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Chapter Text

She awoke with a start. Perhaps, she wondered, it was the unfamiliarity of the bed, or the heavy linens that smothered her body. Perhaps it was the sensation of her husband's body, his chest rising and falling gently with steady breaths beside her. She was accustomed to waking early, as had been her habit for many years. Even in the weeks that had passed since her betrothal, she still could not seem to familiarise herself with a more relaxed schedule.

The sun was just beginning to peek into view from the east, smothered slightly by the thin curtains that were drawn over the windows. In the soft light, everything seemed so warm and delicate. Far from sleep now, she curled herself into her husband's side, heard the first murmurings of his stirring as he realised she was there. She adored the feeling of him, his body so sturdy, an anchor to weigh her down in the moments of overwhelm over the past few weeks.

They had stayed at Bridgerton House after their engagement, with plans of travelling to the cottage suspended by a number of circumstances. Benedict continued to fill in for his older brother on several occasions, Anthony rightly still preoccupied with his wife and their baby. Then there was the question of obtaining the marriage license, paperwork Benedict spoke of that she never saw. There had also been the shock of having seemingly acquired a family overnight; she had felt alone for so long, for much of her life in fact, so the surge of love she felt upon meeting her new brothers and sisters for the first time - as Benedict's betrothed, not as a maid - it was almost too much to bear. Then there had been the painting, Benedict's surge to action as he excitedly told her it would hang as the centrepiece in their cottage.

She had been naive to think it would all settle down once the issue of the Dowager Lady Penwood had been resolved. There had been trips to the modiste, her first true visits as a client, accompanied by her adoring mother-in-law and occasionally her new sisters. So much fuss. In her years as a maid she had grown quite accustomed to simplicity, to finding beauty in the perfectly ordinary. This had been something different altogether, and she struggled in finding the words to tell them it was all too much. They seemed to believe she deserved it, that she deserved beautiful clothes that flattered her body, that she deserved the comfort of an easy life.

Although they were engaged, it sometimes felt hard to find a moment alone with Benedict. The house was full of noise and excitement, particularly with the revealing of their happy news, particularly after a period of such profound sorrow. He was her point of calm, the place her mind travelled to when it all became too much. There had been many evenings like this, many mornings too: nuzzling into his side, hiding from the world in those precious spare hours where nothing was expected of them.

Now, things were different. The wedding party had departed the cottage the night before, and Benedict had offered the Crabtrees a holiday so that they may finally enjoy themselves alone, as man and wife. Those were the words he began to utter as he finally woke, looking into her eyes the first time that morning: 'My wife, my wife, my wife.'

There was a childish simplicity to his delight, a joy that eased a grin upon her lips. He turned to face her, laying soft kisses on her cheek, moving down to her jaw, the thin, ticklish skin of her neck. The kisses started playfully, but grew in hunger as the seconds passed. Finally she met his mouth, savouring the delightful warmth of his body as it moved ever nearer to hers.

Soon her hand was moving across his chest and down his torso, places she had once felt scared to touch. She had to admit, the thrill remained. His own hands were now pawing at her skin, finding a home at the dip of her waist. Gently he eased himself from their kiss, 'Sophie,' he let out a heady exhale, 'Tell me what you want, my dear.'

'I just want you,' She told him quietly. Even now, she had to admit she wasn't the most experienced. In the past few weeks their amorous adventures had escalated, but they had felt far too scarce for all her wanting.

His hand was travelling steadily now down her stomach, 'I want you to tell me what feels good.'

She was sure it would all feel good, and she told him so.

His eyes flickered up to her, 'You are my wife, Sophie, I hope you know I would do anything in the name of making you feel good.'

Her mind was blank a moment, watching as he gazed lovingly at her body. Before she had thought of a response, his hand was trailing lower, trailing her hip bone and finding itself at her clit. Tentatively he pressed with his thumb, rubbing slow circles. He felt her shift, 'How does that feel?'

'I suppose it is a start,' She said, allowing herself to feel greedy. She noticed the start of a smile in him, as he watched her hips rock with each circle growing heavier.

'Well I shall have to try much harder then,' He said, chucking back the bed sheets and lowering himself so his mouth came to meet it, slowly pushing a finger into her, stroking up as he went.

'More,' she demanded, but her voice was still soft, eyes fluttered shut at the feeling of his caresses.

He slid a second finger into the wetness, picking up pace as she began to buck against him, his tongue brushing with greater and greater intent as the first low moan escaped her mouth. His spare hand steadied her, his fingers pressing into the skin of her stomach, melding into her flesh.

As he continued to work himself into her, her moans grew warmer, rhythmic to his touching her sweet spot. He dipped his tongue low to taste her, its tip peaking into her. She twitched with the sensation, her hips rising to draw him in further. As he moved his fingers from her, she began to open her eyes, watched as he shamelessly drew them to his mouth, taking them in one by one, desperate to savour the taste of her.

'Is that it?' She asked all too keenly, giving herself away.

He pulled a funny face, 'I was merely enjoying you.' Quickly he buried his head back beneath her thighs, this time making no illusions of his intention. With his tongue he began again to circle her, pressing harder, sucking on her. His hands found her thighs, gripping them as they began to quiver. Occasionally he would dip his tongue back into her, licking in to taste, gently stroking her sides with the very tip. Returning to her clitoris, he could tell she was close by the sounds escaping her, breathier, less controlled. Oh how he loved watching her lose control. As he worked his way around, he found the spot that made her quiver the most, running his tongue back and forth against it, savouring each started gasp.

'Benedict, I'm c-'

He felt her body tense before suddenly melting into him, her breath jagged and a heat rising within her. Slowly he moved back up her body, meeting her with a slow, deep kiss, tasting the sweet tang in his mouth. Her cheeks were flushing, a shade of pink washing over her as she ran a hand through her hair, her mind all ablur with him.

'My God, you are so beautiful.' He said, 'The most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on.'

She met these words with a meagre smile, the most she could manage while her body still throbbed with the feeling of him. They continued to exchange kisses, soft, delicate, his hand cupping her jaw, tracing the soft lines of her face.

Finally, she was in a position to speak again, 'Benedict?'

'Yes?'

'Can I ask what it is that you want?' She said, 'Seeing as you are my husband, and I should like to please you too.'

'I should think it fairly obvious what I want,' He told her, gesturing with a shift of his eyes down to his erection, which was stood to attention against his stomach, 'But I am happy only to do what pleases you.'

'I would like that very much,' She insisted, curling her leg over his hip to bring him closer, 'right now.'

'Right now?' He said, positioning himself so he was near enough her entrance.

'Please,' She said, that word alone enough to tear him apart with desire.

With his hand he stroked the tip over her, still warm and wet, before feeling her buck at the sensation and pushing himself into her, slowly at first. Her mouth parted at the sensation, and he caught her in a kiss, pulling her half on top of him, controlling the motion of their bodies with his hands rested on her hips.

'Does this feel good?' He asked her, watching the shape her mouth made with every slow stroke.

She struggled to say that it did, the words escaping her messily, her mind warm and sticky with pleasure. The motions began to grow deeper, Benedict suddenly turning her round, supported by his arm beneath her, and laying her onto the mattress.

'Shall I tell you what it is I want?' He said, half out of breath, 'What I have been almost scared to admit to you?'

Her eyes opened at that, aware now of his deep blue eyes transfixed on her. She managed to nod, her body overtaken by the urge to rise to his, taking him deeper, feeling all of him within her. In spite of his passion, that feeling with every thrust that he just had to have her, there was a sweetness to his expression, an endearment. She felt the strokes slowing, but each time he went to the hilt, still no end to his need.

'What I really desire is to plant my seed within you.' He told her, 'Only if you feel you are ready, of course, but I would love nothing more than for you to be with child, my child.'

'Oh,' she mumbled, not perturbed, but surprised.

