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Sophie jolted awake.
Her heart thudded against her ribs, almost painfully, though she was not sure why, or what had roused her from her slumber.
Shifting onto her back, she peered up at the canopy draped above the bed. With considerable effort, she strained her ears, and found Aubrey Hall lay silent around her; the laughter and chaos of the day’s festivities long since faded into nothingness.
Little Edmund Bridgerton had turned two, and that afternoon, the Bridgerton family, along with their closest friends, had marked the happy occasion by descending upon their country estate for a weekend stay. The day itself had been stubbornly overcast, but the unfortunate gloom had done little to dampen their enthusiasm.
The children babbled and tore across the lawns, whilst their parents and the remaining adults, all with varying levels of questionable maturity, had thrown themselves into an increasingly competitive game of pall mall. Francesca, after a valiant but short-lived attempt, had abandoned the match by her third turn; Colin and Penelope slipped away halfway through; Benedict had taken to contesting the rules with Daphne and, for reasons known only to himself, Gregory; and Sophie, to Anthony’s utter disbelief, had bested him cleanly, which prompted Kate to seize her in a triumphant embrace. In the end, it was Hyacinth who claimed a decisive victory over Eloise, the latter of whom spent the remainder of the afternoon insisting, to anyone who would listen, that she had, in fact, chosen to lose.
Sophie had beamed the entire day, until her cheeks began to ache, unable to believe she now belonged to a family that lived and loved so freely.
After dinner, however, Sophie, like many of the others, had pleaded fatigue and escaped upstairs at the earliest polite opportunity. She’d changed into her nightwear with remarkable speed and, before she knew it, was curled beneath the sheets, surrendering to blissful oblivion. Given how tired she had been, it was confounding that she should wake long before dawn.
For a moment, she thought she had dreamt it: the sound that had somehow permeated through her sleep.
Pushing away the tendrils of hair clinging to her forehead, she propped herself on her elbows and looked around. The fire in the hearth was burning low, casting around a sullen orange glow, and the curtains stirred restlessly where a window stood cracked open for fresh air. Beyond, the countryside lay shrouded in mist and moonlight.
The room was, as she had suspected, empty.
Sophie exhaled slowly and let her head sink back into the plush pillows. Perhaps she had imagined the noise after all. Perhaps–
Tap.
There it was again. Another tap followed soon after, sharper this time; something ricocheted off the window pane.
She sat upright, hair tumbling around her shoulders.
Tap. Thump.
“Argh!”
“Damn.”
The floorboards were cool beneath her feet as Sophie swung her legs from the bed and crossed the length of the room, pulling on her silk robe as she went.
Her brows creased together as she reached the tall windows and peered down into the gardens. Below, two figures stood on the lawn. One lifted an arm, clearly preparing to fling something upward again.
Sophie flung open the windows.
“Benedict Bridgerton!” she hissed.
The arm froze mid-air.
Benedict was looking up at her with wide eyes, one fist clenched around what she now assumed was a handful of stones, the other gesturing vaguely in the air. Even from her vantage point, she could tell his cravat was unusually crooked, his waistcoat unbuttoned, and his hair far more unruly than it had been during the daytime.
A few paces behind him stood Colin, who was attempting, and failing, to contain his laughter and looking equally disheveled.
“There you are,” Benedict said warmly. “Hel–excuse me. Hello, my darling Sophie.”
“Yes, hello, fair Sophie,” Colin added cheerfully, tipping an imaginary hat in her direction.
Benedict shot him a look. “You cannot compliment her. That is my role.”
“You do us great honor by appearing at the balcony. No, wait, sorry. Window,” Colin remarked, pretending to not hear his brother. “We have been waiting for–let’s see–ten minutes.”
Sophie stared, baffled. Perhaps she was still asleep, and this was all just a very peculiar dream. She really should not have indulged in that second glass of wine Kate had pressed into her hands earlier.
As she watched, Benedict took a few steps forward, or attempted to anyway. Halfway across the lawn, he stumbled, grasping wildly in the air to regain his balance, whilst Colin called out, “Steady on, Romeo. You are meant to be overcome by love, not gravity.”
“Love renders the best of men unsteady,” Benedict retorted in a rather lofty voice. He turned to Sophie again and, wearing a foolish sort of smile, pointed at her, proclaiming, “And she is, always has been, my undoing. Mere mortal that I am, and she divine.”
Sophie made a small, strangled sound at the back of her throat that might have been his name. Her hands fluttered uselessly at her sides as she cast a nervous glance around, scanning the darkness for any sign of movement or flickering light. Mercifully, they did not seem to have any more spectators just yet.
