Lady Penwood appears to have left town. So does Lady Bridgerton. Interesting . . .

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 18 JUNE 1817

Benedict decided he had never loved his mother more than he did at that very minute. He was trying not to grin, but it was exceedingly difficult with Lady Penwood gasping like a fish on land.

The magistrate’s eyes bugged out. “You’re not suggesting I arrest the

countess?”

“No, of course not,” Violet demurred. “She’d likely go free. The aristocracy rarely pays for its crimes. But,” she added, tilting her head slightly to the side as she gave Lady Penwood a very pointed glance, “if you were to arrest her, it would be terribly embarrassing while she defended the charges.”

“What are you trying to say?” Lady Penwood asked through decidedly clenched teeth.

Violet turned to the magistrate. “Might I have a few moments alone with Lady Penwood?”

“Of course, my lady.” He gave her a gruff nod, then barked, “Everyone!

Out!”

“No, no,” Violet said with a sweet smile as she pressed something that looked suspiciously like a pound note into his palm. “My family may stay.”

The magistrate blushed slightly, then grabbed the warden’s arm and yanked him out of the room.

“There now,” Violet murmured. “Where were we?”

Benedict beamed with pride as he watched his mother march right up to Lady Penwood and stare her down. He stole a glance at Sophie. Her mouth was hanging open.

“My son is going to marry Sophie,” Violet said, “and you are going to tell anyone who will listen that she was the ward of your late husband.”

“I will never lie for her,” Lady Penwood shot back.

Violet shrugged. “Fine. Then you can expect my solicitors to begin looking for Sophie’s dowry immediately. After all, Benedict will be entitled to it once he marries her.”

Benedict slipped his arm around Sophie’s waist and gave her a light squeeze.

“If someone asks me,” Lady Penwood ground out, “I will confirm whatever story you bandy about. But do not expect me to go out of my way to help her.”

Violet pretended to mull that over, then said, “Excellent. I do believe that will do nicely.” She turned to her son. “Benedict?”

He gave her a sharp nod.

His mother turned back to Lady Penwood. “Sophie’s father was named Charles Beckett and he was a distant cousin of the earl’s, no?”

Lady Penwood looked as if she’d swallowed a bad clam, but she nodded nonetheless.

Violet pointedly turned her back on the countess, and said, “I’m sure some members of the ton will consider her a bit shabby, since obviously nobody will be familiar with her family, but at least she will be respectable. After all”—she turned back around and flashed a wide smile at Araminta

—“there is that connection with the Penwoods.”

Araminta let out a strange, growling sound. It was all Benedict could do not to laugh.

“Oh, magistrate!” Violet called out, and when he bustled back into the room, she smiled gamely at him and said, “I believe my work here is done.”

He let out a sigh of relief, saying, “Then I don’t have to arrest anyone?” “It seems not.”

He practically sagged against the wall.

“Well, I am leaving!” Lady Penwood announced, as if anyone might possibly miss her. She turned to her daughter with furious eyes. “Come along, Posy.”

Benedict watched as the blood quite literally drained from Posy’s face. But before he could intervene, Sophie jumped forward, blurting out, “Lady Bridgerton!” just as Araminta roared, “Now!”

“Yes, dear?”

Sophie grabbed Violet’s arm and pulled her close enough to whisper something in her ear.

“Quite right,” Violet said. She turned to Posy. “Miss Gunningworth?” “Actually, it’s Miss Reiling,” Posy corrected. “The earl never adopted

me.”

“Of course. Miss Reiling. How old are you?” “One-and-twenty, my lady.”

“Well, that’s certainly old enough to make your own decisions. Would you like to come to my home for a visit?”

“Oh, yes!”

“Posy, you may not go live with the Bridgertons!” Araminta ordered. Violet ignored her completely as she said to Posy, “I believe I will quit

London early this season. Would you care to join us for an extended stay in Kent?”

Posy nodded quickly. “I would be much obliged.” “That settles it, then.”

“That does not settle it,” Araminta snapped. “She is my daughter, and

—”

“Benedict,” Lady Bridgerton said in a rather bored voice, “what was the

name of my solicitor?”

“Go!” Araminta spat at Posy. “And don’t ever darken my door again.”

For the first time that afternoon, Posy began to look a little scared. It didn’t help when her mother stalked right up to her and hissed straight in her face, “If you go with them now, you are dead to me. Do you understand? Dead!”