He placed one hand on the wooden bed frame, hooking himself yet further into her, the feeling so inconceivably delightful. This rawness, this intimacy between them.

'I never thought I understood it, until I met you,' He paused, a long breath escaping him, distracted then to lay kisses on her neck, her collarbone. He scooped her up, then, sat her on his lap, rocking her back and forth with an assuredness that felt safe. She felt she had lost the inability to make sound, then, so overcome with the feeling of their closeness. He met her eyes again, 'But I understand it now, that need to possess a person, to possess one another. I wish to make you mine in every way that matters.'

With that the motion intensified, grinding her hips into him with his steady hands, his eyes never once leaving hers. He looked hopeful, she thought, as he held her so close and moved their bodies in tandem, his face softening in desire for a response. She delicately placed a hand to his face, stroking his cheekbone, a slick of perspiration visible on his brow.

'I wish for that too,' She told him, so quiet almost a whisper, 'I want you to make me your own, in every which way.'

'Oh, Sophie,' he said, a soft rasp to his voice that told her all she needed to know. The way the words had trailed off, the warmth she felt flowing within her. Still attached, he lowered them both onto the bed, tucking his chin over the top of her head, his hand lazily tracing the side of her.

'I love you,' He told her, his voice quiet as anything, his heart beating audibly in his chest.

'I love you too,' she whispered back.

Chapter Text

It was not often he managed to lose her. Then again, this cottage was large, far larger than most houses. It felt larger still with just the two of them to occupy the place. Dashing down the stairs, he began to call her name, softly, but his echo seemed to haunt after the fact.

She could not have gone far, for the spring morning had yet to warm up and he would have heard her opening the large front doors. ‘Sophie!’ He called again, louder this time, dithering through the large entryway in his shirt and breeches, some of his buttons incorrectly fastened in haste.

He thought he could smell something cooking. He paced in the direction of the kitchen, a waft of frying growing stronger. ‘Sophie,’ he said one more time, to no reply.

As he walked through the doorway she was looking up at him innocuously, ‘Good morning, Benedict.’

He went to her immediately, wrapping his arms around her from behind, his head on her shoulder, an errant kiss just below her ear, ‘I was beginning to think I had lost you.’

‘You could not possibly,’ she told him, something slow and steady in her voice to reassure him, then, more jovially, ‘Besides, it has only been a half hour since I left our bedchamber.’

He nuzzled his head further into the warmth of her, ‘A half hour too long since I have seen you.’ As he stroked his large hands down to her waist, he found the knotted tie of the apron wrapped around her, unfastening it with one swift movement that unfurled the fabric around her, ‘Mrs Crabtree shall not like it if she knows you’ve been lifting a finger around here.’

‘I suppose Mrs Crabtree shouldn’t like us starving to death either,’ she said, turning on her feet to face him, ‘We do have to eat, my dear.’

Truthfully, they had eaten little since their wedding, spare of course one another. Afterwards, there had been the rather plain breakfast, made merry by all their guests, and Mrs Crabtree had prepared dinner that night before her departure. The past two days, however, they had pilfered the kitchen for scraps like street urchins, barely a moment to consider their hunger.

Benedict observed as she worked with some utensil, flipping fried eggs in a charred pan. On a plate to the side sat warmed pieces of toast, butter slicking and melting into its pores.

‘It is a pleasant surprise, admittedly.’ He said, watching her cover her hand with the discarded apron, picking up the hot dish and serving the eggs.

‘There is hot water too, for tea,’ Sophie told him, ‘If you would like to find the cups.’

He did as she said, studying Mrs Crabtree’s shelves with curiosity. When he found them, he carefully selected a pair and brought them back to his wife, who had started to steep the tea leaves in the hot water.

‘Forgive me for bringing this to you so soon,’ Benedict began, sitting at the little table with their plates in front of him. Sophie followed, bringing with her the tea pot and cups. ‘But I thought you would like some input in how we staff the house.’

‘Will the Crabtree’s not be sufficient?’ Sophie asked with a raised brow, distracted momentarily by the way her husband’s hair had flopped over. There was something decidedly puppyish about him, especially in the mornings.

Benedict had predicted this conversation might feel uncomfortable but knew equally well that it was necessary. He did not wish to make her sad, nor did he wish to make her feel powerless. ‘Believe me, I am not in a hurry to hire more bodies,’ He told her, ‘I do enjoy the relative solitude we have here, but in the future we may require a stable boy, a valet, an additional cook, even a nurse for the children.’

‘And what if I should like to nurse my own children?’ She replied, sharper than intended.

He put his fork down, reaching his hand across the table, ‘Sophie, I would never ask you to do something you did not want, nor would I expect you to do something just because society believed it best. This is the very reason I am asking you, so you may tell me what you are comfortable with, and we will build our world around that.’

He noticed her shoulders loosen as he spoke. She went to pick up a piece of bread with her fingers, saying mildly, ‘I am not wholly opposed to employing people, it is after all a part of life.’ She paused briefly, ‘But I should always like for them to be treated fairly, paid fairly. And I do not wish to be idle, if there are tasks we can do ourselves, I should like us to try.’

‘Like making breakfast, you mean?’ He had a sort of amused look on his face now.

‘Certainly.’

‘Perhaps you could teach me some time?’ The second he said it he watched her face widen into a sort of disbelieving smile, ‘I do have a number of less useful skills, perhaps one of value might do me good.’

‘You do not think highly enough of yourself, my lord.’

The words had slipped out before she even realised. A tight smile formed upon her husband’s face, a slightly sad one, ‘Please call me Benedict.’

‘How could I forget,’ she told him, before finishing off the last of her food.

He poured her a second cup of tea, not taking his eyes off her as he did so. She thought to herself, mildly amused, how natural of a servant he could have been, pouring tea like that.

‘I understand this life may feel foreign to you, but I hope you know I will do everything in my power to ease that discomfort.’

She nodded, remembering what Hazel had once said to her. We are not born simply to work and die. He knew, even though she didn’t verbalise it, that she had rarely allowed herself to believe a life like this could exist for her. This feeling pierced him in the chest, even the slightest notion that he could make her unhappy, that he might push her too quickly into accepting something that was ultimately brand new. It felt challenging, even though he dare not admit it, building a life where they might meet in the middle.

Chapter Text

A letter had arrived from London, and Benedict had been shut in his study for almost an hour. Sophie had taken the opportunity to peruse the small library room of the cottage. Small compared to their family home, Aubrey Hall, Benedict had said, but she could find nothing small about it. There were shelves on botany, a collection of the great literary works, and a substantial selection on the human sciences.

Sophie ran her fingers over the rough, antiquated binding of the books, observing each gilded title with curiosity. Intrigued by one in particular, she gently slid it from the shelf, opening the volume and hearing the muted creak of its spine. She skimmed through the chapters, landing on a topic she had heard spoken of in the servant’s quarters but never in a book.

The language felt academic, purified of any sense of impropriety. She tucked her hair behind her ear, flipping the page to read further on the recommended techniques of conception. She supposed, in her reading, that they had been lucky the first time not to have conceived. But that luck soon became nuisance, when after the first month of their betrothal her courses had come once more. Benedict had not portrayed disappointment, of course not, but she knew how deeply they both sought to build a family, something shared that they could call their own.

He had made his thoughts perfectly candid a few mornings prior. His wish to possess her wholly. She could not deny that the idea had felt attractive, to be completely and utterly full of him. And to know that the child was so wanted, so adored already, so safe under his protection.

She heard behind her the door’s hinges creak and snapped the book shut at once. Turning round, there he was. His hair was rumpled as though he had been running his fingers through it, an exasperated look on his face, ‘The letter was concerning the late Lord Kilmartin’s seat in the House of Lords,’ he said, ‘Trivialities, really.’

‘I see.’

