Archive of Our Own ^beta

The viscount’s study was at the other end of the house, but Benedict had intentionally gone for a long morning walk around Bridgerton House to… wake up. He’d slept like the dead, thanks to the brandy. It was a lot waking up in his old bed, with the bright, light wallpaper and his chaise undisturbed by a guest. His bachelor lodgings, while obviously comfortable, were darker in comparison, what with the choice of wallpaper, keeping the curtains closed and everything else that came with the effort of simply existing. There was something about being in his childhood home that was… lighter these days.

Besides the fact that his family was here, of course. Benedict enjoyed their company… which was why he’d taken the east wing’s staircase to avoid early riser Hyacinth. She loved a good chat at any time of day. While it was great she was enjoying her lessons in laying out cupcakes and whatnot, she insisted on showing everyone her displays. And while he very much loved seeing her face brighten and her voice grow so animated she forgot to breathe… he had important matters to tend to at this early hour.

His mother was with Mrs Wilson, which meant he didn’t have much time before she hunted him down.

Over the last few days since Sophie’s arrival, he’d learned her routine. She woke earlier than Hyacinth, if John the Footman was to be trusted (and he was—John the Footman never led him astray, even when he revealed his whereabouts to his mother when he’d promised he’d tell a little white lie for him… All forgivable, really). She didn’t venture through the halls of Bridgerton House until the Viscountess was awake.

He’d spent enough time as a child learning when and where she haunted the house in his attempts to best Anthony in reaching her first. She kept the same routine as she had when he was a boy.

His top buttons were undone on his tunic. His coat was heavy on his arms, and his skin grew hot despite how the early morning was always so cold. Bridgerton House’s warm spots were near his and Anthony’s rooms. The sun shone out of their asses, as Eloise so eloquently liked to say.

He turned a corner and stopped. There she was, admiring a portrait at the end of the hall. He smiled as Sophie stood with her hands locked behind her back and her uniform pristine. She was rather lovely in Bridgerton purple. She was pretty in the light blue that shimmered silver in the countryside’s sun. It was a shame she wasn’t wearing that colour now.

Should he disturb her? She probably didn’t get a moment’s peace between Hyacinth and Eloise… But he was here, and so was she. Who was he to pass up the opportunity?

Mirroring her with his hands behind his back, he was slow to approach. He cleared his throat softly. "Bonjour Sophie," he said. She startled and turned toward him, smiling. Butterflies escaped from somewhere low in his belly, much in the way it would when he was about to be lectured by his mother, Eloise, or someone else. But… wasn’t that feeling exactly what he wanted? "Uh… Vous passez une bonne matinée?"

She clasped her hands in front of her as she remained in place. She bit down on her smile, just like she had in his library. "Bonjour, Monsieur Bridgerton," she said after a moment of collecting herself. Those butterflies were incessant, weren’t they? He was warm all over. He tugged at the opening of his shirt before locking his hands behind his back again. "Oui, je passe un bonne matinée. Je vais coir Mademoiselle Bridgerton."

Yes, he was having a good morning now, too. He scratched the back of his neck as he smiled crookedly. "Is my French passable?"

Sophie didn’t look away from him. "It’s always been passable, Mr Bridgerton," she said warmly.

"But my jaw…"

She shrugged. "It’s improving."

He hummed. He stopped as he came to stand beside her and turned toward the portrait. "Ah. I see you’re admiring Peanut."

"Peanut?" she said, frowning with curiosity. Sophie turned to the portrait of an elegant dark brown stallion with a large white teardrop marking his snout. He wished he’d painted it, but he was too young to know how to work a brush, and his grandmother was the better artist. What could she see? The confidence in his grandmother’s strokes? Any similarities between his work and hers?

"My grandfather’s horse," he said. "Named after the prestigious nut."

"He’s a very handsome horse."

"He was."

"Did your grandfather make it a point to name all his animal companions after… nuts?"

Benedict chuckled as he tilted his head to look at her. She kept her gaze on the painting. "I named him."

He quickly looked at the portrait. From his periphery, he caught her looking at him. His cheeks warmed under her gaze. "Why 'Peanut'?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I had a mild obsession with them." He looked at her. "My brothers and sisters may say otherwise and imply it was a rather intense obsession, but you’re not to believe them."

She nodded and pressed her lips together in an attempt to stop her smile from spreading. "Of course."

"It’s all lies."

"Absolutely." She smiled.

He tore his gaze from her to look at the portrait. "My grandfather gifted him to me when he was unable to ride him any longer."

"Did you ride him?"

"I was only a boy," he said. "My father allowed me to once, but… My mother almost took his head." He grimaced, smiling. "She didn’t much care for such risk-taking."

Sophie glanced at the portrait again. He looked down at her. The way she braided her hair into what looked very much like a scroll pastry was rather pretty, even though she’d pulled her hair tight and away from her face. "What happened to Peanut?" she said.

"He lived his life at Aubrey Hall, having sired a few of our most prized horses. Anthony gifted one of his grandchildren to Kate." He frowned. "Can horses have grandchildren?"

Sophie pursed her lips. "I think horses can have as many grandchildren as they wish."

He ducked his head as the corners of his lips curved upward.

"Does the Viscountess enjoy the horse?"

"Greatly," he said. "You’ll like Kate." He looked at her and fidgeted with his ring behind his back. "She’s lovely. Very friendly. She loves books and good conversation, and she doesn’t allow Anthony a moment of reprieve."

"She sounds… quite the woman."

"She intimidates everyone at first, but she’s the kindest," he said. "Once they’ve returned from India, well…" He shrugged, and his smile sat loose on his mouth. He’d learned to smile to appear more inviting, even though he wasn’t sure why he wanted to perform for her now. He looked at the horse, but didn’t see the white teardrop. "Anthony will resume his viscount duties, and I suppose my mother will… continue to mother." And what of him? He’ll return to being Second Son, The Free Spirit. All comfortable positions to be, really.

"That’s most unusual," she said, frowning. At the cock of his brow, she was quick to add, "I only mean in the sense that I’m so used to hearing that mothers tend to… move into different lodgings."

"You’ll find Kate isn’t the usual viscountess," he said. "She sees how much my mother enjoys the house, and… I don’t know." He shook his head. "She’s very astute, I suppose is the word. Sees things that no one else does."

"You needn’t worry, I’m sure I'll like her," Sophie said, looking up at him. Her cheeks were a lovely pink. Was she blushing? He smiled at her crookedly. He pinched his little finger to keep himself from reaching for her. Benedict opened his mouth, but she cleared her throat. "I must see to Miss Bridgerton." Her smile widened. "We’re to speak of books."

He arched his brow, his smile widening. "Is that so?"

She nodded, and her smile widened. She’d smiled like that when they were flying the kite at My Cottage. He wished she’d smile like that more. "She wishes to hear my thoughts on Pride and Prejudice."

"Be careful with Eloise," he said. "The moment you get her talking about books, she’ll never stop."

"I don’t mind," Sophie said. "It’s quite nice to speak to someone who loves stories as much as I do."

Benedict ducked his head and gestured with his arm for her to leave. "Then don’t let me keep you."

Sophie lingered before she ducked her head and stepped around him. He couldn’t pick the scent she left behind, but it was certainly a taste that tickled his senses. When did he start noticing what women smelled like?

Did his swing always make such a whiny noise? Peering up at the thick branch the rope was wrapped around, he leaned back and almost slipped off the seat. Of course, Eloise would arrive at that time and laugh at him. At least she snorted.

"Are you already drunk?" she asked.

"I’ll have you know I’m very much sober," he said before intentionally trying to slip off the seat. He grabbed the rope tightly and settled himself properly onto the swing. She sat to his right and sighed. "Terrible day?"

"You could say as much," she said. "Although…" She shook her head. "Let’s not discuss it." She didn’t look at him. Even in the dark, the pinch of her mouth and brows was noticeable to him like the sun was shining right on her face.

He watched her for a moment before he nodded. "If you like," he said. "Or we could discuss it? You know, I like discussing many things."

She smiled as she glanced at him. "When you’re around."

He winced. "I deserved that, didn’t I?"

"A little."

He hummed as he nodded. Every time he transitioned from My Cottage to Bridgerton House, Benedict was a foal unable to walk. He figuratively tripped over his feet and walked into walls. Returning to the shape the Ton needed him to be and the person his family required him to be was like trying to fix a kite that was missing a crucial piece. For some reason, he was even more out of place than before. He should’ve been settled by now. But he’d spent the whole day after seeing Sophie in a restless state. Not even reorganising Anthony’s books into cover colour order was enough to entertain him. (Anthony was going to be pissed. He relished it.)

He sat still on his swing, although he felt it move slightly beneath him. Tipping his head back, he wrinkled his nose at the lack of stars in the sky. Whenever he needed a talking point, he could always rely on the constellations to inspire him to weave ridiculous stories that sounded impressive yet grounded. Those tales worked on the ladies he’d shared them with, but Benedict preferred to save them for Eloise. She never did fall for his stories about monsters hiding in the stars and horses galloping toward the moon, but she did entertain them. One day she’d write him a story again about their adventures.

"Well," he said before sighing, "I’m here now." Wasn’t that the truth? He was more present than he’d been before. More aware of himself and the space he took up in the corridors when he walked by the staff. He looked at her. "Tell me things?"

She pursed her lips as she glanced around. As if she needed any inspiration to speak! All Eloise did was talk. It was never nonsense, even though he often declared as much to her. He liked it when she puffed her cheeks and grew red in frustration at his apparent lack of, well… anything. Direction in life. Passion for any hobby. Desire to be anything more than whatever it was that the Ton declared him to be.

He hated that she wasn’t any of those things right now. Something must’ve happened to see her deflate.

"I’ve been trying to figure out how she put up with you," she said, narrowing her eyes at him. He felt compelled to sit straighter, so he did. "Sophie," she said, as though he’d asked a question. "You were cooped up at My Cottage for a week, were you not?"

"Close to a fortnight, if I can count."

"Which we both know you most certainly cannot."

"Alas," he said, sucking on his teeth.