Behind him, Colin made a face.
“I should like it noted that I did not encourage this level of sincerity,” he said to no one in particular. Then he squinted at Sophie, a broad grin spreading across his face. “Though I do admire your composure. Especially as you are being so publicly adored.”
Sophie fixed the third Bridgerton brother with a glare, which only made Colin chuckle.
At the sound, Benedict whipped around and aimed a half-hearted kick at Colin, who sidestepped it with ease.
Reaching down, Sophie pinched her thigh. It hurt, and quite sharply, so she had to accept her eyes and ears were not deceiving her; this was very much happening.
“Benedict, Colin,” she interrupted the brothers as they attempted to swat at one another. “What on earth are you both doing?”
Colin immediately raised his hands in surrender.
Benedict’s face lit up in delight.
“I was beginning to fear you might not wake,” he admitted, hiccuping lightly, “and then all my efforts tonight would have been, most tragically, in vain.”
“What efforts? And why–” She leaned farther out the window. “It is the middle of the night.”
“Yes,” Benedict agreed cheerfully, throwing his arms up. “Consider the romance of it.”
“The romance of being struck in the face by a rock?”
“I would never–I was aiming for the window, not you!” He looked highly affronted by the mere suggestion. “I am not a monster.”
“You could pass for an ogre,” said Colin, standing idly by, hands on his hips. “I should not like to meet you in a corridor before my morning tea.”
“Must you intervene?” Benedict snapped, now swaying slightly where he stood. “Go away.”
“I am here for support!” Colin replied. He glanced up at the window, then back at his brother. “Besides, what if you require assistance with the trellis? You will need an extra pair of hands, given your current coordination, or lack thereof."
“I do not require–” Benedict began, then paused, face scrunching in thought as he too gazed at the trellis leading up to the first floor window, whereupon stood Sophie. “Hmm…”
“Absolutely not,” Sophie hissed before they could get another word in. “No one is climbing anything. You will hurt yourself.”
Colin looked up at her, pleasantly—and vexingly—undeterred. “Lady Sophia, I assure you, it is a very sturdy trellis.”
“That is not–”
“That is…,” said Benedict, more to himself, continuing to eye the trellis, “not an unreasonable point, brother.”
Colin smirked. “See?”
Benedict snapped his fingers at Colin. “You. Stay where you are.”
He received a salute in return.
In spite of her growing consternation, Sophie had to make a valiant effort not to laugh at their brotherly antics. She settled, instead, for folding her arms on the windowsill.
“Benedict,” she tried again, voice entirely too placid for the occasion, “would you mind explaining why you were throwing rocks?”
“Certainly, I am here,” he revealed, throwing his chest out as he did so, “to declare myself.”
Sophie blinked. “Declare yourself… as what?”
Colin folded over himself, laughter finally breaking free.
“Jester, maybe? You should really hear what he has to say,” he insisted in a hushed tone that Sophie was certain would carry three counties over. He was not quite so steady on his own two feet as he might like to think. “Benedict has been rehearsing for nearly an hour, even though I suggested going to sleep like a normal person.”
Benedict shot him a look. “You have no soul.”
“I have a perfectly reasonable soul,” Colin replied. “I simply lack your tendency for criminal activity.”
Sophie pressed her lips together. “You two will wake the entire household.”
“Nonsense,” said Benedict. “Anthony sleeps like a bear in midwinter. Gregory once slept through an entire thunderstorm. And Hyacinth is always awake, so nothing changes there.”
“That is not the least bit reassuring.”
Benedict took a step closer to the house and raised his voice. “Sophie, please, I am attempting a grand gesture here.”
“Please do not–”
“I love her,” Benedict announced to the night, pointing up in Sophie’s direction. “And I demand the world know it.”
Colin thumped his back. “Strong beginning there, brother.”
“Thank you, Colin. Knew you’d see sense in the end.”
Sophie felt heat bloom in her cheeks.
Benedict cleared his throat in an exaggerated manner. “I have prepared some words.”
“Oh, no,” Sophie called out, shaking her head violently.
Colin clapped his hands, delighted. “Oh, yes.”
Benedict lifted his chin and began, far too loudly, “My love is like the—”
“Shh, shh!” Sophie hissed. “Quiet, Benedict!”
He blinked up at her, wounded. “Why are you shushing me? I haven’t even reached the metaphor yet.”
“You will wake your mother if you continue like this.”