‘But I could not tear myself away from you any longer, I shall have my response sent first thing in the morning.’ He took a few steps forward, ‘What have you been reading?’

‘Oh, nothing.’ She said, tucking the book hastily behind her back.

‘Sophie…’ He murmured, moving ever closer, ‘I am curious as to how you have been occupying yourself in my absence.’

‘It is nothing, really.’ She assured, but then he was upon her, winding his hands around her into an embrace, nimbly plucking the book from her grasp. She sighed as he took it in his hands, perusing the pages.

‘This is nothing to be embarrassed about, my love.’ He told her, ‘But I must suggest you do not take these books too seriously, these writers know as much about the wonders of the human body as, well, me.’

‘It is just,’ She said on an outbreath, steadying herself against the bookshelf behind her, ‘I was curious. Curious as to whether there was anything I could do to… speed up the process.’

‘Well, I am in no hurry,’ He reassured, deftly tucking the book back into its place on the shelf, ‘It will happen when the time is right, and I would much rather we endeavoured to enjoy the process.’

It seemed she had run out of words. Looking up at him, for he could not have been more than a few inches from her face, she felt suddenly overcome with emotion. He had that devilish grin on his lips, the one he wore so often these days, ‘I should think myself the luckiest man on earth, to call you my wife.’

She tried her best to push away her anxieties as he snatched a quick kiss from her lips. Then another, hungrier, the edge of his tongue meeting hers. His hand was now tracing its way up her arm, rising slowly to the hem of her sleeve. Their lips still locked, the tips of his fingers found their way to her chest, savouring for a moment the feeling of her heart beating before he hooked two fingers into the neckline of her dress, pulling it back to expose the flesh of her breast.

He pulled his lips away from hers momentarily, asking, ‘Is this all right?’

‘More than,’ she told him, her voice faint as she rose up to reclaim his lips. His were drugging kisses, flooding her mind with an overwhelming warmth, sensitising the rest of her body to his touch.

Slowly he managed to move his kisses to her sternum, trailing down to the space where her skin escaped the confines of her dress. As he dipped his tongue over her protruding nipple, driving small circles over the sensitive area, a most undignified noise escaped her. She watched his mouth draw back momentarily in satisfaction, his narrowed eyes flicking up to meet hers, a sense of insatiable longing shared between them both.

As he returned to her, teasing her with greater fervour, she ran her hand through the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging slightly with each unbridled shock that ran through her.

‘Oh, Sophie.’ The words were muffled by his proximity to her, his breath escaping onto her skin. Without further thought, he grabbed her hand in his, lifting her from her corner and pulling her out of the room.

In the bedroom, which was in some state of disarray after the past couple of days, he perched her gently onto the windowsill, the subdued orange light of evening flooding in behind her. Before her, he was already pulling off his shirt, beginning to unbutton his breeches.

‘Can I have you now?’

‘I believe you already know the answer to that,’ she said, her eyes drifting to the slight muscles of his stomach, further still.

‘I want to hear you say it,’ He went on, pouncing to her and bringing her towards him, his fingers unbuttoning the fastenings on the back of her dress with a precision that implied experience. When her dress fell to the floor, he began loosening the fastenings of her stay.

‘What should you like me to say?’ She asked, gazing affectionately at the whole of him.

He returned her look with a bemused sort of awe. Now she stood exposed before him, although exposed was not the word she would have used; there was a comfort to be found in their closeness, their shared vulnerability.

‘Fine,’ she relented, feeling her breath catching in her throat as she began to speak, ‘I want you, Benedict, I want you all the time.’

‘You do?’ He said quietly, his face close to hers now, one hand reaching down to touch her, only a tentative stroke, but enough to make her whole body shudder.

‘Please.’

He required little more persuasion, sweeping her up in his arms, her legs folding around his torso. Reaching from behind he continued to touch her, savouring each startled breath that escaped her as he made soft motions with his thumb.

‘You are bewitching, Sophie,’ he whispered, bringing her onto him all at once, ‘Just the sight of you makes me entirely weak.’

As she sunk into him, a low, guttural moan escaped her. He began to roll his hips into her, craving more of her even as he reached her limit. He carried on, controlling her body with the steady grip of his hands on her behind, struggling to catch his breath with each incensed motion.

‘Oh God,’ she cried, clinging with the tips of her fingers to the striking firmness of his back, sensing the motions even before they came by the contortion of his muscles.

She began to mumble uncontrollably, a stream of words flowing freely in the ecstasy of his crashing into her. Benedict, Benedict, Benedict.

It was not long before he felt he could not restrain himself, releasing himself momentarily to lay her on the bed, noticing as he climbed upon her the pinking of her inner thighs. ‘Speak to me,’ he begged, positioning himself once more at her opening, relishing the moment he entered her once more with a stifled whimper.

‘I love you,’ she slurred as she felt him push beyond her defences.

‘I love you too,’ he replied, reaching a hand to cup her face as she rocked back hard into her pillow.

She was a marvel, he thought, the way her skin seemed to glow as if on fire, her lips reddened with passion, parted at the centre where her cries continued to escape. ‘Are you close?’ she whispered, her words intermingling with the earthy low noise she continued to make.

He hummed a response, his mouth exploring its way down her neck, across her collarbone. The thought of filling her had become all consuming. He looked up as her noises seemed to subside, raising herself on her elbows to watch as his body arched into her.

‘Come for me, Benedict, come for me.’ Even she was surprised by the ease with which she began to speak now, ‘Give yourself to me.’
Benedict melted at her words, the feeling radiating within her like warm honey. He let his face collapse upon her chest, her shaky fingers stroking at his hair, soft and clammy. She felt, in that moment, that he was her morning star, her very reason for living.

Chapter Text

Every day he appeared wearing the same loose-fitting shirt, suspenders hanging slack from his trousers without any sense of care. It almost reminded her of when he had been unwell many months prior, both the informality of his dress and that hedonic air about him, little concern for what the rest of the world might think or do.

He had, to some extent, always been this way. Even as a child he had possessed an unusually laissez-faire outlook, intelligent of course but more concerned with the way things appeared, his ability to make others laugh. She had supposed it some kind of defence; Anthony wore his defensiveness like a suit of armour, hiding himself behind some misplaced sense of gallantry, and Colin spoke quite plainly in praise and care of each of his family members, but Benedict had been different. It was always evident that he cared, naturally, but he disguised it through laughter, silliness, little games that distracted his siblings when life felt quite challenging.

It was perfectly clear that something had changed when Sophie had first appeared at the cottage. There had been a shift in him, something to converge those two ever-present parts of him. He was at once playful as a boy and sober as a man. It was as if he saw with true clarity for the first time in his life, saw a future that might allow him to carve out space for who he truly was.

They had not fooled her for a second. Yes, it was improper, at least technically, and yes, she had always assumed he would at some point settle down with a lady of the ton (as all men of breeding eventually should), but that was none of her business. Moreover, she had to admit something about this made far more sense. She realised then that complexity had always appealed to him. It was that very abstract thing, complexity, which made Benedict tick.

He was stood then, in her kitchen, eating an apple with great gusto. She observed quietly, placing various items into the picnic basket for him. Mr Crabtree was at the far end of the room, whittling a spoon from a fallen piece of birch, oblivious to it all.

‘Have you spoken with the lady about the possibility of hiring additional staff – presuming you intend for this to become your permanent residence?’

‘We will be back and forth to London, but yes, we shall live primarily here.’ Benedict told her, another bite of the apple, taking the time to chew, ‘I have mentioned to her the possibility of hiring, but I will not pursue it until she convinces me she is ready.’

Mrs Crabtree gave a little sigh, ‘I quite understand, although I dare say my husband and I are not fully equipped to run a household.’