"I’m surprised you made it out alive."

He cocked his brow. "You think that poorly of Sophie?"

"No," she said with a shake of her head. "She has the patience of a saint. She was listening to Hyacinth ramble about cupcake placements for at least an hour." Eloise sighed. "I quite like her."

His heart skipped. Benedict clucked his tongue. Why did he do that? Why was he drawing attention to himself? "Do you?"

She nodded. "She’s lovely. She knows how to laugh. She knows how to speak! My god, does she know how to have a conversation!" She threw her head back and peered up at the stars as though the heavens were to thank for Sophie Baek’s appearance. But wasn’t he? He was the one who brought her here. He was the one who… lost her that horrible job with the Cavendars. Thank god for that.

"She is entertaining to speak to, yes," he said. What else did she think?

Eloise swung on her swing. "And she’s well-read," she said. "Did I tell you that?"

Benedict chuckled. "Yes, you did. Many times, in fact."

"Well…" she shrugged as she kicked her feet against the damp ground. Her swing groaned beneath her weight and the pressure she placed on the ropes tethering it to the strong branch above. Benedict swayed on his, watching her as the glow from Bridgerton House kept her alight.

He glanced toward the house. What did he expect to see? A silhouette at one of the windows, gazing out at where he sat right now? He’d caught Sophie staring out the window of the second floor only once in the countryside. It’d been before he’d repaired the kite. He’d snuck out, determined to take a stroll, and was caught immediately by Mrs Crabtree. He’d stupidly forgotten she liked weeding the east garden after he broke his fast. Sophie had laughed so loudly through the open window that she’d earned herself a little reprimand from the good old woman, too.

"Where did you go just now?" Eloise asked. She rested her temple against the swing’s rope as she watched him. "You have this strange look on your face."

He furrowed his brows. "Are you saying my face is strange?"

"It always looks funny," she said. "But, I will admit, I don’t see you smile that often."

"I smile."

"Hardly."

He forced a smile now, knowing it was anything but. If it made Eloise laugh, then his mission was successful, and he could consider himself someone who followed through on his intentions.

"Stop being difficult, Benedict," she said, laughing. "You’re smiling. How come?"

"Can I not smile because I’m in your company?"

She cocked her brow. "Now I know you’ve truly lost your mind."

"I’ll have you know my mind has never been lost… Except for that one time when I did happen to misplace it." He frowned. "Did we ever find it?"

"We’re still looking eight years later."

He whistled low. "How unfortunate."

She slowed the movement of her swing. Even when he looked ahead at how the darkness swallowed the rest of what he could see of Mayfair in its mighty jaws, she was watching him. He glanced at her from his periphery.

"It isn’t ladylike to stare."

"And it’s not gentlemanly to avoid a question," she said.

He sighed. "I’m simply… thinking."

"About?"

He bit his bottom lip. What was he thinking about? Sophie Baek. Sophie standing by a window, laughing at him. He swore she’d snorted. Sophie hiding behind a tree blushing at the sight of him emerging from the lake. Sophie asleep beside his bed. Sophie unable to enjoy leisurely activities. Sophie angry with him for bringing her here. Sophie being here.

"You’re smiling again," Eloise said, laughing. "What is it? I must know. We don’t keep secrets from each other, you know."

"I’m aware," he said. "But what if I’m not ready to tell you?"

She cocked her brow. "You have a secret?"

"Perhaps." He shrugged. His heart thumped, and he resisted the urge to slip out of his coat. Why was he growing so hot on such a temperate night? "Or I could simply be enjoying torturing you," he said as he swung close to her.

"That’s not it," she said with a shake of her head. "I know you, Benedict. You forget that."

He hummed. "I don’t forget that, Eloise," he said, not looking away from her. There was nothing cheeky in his tone. "It’s one of the few things I take great pride in."

Her smile was small, but he knew that she appreciated it nonetheless. Mother might push her into stepping off the shelf she’d declared she’d made a home on, but he knew that Eloise liked her comforts. Her books, which she often reread. Her conversations, which she often repeated to him. Eloise Bridgerton disliked not being in control, while he… didn’t quite excel, but he’d adapted. Perhaps being born fifth was a blessing rather than the curse his sister saw it as.

"Will you tell me?" she asked. After a moment, she ducked her head to try to catch his gaze. He wished to look anywhere but at her. "Please?"

He sighed. "It’s… the Lady in Silver." A much safer answer.

"The Lady in Silver." She pursed her lips as she looked away. "And what is it that has you smiling, Brother? I’m curious. I never did get to meet this silver lady that has you tied in knots."

"I’m not tied in knots over her," he said, then sighed when she cocked her brow at him. He pursed his lips as he rocked his heels back and forth against the ground. "She had such… lightness." He glanced at Eloise and fought the urge to tug at his collar. The evening was cool, yet he felt as though he sat over a fire. "And a lovely laugh."

"An admirable quality."

He cut her a sharp look. "Be kind, sister."

"I am!" she laughed. "I meant nothing by it."

He hummed.

"Continue, please. I’m curious."

He popped his lips. "She was incredibly patient with me, which I thought was peculiar."

"Every lady knows who you are."

"Precisely," he said with a hard sigh. There was no bravado to the agreement. Every lady and mama were always tearing at him like he was a piece of meat and they were the lions. He let his shoulders sag. "But…" He shook his head. "It’s stupid." He pushed his feet against the ground to make himself swing.

Eloise leaned closer. "It isn’t," she said softly. She didn’t tear her gaze away from him, even when he kept looking straight ahead. She was unafraid of anything, wasn’t she? "Trust me, Benedict. Nothing you say will ever make me think 'Oh, isn’t that bloody stupid?'"

He swung a few more times before he dragged his feet against the ground to slow the movement of his swing. Looking out at the darkness, he saw a blank canvas. The stars were tiny splattered dots of silver paint. "She made me feel seen." He looked down at the ruined earth beneath him, his pulse firmly beating in his throat. God, what would Eloise say to that? Something smart. How much attention did he need? Would he like the attention Mama was forcing on her?

But she said nothing.

He looked at her, hiding behind the thin rope he clung to. He still felt like he was seated over a fire.

"That’s hardly stupid," she said quietly. She mirrored him and rested her forehead against the rope. "I think that’s rather lovely."

"Do you?" he deadpanned. "Really? Because if this is you setting up for a joke—"

"Never," she said. "Alright, perhaps with Anthony, but he really needs to loosen up!" She exhaled. "May I ask how she made you feel that way?"

He shrugged and kept his forehead pressed against the thick rope as he glanced down at the grass. "She didn’t know who I was."

"A lady who didn’t know Benedict Bridgerton."

"She’d read about me in Whistledown."

"But she didn’t know you by sight?"

Without moving, he looked up at her and shook his head.

"Wow." She laughed, though he knew it wasn’t out of finding anything remotely funny about what he’d admitted. "Amazing. Every woman I know knows you. It’s all they ever ask whenever they decide to speak to the unpleasant Bridgerton daughter."

"You’re hardly unpleasant."

She cocked her brow at him.

"Alright, you’re extremely unpleasant. So what if you’re not everyone’s cup of tea? I like you for who you are."

"And I like you for who you are," she said, leaning toward him and swinging. "I like that there’s a lady who likes you for you, too."

"I don’t know if she likes me," he muttered.

"She must," she said. "Any woman worth her salt would." She nodded to herself like that was, in fact, a fact. She looked at him. "Though, I will admit, it makes me jealous I’m not the only one anymore."

He smiled. "You needn’t ever worry about that."

She smiled and let her shoulders slouch. "There are many things I love about you, Benedict, but the one that I admire most of all is how I have never had to worry about you."

He scrunched his nose. "That sounds like a compliment, Eloise."

"It is. Even though you are the idiot who didn’t think to get her name." He opened his mouth to defend himself, but she raised her hand. "You could’ve tried several different tactics, you know. If you picked up a book, you’d know how to outwit your opponent."

He scoffed. "I’ve picked up a book!"

She arched her brows at him, amused. "And opened it."

He let himself open his mouth like he was a fish gasping for air. "I haven’t had much time to read…" His voice sounded like a whine, which was exactly what he wanted. It prompted Eloise to laugh. "But I promise I’ll… pick up a book and open it."

"Read one page," she said, pointing at him. She pushed against the ground to swing gently. "The entire page."

He threw his head back and groaned. "Have I told you you’re my least favourite sister?"

"Many times," she said brightly. "And I take great pleasure in it."

He righted himself and kicked his feet against the ground to swing in sync with her.

She wasn’t in the hallway admiring the portrait of Peanut the next morning. A pity, really. He’d remembered a good story about that horse.

Benedict did a double-take as he passed his mother’s drawing room. He stood in the doorway as Hyacinth and Sophie sat on the floor with papers spread out before them. The lounges had been pushed toward the windows, opening the floor to become a wider canvas for them to do… whatever it was that they were doing.

Both sat with their legs folded to the side. Hyacinth leaned forward as she tapped a piece of paper. "The Cowpers aren’t known for liking anyone," she said, pushing her finger hard onto the paper. What did it say? From his vantage point, Benedict could see nothing but the curled edges of the roughly cut squares.

"But they must have some positives," Sophie said.

Hyacinth hummed loudly. "Cressida is fashionable," she said. "And she can be nice, sometimes. Eloise liked her once." She pushed her hand against the rug to sit straighter. "But no one really likes her. She can be quite awful."

"What a shame," Sophie tutted. She held her hand above the papers as she considered them. "What about this family?" she asked, pressing her finger against a piece of paper positioned further away from them.

Hyacinth leaned forward until she was on her palms. "Hm."

Benedict leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed against his chest. If he leaned to the side, he could see… well, his sister’s shoulder and nothing of Sophie but the back of her head.

Hyacinth sat on her hind legs as she said, "Susannah wasn’t very nice to Kate—"

He cleared his throat. His sister whipped around to smile at him, while Sophie, well… Her smile was a lot smaller. Pretty, as it always was. Best to interrupt Hyacinth going down this particular road. He clasped his hands in front of him as he slowly approached. "If I can offer a comment—"

"You may not," Hyacinth said with a smile.