Posy threw a panicked look at Violet, who immediately stepped forward and linked their arms together.

“It’s all right, Posy,” Violet said softly. “You may stay with us as long as you wish.”

Sophie stepped forward and slid her arm through Posy’s free one. “Now we will be sisters truly,” she said, leaning forward and giving her a kiss on the cheek.

“Oh, Sophie,” Posy cried out, a well of tears bursting forth. “I’m so sorry! I never stood up for you. I should have said something. I should have done something, but—”

Sophie shook her head. “You were young. I was young. And I know better than anyone how difficult it is to defy her.” She threw a scathing glare at Araminta.

“Don’t you speak to me that way,” Araminta seethed, raising her hand as if to strike.

“Ah ah ah!” Violet cut in. “The solicitors, Lady Penwood. Don’t forget the solicitors.”

Araminta dropped her hand, but she looked as if she might spontaneously burst into flame at any moment.

“Benedict?” Violet called out. “How quickly could we be at the solicitors’ office?”

Grinning inside, he gave his chin a thoughtful stroke. “They’re not too terribly far away. Twenty minutes? Thirty if the roads are full.”

Araminta shook with rage as she directed her words at Violet. “Take her then. She’s never been anything to me but a disappointment. And you can expect to be stuck with her until your dying day, as no one is likely to offer for her. I have to bribe men just to ask her to dance.”

And then the strangest thing occurred. Sophie began to shake. Her skin turned red, her teeth clenched, and the most amazing roar burst forth from her mouth. And before anyone could even think to intervene, she had planted her fist squarely into Araminta’s left eye and sent the older woman sprawling.

Benedict had thought that nothing could have surprised him more than his mother’s heretofore undetected Machiavellian streak.

He was wrong.

“That,” Sophie hissed, “is not for stealing my dowry. It’s not for all the times you tried to boot me out of my house before my father died. And it’s not even for turning me into your personal slave.”

“Er, Sophie,” Benedict said mildly, “what, then, is it for?”

Sophie’s eyes never wavered off of Araminta’s face as she said, “That was for not loving your daughters equally.”

Posy began to bawl.

“There’s a special place in hell for mothers like you,” Sophie said, her voice dangerously low.

“You know,” the magistrate squeaked, “we really do need to clear this cell out for the next occupant.”

“He’s right,” Violet said quickly, stepping in front of Sophie before she decided to start kicking Araminta. She turned to Posy. “Have you any belongings you wish to retrieve?”

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 quick-witted 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.”

He crushed her to him. He couldn’t help it. He had to feel her in his arms, to reassure himself that she was there and that she would always be there. With him, by his side, until death did they part. It was strange, but he was driven by the oddest compulsion to hold her . . . just hold her.

He wanted her, of course. He always wanted her. But more than that, he wanted to hold her. To smell her, to feel her.

He was, he realized, comforted by her presence. They didn’t need to talk. They didn’t even need to touch (although he wasn’t about to let go just then). Simply put, he was a happier man—and quite possibly a better man

—when she was near.

He buried his face in her hair, inhaling her scent, smelling . . .

Smelling . . .

He drew back. “Would you care for a bath?”

Her face turned an instant scarlet. “Oh, no,” she moaned, the words muffled into the hand she’d clapped over her mouth. “It was so filthy in jail, and I was forced to sleep on the ground, and—”

“Don’t tell me any more,” he said. “But—”

“Please.” If he heard more he might have to kill someone. As long as there had been no permanent damage, he didn’t want to know the details.

“I think,” he said, the first hint of a smile tugging at the left corner of his mouth, “that you should take a bath.”

“Right.” She nodded as she rose to her feet. “I’ll go straight to your mother’s—”

“Here.”

“Here?”

The smile spread to the right corner of his mouth. “Here.” “But we told your mother—”

“That you’d be home by nine.” “I think she said seven.”

“Did she? Funny, I heard nine.” “Benedict . . .”

He took her hand and pulled her toward the door. “Seven sounds an

awful lot like nine.” “Benedict . . .”

“Actually, it sounds even more like eleven.” “Benedict!”

He deposited her right by the door. “Stay here.” “I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t move a muscle,” he said, touching his fingertip to her nose.

Sophie watched helplessly as he slipped out into the hall, only to return two minutes later. “Where did you go?” she asked.