Benedict’s face produced a quizzical expression, ‘I assure you we are all quite capable, Mrs Crabtree. Sophie is a very independent woman, and I too should like to be… more independent.’

‘Very well,’ she said, pushing the basket across the counter. It was unsurprising that Benedict should attempt to be modern in arranging his household, although she never assumed he might be unfashionable.

It was as though he read her mind, ‘You know very well I detest appeasing society for the sake of appeasing society, and besides, this is a private house – who should be here to judge the way in which it is run?’

‘He is right,’ Mr Crabtree piped up, still focussed on working his paring knife over the length of wood, ‘I cannot think of a reason anybody should see what goes on here.’

The sound of Sophie coming down the stairs could be heard through the open door. ‘I shall be off, I cannot say for how long,’ Benedict flashed a quick smile at the housekeeper, grabbing the basket as he went, ‘Do not send out a search party.’

Mr and Mrs Crabtree exchanged a glance as he flew from the room.

***

It appeared the perfect spring day, a light breeze running through the tree line as they walked in contented quiet. Naturally he wished to speak to her, he wished to talk to her all the time, but there was something to be said about appreciating perfect silence with another person. He had not understood it before she entered his world, that sometimes happiness did not need to mean laughter or frivolity, it could also be still, calm.

They walked to the lake, a location fused with memory for both of them. It looked so similar, they both thought, to that day all those months ago, when everything had felt so tender and open-ended.

‘It is quite strange,’ Sophie said at last, ‘To return here in such different circumstances.’

Benedict laid out the blanket on top of the unruly grasses, perching himself in one corner, ‘It is quite strange,’ he agreed, ‘That this is now our home.’

‘Do you think you will swim today?’

‘Perhaps,’ he said, reaching out a hand to welcome her down, ‘Do you think you would join me?’

There seemed a glint in her eye as she spoke, ‘I should like to, although I cannot say I have the appropriate attire.’

Benedict waved a hand of indifference, ‘That does not signify, if you should wish to swim, we shall swim.’

Mrs Crabtree had certainly made an effort in preparing their picnic, the basket filled with strawberries and raspberries, sweet cakes, and pastries she had made that morning. They began to pick at the items, discussing the practicalities of swimming, Sophie admitting she had not had the opportunity to try before.

‘It was the highlight of many a summer day at our family home, especially with my oldest brothers, and Eloise was always keen to join as well, providing my mother was occupied somewhere far from the lake.’

Sophie laughed at this, ‘Miss Eloise does seem quite the daredevil, when she wants to be.’

‘Eloise is the absolute best of us,’ Benedict told her, lying on his side now to catch the sun on his face, ‘Never was there a truer Bridgerton in spirit, even if the rest of the world does not seem to understand so. She is very dear to me, although I suppose it is wrong to consider any one relative a favourite.’

‘I certainly have a favourite relative, although I suppose I was not spoiled for choice at Penwood house.’

‘Ah, yes.’ Benedict craned to look at her, ‘Have you heard from Posy?’

‘I received a letter from her just yesterday, containing all the details of her life with Lord Barnaby. I am so grateful she has finally escaped that house.’

‘It is well deserved,’ Benedict said, ‘You both deserve it, and I dare say Rosamund might too be capable of making a happy match, of finding joy elsewhere.’

She loved that about him, among a great number of things. He believed people were capable of transcending their circumstances. He understood, more than most in the ton, that individuals could not help the family they were born into.

‘Well, bitterness has a habit of spreading.’ She told him, trying to avoid the image of Araminta that crept to mind.

‘If bitterness can grow, I am sure love is able to as well.’

He plucked from the basket a strawberry, offering it up to her. She took the fruit in her mouth, biting into the sweet-bitter flesh, its juice settling on her lips. His eyes softened, lines forming at their edges, something in him, perhaps his very heart, trembling.
‘I cannot believe I found you,’ he said in awe, not taking his eyes off her.

She covered her mouth as she chewed the strawberry, licking her lips, ‘Likewise.’

‘My life used to feel ineffectual, devoid of any and all meaning… and then there was you.’

‘Here I am!’ She said in a jolly voice, somehow still quiet.

He reached up to her then, placing a kiss on her lips, prickled by the taste of strawberry, speaking in a low voice, ‘You give meaning to everything, Sophie, you give meaning to my life. I understand how people live with such spirit now, how they are capable of producing masterpieces, you are that fire I was so missing.’

‘Benedict, I-’ His fingers were tracing her neck now, paying her skin an attention that felt entirely romantic, not at all lustful.

‘I love you,’ he said, kissing her again, ‘I love you so much.’

‘And I you, more than I think you would believe.’

He leant his forehead into hers, observing in their closeness the way her doe eyes seemed to flicker with affection. ‘How lucky am I?’ he said, as if he did not quite believe it himself.

Without a suitable response, she brought her hands to his shoulders, feeling the strength of his muscle through the muslin of his shirt. He hoisted her closer, bringing her into his lap. In another swift motion, he had pulled his shirt over his head.

‘I wish only to make you feel good, today and every day.’

‘You do make me feel good, more than good.’

His hands were raking through the lengths of her hair now, twirling the ends between his fingers.

‘May I touch you?’ He asked, and she quickly nodded in response.

With one hand still buried in her hair, he tried to find his way under her dress. Growing exasperated, he sighed, more to himself than to her, ‘Far too many layers!’

‘And I was told this was one of the simplest designs.’ She said with a little laugh, understanding immediately his frustration. She had been little prepared, when she had first been (sort of) legitimised, to deal with all the many steps of getting dressed in the morning. Of course she had helped Hyacinth and Eloise arrange their outfits, and others before them, but rarely had she paid that much attention to herself.

She was snapped back to reality by Benedict’s successfully finding his way between her thighs. ‘There it is,’ he whispered affectionately, placing his thumb at her centre, watching as her lower lip began to portray arousal.

His kisses came less frequently than usual, so preoccupied was he with talking to her as he coaxed sensations from her body, ‘You are so good, Sophie, so very good.’

With more gentleness than she had anticipated, he placed a finger inside her, only up to the first knuckle, before gliding round the wetness of her entrance.

‘Does it feel good, when you touch me like that?’ she asked, before rising into a new whimper, two fingers beginning to stroke her inner wall now.

‘You feel incredible, Sophie.’ He said into her neck, ‘It is magical, knowing you want me so very much.’

He continued to stroke into her, gradually adding pace, his thumb still balanced on her clit. He did not know then if he would ever be able to truly control himself around her, the way her body seemed to fit so perfectly around him, reacting to him almost instinctually.

She began to trace her nails down his back, her touch sharpening every time he pressed upon that most vulnerable part of her. Those soft scratches against his skin began to elicit low groans from him, barely perceptible, but before long she was aware of how prominent he had become against his trousers.

‘Can I?’ She asked, trailing her hand round to his front.

‘No,’ he replied in a whisper, ‘No, let me do this for you.’

‘But…’

‘Sophie, let me.’ With the finality of his words his fingers grew deeper, pressing with greater fervour against her, developing a syncopation between the two places where he touched her. He felt as her lower back arced against him, his fingers growing slick with her.

‘Benedict, I…’

‘Yes?’ He replied, a clarity in his tone that incensed her as she lost more and more control. She struggled through the ecstatic feeling to speak, to say what she was so desperate for him to hear.

‘It is only that… Oh… I should like to learn the things that… that please you too.’

‘You wish to learn my secrets?’ He said teasingly, planting kisses on her neck as her cries grew stronger once more.

‘Well, you are my husband.’ She replied on an outbreath, the sensation becoming almost too much to bear. He made a mumbled noise in response to her words, leaning his head into her shoulder.

She was right, he was her husband. He seemed to grow aware of it then, that he could feel his wife (his wife!) so completely, dripping down his fingers.

‘There is only one thing I want from you, as my wife,’ he said, mouth still distractedly kissing into her neck, ‘And you know what that is, can you do it for me?’