"I hear your great wisdom and choose to ignore it," he said. He stood behind them as he peered down at the papers splayed out on the floor. It didn’t look like the family trees that he’d seen in various family books. The papers were spread in clumps, with each individual family member owning a small slip of scrunched paper. Did she steal these from his stash of rejected art? He’d ripped his pieces into palm-sized papers before tossing them… somewhere.

He frowned as he saw the clean calligraphy of the names. Hyacinth blushed. "I wanted to save them," she said. "Your art. But you ripped it so well that I…" she shrugged. "Are you mad?"

He shook his head. "Hardly."

Sophie shifted where she sat, pulling her legs underneath her and pressing her hands to her knees. A thick strand of hair was loose from her tight braid-bun. "We were going through the Ton family members, Mr Bridgerton. Hyacinth’s etiquette teacher suggested she familiarise herself with them."

"I’m telling Sophie all about them," Hyacinth said, smiling brightly. She turned toward the papers. "I was just telling her about the Cowpers."

"And you-know-who, who greatly upset Anthony," he said. He tutted. "You know that name is banned from his house, Hyacinth."

She tilted her head back to peer up at him. How did he look upside down? Distinguished? Bedraggled? "I was only telling Sophie so she knew not to say anything."

"That’s true," Sophie said. "Now I know I shall never utter that name." She drew her fingers against her lips as though she were locking them shut.

"And now…" Hyacinth pushed onto her knees as she searched for a clump of papers. Once she found her target, she smacked her hand against it. "The Penwoods. Do we know them?" she asked, peering at Benedict with a frown.

His pulse was pounded gently in his ears. What a dud that adventure to the Penwoods had been. He swallowed. "No," he said, shaking his head. "But Mother tells me we knew them, once. The grandmother, at least." He scratched the back of his neck as his skin grew hot. Glancing at Sophie, he frowned at how she tucked her chin toward her chest. Why was she trying to appear smaller? "But I don’t know them. One of the daughters is nice, though."

Hyacinth’s face brightened. "Who? Perhaps I could befriend her! Miss Victoria said I should think about who I’d like to associate with. It’s extremely hard, you know."

"I know very well," he said.

"So?" She shifted so she was facing him, her pointy knees hidden beneath the fabric of her pretty pale blue dress. That dress would never be worn by Sophie. Hyacinth was too short. "Who was she? The Penwood you liked."

"Um." He popped his lips. Not Rosamund, with the clenched jaw and sharp cheekbones. Her sister was lovely, soft like a flower and delicate, too. But she blossomed without care for what the other flowers in the bush thought, and that was something he liked very much. "Miss Posy," he said. He couldn’t help his crooked smile. "She’s peculiar, but she’s not boring. I think you’d enjoy her company a lot, if you ever found yourself in it."

Hyacinth nodded, taking it all in. She glanced at the papers before snatching one from the pile. "She has a sister. Did you meet her?"

"Yes," Benedict said, unable to help his sigh. He glanced at Sophie before looking at Hyacinth. She was a much safer option, given how Hyacinth was scrutinising him. But what was so fascinating about the rug they sat on? Why were Sophie’s brows drawn tight together? Did she know the Penwoods? Perhaps she knew of them, considering that maids must talk when they go to the pub and do… normal people things. He really didn’t know what anyone did other than drink, sit on expensive couches and regret half the conversations they had. "Um. Miss… Rosamund. She’s…"

Hyacinth cocked her brow.

"I don’t think you’d like her much," he said. From the corner of his eye, he saw Sophie watching him. She wouldn’t like it if he said what he wanted to say, would she? Rosamund seemed spoiled and very much like many of the girls from the Ton… Not that that was a problem, he supposed. There was nothing wrong with the women being anything but themselves. But Rosamund was a vulture who saw him as prey. He cleared his throat. "She’s… She’s less focused on making friends, I think."

Hyacinth pursed her lips and nodded. "Alright." She smiled at Sophie. "We should make a friend pile!" She handed the slip of paper with Posy Li’s name over to Sophie. Sophie smiled at her and glanced down at the paper, brushing her finger over the name.

"Who else will be in this friend pile of yours?" he asked. He stepped closer and lowered into a squat, glancing at Sophie from the corner of his eye. She’d tilted her chin upward to peer at the papers in front of her, but she kept glancing at him. Good. He liked that a lot.

"Um." Hyacinth clucked her tongue several times. "I wish Edwina were still here."

"You can write to her," he said.

"But it’s not the same." She sighed. "The one thing I dislike about all this is that half the friends I make leave Mayfair."

Sophie’s smile was small. "You’ll make more friends."

Hyacinth looked at her and placed a hand on Sophie’s knee. "I’m glad you’re my friend. I don’t understand why Miss Victoria keeps insisting I need more."

Sophie chuckled. "Because you can never have too many friends, Miss Hyacinth," she said. "Anyone would be lucky to have you as one."

His sister scoffed. "Hyacinth," she said. "That’s what my friends call me."

Benedict smiled as Sophie’s cheeks grew pink. With what he felt was a satisfied smile, she ducked her head and glanced away, and placed her hand on top of Hyacinth’s.

Hyacinth was glaring at him from his periphery. She frowned as he regarded her. She cleared her throat. "You can go now."

He laughed. "Are you dismissing me?"

She nodded. "Yes." Keeping her hand in Sophie’s, she shooed him with her other. "Go. I don’t want to hear about how any of these ladies wish to kiss you."

Frowning, he stood. Sophie looked up at him through her lashes, a small upward curve to her lips.

"I’ll have you know," he said, forcing his gaze away from her and to his sister, "that every woman in the Ton wants to kiss me. So… there!"

That hadn’t been the right thing to say. The corners of Sophie’s mouth dropped. She cleared her throat softly and looked away.

Hyacinth glared at him, although he suspected it had nothing to do with Sophie. Why would it? By the time Hyacinth looked at her, Sophie was smiling as she surveyed the papers laid out before her. She reached out to touch one.

He couldn’t see the name. Lengthening his back to try to see was fruitless. Hyacinth clicked her fingers and told him to get out before she called their mother to inform her he wished to be wed immediately.

"Alright, alright," he said, forcing the amusement into his voice. He shook his head, but Hyacinth’s glare didn’t soften. Yes, this was the Anthony in her, wasn’t it? All raging fire, very little of anything soft. He bowed dramatically, almost touching his hand to the floor, before straightening. Benedict did as Hyacinth ordered, although he threw one last glance over his shoulder to find Sophie not watching him as he slipped away.

It was a lot harder to find Sophie than he’d anticipated… not that he’d been looking for Sophie. Of course not! Although there was the occasion when he was… He wanted to make sure that she was settling in all right. Was that so wrong? While he didn’t go around making conversation with Mrs Wilson, she was beaming more than he’d ever seen in his life—and he’d paid attention to her, given how much Mother loved her and spoke so highly of her. Only a week had passed, and Sophie was all his mother could praise. Who was he to ignore someone who made his mother happy?

But he’d have better luck holding water in his hands without letting it drip than catching Mrs Wilson. The woman was faster than Hyacinth and more cunning than Gregory, although he didn’t suspect she knew he wished to talk to her about Sophie. The person he could rely on was John the Footman. A solid bloke who knew how to talk without so much as being blatantly obvious about it all. Maybe that was the problem with John.

Wasn’t it his duty as the stand-in viscount to ensure everyone under his roof was happy? He needed to see John immediately.

Benedict ascended the stairs from the entrance hall with a huff, taking two at a time before he was sprinting to the top. He reached the next floor and turned to look in every open door as he passed. Not inside the drawing room. Not inside the wing with the ugly paintings. Certainly not in the broom closet, although that was the first time he’d ever seen that closet before. Where did John linger when he wasn’t opening the front door? As he passed the east library, he heard her.

A soft chuckle. He slowed as he approached. The long rug softened the sounds of his footfalls.

Eloise’s voice was a clap of thunder. "It’s a shame that we don’t have any books in Korean. Then again, none of us speaks it. I don’t think any Bridgerton ever has."

"It’s fine, Miss Eloise," said Sophie, sounding bashful.

"It’s not fine, and it’s Eloise." His sister sighed. "I’ll talk to Mama and see if we can get more books. Or I’ll speak to Benedict." She hummed. He stood behind the doorframe and peered around it to see Eloise brush her fingers against her chin. Sophie stood before her with a book in hand. From what little he could see of the cover, he had no idea what book it could possibly be. If they were at My Cottage, he’d know the exact one from the detailing of the spine and the gap in the shelves. "Yes," Eloise said with a nod, "I’ll speak to Benedict. He’ll speak to Mama. You know she’s quite deceptive."

"Is she?" Sophie said, sounding amused. From what he could see of her profile, she was smiling. Her cheeks looked rounder. "Your mother seems rather upfront."

"She can be," Eloise said. "And then she isn’t. You see, if I ask her directly about acquiring these books, she could use it to blackmail me into speaking to more men." She stuck her tongue out and made a disgusted sound. "And I’m rather sick of talking to suitors. Half of them haven’t read a book and have no idea what a library is. It’s discouraging, you know."

Sophie nodded. "Mm."

"So, I’ll ask Benedict," Eloise said. "If he asks, he can always say it’s something or other to do with viscount duties."

"You don’t think she’d question why he’s asking about Korean books? Did Lord Bridgerton ever request such books?"

Eloise scrunched up her face. "Anthony never asked for anything. He did it himself." She smiled as she twisted on the spot and stood taller, proud of herself and her scheme that Benedict suspected could work, depending on his mood and his mother’s mood and Eloise’s approach to it all. "That’s why I think it’s best that Benedict ask. Mama will like the fact that he’s asking her for her opinion, and she’ll most likely give in to his request."

"And if she doesn’t?"

"Then I’ll tell her that it’s for you."

Sophie ducked her head. "There’s no need—"

"Mama likes you," she said. Eloise reached out to rest her hand against Sophie’s forearm. "And Benedict has shared nothing but praise for you and your inability to leisure."

"What a strange comment to make," Sophie said, barely able to suppress a laugh.