“That,” Colin nodded gravely, “would be fatal. And not in a metaphorical sense.”
Both Benedict and Sophie ignored him.
“Wait there,” she said instead, accepting defeat. “Both of you. And do be quiet.”
She closed the window, her heart fluttering with a feeling that hovered between alarm and fondness, then slipped into her slippers and quietly left the bedroom.
Downstairs, Aubrey Hall was dark and silent, the portraits of Bridgerton ancestors watching in disapproval as she sprinted past them. With light footsteps, Sophie weaved through the corridors expertly until she reached the door leading out onto the lawn.
Benedict spun on his heel the moment she opened the door.
“There you are,” he said again, sounding almost reverent.
The night air was cool against her skin. She crossed her arms, attempting sternness and failing as she drew closer to him.
“You are impossible.”
He simply smiled at her, a touch dazed.
“I do beg your pardon,” he said after a moment, placing a hand over his heart. “For rousing you at this hour. And for forcing you out of bed, into the cold.”
Sophie shrugged.
Colin chose that exact moment to approach them. He clapped Benedict on the shoulder and, with a long-suffering sigh, said, “Well, brother, you have succeeded in waking her, if nothing else. I consider my work here to be done.”
“But you did nothing,” Benedict informed him, shrugging off his hand with a scowl.
“I provided you moral support,” said Colin in an indignant voice.
Sophie let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head, which drew Benedict’s attention back to her.
“You should laugh more,” he told her, suddenly very alert and very earnest. “You have the most beautiful smile, did you know?”
“I–thank you, but–I– that is quite enough, Benedict,” she spluttered, heat spreading across her cheeks as she avoided meeting anyone’s gaze.
Heavens above, she had never known Benedict could be so…vocal in his affections when inebriated. It was one thing to have such sweet nothings whispered into her ear over meals and in corners of drawing rooms, quite another to have him praise her so boldly in front of the family.
Colin glanced between them, a hint of approval shining beneath the mischief in his eyes. “In any case,” he said smoothly, moving toward the house, “I shall leave you two to your declarations now. Do try and conduct yourselves with dignity.”
“Brother,” Benedict warned. He flicked his hand in a series of impatient, dismissive waves. “Off with you.”
“As you command,” replied Colin, though he made no effort to hasten his retreat.
Indeed, when Sophie glanced over her shoulder, she found Colin strolling at a leisurely pace back towards Aubrey Hall, a tuneless whistle trailing in the air behind him.
Only once the door had clicked shut again did she turn back around to face Benedict. Alone at last, she was free to take in the familiar, beloved lines of his handsome face, and those green eyes she so adored—even if they were presently unfocused, despite his best efforts otherwise.
He was unmistakably, undeniably drunk.
She might have expected this when the older Bridgerton brothers had withdrawn after dinner in search of brandy, and had yet to reappear by the time the ladies dispersed for the night.
Sophie’s lips curved, though her arms remained folded as she regarded him. “Did you enjoy your evening, then?” she asked, arching an elegant brow.
Benedict’s answering grin was both boyish and apologetic, as he confessed, “Immensely.”
She had just opened her mouth to say something—perhaps to chide him for the lateness of the hour, or else his frivolous ideas for romance—when Benedict reached for her. Gently, he caught one of her hands where it rested against her arm and drew it away from its position.
“Forgive me, I wanted to call upon you,” he mumbled, a thumb tracing circles on the back of her hand. “To declare my intentions properly. Even if it is, I admit, improperly timed.”
She hummed, amused. “And poorly executed.”
“Not so harsh now,” he replied, slipping his free hand around her waist and drawing her closer. She could feel the heat from his palm seeping through her thin dressing gown and chemise. “I simply wish to court you. Is that so wrong of me?”
“Benedict,” Sophie laughed, reaching up to tug his crooked cravat into place again, “we are married now, my love.”
He made a face. “So?”
“You cannot court your wife of three months.”
“Says who?”
Sophie blinked. “What?”
“Who says,” he spoke slowly, his expression one to suggest she was in her cups and not he, “that a man cannot court his wife? Who is to stop me from, say, bringing you flowers? Or writing sonnets in your name, or requesting your hand for every set at a ball? Or–”
“–Showing up at my window in the dead of night, armed with pebbles?”
A dull flush crept up his neck, visible even in the pale moonlight. Sophie bit down on her lip, giddiness flooding through her veins.
“Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “a wise man once spoke at length about the merits of bold, daring gestures in the pursuit of romantic devotion.”