She purred in agreement, her neck rolling back as he increased the pressure of his thumb once more. He felt as her nails began to dig into his flesh, drawing tighter and tighter circles into her centre, unrelenting as she continued to murmur in pleasure, her noises reaching a sudden crescendo, ‘Benedict... Benedict…’

She came apart in his hands, an insatiable desire drawn all across his face, ‘My Sophie,’ he whispered, easing his movements as she came back to earth. Soft tendrils of hair were clinging to the edges of her face, her cheeks glowing as though she was wearing rouge.

He found his way out of her many skirts, seeking to protect the fabric from their mess. He brought his fingers to her, touching at the space where her lips parted with a simple instruction: ‘Taste’. She took him in her mouth, drawing in the sweet-bitter flesh, letting herself feel the liquid silk settle on her tongue, tasting herself as he watched, awestruck.

‘You are quite perfect, Sophie,’ he insisted, allowing his fingers from her mouth, and running them into his own, consuming what was left in a slow, languid motion.

‘You are not so bad yourself, Benedict.’ She wanted to say more, but so often in these moments words seemed to fail her, her mind thrumming with the very essence of him.

She continued to gaze upon his fingers as he reached down to help himself yet more fruit, ‘The taste will pair quite well with the strawberries, I’m sure.’

Chapter Text

His motions were smooth, graceful, entirely as she remembered them. Then again, last time she had been hiding behind a tree. Now she was sat by the edge of the lake, watching as he swished and turned in the water. It felt a little like a performance, his steady movements, the way as he rose the sun glistened off his shoulder blades.

‘Will you not join me?’ He asked, wading towards the grass bank where she sat.

‘In this dress?’ She retorted. Such a lovely smile on her face, he thought. The dress was lilac, one of the first ones made for her after their betrothal. The design was rather plain, but she thought it was beautiful, more beautiful than anything she had dared dream of in the years past.

‘Just take off the dress,’ He suggested, ‘Wear what is underneath.’

She stood, flipping her hair over her shoulder, ‘If you insist.’ Slowly she worked her fingers over the buttons that ran down her spine, pulling the fabric over her head.

Benedict stretched out his hand to her, the cool damp making her shiver. As she lowered herself into the water, he caught hold of her, pulling her down to meet his eye.

‘It is most cold,’ She said, arms wrapping around his shoulders to meet at the base of his neck, ‘I fear you were dishonest when you said the water was comfortable.’

‘I am never dishonest,’ he told her, pouting as if to have been affronted, ‘It has a habit of growing on you, and the warmth of the sun is comfortable, is it not?’

‘I suppose it is,’ she said, glancing to her right, caught in its glare before becoming distracted, ‘Are those not peculiar clouds?’

Benedict turned back, moving her with him, ‘Indeed they are.’

A singular flurry on an otherwise unmarked sky, white at first but shadowed a striking grey.

Turning her from the sky, he caught her chin in his spare hand, planting a brief kiss on her lips, then a second, before returning to himself; ‘I mustn’t get distracted from my purpose, I promised I would teach you to swim.’

She looked at the water apprehensively, her shift floating around her, water drenching over her chest, a chill running through her core. He caught this look instinctively, beckoning her eyes to him, ‘Do not be afraid, I am not going anywhere.’

‘Very well,’ she said, offering a final kiss on the cheek before he began gently to kick his legs back, drawing them both further into the water.

It began with a lot of splashing, much of it playful, occasionally retaliation for a misplaced movement. Then there was laughter, Benedict scooping her up in his arms and twirling her against the current, supporting her back so that she might float.

They did not notice the rain at first, for all their splashing. Nor did not notice the clouds shifting overhead, so concerned were they with each other, unable to stop giggling as he taught her to tread water, encouraging her to push away from him and stand on her own.

When it did begin to pour, gradually at first and then all at once, he hoisted her onto the bank first, clambering out after her. She was sliding on her shoes, Benedict pulling on his trousers. He grabbed the blanket, and with a flourish and a one-sided smile, wrapped it around her, telling her then that they should run.

So they began to pace through the trees, arriving soon at the lawn before the house. The rain had picked up, smattering down with an aggression that seemed almost to hurt their bare skin, their clothes already sodden, hair slicking against his head, her shoulders. Along the final stretch, he grabbed for her hand, hastening her along through Mrs. Crabtree’s vegetable garden. He recalled, in that moment, watching her stumble through these gardens from his window, after tripping her steps were so careful, controlled.

Now they were racing to the door, a wild spirit possessing her as she sprinted forward, in most impractical shoes, huddling her shoulders with the soaked blanket. Moments before he could reach for it, she turned the handle, the hall silent, everything composed. They took in the silence for just a moment before bursting into inexplicable, exasperated laughter.

Sophie dropped the blanket to the floor, her damp shift exposing much of her chest, skin on edge from the cold. Benedict too remained in a state of undress, his torso slicked, flecks of rain still dripping down his shoulders. He shook out his hair like a puddle-drunk dog, running his hands over his face.

Sophie had already started to fold the blanket, tucking it neatly into the top of the basket. He faltered, about to suggest she stop, but recognising in the moment that calling attention to what she was doing would only pronounce it further. She was not his keeper. Nor did he wish for her to be. And yet, here she was, correcting and organising before he even realised what she was doing. She was soaked through, shivering, and yet her first instinct was to ensure the environment was orderly.

He found himself chewing on his lower lip as she searched for a convenient place to lay the basket. It was not that he wished to change her, never that. More that he sought to change himself, to see the world through her eyes. To find some commonality in their experience, if such an intersection existed. To elevate her, to take care of her, to serve her in any way he could.

‘Come,’ he said at last, steering her softly by the shoulder, a lingering kiss on the side of her head, ‘I believe these conditions call for a warm bath.’

Chapter Text

He wandered through the dimly lit corridors, early-evening light filtering softly through the windows. In his hands a bundle of letters, his sketchbook, a candlestick. The flame was drifting this way and that as he walked, wax dribbling unevenly down its sides.

He turned the doorhandle slowly, presuming Sophie already in their bedroom. She was probably reading, a habit she had become most accustomed to over the past month or two. She had told him, in one of many whispered late-night conversations, how secretive her love of reading had become under the watchful eye of Araminta Gun. Even the choice to sneak in a few more chapters at night had become fretful, for fear she would oversleep the next morning. It was in moments such as those that he was forced to wipe tears from his eyes, grateful that the room was dark, and that she could not see him as he did so.

And there she was, laying on top of the bed linens, her body turned away from him.

‘Sophie,’ he whispered, laying down his papers on a table beside the bed. He placed the candle down more carefully, but even as he did several flecks of wax dripped on his hands – hot at first, quickly cooling, hardening.

She did not stir. He moved to the other side of the bed, peeling the wax from his fingers, already stained with ink and charcoal. He said her name again, quietly, watching as her closed eyes began to twitch with awareness. As they flickered open, noticing him, she smiled.

‘Benedict,’ she said, her voice hoarse with sleep. She moved a strand of hair away from her face, rubbed her hands over her eyes, ‘It appears I fell asleep.’

‘Well, that is evident,’ he mused, ‘Not that I wished to disturb you, only it seems a peculiar hour to be lying down.’

‘Yes, you are right,’ she agreed, leaning her head up, ‘I do not know what has come over me, I have found myself quite exhausted of late.’

He laid a hand beside her, tentatively stroking her hair, ‘It is no trouble, if you must rest, then rest.’

‘No,’ she said, seeming to come to her senses all at once, ‘I should save my sleep for later, I am not at all ready for bed, and there is still dinner to be had.’

Benedict relaxed himself into the bed frame, his shoulders sinking down, ‘I can always sneak some food up here, if need be, and then we might settle in for the night.’