"My brother is a strange one. All he wants is for everyone to have fun. 'Smile,' he says, and then he’ll pinch your cheeks or make a hideous face until you’re finding you’re doing just that." Eloise sighed. "He’s always been like that for as long as I can remember."

"Mr Bridgerton is quite special," Sophie said as she picked at her nails and pressed the book to her chest.

The urge to slip inside had him rolling on his heels. But he couldn’t. It’d be too obvious! And he was determined not to be obvious in front of either of them. Benedict counted to three before he stepped around the corner and stomped his foot a little louder than he intended. "Ah." He smiled as Eloise turned to glare at him, and Sophie startled. "Eloise. The sister I was looking for."

Eloise narrowed her eyes. "I don’t know how to take the implication that you could also be looking for Hyacinth. I thought I was unique."

"You are unique," Benedict said, smiling. As he stepped inside the small library, he clapped his hands. His pace was slow, like he was a predator. That got Eloise’s back up as planned. "And special."

She cocked her brow. "What is it that you want?" She turned to Sophie and said in a mock whisper, "He’s complimentary when he wants something."

"That’s presumptuous," he said.

Eloise pursed her lips.

"And perhaps correct," he said, sighing. He ducked his head, glancing away from the two of them. Sweeping his gaze along the bookshelves, Benedict needed to come up with something he could possibly want. There wasn’t much. All he wanted was Eloise’s company, and she gave that to him freely, although sometimes with complaints just to be contrary. But what he wanted was… well, he wanted to know if Sophie was fitting in, and he could see that she was. Mystery solved.

Eloise tapped her foot against the floor. "Spit it out."

"I was wondering if you might like to prank Gregory with me," he said. "He’s gotten big for his boots, so I thought I’d hide them all and replace them with the ones that he’s hidden deep inside one of his wardrobes. You know, the ones that are quite embarrassing for a man of his calibre."

Eloise swapped tapping her foot against the floor for tapping her chin with her fingers. She narrowed her eyes as she hummed loudly. Turning to Sophie, she asked, "What are your thoughts?"

"About… pranking your brother?" she asked, frowning. She glanced between them, her gaze barely grazing him.

"Yes," Eloise said. "Do you think Gregory might take the prank well? He didn’t seem very enthused by the jellies."

"Which were delicious, by the way," Benedict said.

Sophie pressed her lips together as she looked around, her gaze once again avoiding meeting his. She tilted her head to survey the library shelves and the assortment of books alphabetised by the author’s surname. The library was nothing like the one in My Cottage, with all of Benedict's half-finished projects. What did Sophie think of the lack of clutter?

"I think it has promise," she said with a decisive nod. Now she finally looked at him. "As long as you strategise your prank accordingly."

"What do you suggest?" he asked, crossing his arms against his chest. He didn’t look away from Sophie as Eloise glanced at him before mimicking his stance, even with a book in hand.

Sophie licked her lips and looked at one of the bottom shelves as she considered his question. With only a few days at Bridgerton House under her belt, he knew she’d be a quick enough study to glean how to successfully interact with each of his siblings. Eloise was the intellectual one. Francesca was the one who liked silence. Hyacinth was the one who liked her pretty things. Gregory was the one who wanted to pretend he wasn’t a boy anymore. Anthony would be the one to impress.

"You treat him as a gentleman," she said as the corners of her lips curved upward. She looked up, her eyes barely drifting to him as she addressed Eloise. When she clasped her hands in front of her, she stood taller with her shoulders drawn back. She was finally comfortable. "And while you do that, you enjoy the activities a young boy would like. Whatever it is that he would turn his nose up now."

Benedict was slow to nod. "Like eating jellies," he said, tearing his gaze away from Sophie to look at Eloise.

His sister smiled as she narrowed her eyes and considered everything Gregory liked. Hyacinth was easier, although Hyacinth wouldn’t care if she were a woman grown while still enjoying her dolls. There was a confidence in his youngest sister that he envied. Another ism she got from Anthony.

"Lawn bowls," Eloise said, twisting toward him. "And cards." She clicked her fingers at him. "Oo! He’d consider that a child’s game, considering you don’t play cards with him. If he sees Anthony play lawn bowls, he’d consider that to be a 'man’s sport'," she said with derision and a roll of her eyes. "You know how he and Kate are. They’re bound to play the moment Hyacinth mentions it, because she will mention it. That tutor of hers is filling her head with all sorts of ideas."

Benedict pursed his lips as he hummed thoughtfully. Catching Sophie’s quizzical expression, he took this as his chance to look at her again. "Cards are banned in Bridgerton House because Anthony is a cheat."

"And so was Daphne," Eloise said with a laugh. "While they bickered and tried to outwit each other, Benedict was always too busy trying to build houses."

"I made many great houses of cards, I’ll have you know."

Sophie smiled. "I bet," she said. The butterflies fluttered higher, somewhere around the base of his ribcage now. He scratched the back of his neck. "Then I think it’s settled." She addressed Eloise. "You enjoy the games that Mr Gregory would think are too childish."

"And we swap out his boots," Benedict said, smiling at Eloise.

"Oh, he’ll hate us," she said, laughing.

"You should also fly a kite," Sophie said. Eloise furrowed her brows as she looked at Sophie and considered. Benedict’s face grew hot as he intentionally took his time to turn his attention to Sophie. She was watching him, her head slightly ducked. Her cheeks were a lovely shade of pink, and she wrung her hands. Did she do that at My Cottage? She was always gripping something, the back of a chair, a shawl, his hair. Sophie never fidgeted in front of him before. "An Eaton man would still enjoy a little bit of kite flying, don’t you think?"

Benedict popped his lips and scratched the back of his neck. "I agree," he said. Could they hear his heart pounding loudly in their ears, too? "It just so happens that I packed the kite I mended for Gregory."

Eloise’s brows rose. "The kite?"

He nodded and looked at his sister. "It was years ago," he said, waving his hand in dismissal of the promise he’d made when Gregory came up to his hip. "I promised Gregory that I’d fix a kite for him and I… never got around to it."

The corner of her mouth curved upward. "Just like many of your promises," she said. His gut twisted, although the discomfort was softened by her smile. "You make up for it in other ways, I suppose. Acting like a giraffe, for one."

He scoffed. "I prefer to be compared to an elegant elephant."

She turned to Sophie like she was in on the joke and shook her head. "I swear everyone in this house is mad," she muttered.

Sophie smiled. "I think he’d like that," she said with a small nod.

Benedict fidgeted, gripping his wrist as he fiddled with his bracelet. "Then it’s settled," he said louder than he intended. "May the great prank war on Gregory Bridgerton begin."

"I can’t wait to see this make Whistledown," Eloise laughed.

He smiled as his sister turned back to Sophie, then looked at the shelves. Sophie was watching him with a small smile and an expression that he couldn’t decipher. There was something soft in the way she looked at him. A sense of comfort, he thought, kind of like how he hoped she felt when she was at My Cottage with him and the Crabtrees. Perhaps she couldn’t take leisure, but she certainly could prank.

He bowed his head. "I’ll leave you two to it, then," he said. He began to leave, but spun on his foot. "Oh, Sophie." He pointed to the side. "I think you’d enjoy the book in the end. Red cover, a knick in the spine. Eloise will know it on sight."

Sophie drew in a breath and nodded. Thank god she didn’t look away from him. His heart pounded as she held his gaze. After a moment, she said quietly, "Thank you, Mr Bridgerton."

Benedict. He clenched his teeth to stop himself from voicing the thought. With a nod, he turned and left the library and wandered around the house, uncertain of what to do.

Francesca played with the sleeve of his tunic as they walked around Mother’s garden. The grounds were neatly trimmed as they walked across the grass rather than on the dirt path. Mother would have a fit if she knew, and there was a good chance that she would. The stone statues had eyes. He was certain of it.

He glanced at his sister from the corner of his eye, his smile spreading when he caught the upward curve of her mouth. She wasn’t looking at him. She was admiring the flowers, possibly cataloguing the new ones that had bloomed since she’d last visited, and grieving those that were pruned.

She was leaving later after lunch. There was a time when it was impossible to encourage Francesca to leave the house. If he tightened his grip around her arm, would she still manage to slip away?

"Pick a flower," he said. When she looked up at him, he lifted his brows and cocked his head toward the garden. "Any flower."

"Any flower?" she said.

He nodded. "I’ll paint it." Her face brightened, and her smile widened. As soon as she opened her mouth, he held up his other hand. "I’ll only paint one, dear Francesca, so choose wisely."

She rolled her eyes. "You spoil me, you know."

"I know." They passed their mother’s rose bush. They were one of the only flowers he knew by sight. He needed Francesca to identify the rest. "But I’m desperate to be your favourite brother again."

She frowned. "What makes you think you’re not?"

He hummed as he pursed his lips. "Colin."

She chuckled and peered up at him. "Colin tells fibs."

"So you didn’t tell him he was your favourite just the other night?"

She popped her lips and looked away before pointing at what he suspected was a flower, but honestly looked like a bunch of leaves. "Ooh, I like that one!"

"Don’t change the subject."

She peered up at him with a smile. "No one could ever replace you," she said as she patted his forearm. It was partly believable, if it weren’t for the way she giggled. This was the Francesca he was desperate to see, the one who broke out of her cocoon and relaxed.

"I feel consoled and confident in my standing," he said. He shook his head as he clucked his tongue. "Colin could never be as good as me."

"Clearly not." She gently tugged him away from the grass and onto a gravel path where they entered a world of flowers and bushes. Their mother prided herself on her garden here, but it was the one at Aubrey Hall she loved most. He liked to think it was because it was closer to Father. Francesca slowed until she stopped to smell a white flower.

"Wouldn’t it be funny if your nose got stung?"

"Psh." She pulled away from the flower. "Bees are fond of me."

"Hm."

"They are! Just as birds are, too!" She tilted her chin upward as she looked at him and immediately broke into a laugh. She ducked her head, her face flushed. The sun was never kind to her, always leaving blotches of pink on her nose and cheeks.