“To order a bath.” “But—”

His eyes grew very, very wicked. “For two.” She gulped.

He leaned forward. “They happened to have water heating already.”

“They did?”

He nodded. “It’ll only take a few minutes to fill the tub.” She glanced toward the front door. “It’s nearly seven.” “But I’m allowed to keep you until twelve.”

“Benedict!”

He pulled her close. “You want to stay.” “I never said that.”

“You don’t have to. If you really disagreed with me, you’d have something more to say than, ‘Benedict’!”

She had to smile; he did that good an imitation of her voice. His mouth curved into a devilish grin. “Am I wrong?”

She looked away, but she knew her lips were twitching.

“I thought not,” he murmured. He motioned with his head toward the stairs. “Come with me.”

She went.

To Sophie’s great surprise, Benedict vacated the room while she undressed for her bath. She held her breath as she pulled her dress over her head. He was right; she did smell rank.

The maid who had drawn the bath had scented it with oil and a sudsy soap that left bubbles floating on the surface. Once Sophie had shed all of her clothing, she dipped her toe into the steaming water. The rest of her soon followed.

Heaven. It was hard to believe it had only been two days since she’d had a bath. One night in jail made it feel more like a year.

Sophie tried to clear her mind and enjoy the hedonism of the moment, but it was difficult to enjoy with the anticipation growing within her veins. She knew when she’d decided to stay that Benedict planned on joining her. She could have refused; for all his wheedling and cajoling, he would have taken her back home to his mother’s.

But she had decided to stay. Somewhere between the sitting-room doorway and the base of the stairs she’d realized she wanted to stay. It had been such a long road to this moment, and she wasn’t quite ready to relinquish him, even if it would only be until the following morning, when he was sure to come by his mother’s for breakfast.

He would be here soon. And when he was . . .

She shivered. Even in the steaming hot tub, she shivered. And then, as she was sinking deeper into the water, allowing it to rise above her shoulders and neck, even right up to her nose, she heard the click of the door opening.

Benedict. He was wearing a dark green dressing gown, tied with a sash at his waist. His feet were bare, as were his legs from the knees down.

“I hope you don’t mind if I have this destroyed,” he said, glancing down at her dress.

She smiled at him and shook her head. It wasn’t what she’d been expecting him to say, and she knew that he’d done it to set her at ease.

“I’ll send someone to fetch you another,” he said.

“Thank you.” She shifted slightly in the water to make room for him, but he surprised her by walking to her end of the tub.

“Lean forward,” he murmured.

She did, and sighed with pleasure as he began to wash her back. “I’ve dreamed of doing this for years.”

“Years?” she asked, amused.

“Mmm-hmm. I had many dreams about you after the masquerade.”

Sophie was glad she was leaning forward, her forehead resting on her bent knees, because she blushed.

“Dunk your head so I can wash your hair,” he ordered. She slid under the water, then quickly came back up.

Benedict rubbed the bar of soap in his hands and then began to work the lather through her hair. “It was longer before,” he commented.

“I had to cut it,” she said. “I sold it to a wigmaker.”

She wasn’t sure, but she thought she might have heard him growl. “It used to be much shorter,” she added.

“Ready to rinse.”

She dunked back in the tub, swishing her head this way and that under the water before coming back up for air.

Benedict cupped his hands and filled them with water. “You’ve still got some in the back,” he said, letting the water pour over her hair.

Sophie let him repeat that process a few times, then finally asked, “Aren’t you coming in?” It was dreadfully brazen of her, and she knew she must be blushing like a raspberry, but she simply had to know.

He shook his head. “I’d planned to, but this is too much fun.” “Washing me?” she asked doubtfully.

One corner of his mouth quirked into the faintest of half smiles. “I’m rather looking forward to drying you off as well.” He reached down and picked up a large white towel. “Up you go.”

Sophie chewed on her lower lip in indecision. She had, of course, already been as close to him as two people could be, but she wasn’t so sophisticated that she could rise naked from the tub without a large degree of embarrassment.

Benedict smiled faintly as he stood and unfolded the towel. Holding it wide, he averted his gaze and said, “I’ll have you all wrapped up before I can see a thing.”

Sophie took a deep breath and stood, somehow feeling that that one action might mark the beginning of the rest of her life.