Not too long ago, the thought of sitting in bed so early, of shutting himself off from the world before it was even dark outside, had seemed unthinkable. But with Sophie, he would have shut himself inside the room forevermore. Yes, there was a certain fun to be found in a few glasses of drink, a game of cards, chatter, but there had come a point where all of it felt futile, an endless cycle of repetitions: the same people, the same conversations, the same social pretences. At least, he could say with certainty, this was real.

Sophie sat up now, ‘I must admit I am not feeling particularly hungry, but if you are, you should definitely find yourself something to eat.’

‘I will be fine,’ he assured, ‘I can always run downstairs later – but how are you?’

‘I am quite all right,’ she said, ‘All the better for your company.’

That made him smile, one of those closed mouth, contented smiled she had come to recognise.

She carried on, stifling a yawn, ‘I can’t help but feel rather disorganised, I came back here to read my book, I still had plans for the day, but I suppose I have messed those up now.’

He raised an eyebrow, ‘It is no matter, there is always tomorrow.’

He knew she was not accustomed to doing so little, to living without a rigid structure to organise her. The pressure had eased, naturally, over the weeks they had lived at the cottage, but he knew somewhere within her the sense of urgency remained.

She stood from the bed, straightening out her dress, ‘I was going to check with Mrs Crabtree about the orders for tomorrow, and Mr Crabtree seemed very keen on showing me his latest project.’

‘They will not be angry…’ He said, trying to meet her eyes, ‘…If you do not fulfil those duties today. They do not mind at all, Sophie.’

‘But I promised…’

‘You are clearly tired,’ He interjected, ‘Please take care of yourself, if not just for now.’

There was something sorrowful in his voice. She noticed it instantly.

‘You know that is not as easy for me as it is for you.’

‘Sophie,’ he began, but nothing seemed to follow.

He was not too proud to fall at her feet, to beg her, after all he had done it before. But he was quite aware, in that moment, that no amount of begging could change the way she had learned to exist. If her mind was ever to change, it would take time. Part of him felt selfish, wondered if he wanted these things for her only because they already existed for him.

‘Very well,’ he said, sighing, ‘If you should wish to go downstairs, I will not stop you.’

‘I appreciate that,’ She replied, trying to smile kindly despite the tension between them, ‘I shall not be too long.’

And then he was alone. He let himself sink down into the mattress, overwhelmed by the feeling that he had mis-stepped. As experienced as he was in other matters, he had to admit he was no authority on love, nor in being a good husband. And yet he loved her, he loved her, he loved her. He had adored her even when every shred of good sense within him demanded otherwise.

Everyone had told him that reformed rakes made the best husbands, not least his own mother. And he had been told on very good authority just what a rake he was. His reformation, that had well and truly solidified – entirely Sophie’s doing of course – and he had found the experience quite a revelation. He did not doubt that he could be faithful, loyal, devoted; he had always loved to have a muse, an object of affection, a lofty aspiration. What concerned him, on the occasions he dared think of it, was whether he could truly be a partner, whether he could withstand the push and pull that a good marriage required. Somebody he could challenge, somebody who forced him to challenge himself.

But Sophie was gentle, and she was unendingly kind. And she had experienced more than he could imagine. She was stronger than him. He did not find that threatening, if anything it forced him to reflect upon himself. His own weaknesses. He had taken pride in treading a bohemian path, in pushing the boundaries of what others deemed acceptable, in seeking honesty amongst the artifice of the ton. He realised then that the most honest thing he could do, the most boundary-pushing, was simply to let Sophie be herself.

Yes, it pained him, seeing his wife trouble herself needlessly. It would likely continue to pain him for some time. But all he could do was be there for her, take her as she was. For that was why he loved her. And in marrying Sophie he had tied himself to her pain. He could not simply banish it. Such was the life he had chosen, the life he would choose time and time again.

The door opened. She stood in the entryway sheepishly.

‘It is all sorted,’ she told him, slowly pacing into the room. She was very aware of the look on his face, the disturbed countenance he could not disguise.

‘I am happy you are back,’ he told her, attempting to sound merry before sinking into earnestness, ‘I missed you, and… I was wrong to try and prevent your leaving.’

She nodded politely, ‘I am aware it may be difficult for you to understand, but for a long time my ability to perform a task, and to perform it well, was the only agency I was afforded.’

‘I know, and I am sorry to have questioned you in that.’

She was beginning now to undo the fastenings of her dress, a very nonchalant motion he barely observed; ‘No, you were correct. It is not right, especially now that the shackles which bind me exist only in my own mind. But that is my problem to solve, not yours.’

‘Sophie…’

‘I know you would change it for me, if you could, as you have already changed so much of my world.’ She carried on, releasing her hair from its braid, ‘So believe me when I say that I love you, and I appreciate your care.’

He was able to raise a smile now, if only a little, in recognition of how wonderous she was. She sat on the edge of the bed in her shift, reaching a hand to him, their fingers interlinking as he met her in the middle.

‘Now, if you will let me, I should very much like to exercise some agency of my own.’

He raised an eyebrow.

‘Take off your clothes,’ she instructed. She had hoped he would understand her meaning implicitly.

A sudden sense of urgency about him, he sat up, pulling his shirt over his head. He began to unbutton his breeches, abandoning them on the floor before he moved to her.

‘No,’ she said, ‘Stay where you were.’

‘Sophie,’ his voice quivered, almost embarrassed by how she could overpower him so quickly.

‘Benedict,’ she replied, her voice clear and cool, taking off her shift now in a swift motion. Looking at him, she smothered a grin, her impact upon him already visible.

She perched herself upon his thighs, savouring this perspective of him. His ridiculous hair, and those eyes, pupils the size of Jupiter by now. She leant over him, a kiss that lingered as he grew evidently hungrier, guiding her to continue with his fingers interlaced in her hair.

Pulling back, she couldn’t help but find a hint of amusement in the look on his face, his desire so easily discerned. He reached his hand down her back, tracing from her spine to her hips, smoothing his fingers over her skin, tracing further still to her front.

‘No,’ she told him quietly, ‘It is my turn.’

Taking him in her hand, she felt him twitch with anticipation before she lightly closed her hand around him, stroking upwards to his tip. She heard the breath catch in his throat as she carried on, repeating the motion now with greater confidence, watching the small jolts of his muscles, in his shoulders, his neck, his eyes beginning to drift closed.

‘Does it feel all right?’ she asked, observing with great chagrin the way he nodded, struggling to purse his lips before a noise of pleasure could escape them.

It did not take long for him to attempt to sit up, reaching for her, but with her spare hand she pushed him back down by the shoulder.

‘But Sophie…’ he began, almost whimpering at what he now felt, ‘If this is to go further, I only want for you to be prepared – prepared to take me.’

‘And you do not believe that this is sufficient to arouse sensation in me?’ She asked, her expression coy, ‘You may find yourself surprised, Mr. Bridgerton.’

‘Well, Mrs. Bridgerton…’ he began to retort, a rather pleased look on his face, before he was distracted by Sophie taking him inside her, so warm with wet and so suddenly full of him.

He could not help but buck his hips against her, then in a steadying motion reached for her hand, taking it to his mouth and kissing at her palm, indulging himself in her. They were such wonderful hands, he had always thought so, and yet he found himself growing fonder of them still.

Sophie pushed herself forwards against him, feeling him deeply as she rocked with the growing movements of his body, a sense of urgency compounding within him. He was still attempting to distract himself with her hands, placing kisses on her knuckles, paying her fingers most undue attention. To release himself now would be to take for granted a most incredible feeling.

‘I wish to know something, Benedict.’ Sophie said in a breathy voice, causing her husband to finally pull himself from her hand. Looking up at her, she was practically angelic, almost glowing.

‘Y-yes?’

‘Tell me again those reasons you wish to breed me.’

She felt him jolt within her.