"Mhm." He wrinkled his nose as he looked away from her in the hope of hiding his smile once she stomped her foot on the ground. Even though she was taller than their sisters and could possibly look him in the eye if she stood on her tiptoes, she was still the little girl who’d follow him around and step on his heels.

"Eloise was right about—Oh, Sophie!"

What? Benedict frowned as he glanced at his sister before catching her from the corner of his eye. Sophie stood in the middle of the garden with a few flowers clipped at the stems. Her eyes were slightly wide, like Francesca had startled her, and she ducked her head in the familiar bow she gave every member of the Bridgerton family but him.

"Lady Kilmartin," she said.

Francesca waved the hand that was tucked against his arm. "You already know—"

"My apologies," Sophie said, ducking her head again with a small, pleased smile this time. Just how many of them did she refuse to call by their first name? When she looked up at them again, her gaze flicked to him before settling on his sister. She smiled a little wider, her mouth no longer as tense as it was a moment ago. "I didn’t mean to disrupt your walk."

"Nonsense." Francesca gripped his arm as she leaned against him. "How can you interrupt our walk when we’re the ones disturbing you?"

Sophie glanced away. While she was shy at My Cottage, she’d shed it as quickly as a snake did its skin… not that she was any kind of snake, unless one thought of serpents as being luxurious and coveted like Benedict sometimes did. It really did freak out Eloise when he spouted random snake facts unprompted.

But she wasn’t looking at him. He followed her gaze to a bush with a flower he couldn’t recall, although he suspected Francesca could name it if he asked her to. But he didn’t want her to. He wanted Sophie to tell him what it was and some random fact she read once upon a time.

"Are you collecting every type of flower found in the garden, Sophie?" he asked.

Was she reluctant to look at him? Her eyes dropped to the ground before she met his gaze. "Yes, Mr Bridgerton," she said. He kept his lips purposefully curved upward despite the heaviness he felt at the corners. "I wanted to give your mother an arrangement. Mrs Wilson told me how fond she was of flowers."

"Then you’ll need hyacinths for your bouquet," he said, turning slightly against Francesca in the direction of where they were in the garden. "They’re her favourite."

"They were our father’s," Francesca said softly.

Sophie’s lips parted. "Your sister’s namesake, I assume?"

Francesca nodded. "She loves them very much. You won’t upset her if you include them."

Sophie turned slowly on the spot as she surveyed the garden. The bushes needed cutting. Some stood a little taller than her, though she didn’t stand on the tips of her toes despite the fact that she would’ve at My Cottage. But then she wouldn’t be wearing her maid’s uniform in the country, either.

"I can show you where they are," he said. She wasn’t looking in the right direction, even though she’d find it eventually. My Cottage wasn’t a labyrinth by any means, but the cottage had doors he wouldn’t be able to find again. She’d found them several times during her short stay. It was strange to think her incapable of anything.

Sophie took her time in turning back to them. "I’d appreciate that, sir." Her eyes swept over him to settle on Francesca. "If you don’t mind."

"Hardly," Francesca said with a smile. She kept her arm latched through his. "Come on, then." She didn’t wait for him to lead the way, tugging him off his feet as she reached for Sophie and brushed her fingertips against her forearm. Benedict’s attention was locked on Sophie as Francesca guided him away from the bush, and he looked over his shoulder to watch her stand still for a moment before following.

His sister skipped along the gravel until she guided them onto the soft grass. Mother’s hyacinth garden was separated from the rest. They bloomed inside a small wooden square, the wooden panels painted a light blue. The rest of the garden was trimmed and expected to stay within its invisible barrier, much as society was meant to play by spoken and unspoken rules, but the boundary around the hyacinths protected them.

Francesca released his arm and took Sophie’s, guiding her to the flowers. He lingered behind and watched as his sister lowered to her knees without care for her dress. Sophie followed and kept her arm tucked against Francesca’s. He stood behind them. There wasn’t any space for him to squat beside them, and even if there were, he wouldn’t. This wasn’t for him. Flowers were never his forte—he often got them wrong, even when he wasn’t intending to irritate his mother or Hyacinth—and he didn’t wish to encroach.

He scratched the back of his neck as Francesca studied the flowers. She hummed and whispered to Sophie what flowers she felt were best.

"What about this one?" Sophie asked just as softly.

Francesca leaned over and brushed her fingertips against the purple petals. "It looks a little bruised, don’t you think?"

"But the battered ones tell the best stories," Sophie said, turning to her with a smile. Benedict’s mouth tugged upward as he wrung his hands together in front of him. Look back. She wouldn’t. She turned to the flowers in search of the most bruised. "The imperfect ones are the most beautiful, I think." Sophie turned her head to peer briefly over the shoulder furthest from Francesca. Benedict’s throat tightened, and his skin grew hot beneath his open shirt. No matter how much he willed her to turn to him, she wouldn’t. A flower turned toward the sun, but he was no sun.

Francesca sat back on her hind legs and rested her hands against her knees. Her dress would be dirtied, but weren’t dresses made to temporarily be stained? What was the point of living or taking leisure if a dress remained perfectly intact?

"They tell the best stories," Sophie continued. "I’ve always liked flowers where a caterpillar has bitten off more than it should’ve, or it’s missing a few petals. The beautiful ones are most coveted, but it’s the ones that are overlooked and dismissed that are the loveliest."

His sister hummed. "I like that." She surveyed the flowers before her before she pulled at a hyacinth she deemed imperfect. "This is for you," she said, holding it out for Sophie.

From what he could see of her profile, she was smiling as she kept her hands pressed against her knees. But Francesca continued to hold the flower, and so Sophie was forced to accept her gift. "Thank you, my lady."

His sister laughed. "Please. What did I tell you before?"

"We’ll need to find one to match," Sophie said as she turned to the flowers. "I can’t be the only one with an imperfectly perfect flower."

His mother was a tough woman to find alone these days. If Hyacinth wasn’t with her, she was at Lady Danbury’s, and if she wasn’t with Lady Danbury, she was walking the town, shopping. She deserved to shop, even though she came home empty-handed every time.

She sat on her lounge with a book in her lap, although he suspected she wasn’t reading at all. Violet Bridgerton liked to hold her books up high, almost covering her face, as if that would somehow transport her from where she was into the typeface. It was why Eloise read her books with the tip of her nose almost touching the pages. But his mother currently sat with her elbow resting against the couch’s arm and her little finger pressed into her cheek like she was trying to keep herself awake. Perhaps she’d eaten too many of Hyacinth’s after-lunch cupcakes.

"Mother?" he said before wading into the drawing room with long strides.

She turned toward him with a smile. "Benedict," she said before closing her book and leaving it in her lap. With a pat against the space beside her, he closed the distance and sat in his corner. "Is anything wrong?"

"No," he said with a shake of his head. "Nothing’s wrong. I wanted to come see you." He looked over toward the table where Hyacinth and Eloise often sat. Both chairs were empty. The drawing room felt large without them. "That’s a lovely bouquet."

"Ah, yes. Sophie gave it to me." Violet’s voice was warm. Benedict didn’t look away from the flowers displayed in the glass vase on the table’s centre. "She spent some of her free time collecting the flowers from my garden with Francesca yesterday."

His smile sat crooked against his mouth. "I see."

"Sophie is quite lovely," she said.

His heart pounded in his chest. "Yes, she is." He tore his eyes away from the flowers and looked at his mother, who was watching him. Her smile was soft and warm, although the slight arch to her brow hinted at something else. Not many caught Violet Bridgerton's small expressions, too taken aback by her kindness and smiles to notice when she was truly looking at them. He fidgeted. "Yes?"

"Nothing," she said, her smile growing wider. Her brows drew together before she turned away from him, shaking her head. "I’m pleased Francesca felt the desire to stay. She was adamant about leaving early yesterday. It was nice she attended dinner."

He hummed.

"I think Sophie had something to do with it," she said, shifting where she sat. "Francesca… Well… You know your sister."

"I do," he said. "I like to think very well."

"She’s not much for social gatherings." Violet ignored the book in her lap to pick at her dress.

He ducked his head to try to catch her gaze. "Is there something else, Mother?"

She shook her head. "No." After a moment, she looked at him and smoothed over the wrinkle she created in her dress. "It is nice…" she said, still looking down. "Having everyone home… I miss your brother—"

"I know he misses you, too," he said.

Her smile was small when she looked at him. "And I miss Kate, of course."

He curved the corners of his lips upward as he shifted his knees toward her. The drawing room became smaller with the two of them inside it, just like any room used to when he was younger. "Of course," he said with a nod. "I hope you’re not worried about their return?"

"No," she said. "Not in the way you’re imagining." Benedict stayed quiet as she inhaled and glanced away. She picked at her dress again. He pressed his hands over hers, sliding his fingers under her palms to draw them away from tearing a hole in one of her favourite gowns. "I know that when Anthony and Kate return, things will change. He’ll return to his duties, and Kate and I will share hers…" She looked at him with glistening eyes. "I hope that doesn’t mean I will gain them only to lose you."

Benedict smiled. "Mother," he said, lifting her hands to his lips before resting them on his lap. "I promise I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be here. I’ll… come visit more, even stay in my old room once a while."

She dropped her gaze and sniffed. "Everything’s changing. Francesca has left. Daphne has left. You—"

"I am still here," he said, squeezing her hands. "And I will be, even when Anthony returns." When she looked up at him, he wrinkled his nose. "You will still have every opportunity to grow exasperated with me. I’ll ensure to never be on time for you."

She chuckled. "Benedict…" She squeezed his hands. "We need to work on your punctuality."

He tilted his head to the side as his voice rose in pitch. "Do we? I think my timing is impeccable."

Benedict startled when he heard someone clear their throat by the office door.

He should’ve known it was her. Hyacinth stood by the door with her arms locked behind her back, her smile wide and, well, rather mischievous, if one were to ask him to describe it. Anthony would consider it Hyacinth’s smile and nothing more… but his brother never really understood that she knew how to play them all like a violin.

"Yes?" he said, smiling. Benedict placed his book—closed—on the desk and leaned back in his chair.

