse. It’s grown tired. If you wanted to be with me, you would be with me. When you say no, it’s because you want to say no.”
“You don’t understand,” she said in a low voice. “You’ve always been in a position where you could do what you wanted. Some of us don’t have that luxury.”
“Silly me. I thought I was offering you that very luxury.” “The luxury to be your mistress,” she said bitterly.
He crossed his arms, his lips twisting as he said, “You won’t have to do anything you haven’t already done.”
“I got carried away,” Sophie said slowly, trying to ignore his insult. It was no more than she deserved. She had slept with him. Why shouldn’t he think she would be his mistress? “I made a mistake,” she continued. “But that doesn’t mean I should do it again.”
“I can offer you a better life,” he said in a low voice.
She shook her head. “I won’t be your mistress. I won’t be any man’s mistress.”
Benedict’s lips parted with shock as he digested her words. “Sophie,” he said incredulously, “you know I cannot marry you.”
“Of course I know that,” she snapped. “I’m a servant, not an idiot.”
Benedict tried for a moment to put himself in her shoes. He knew she wanted respectability, but she had to know that he could not give it to her. “It would be hard for you as well,” he said softly, “even if I were to marry you. You would not be accepted. The ton can be cruel.”
Sophie let out a loud, hollow laugh. “I know,” she said, her smile utterly humorless. “Believe me, I know.”
“Then why—”
“Grant me a favor,” she interrupted, turning her face so that she was no longer looking at him. “Find someone to marry. Find someone acceptable, who will make you happy. And then leave me alone.”
Her words struck a chord, and Benedict was suddenly reminded of the lady from the masquerade. She had been of his world, his class. She would have been acceptable. And he realized, as he stood there, staring down at Sophie, who was huddled on the sofa, trying not to look at him, that she was the one he’d always pictured in his mind, whenever he thought to the future. Whenever he imagined himself with a wife and children.
He’d spent the last two years with one eye on every door, always waiting for his lady in silver to enter the room. He felt silly sometimes, even stupid, but he’d never been able to erase her from his thoughts.
Or purge the dream—the one in which he pledged his troth to her, and they lived happily ever after.
It was a silly fantasy for a man of his reputation, sickly sweet and sentimental, but he hadn’t been able to help himself. That’s what came from growing up in a large and loving family—one tended to want the same for oneself.
But the woman from the masquerade had become barely more than a mirage. Hell, he didn’t even know her name. And Sophie was here.
He couldn’t marry her, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t be together. It would mean compromise, mostly on her part, he admitted. But they could do it. And they’d certainly be happier than if they remained apart.
“Sophie,” he began, “I know the situation is not ideal—”
“Don’t,” she interrupted, her voice low, barely audible. “If you’d only listen—”
“Please. Don’t.” “But you’re not—”
“Stop!” she said, her voice rising perilously in volume. She was holding her shoulders so tightly they were practically at her ears, but Benedict forged on, anyway. He loved her. He needed her. He had to make her see reason. “Sophie, I know you’ll agree if—”
“I won’t have an illegitimate child!” she finally yelled, struggling to keep the blanket around her as she rose to her feet. “I won’t do it! I love you, but not that much. I don’t love anyone that much.”
His eyes fell to her midsection. “It may very well be too late for that, Sophie.”
“I know,” she said quietly, “and it’s already eating me up inside.” “Regrets have a way of doing that.”
She looked away. “I don’t regret what we did. I wish I could. I know I should. But I can’t.”
Benedict just stared at her. He wanted to understand her, but he just couldn’t grasp how she could be so adamant about not wanting to be his mistress and have his children and at the same time not regret their lovemaking.
How could she say she loved him? It made the pain that much more intense.
“If we don’t have a child,” she said quietly, “then I shall consider myself very lucky. And I won’t tempt the fates again.”
“No, you’ll merely tempt me,” he said, hearing the sneer in his voice and hating it.
She ignored him, drawing the blanket closer around her as she stared sightlessly at a painting on the wall. “I’ll have a memory I will forever cherish. And that, I suppose, is why I can’t regret what we did.”
“It won’t keep you warm at night.”
“No,” she agreed sadly, “but it will keep my dreams full.”
“You’re a coward,” he accused. “A coward for not chasing after those dreams.”
She turned around. “No,” she said, her voice remarkably even considering the way he was glaring at her. “What I am is a bastard. And
before you say you don’t care, let me assure you that I do. And so does everyone else. Not a day has gone by that I am not in some way reminded of the baseness of my birth.”
“Sophie . . .”
“If I have a child,” she said, her voice starting to crack, “do you know how much I would love it? More than life, more than breath, more than anything. How could I hurt my own child the way I’ve been hurt? How could I subject her to the same kind of pain?”
“Would you reject your child?” “Of course not!”
“Then she wouldn’t feel the same sort of pain,” Benedict said with a shrug. “Because I wouldn’t reject her either.”
“You don’t understand,” she said, the words ending on a whimper.
He pretended he hadn’t heard her. “Am I correct in assuming that you
were rejected by your parents?”
Her smile was tight and ironic. “Not precisely. Ignored would be a better description.”
“Sophie,” he said, rushing toward her and gathering her in his arms, “you don’t have to repeat the mistakes of your parents.”
“I know,” she said sadly, not struggling in his embrace, but not returning it either. “And that’s why I cannot be your mistress. I won’t relive my mother’s life.”
“You wouldn’t—”
“They say that a smart person learns from her mistakes,” she interrupted, her voice forcefully ending his protest. “But a truly smart person learns from other people’s mistakes.” She pulled away, then turned to face him. “I’d like to think I’m a truly smart person. Please don’t take that away from me.”
There was a desperate, almost palpable, pain in her eyes. It hit him in the chest, and he staggered back a step.
“I’d like to get dressed,” she said, turning away. “I think you should leave.”
He stared at her back for several seconds before saying, “I could make you change your mind. I could kiss you, and you would—”
“You wouldn’t,” she said, not moving a muscle. “It isn’t in you.” “It is.”
“You would kiss me, and then you would hate yourself. And it would only take a second.”
He left without another word, letting the click of the door signal his departure.
Inside the room, Sophie’s quivering hands dropped the blanket, and she crumpled onto the sofa, forever staining its delicate fabric with her tears.