His first few words seemed to be mumbles, still trying lamentably not to let himself finish there and then.

‘Just the idea of you,’ he said, ‘So very beautiful and so very much mine.’

The resistance was growing too much to bear.

‘That a part of me might live inside you, that I might-’

Too late. She could tell from the look on his face. A playful smirk, not borne from embarrassment but an admission of his weakness, as they both felt him release. At last he managed to pull himself up, wrapping his arms around her, pulling her so close to him that she thought they might merge into one. He dealt out many kisses, short and excitable as if to tell her she had won.

‘You, my love, are far too much to handle.’

Chapter Text

Dearest Sophie,

I can only imagine how tremendously bored you must be already, having lived with my brother for two whole months. Has he made you pour over his many sketches yet? Has he asked your opinion as to whether he has achieved the correct proportion in rendering this object or that? Has he boasted of his great ability to fly a kite, only to make a poor excuse when it becomes lodged in a tree? I pray you possess enough fortitude to cope.

The new lady’s maid is not nearly as interesting as you, nor as well-read. I miss most greatly your joining in our conversations, although Hyacinth and I have found some sense of common ground since your departure. It seems to me that people of a romantic disposition (and I include your husband in this) do often possess hidden depths, even if their surface appears quite fanciful.

To that end, I remain vexed that I did not notice the relationship developing between yourself and Benedict – and to think you were the lady in silver he went on about so much. Surely you are one of the most interesting people I have had the pleasure of meeting, and I suppose that too is why you are so right for him (although I ask that you do not tell him I find him interesting). Sophie, I feel truly fortunate that I may now call you my sister. This family seems always to be getting bigger in the most unexpected ways.

Do tell me about your many adventures, and do share what you have been reading, I am always searching for my next favourite story. I would have written sooner, but Mama insisted I gave you some respite on your honeymoon. She tells me we may be able to visit soon, should Benedict invite us. I trust you will put in a good word.

Yours,
Eloise

Benedict leant back in his chair, folding his arms, ‘To think we have been gone so long, and she chooses only to write to you.’

Sophie placed down the letter, a pleased look forming on her lips, ‘Your sister and I became quite close in our time together, as close I suppose as a maid and a lady can be.’

Mrs Crabtree drew back from the table, gathering the dinner plates, ‘You should send word to your mother, Benedict, it is about time you hosted your family.’

‘But are we not having so much fun, just the four of us?’ He asked, an expression on his face that reminded Mrs Crabtree of him as a boy, the same face he would pull when he spilled his tea or dropped marbles all over the floor.

Rain had been beating at the windows of the cottage for several hours now, the windows creaking with the wind like a ship rocking on the sea.

‘It would be so lovely to see Eloise, and the rest of your family too.’ Sophie said, taking a sip from her teacup.

‘Why don’t you two make the trip to London? It is but a few hours away,’ Mr Crabtree suggested, having been silent for some time.

Benedict waved a hand of indifference, ‘I am quite content to keep my wife away from the prying eyes of the ton, we have only been married a little while.’

He reached his hands across the table to hers, squeezing them affectionately.

‘But you quite enjoy a ball, do you not?’ Mrs Crabtree asked, looking now at Sophie.

‘Oh, certainly,’ Sophie began, ‘But I believe I would find it quite too much right now, what with all that is new in my life.’

‘Very well,’ Mrs Crabtree sighed, returning to the table with the teapot refilled.

‘Thank you, Mrs Crabtree.’ Benedict said, watching as she did not sit back down.

‘I must retire, my lord, it is getting late and the two of you still have so much to get through.’

She lingered in the doorway a moment, waiting for Mr Crabtree to abide with her. He took a final sip of his tea, unaware of her position.

‘William!’ she hissed across the room, ‘We should leave them be.’

Mr Crabtree grumbled as he stood himself up, bowing slightly towards the pair, ‘I bid you goodnight.’

There appeared to have been a delay in London, and everything had arrived at once. Perhaps something to do with the influx of stormy weather. On the table there sat a stack of correspondence, letters from the solicitor, numerous household affairs Benedict needed to sort. He was grateful that he only had to deal with personal accounts now, rather than continuing to organise the entire Bridgerton estate on Anthony’s behalf.

Sophie was peeling back the seal on another letter of her own, the script on the front she recognised instantly. Benedict raised his head from his own papers as he watched her begin to chuckle as she scanned the page.

‘It is Alfie,’ she told him, ‘His reply to my last letter; it appears the new Lady Penwood is quite the fascinating employer.’

‘Cressida,’ Benedict replied, his mind overcome by visions of gaudy bows and sequins, ‘Is fascinating indeed.’

‘She has suggested that the maids all wear pink, Alfie is quite concerned the footmen too will soon have a new uniform.’

Benedict laughed, ‘That sounds about right.’
‘I do miss him,’ She said, ‘But even if I were to travel to the city, I doubt I would have much opportunity to see him.’

His voice softened now, as he loosened the cravat around his neck with his fingers, ‘We can go back to London, should you wish to.’

‘No, no,’ she put the letter down, ‘It would be far too overwhelming.’

‘How do you mean?’

She let out a sigh, the candles on the table flickering. Sophie lowered her head into her folded arms, looking up at him with quite a nervous expression.

‘It appears we have both lost track of time,’

‘Well it is rather late; we can retire to bed now if you are tired?’

‘No, Benedict, we have… my courses, they were supposed to arrive several weeks ago.’

‘Oh,’

‘I cannot believe I did not notice sooner; it has been some time since I looked at my diary.’ She appeared almost bemused with herself.

‘One does seem to lose track of time in the country,’ he said, the edge of his mouth lifting a little, ‘But this is most excellent news, is it not?’

He reached for her across the table.

‘Of course, it is everything I…’ she tried to stifle a yawn with the back of her hand, ‘Just, it is not quite certain yet, we must wait and see. Perhaps it is a good sign after all that I am feeling most unlike myself.’

‘Sophie,’ he began, scraping his chair back from the table, moving himself round to where she sat, wrapping himself around her, ‘I do not know what to say.’

She turned back to him, their faces very close. Raising a weak smile, she said, mostly assuring herself, ‘It is all right.’

‘It is more than all right, it is wonderful.’ He replied, laying a kiss on her temple, and for a moment she thought she could see tears welling in his big blue eyes, ‘I find myself quite overcome.’

‘My love,’ she said, then again, softer, ‘my love.’

‘Come, let us get you to bed.’

Sophie went to pick up her letters, but Benedict was fast in grabbing her hand. ‘I will carry everything,’ he told her, bundling up his own papers with hers, snuffing out the candles, leaving the room in darkness.

Together they made their way upstairs. He did not portray it, but his legs seemed to tremble as they reached the final steps. He had thought about it so many times, from that first trepidatious night together in Bridgerton House, in all honesty. He had wrecked himself with sleeplessness then, aware so suddenly of the consequences should she be carrying his child. Even the notion of a future existing where they might be together, the impossibility of it then. The idea of a baby, their baby, growing up without him, without all the love it so deserved. But they were safe now. He had to remind himself of that, sometimes, that they were safe.

Everything he wanted was right in front of him. It was here, now.

He helped her out of her dress, unfastening the cords of her stay so she might get into bed. She watched as he tucked the clothes, as well as he knew how, into their drawer.

‘I love you, Benedict,’

He turned then, untying the knot of his cravat, slipping it from around his collar. ‘I love you too, Sophie, both of you.’

Both of them. She had not truly allowed it to feel real, to consider the fact in earnest, before she had spoken to him. But he took it so naturally. There was an ease in the way he handled his words, the way he looked at her.

He turned back around on the pretence of folding away his shirt and trousers. He stilled his breath, pushing air out through his nose, ran his hands over his eyes. She watched these motions with curiosity, observing how the muscles in his back rose and fell. She had always understood that he possessed a strong, emotional core, but it had been a while now since she had seen him so moved. Not since their wedding, perhaps, had he appeared so dumbfounded, tripping over himself with feeling.