She rolled on the balls of her feet as she stood in place. "What are you drawing?" Rocking to the tips of her feet, she kept her gaze locked on his desk like she could see across the distance and through the book, she pursed her lips as she hummed. Could she tell by the charcoal staining his fingers that he’d been drawing his Lady in Silver? Not even Hyacinth’s observation skills could see through a hard cover.

"You, actually."

Her eyes widened as she gasped. "Truly?"

He nodded. "Truly." He leaned forward and opened one of the middle drawers to rifle through the papers he’d tossed inside. When he found what he was looking for, he snatched it and slammed the drawer closed. Beckoning her inside, he delicately placed the paper on the desk in front of him, smoothing out the crinkled corners.

He watched her as she skipped into the study, her arms still locked behind her back. He’d sketched her some days ago in charcoal after observing her with Sophie in his mother’s drawing room. She’d made his sister so happy that day that he’d been overcome with the need to capture it.

She stood beside him and leaned over the desk. "You drew this?" she said, sounding surprised. The portrait depicted her seated on the floor in profile. Her small, proud smile was on full display. Sophie was captured behind her, a smaller, almost impossible-to-notice smile, if one didn’t know how to look. Even though Sophie was there, Hyacinth was the centre of the piece.

As she studied the portrait, his sister’s lips parted and her eyes widened. Hyacinth rested some of her weight against the arm of the chair.

"I did," he said, not looking away from her. "Do you like it?"

"I love it!" she laughed. She reached out to touch the corner before withdrawing her arm. "I’ve… never seen myself like this before."

"Haven’t you?" he asked, cocking his brow. When she shook her head, he clucked his tongue. "I suppose that’s my oversight. I’ve clearly forgotten about my Hyacinth Book."

She frowned at him. "Your Hyacinth Book?"

He nodded. "I have a book of drawings of you." He smiled at her. Brushing his fingers beneath his chin, his neck warmed and spread toward his cheeks. Benedict looked away from her. "I’ve been drawing you for years."

"Years?" She blinked, looking at the charcoal drawing of herself as though the mere thought was unfathomable. "Can I see?"

He scrunched his nose as he watched her. She was practically buzzing with the need to run around the office. "That depends…"

"On?"

"Whether I’m your favourite brother, of course."

"Of course, you are!" she said, excited. She brought her hands in front of her and clasped them tightly. "You’re much better than Anthony. Funnier, too!"

"We all know that," he said with a mock bow. Shifting in his seat, he looked at the paper before resting his elbow against the desk. He leaned his cheek into his palm as he watched her. "You can continue with the compliments, you know."

She smiled. "You’re tall and smart, and sometimes you say interesting things!"

"Sometimes?" he said, frowning.

"Sometimes! I mean, Anthony’s a better dancer—"

He scoffed. "No, he is not."

"He is!" He was doomed when she tilted her chin upward. "He likes to quadrille with me, you know."

"I can waltz better than him," he said, rolling his eyes. Pushing back his chair, careful not to catch her feet, Benedict stood and held out his hand. "Come. I’ll show you."

Hyacinth squealed before she pressed her lips together and silenced herself. Would all those lessons on how to be a proper lady in society snuff what made Hyacinth Hyacinth? God, he hoped not. Benedict led her out into the hallway and paused once they’d crossed the threshold, looking left and right. Where was the best place to dance?

It was a good thing Hyacinth knew. She stepped away from him and tugged on his hand, leading him down the corridor to his right. She ran, walked, ran, skipped, and almost leapt down several steps of the main staircase that led into the entrance hall. Benedict almost lost his arm twice and his footing several times.

But he managed to reach the ground floor in one piece. Hyacinth’s grip never once wavered as she pulled him into the centre. Turning to face him, she held her hand up and looked at him expectantly.

"Come on, then," she said, tilting her chin up once more. "Prove you’re better than Anthony."

"Happily!" he said, placing his hand in hers.

He was slow to start dancing with her, but once he did, he ensured to step on her feet every now and then to make her laugh. He spun Hyacinth earlier than he should’ve because she loved spinning like she was an unravelling spool of thread. And he made sure to get her to spin him, although that required him to bow down as she was half his height, something he declared many times over to her enjoyment.

Their audience of none grew to a few. Eloise scoffed as she walked by them, although Benedict caught her smile as she escaped up the stairs to undoubtedly find a book to shove her nose into. Mother stood beneath the arch with Mrs Wilson beside her. "Be careful of his feet, dear," Violet said right when Hyacinth intentionally stomped on one of his feet.

And then there was Sophie.

She stood on the other side of Mrs Wilson with her hands clasped in front of her. She smiled as she watched them. What did she think about how he spun Hyacinth away from him? What did she make of them trying to turn with their backs to each other and keep their arms connected? His arms were too long, and Hyacinth was too short. Did Sophie know how to dance without following any preconceived steps?

Hyacinth kept her hand in his as she stepped away to bow. "You dance adequately," she said.

Benedict huffed, his breathing heavy. Hyacinth was out of breath, too, but hid it better than he wanted to. "Will you tell Anthony that?"

"Yes," she said. "Because it’ll make him dance with me, too."

He grinned as he bowed, then straightened. Hyacinth squeezed his hand and turned to their audience, jolting as though she hadn’t sensed them at all. "What did you think?" she asked as she released his hand. Benedict thought she was speaking to Mother, but she hurried over toward Sophie and clasped her hands.

Sophie’s smile remained, although she briefly ducked her head. She grasped Hyacinth’s hands in hers. "I thought it was lovely."

"Do you think I’m a good dancer?" Hyacinth glanced over her shoulder and narrowed her eyes at him. "Benedict thinks I dance poorly."

Mother clucked her tongue in amusement. Sophie’s gaze lingered on him. Did her eyes soften? "I suspect Mr Bridgerton doesn’t feel that way."

He shrugged. "I kind of do."

"Benedict!" Mother laughed.

Hyacinth turned her back to him and bounced where she stood. "You should see Anthony dance! He possesses much better rhythm."

"I’m right here," Benedict said loudly. He scrunched his nose and scratched the back of his neck when Sophie met his gaze. Her smile was warm. Her cheeks were pink. She looked as she did in the countryside, although her hair was neatly coiled without a strand out of place. Her Bridgerton purple dress was lovely… but it was nothing compared to the blue-silver she’d worn at My Cottage.

"From what I saw, I think Mr Bridgerton’s dancing was subpar," Sophie said.

He shook his head. "Does no one appreciate my dancing skills?"

His mother approached him and patted his forearm. "Perhaps it’s best you stay true to what you’re good at," she said.

"And what’s that?" he said, peering down at her. His mother smiled up at him. Now that he was around, he noticed she was doing that more and more.

She rubbed his forearm as though he’d reported his skin stinging from a burn. "Not dancing."

He smiled and shook his head. Slipping his forearm from his mother’s grip, he made a show of bowing dramatically. "If you’ll excuse me, I’ll save what’s left of my pride before it’s completely destroyed."

Hyacinth laughed at him as he turned around and headed toward the staircase. "He isn’t that bad, I assure you!" she said loudly, her voice echoing. "So many of the ladies say he’s one of the better dancers."

What did Sophie look like when Hyacinth said that? He almost stopped his ascension of the staircase, but he kept walking and looked over his shoulder instead, confident he wouldn’t trip as he knew any staircase in Bridgerton House blindfolded. Sophie pulled a smile as she listened to Hyacinth babble, but her gaze dropped. Why did Sophie look so crestfallen?

It was utterly boring flying a kite by himself.

Although it’d been a part of his apparent ploy to prank Gregory—what was the objective of that again?—Benedict took it out in the Bridgerton House grounds. The breeze was slight, barely ruffling his hair. He threw the kite into the air only for it to come crashing back down. There were too many trees out here. There were significantly fewer in the country, which meant that the air could scoop the kite into its arms and toss it over his head.

"I see you’ve gotten no better at kite flying," she said.

He jumped. Glancing her way, he smiled as Sophie stood with her hands clasped in front of her. He rolled his shoulders and stood taller as he threw the kite into the air… only for it to dive to the ground. Sighing, he plucked it from where it lay and quickly looked her way. She was still there, watching him, with her lips pressed into a line as though that was capable of hiding her smile from him. It wasn’t. He turned and fiddled with the string, wrapping it loosely around his fingers.

"Well, you see…" He glanced away from her to the kite hanging from his grip before he let it fall to the ground. He left it there as he turned to her again, his smile crooked. "There isn’t much wind."

"Is that the excuse you’ve chosen?"

"It’s a fact."

"Hm." Sophie’s smile brightened her face. Although he could see some of the fine hairs that had unfurled from how tightly she’d pulled her hair back, she was still too far away. The distance was greater than when they stood before each other in the lake. If he held out his arm, he wouldn’t be able to touch her.

Wasn’t that how it felt in Bridgerton House? Ever since coming here, she was too far for him to tease. Too many people occupied the halls and rooms of this house. While they had the few spiders that escaped Mrs Crabtree’s eye at My Cottage, it had only been just them. The countryside felt so expansive compared to the grounds of Bridgerton House in Mayfair.

He frowned as he peered down at the kite. Wasn’t this why he had abandoned it all those years ago? What if he couldn’t mend it, and he only disappointed Gregory even more?

"It sounds like an excuse," she said. He whipped his gaze to her, his smile crooked.

Her hands were clasped behind her back. She took a step closer.

He chuckled. "Why do you not believe me?"

"Because I know you, Mr Bridgerton," she said. Warmth bloomed along his nape as her eyes never left him. "You forget I’ve seen you and your supposed kite-flying skills at work firsthand."

He took a step closer. "And you saw me successfully fly it!"

"Did I?" she asked, tilting her head to the side. Her eyes narrowed as her pretty smile widened. Another step.

"You most certainly did." One step closer. She stood before him and tipped her head up. Her lips were curved upward, though she was clearly trying not to smile. She was losing, of course. He was charming and hilarious and an expert at kite-mending and kite flying. Her eyelashes looked fuller today. The high points of her cheeks were pink, and her nose looked a little sun-kissed, too.