Benedict gently wrapped the towel around her, his hands bringing the corners to her face when he was done. He dabbed at her cheeks, where light droplets of water were still clinging to her skin, then leaned down and kissed her nose. “I’m glad you’re here,” he murmured.

“I’m glad, too.”

He touched her chin. His eyes never left hers, and she almost felt as if he’d touched those as well. And then, with the softest, most tender caress imaginable, he kissed her. Sophie didn’t just feel loved; she felt revered.

“I should wait until Monday,” he said, “but I don’t want to.” “I don’t want you to wait,” she whispered.

He kissed her again, this time with a bit more urgency. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured. “Everything I ever dreamed of.”

His lips found her cheek, her chin, her neck, and every kiss, every nibble robbed her of balance and breath. She was sure her legs would give out, sure her strength would fail her under his tender onslaught, and just when she was convinced she’d crumple to the floor, he scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bed.

“In my heart,” he vowed, settling her against the quilts and pillows, “you are my wife.”

Sophie’s breath caught.

“After our wedding it will be legal,” he said, stretching out alongside her, “blessed by God and country, but right now—” His voice grew hoarse

as he propped himself up on one elbow so that he could gaze into her eyes. “Right now it is true.”

Sophie reached up and touched his face. “I love you,” she whispered. “I have always loved you. I think I loved you before I even knew you.”

He leaned down to kiss her anew, but she stopped him with a breathy, “No, wait.”

He paused, mere inches from her lips.

“At the masquerade,” she said, her voice uncharacteristically shaky, “even before I saw you, I felt you. Anticipation. Magic. There was something in the air. And when I turned, and you were there, it was as if you’d been waiting for me, and I knew that you were the reason I’d stolen into the ball.”

Something wet hit her cheek. A single tear, fallen from his eye.

“You are the reason I exist,” she said softly, “the very reason I was born.”

He opened his mouth, and for a moment she was certain he would say something, but the only sound that emerged was a rough, halting noise, and she realized that he was overcome, that he could not speak.

She was undone.

Benedict kissed her again, trying to show in deeds what he could not say in words. He hadn’t thought he could love her any more than he did just five seconds earlier, but when she’d said . . . when she’d told him . . .

His heart had grown, and he’d thought it might burst.

He loved her. Suddenly the world was a very simple place. He loved her, and that was all that mattered.

His robe and her towel melted away, and when they were skin to skin he worshipped her with his hands and lips. He wanted her to realize the extent of his need for her, and he wanted her to know the same desire.

“Oh, Sophie,” he groaned, her name the only word he could manage to say. “Sophie, Sophie, Sophie.”

She smiled up at him, and he was struck by the most remarkable desire to laugh. He was happy, he realized. So damned happy.

And it felt good.

He positioned himself over her, ready to enter her, ready to make her his. This was different from the last time, when they’d both been swept

away by emotion. This time they had been deliberate. They had chosen more than passion; they had chosen each other.

“You’re mine,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers as he slid inside. “You’re mine.”

And much later, when they were exhausted and spent, lying in each other’s arms, he brought his lips to her ear and whispered, “And I’m yours.”

Several hours later, Sophie yawned and blinked herself awake, wondering why she felt so lovely and warm, and—

“Benedict!” she gasped. “What time is it?”

He didn’t respond, so she clutched at his shoulder and shook hard. “Benedict! Benedict!”

He grunted as he rolled over. “I’m sleeping.” “What time is it?”

He buried his face in the pillow. “Haven’t the foggiest.” “I’m supposed to be at your mother’s by seven.” “Eleven,” he mumbled.

“Seven!”

He opened one eye. It looked like it took a great deal of effort. “You knew you weren’t going to make it back by seven when you decided to take a bath.”

“I know, but I didn’t think I’d be much past nine.”

Benedict blinked a few times as he looked around the room. “I don’t think you’re going to make it—”

But she’d already caught sight of the mantel clock and was presently choking frantically.

“Are you all right?” he inquired. “It’s three in the morning!”

He smiled. “You might as well spend the night, then.” “Benedict!”

“You wouldn’t want to put out any of the servants, would you? They’re all quite asleep, I’m sure.”

“But I—”

“Have mercy, woman,” he finally declared. “I’m marrying you next week.”

That got her attention. “Next week?” she squeaked.

He tried to assume a serious mien. “It’s best to take care of these things quickly.”

“Why?”