Sophie’s brows rose. “Indeed? And who might this paragon of wisdom be?”
Benedict cocked his head, giving her a pointed look.
“Yours truly, of course.”
A bright and unrestrained sound escaped her before she could stop it. After a moment, he too joined in, the two of them giggling until her sides hurt.
She was still laughing when she noticed the change in his expression, the way his smile faltered at the edges, the glimmer in his eyes wavering.
Sophie stilled, her own smile fading as she studied him.
“What is it?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Benedict hesitated, but at her silent prompting, he divulged the truth: “I told John once that he ought to do it: throw stones at Francesca’s window. Make a spectacle of his romantic intentions. This was before they were married, obviously.”
Sophie understood at once. Her free hand came up to rub soothing circles into his arm.
“I’m sure you meant well, but let us be grateful Lord Kilmartin did not take your advice.”
“How can you be certain?” challenged Benedict.
“Because your sister married him,” Sophie pointed out, not unkindly. “So, he must have done the sensible thing in the end, despite your many efforts to sabotage him.”
“I was trying to help him win over Francesca, and our mother’s favor.” Benedict made a small, dissatisfied sound. “Besides, ses–sensis–sensibility is vastly overrated, do you not think?”
Sophie shook her head in exasperation but smiled all the same, hedging, “You certainly think so.”
And before he could argue, she swiftly rose onto her toes and brushed a soft kiss against the hollow of his exposed throat, the very spot she knew made him forget—if only for a moment—every thought but her.
As she had expected, his arms tightened around her at once. She wrapped her own around him in return.
“I am sure you missed him tonight,” she mumbled against Benedict’s shirt after a few peaceful moments.
“We did,” he admitted quietly, head resting atop hers. “Colin and I… after dinner… we used to drink port together, the three of us. John always ended up staying longer than he meant to.”
Benedict let out a slow breath.
“I never thought,” he began again, then paused, swallowed. “I never thought we would lose him so soon. That Francesca would…”
Sophie’s fingers curled more firmly into his waistcoat. “No one could have imagined it,” she told him delicately. “It was a shock for everyone, I suspect."
He nodded against her hair. “Colin and I were speaking of John tonight. Reminiscing.” A huff of breath, almost a laugh but not quite, left him. “And Colin, in his infinite wisdom, reminded me of my very poor advice to the man.”
Sophie forced a small chuckle around the lump in her throat. “Your advice does lean toward the theatrical sometimes.”
“And I was seized,” Benedict continued, pressing on, his voice distant, almost as if he had not heard her, “by a most dreadful thought.”
She tilted her head back, just enough to look up at him, a question lingering on the tip of her tongue that she dared not voice.
Benedict’s gaze softened as he met hers.
“I fear if I might not have enough time,” he confessed, words barely audible in the stillness of the summer night surrounding them, “to love you enough. To show you how very much you mean to me, Sophie.”
A rushing sound filled her ears, her insides knotting at his words. For would there ever be enough time for either of them to feel truly, wholly content? She doubted it.
Sophie pressed her face more firmly into his chest in answer.
“You are doing a very thorough job already,” she whispered back. “Pebbles and all.”
A breath of surprised laughter escaped him.
“I should hope so. But I have more plans yet.”
She looked up in time to see him flashing her a roguish grin that did not meet his eyes.
“We do not know how much time we have,” said Sophie, not fooled by his poor attempt at masking his fears. “But I think – if we spend it fearing the end, we rather end up losing what we have, no? There is little sense in fretting over something we can neither know nor control, Benedict.”
There was something unreadable about his expression, but just as she started worrying she had said the wrong thing after all, his shoulders slumped, the fight clearly draining out of him.
“Benedict…?”
By way of reply, he lifted both of his hands to cup her cheeks, guiding her closer until their foreheads met, his breath warm against her skin.
“I love you,” he said plainly. “Ever so much…I love–love you. ”
“I know.” Sophie’s eyes fell shut, the corners of her mouth curling as she leaned into him. “And I love you.”
She felt his lips against her forehead, lingering there for a long moment. When he drew back, she grabbed his hands, lacing her fingers through his once more.
With a playful tilt of her head, she suggested, “Perhaps you may continue demonstrating the depth of your affections in the morning.”
His brows lifted. “Oh, yes?”
“When you are much less inebriated,” she explained sweetly, starting to walk backward and tugging him along with her. “And I am rather more awake.”
He lifted one of her hands and pressed a slow, gentle kiss to her knuckles. “As you wish, Mrs. Bridgerton. As you wish.”