She clucked her tongue. "I remember recalling that I needed to step in and help you mend the kite." She had to tilt her head up to look at him.

"I distinctly remember fixing the kite." He held up his hand as soon as she parted her lips. "I fixed it." He furrowed his brows as amusement warmed his voice. "Do you not recall?"

She shook her head, still smiling. "I do not recall."

"Huh. How interesting." Although they stood under the sun, his skin was warm. Wasn’t she like the sun? Every time she was near, his skin tingled all over. "It seems we are remembering a different series of events."

"It appears so."

He tilted his head as he regarded her. "Which one is the truth, I wonder?"

"I would never tell a lie," she said. He briefly dropped his gaze to her fiddling hands.

"No?" He looked up at her, his gaze sweeping over the fine hairs of her brows. He leaned closer.

Her eyes were dark as she peered up at him, her lips parting. Her breathing grew shallow. He inhaled slowly through his nose; she smelled faintly of lavender.

"No," she said softly.

Every time she was near, his heart leapt into his throat, and he held his breath. How was it that his heart could beat as quickly as a horse galloping across the hard dirt, and yet he was still breathless?

Her gaze dropped to his mouth. He studied her lips and leaned closer. They had a lovely shape to them, even when she turned her head away.

She took a step back. Benedict didn’t follow. He couldn’t. His feet were anchored to the ground. He stared at her as she kept her gaze downcast.

"I must go see Miss Bridgerton," she murmured.

He parted his lips and made a pathetic sound of protest. She left him again.

Who knew it was next to impossible to run into a staff member? It’d been three days since Benedict had been in the same room as Sophie for longer than a few seconds. They’d had a brief interaction of glancing at each other yesterday before Eloise declared she would need to go into town to purchase a book with Sophie on her arm, and he needed to be performing his viscount duties, lest he disappoint dear Anthony upon his impending return.

It wasn’t overly difficult to mimic how Anthony kept the ledgers, although Benedict struggled to find accounts and notes about certain accounts in all of the books his brother kept. He held one to his nose as he sat back in the office chair. How was he meant to discern if he should pursue this particular investment or not?

He rose with the open book in hand and stepped away from the desk with his gaze downcast. This side of Bridgerton House wasn’t exactly quiet—then again, was the house ever quiet?—but it wasn’t where the fun was had. Anthony, again, was to thank for that. No laughing in the hallways. No fun was to exist anywhere near the viscount when he was viscounting. Honestly, how did Kate put up with him?

Benedict frowned as he walked away from the desk and turned a page. Why didn’t Anthony keep notes like Benedict did when he had a random thought pop into his head?

Perhaps he should be thanking Anthony for his uptightness and for not organising anything remotely personal. He almost bowled Sophie over in the corridor.

"Sophie!" He closed the book shut with one hand as he reached out to her with the other. She pressed her palm flat against her chest. "I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there—"

"It’s fine, Mr Bridgerton," she said before exhaling hard. She smiled, although it wasn’t out of any delight at seeing him. Perhaps it was relief from the fear of not dying from sudden surprise? But at least she held his gaze as she calmed her breathing. "I wasn’t looking where I was walking."

"Nonsense," he said, shaking his head. "I wasn’t looking where I was stepping."

"Then I suppose we both weren’t looking?" she said, smiling as she had at My Cottage.

He smiled crookedly. "I suppose we weren’t."

She glanced away from him and cleared her throat gently. "Comment est votre Français?"

"My French?" he said, blinking. He hadn’t been practising, if that was what she was asking. His teacher hadn’t been available to watch how his lips moved and his jaw stayed still. "It’s parfait, of course."

She cocked her brow. "Have you been practising?"

"Speaking without moving my jaw?" Pursing his lips, he barely let his teeth unlock as he said, "Of course. I fear it might be catching on all over the Ton."

She laughed and hid her mouth behind her hand. He wished she didn’t.

Her smile grew small, but it lingered lovely on her mouth as she peered up at him. "How is your wound healing?" she asked.

He glanced down at his side before hovering his hand over where his wound was healing into an impressive scar. He peered up at her with a crooked smile. "I think the swim in the lake sped up the healing."

She pressed her lips together to hide her amusement. "Yes, well… You’re very lucky it didn’t get infected again."

He sighed, his mouth curving up at the corners. "You’re welcome to write to Mrs Crabtree to let her know that neither of you were right in that prediction."

"I didn’t hope you’d be unwell again, Mr Bridgerton."

Benedict. It didn’t feel right to speak of My Cottage and use such courtesies. Titles, rank, whatever it was, didn’t really exist there, did it? It didn’t need to. It shouldn’t. She was his friend, no matter what Mrs Crabtree said...

He narrowed his eyes as he smiled. "Are you certain? I think you liked taking care of me."

She flushed a nice pink and glanced away. "I didn’t enjoy your suffering, if that’s what you’re implying."

"Then what did you enjoy?"

She licked her lips before she studied him. Pressing her clasped hands together against her belly, she seemed to try to hide, wringing them against the fabric of her dress. But Benedict noticed. Of course, he did. It was impossible not to notice her.

"You’ll laugh," she said.

"I promise I won’t."

She cocked her brow as she looked at him. Neither of them looked away. After a moment, she said, "I liked how much the Crabtrees care for you."

That hadn’t been the answer he’d been expecting or wanting. But it felt like how holding a paintbrush did: like it was meant to be his to hold.

"It was nice to be around that," she said as she dropped her gaze. "The last house I worked for… it wasn’t like that at all."

Every time he tried to inquire about the house she worked at that sent her toward the Cavenders, she’d lock herself tight like one of Hyacinth’s jewellery boxes. He needed to tread carefully.

The corridor felt smaller now, like they were standing by the lake with no chance of being discovered. He frowned thoughtfully as he bowed his head slightly. "You’re not speaking of the Cavenders, are you?" he asked quietly.

She shook her head. "You know the Cavenders much better than I. My previous employer wasn’t known for warmth."

"And your previous employer…"

Sophie cleared her throat gently as she lifted her gaze. It took a moment for her eyes to follow and meet his. The mask she was so fond of wearing returned. "I’m glad you’re better, Mr Bridgerton," she said. Her smile was small and pretty, and it made the butterflies in his chest awaken. "It would be a shame if you were bedridden."

He was so close. But Benedict didn’t allow the disappointment to overwhelm him. She’d tell him in due time, he hoped.

He mirrored her small smile. "I can be a nightmare when I’m locked in my room," he said, wanting to break whatever heaviness he’d accidentally brought to crush her.

"I hear it can be rather boring."

He scratched the back of his neck as he looked down and chuckled. What would it have been like if she hadn’t been there at My Cottage? Dull. Bridgerton House was boring before her, too, and now… He looked up at her and said, "Dreadfully. But it’s palatable when one has good company."

She shifted her stance and turned her head away. The corridor was silent. "I should be leaving," she said as she unclasped her hands. "Hyacinth wishes to show me how best to arrange a seating chart."

"Ah. That sounds… boring."

She smiled and shook her head. "Not at all. It’s lovely being included in such a way. I only had moments of that at my previous employer’s." Tugging her shoulders back, she stiffened in how she stood, like she wished to harden herself against something. But whatever it was, it belonged in her past, with her mysterious previous employer. Her fingers clasped at the purple fabric of her dress as she looked off to the side. Misspoken again? Or was she desperate to speak of it?

As he parted his lips to ask, she looked at him again. Her smile was so pretty and soft. "I like it, just as Mrs Crabtree enjoys caring for you. Not all maids are content with not being seen or heard, Mr Bridgerton." The pink sat high on her cheeks as she held his gaze.

He nodded. Perhaps maids and valets weren’t meant to be tucked away in the shadows, even though he’d spent his entire life assuming that’s where they wished to be. Seen only when they stepped out into the light, unseen when they retreated back into the shadows. He’d been disappointed every time Sophie retreated into the background, remaining unusually quiet and uninvolved.

"I must go," she said as she bowed her head slightly. It wasn’t an attempt to be courteous. Was it to hide her blush? "I don’t wish to be late for Hyacinth. She promised to tell me many stories about your family."

Her smile was warm when she looked at him. Benedict chuckled, and he scratched the back of his neck again. "Any story she tells of me is completely false."

"I will take her word for it." She turned to walk around to walk away, but she stopped before she let herself. Looking over her shoulder, she said, "But I know that they will be very kind stories. I look forward to hearing them." She disappeared around the corner. Benedict tugged at the collar of his shirt, scratching his bared skin.

How did his mother move so fast in that gown and those shoes? She charged down the hallway, uncaring that he was struggling to follow. Although he’d grown used to waking early now, he moved much more slowly than this. He liked to take his time meandering through Bridgerton House these days, just in case.

"Mrs Wilson informs me the new maid is arriving today," his mother said without looking back at him. Ah, so she knew he was there! Good. He’d been getting ready to clear his throat or beg her to slow to a crawl in the most obnoxious way he could think of. Lengthening his stride, he struggled to keep pace with her. "Are there any more maids I need to know about? I wasn’t aware we were participating in these Maid Wars, pilfering women from every house we know."

"Technically, it’s one house."

His mother made a disgruntled noise that sounded much like a snort. He smiled but pressed his lips together to stop it from forming, just in case she looked back. The last thing he wanted was to be at the end of her lectures. He’d had enough of those for the week.

He scratched the back of his head before he let his arm swing by his side. "There are no more," he said. "But Sophie vouched for her, and she needed employment—"

"Just as Sophie needed employment." She sighed. "I’m fine with it, Benedict," she said, glancing over her shoulder at him. "I understand your reasoning. Philip Cavender is… He’s not kind to his staff or peers. But we can’t employ every maid you come across."

Just how many maids did she think he came across? There was only one. A brave one. One who put herself at risk to help another maid, a friend. But he bit down on the words. His mother already knew that Sophie wasn’t a regular maid… or anything else Colin might think.