“Why?” he echoed. “Yes, why?”

“Er, ah, stemming gossip and all that.”

Her lips parted and her eyes grew round. “Do you think Lady Whistledown will write about me?”

“God, I hope not,” he muttered. Her face fell.

“Well, I suppose she might. Why on earth would you want her to?” “I’ve been reading her column for years. I always dreamed of seeing my

name there.”

He shook his head. “You have very strange dreams.” “Benedict!”

“Very well, yes, I imagine Lady Whistledown will report our marriage, if not before the ceremony, then certainly very quickly after the fact. She’s diabolical that way.”

“I wish I knew who she was.” “You and half of London.”

“Me and all of London, I should think.” She sighed, then said, not very convincingly, “I really should go. Your mother is surely worried about me.”

He shrugged. “She knows where you are.” “But she’ll think less of me.”

“I doubt it. She’ll give you a bit of latitude, I’m sure, considering we’re to be married in three days.”

“Three days?” she yelped. “I thought you said next week.” “Three days is next week.”

Sophie frowned. “Oh. You’re right. Monday, then?” He nodded, looking very satisfied.

“Imagine that,” she said. “I’ll be in Whistledown.”

He propped himself up on one elbow, eyeing her suspiciously. “Are you looking forward to marrying me,” he asked in an amused voice, “or is it merely the Whistledown mention that has you so excited?”

She gave him a playful swat on the shoulder.

“Actually,” he said thoughtfully, “you’ve already been in Whistledown.” “I have? When?”

“After the masquerade. Lady Whistledown remarked that I’d been rather taken with a mystery woman in silver. Try as she might, she couldn’t deduce your identity.” He grinned. “It very well may be the only secret in London she hasn’t uncovered.”

Sophie’s face went instantly serious and she scooted a foot or so away from him on the bed. “Oh, Benedict. I have to . . . I want to . . . That is to say . . .” She stopped, looking away for a few seconds before turning back. “I’m sorry.”

He considered yanking her back into his arms, but she looked so damned earnest he had no choice but to take her seriously. “What for?”

“For not telling you who I was. It was wrong of me.” She bit her lip. “Well, not wrong precisely.”

He drew back slightly. “If it wasn’t wrong, then what was it?”

“I don’t know. I can’t explain exactly why I did what I did, but it just . .

.” She chewed on her lips some more. He started to think that she might do herself permanent harm.

She sighed. “I didn’t tell you right away because it didn’t seem to make any sense to do so. I was so sure we’d part ways just as soon as we left the Cavenders. But then you grew ill, and I had to care for you, and you didn’t recognize me, and . . .”

He lifted a finger to her lips. “It doesn’t matter.”

Her brows rose. “It seemed to matter a great deal the other night.”

He didn’t know why, but he just didn’t want to get into a serious discussion at that moment. “A lot has changed since then.”

“Don’t you want to know why I didn’t tell you who I was?” He touched her cheeks. “I know who you are.”

She chewed on her lip.

“And do you want to hear the funniest part?” he continued. “Do you know one of the reasons I was so hesitant to give my heart completely to you? I’d been saving a piece of it for the lady from the masquerade, always hoping that one day I’d find her.”

“Oh, Benedict,” she sighed, thrilled by his words, and at the same time miserable that she had hurt him so.

“Deciding to marry you meant I had to abandon my dream of marrying

her,” he said quietly. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry I hurt you by not revealing my identity,” she said, not quite looking at his face, “but I’m not sure that I’m sorry I did it. Does that make any sense?”

He didn’t say anything.

“I think I would do the same thing again.”

He still didn’t say anything. Sophie started to feel very uneasy inside. “It just seemed like the right thing to do at the time,” she persisted.

“Telling you that I’d been at the masquerade would have served no purpose.”

“I would have known the truth,” he said softly.

“Yes, and what would you have done with that truth?” She sat up, pulling the covers until they were tucked under her arms. “You would have wanted your mystery woman to be your mistress, just as you wanted the housemaid to be your mistress.”

He said nothing, just stared at her face.

“I guess what I’m saying,” Sophie said quickly, “is that if I’d known at the beginning what I know now, I would have said something. But I didn’t know, and I thought I’d just be positioning myself for heartbreak, and—” She choked on her final words, frantically searching his face for some kind of clue to his feelings. “Please say something.”

“I love you,” he said. It was all she needed.