He sucked on his teeth as she turned a corner. The Bridgerton House was truly a labyrinth. Did his ancestors take an interest in owning houses and cottages that were mazes? "I understand that—"

"Good." His mother glanced over her shoulder at him, the corner of her lips curving upward. "Are you intending to escort this one onto the premises, too?" Ah, how he liked it when she joked at him—even if it happened to be at his expense!

"I was hoping to, yes."

She slowed in her stride and frowned at him. "You’re serious."

"Yes," he said. They passed the portrait of Peanut. "I’m the one who employed her, so I thought it was only right that I… welcome her."

Would Sophie be there, waiting for her friend? Did Mrs Wilson tell her to expect her? Or was it a surprise—and one he could possibly bear witness to?

Her gaze lingered on him a moment before she turned her head away. His mother wasn’t a peculiar woman most of the time. She was like a painting, where one could glean an idea of the story behind the painter’s intention. But when he looked deeper, studying the brushwork, the colour palette, and even the minor details the mundane eye never noticed, she was difficult to understand. She was kind and forthright, but she had a limit to her kindness. He supposed that’s what made her so successful as the maternal head of the household. She knew when to say no.

But he couldn’t say no to Hazel. He couldn’t say no to Sophie.

They descended the stairs leading into the entrance hall of Bridgerton House. He kept a step behind her, letting her lead. Although society would declare she should be in his shadow, he wanted to be in hers. Wasn’t that where he belonged? There was safety in the darkness she cast.

Mrs Wilson appeared behind him, her footsteps soft as she swept across the floor. When he glanced over his shoulder, she gave him a small smile and nod. He tugged on the open collar of his tunic as John the Footman opened the front doors for his mother to disappear outside.

The carriage Hazel arrived in wasn’t as pretty as the ones that transported him or his family from house to house. It was small and peeling, as if it hadn’t been given enough love. John rushed by them without so much as breaking into a run and opened the door for her.

Hazel’s eyes were big and bright, and her lips were parted as she looked up at the purple wisteria draped across the house. She blushed when she noticed John holding the door open for her. Had she ever had a man do that for her before? Had Sophie? Benedict stood to the side of his mother as they waited for Hazel to descend the small stairs of the carriage. Mrs Wilson stayed by the steps leading to the house, much like a gargoyle watching over her charges.

He knew his mother was smiling. Hazel was charming with how she flustered when John took her one small bag. "Thank you, thank you," she said.

"Hazel," his mother said, and clasped her hands in front of her. "I’m Lady Bridgerton—"

"Oh!" Hazel’s cheeks were flushed as she turned to his mother. She dropped her head in a deep bow and spoke before lifting it. "Thank you so much for allowing me to work for you," she said. When she looked at him, she dropped her gaze briefly, but she returned and held it. She wasn’t some wilting flower. He understood why Sophie liked her. "Thank you for finding me employment, Mr Bridgerton. I am forever grateful."

He nodded. "It was my pleasure. Philip Cavender isn’t known for his… manners."

His mother made a sound of agreement, most likely stopping herself from saying what she wanted to say about the brat. Perhaps one day he’d understand just how she held her tongue so successfully.

"No," Hazel said soberly. She gripped her purple dress in her hand and tucked her other arm against her chest. "He most certainly isn’t. But I appreciate it all the same."

His mother inhaled to speak, but Benedict felt a jolt run through him. "Sophie is here," he said, the words exploding from him. He pressed his lips together and wrung his hands in front of him. "In case you were wondering."

Hazel’s eyes and smile widened. "I’m so grateful to hear that," she said. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. She nodded. "I hope I can see her—once I’ve settled in, of course."

"Of course," he nodded. He ignored his mother’s glance as he looked down and kicked the gravel beneath his boot.

"Shall we take you inside?" his mother asked. She unclasped her hands and twisted toward the house to gesture to the front doors. "Mrs Wilson will show you to your room."

Hazel bounced on her feet. "Yes, please." She glanced up at the house again as she followed them. A glance over Benedict’s shoulder saw her reach for her bag, but John shook his head as he carried it closer to his chest. He stayed in step with her.

"You’ll like it here," John said quietly.

Benedict sure hoped so.

No matter where he looked, he couldn’t find Sophie. How would she react to the news that Hazel was here? Did she already know? Why couldn’t he find Eloise or Hyacinth to ask? He’d spent most of the day trying to track her down while entertaining his mother, Gregory and Colin when he didn’t have his nose in a boring book of Anthony’s. As night settled in, Benedict was in the viscount’s office, standing in front of his fussed-over canvas. There was no point in searching for Sophie now, was there? It was late, and she deserved time alone. Mrs Crabtree would reprimand him if he disturbed her few moments of peace.

He placed his brush down on the easel. No matter how hard Benedict tried, he couldn’t remember her face. Dark eyes, full, pink lips. Her eyes were kind, but how dark were they? Not as dark as midnight, but not as light as Peanut’s painted coat. Could he see her cheeks? Her mask had covered half her face, hadn’t it? Even when he pinched his eyes closed, he couldn’t see her. Not anymore. The Lady in Silver became a vision of different faces, her mouth often changing shape. At least her lips never thinned. Her height stayed the same, with her coming up to his shoulder.

In his mind, she looked like Sophie. A pretty mouth always smiling. Bright, brown eyes that were always wrinkling as she tried to bite back a laugh (often directed at him). Loose strands of dark hair tickled her temples, escaping the tightness of her coiled bun. Her bare shoulders had looked lovely in Francesca’s silver gown. Her brows were pulled taut as the sun glittered on the lake.

But the Lady in Silver wasn’t Sophie, even though he wanted her to be.

Where was Sophie? Not with Eloise, who was with Penelope. Not with Hyacinth, who was with Gregory in another wing of the house, undoubtedly causing strife with Mother. Where would she be at this time of evening?

Benedict shook his head. He glided his brush against the shadow by the Lady in Silver’s side on the canvas. He held the brush close to the canvas, looming over the lady’s face. What would Sophie’s face look like beneath that mask? Sophie looked good in silver. His hand twitched before he shoved the brush against the canvas’s ledge. He tapped his fingers against its side before he dropped his arm. He sighed. There was no point. But wasn’t that the thinking Mrs Crabtree had advised him against? Finish your projects, Mr Bridgerton. But how could he finish something that he couldn’t grasp, no matter how hard he tried?

Perhaps if he saw Sophie… he could finally return to the Lady in Silver.

Leaving in a hurry, he brushed his hands together as he charged down the hallway. While he knew every hallway of Bridgerton House, even in the dark without a single candle lit, he didn’t often make his way toward the servants' section of the house. Mrs Crabtree would be beside herself if she knew. He couldn’t help but smile. But Sophie… She’d love it, wouldn’t she? She’d hide her amusement behind a scowl or eye roll.

This side of Bridgerton House was quiet. What did the servants get up to when his family was capable of entertaining themselves? He entered the servants’ quarters and ascended the stairs. Taking two at a time, he catapulted himself up the flights until he was on her landing. As he approached her closed door, laughter spilled out through the gap between the door and the floor.

Was he encroaching? He was. He most definitely was. He paused. This area of the house wasn’t for him. But could it be? He certainly fit on the staircase, and standing at the very top looking at her door felt…

But the laughter grew louder.

She hadn’t laughed like that at My Cottage. She’d snorted, yes, and had laughed softly at him and with him… But she’d never belly laughed like she was right now with her friends. With the staff. And she hadn’t laughed while roaming the hallways of Bridgerton House. She was silent, as any staff member was, unless they were spoken to or encouraged to enter the fold. Otherwise, she stayed on the outskirts, quiet, with a small smile. Wasn’t that how it always was? He was an animal observed by not only the Ton, but also those who worked for his mother, too.

Benedict scratched the back of his neck as he looked at her closed door. He didn’t take another step. The distance from where he stood on the landing and the doorknob was enormous. Bigger than the lake he swam. Much longer than the distance it would’ve taken if he let her walk from Cavender house to the nearest village. It’d take a leap if he wanted to reach the doorknob.

Mrs Crabtree was right. She was a friend to him, but to her, he was… He was simply Mr Bridgerton.

And he shouldn’t be here.

What was he doing? Hadn’t he made a fool of himself enough? His heart raced, and his palms itched. What was he to say to her? The last time he’d stepped inside the servants’ quarters of the house was when he was a boy trying to hide from Anthony in a ridiculous game of hide and seek. Mrs Wilson had found him and almost escorted him out until she’d realised how important being found by his brother was to him. But this wasn’t a game.

If she saw him here, she’d think he needed something as her employer. Did she see him as a friend? Would she insist on coiling her hair tightly into a bun before stepping away from the laughter and fun she was having under the belief she had to serve him or one of his siblings? No. She knew he wouldn’t want that. She knew that, didn’t she?

He didn’t belong here.

Benedict turned on his feet and descended the stairs quickly, his footfalls loud. Thump, thump, thump. His heart leapt into his throat. He took two steps at a time. He slapped his hand against the banister to stop himself from tripping.

The laughter grew louder as a door groaned open.

When he was several flights down, he glanced up.

And there she was, leaning over the railing, her hair in a loose braid draped over her shoulder. Her fingers flexed as she peered down at him with her brows pulled together. Benedict slowed as he descended the stairs, now one at a time. Her lips parted. He gripped the banister. His pulse beat behind his ears. He jerked and wanted to turn.

He began to twist, retracing his steps…

But he kept descending.

He didn’t look away until she was tugged back by someone. John? Hazel? Celia? As long as it was a friend—and who wouldn’t want to be Sophie’s friend? He couldn’t be, so it might as well be one of them. The laughter grew louder again, hers making the choir sound pretty.

His steps slowed. She didn’t approach the banister again. Benedict’s throat tightened. Heaviness coiled low in his gut. God, he was so stupid, thinking Sophie was the Lady in Silver. She’d laugh if he told him. How could a maid be a lady dressed in what appeared to be a cluster of stars?

Tearing his gaze away, he marched down the staircase and refused to peer up again.

He swept out of the servants' quarters. The study was where he needed to be, with Anthony’s ledgers and tasks, dusty books, and his incomplete painting. That was where he belonged: in the viscount’s shadow, in front of an easel, and with her, his Lady in Silver.