‘You’re smiling,’ he observed, joining her in the bed.

‘I’m grateful,’ she said, turning to face him, ‘That my husband has such a big heart.’

‘Is that so?’ He asked, taking her chin on his fingers, lifting her into a kiss, ‘It is all the better to love you with.’

Chapter Text

It had humoured her enormously, listening to Benedict battle with the housekeeper over their use of the kitchen. ‘You are going to the village anyway,’ he had reminded her, ‘And Sophie has already promised she will not let me touch your oven.’
She was not sure what had won her over in the end, but suspected in was that special breed of charm he possessed, all cheeky grins and eye contact, perhaps even a particularly pathetic pout.

It had crossed her mind that it might go wrong. She couldn’t say how, but her husband’s penchant for folly had often resulted in strange happenings, or so she had been told. His siblings found great joy in sharing such tales, like the time he had consumed a great amount of opium before an important family dinner and loudly enthused about the beauty of the candles in front of their guests.

Nevertheless there he was, hands on his hips, waiting for her to instruct him. He seemed excited, positively thrilled at the prospect of making biscuits. ‘What do I do,’ He asked, ‘Where do we begin?’

‘It would be a start if we gathered the ingredients,’ she told him, pacing before Mrs Crabtree’s shelves for the flour and the sugar. He quickly joined her, watching as she selected each jar with care.

‘It appears there is no nutmeg,’ she noted, placing down the items on the countertop.

‘Will that prevent the biscuits from baking correctly?’ He asked, a look of sincere concern on his face.

‘No, Benedict,’ she said, stifling a laugh, ‘It will not inhibit us.’

He seemed pleased with that, expressing his delight by curling around her, wrapping his arms around her waist, tracing down over her stomach. It was not evident in the morning dress she wore, but she had started to grow. The change was only slight, but they had both noticed it. As he wound himself around her, he began to nuzzle his way through her hair, kissing her neck.

‘Do you wish to learn or not?’ She asked, not harshly, but with enough control that he pulled away, standing again at her side.

‘Yes, I wish to learn. I will make myself a useful man yet.’

‘Very well,’ she said, instructing him to take butter from the crock and add it to the bowl, combining it with a measurement of flour. Telling him to mix it with his fingers.

‘With my fingers?’

‘Yes.’

‘As you wish,’ he pushed up his sleeves and started to mix the ingredients together, tentatively at first, growing in confidence as he went. Flour was beginning to jump from the bowl, dusting his wrists, falling onto the counter.

‘Is it supposed to look so muddled?’

She nodded, leaning against the counter to watch him. She instructed him then to add the spices, explaining each required amount to him. When each component was combined, he removed his hand, wiping it over his forehead.
Noticing a streak of flour running from his hairline to his eyebrow, a grin appeared on her face.

‘What is it?’ He asked, ‘Have I done something incorrectly?’

‘No, no,’ she assured, ‘It is just, you appear to have smudged yourself.’

Reaching to him, she ran her thumb over his forehead, lingering as she reached his temple. He seemed to still for a moment, catching her eyes with his, a look of affection passing over him as he drew his lips together.

‘If you do not mind,’ He said, shattering the moment with a shameless smirk, ‘I think you will find I am here to learn, not to fend off your endless flirtations.’

She rolled her eyes but quickly rose to plant a singular kiss him on the cheek.

‘Enough, you.’ He swatted her away playfully, ‘I should like to impress with these, so help me, will you?’

Sophie let out a breath, tried to contain the look of joy growing on her face, proceeding to explain the rest of the process to him.

***

‘Are they finished?’ He asked, trying to peer at the tray in the oven while she assessed the shape and colour of the biscuits.

‘Almost,’ She assured, closing the creaky door, ‘It will be only a few minutes.’

‘And they look all right?’

‘They look wonderful,’ she told him, putting down the heavy cloth in her hand. She leaned her face against his chest, listening to the beat of his heart.

Running a hand through her hair, he settled on her shoulder, saying, ‘That was not nearly as difficult as I had been led to believe.’

‘So you might do this again, I suppose,’

‘Indeed, I will make as many biscuits as you desire,’

‘Quite the dangerous precedent,’ she joked. They had discussed the night before how the manifestations of her condition were changing; she was growing more wakeful, her appetite increasing again. Although the initial changes had been subtle, it became quite apparent to the two of them that these were signs she was with child. They had managed to disguise such symptoms from the Crabtrees, hoping to relish in shared secrecy until it became too apparent to hide.

When the biscuits were removed from the oven, she had to swat his hand away to prevent his burning himself, ‘This is exactly what Mrs Crabtree warned me of.’

Benedict made a sound of mild amusement, observing with great interest the results of his handiwork.

‘Would it be entirely ridiculous if I told you I was proud of myself?’ He asked.

‘You should always take pride in the things you put care into.’ She told him, dashing his hand from the hot tray once more.

‘Dare I say I am not too familiar with that concept.’

The words seemed to have little effect on him, but she struggled not to frown.

‘Well I am proud of you, Benedict, even for the small things.’

Chapter Text

After a season of particularly rough storms, the skies seemed to have eased. Although clouds still mottled the sky, there were shades of blue appearing again, glimpses of sunshine at the height of the day.

It seemed a perfect atmosphere for painting, the scene quite charming in its variety of colours and forms. There was something about it that felt almost moving, he thought, although it was equally possible that marriage had simply made him soft and sentimental. With every glance outside he was reminded of her, not just of their adventures at the cottage, but the fact that this was their domain now. This was their home.

His palette was already messy, streaked with paints he had used in the portrait of his wife, further streaks from more recent, unfinished works. His latest charcoals had been fine enough, many sketches of the house and the grounds, and of course drawings of her. But there felt some lingering restlessness in him, a pressure to commit, to prove himself still.

On his canvas, he had etched in the basic elements: the path and its surrounding flower beds, the distant field, the nebulous clouds that drifted above. Simple colours had been blocked in, the lush green of the grass, a simple blue for the ether.

And yet, something was wrong. Perhaps the scene was moving too fast, the clouds in some hurry to pass, to disturb the composition. He sat back on his stool, dropped the palette from his hand, surveying what was already there. He sighed, passing a hand over his temples where an ache had started to form. Perhaps it was the oils, their acrid stench fogging up the room. Perhaps it was simply that he was not very good.
Standing up, he went for the door. Perhaps a drink or two would settle the nerves; inebriation had always helped him get into the artistic mood. He pulled the handle, and there she was. She seemed most shocked that he was there, just a few feet away.

‘I was just coming to find you,’

‘I was about to get a drink,’ he admitted, a self-conscious, lop-sided smile forming.

‘Then I shall walk with you.’

‘No, it is no worry, I don’t need a drink. Could I perhaps trouble you with something?’

‘What is it?’

He stepped back into the room, ‘Take a look at this,’ he gestured half-heartedly at the easel set up by the window, ‘Tell me what is wrong with it.’

‘Benedict…’ She moved in, eyeing the canvas.

‘I will not be offended; I simply wish to know where I am going wrong.’

She was silent, studying the work, her eyes flitting out the window and back.

‘I cannot say there is anything wrong with it, it all seems very… proportional.’

‘Proportional?’

‘Yes, all the shapes are correct, there is nothing wrong with it.’

He expelled a breath, letting himself fall back onto the couch in the middle of the room.

‘I wish for you to be honest with me.’

‘I am being honest. It is only in its early stages, but I cannot say that there is anything in it that alarms me.’

He was covering his face with his hands. She wished he wouldn’t. He would have been far easier to understand if his expressions were visible. She went to the couch, perching herself on its edge, laying a hand on his calf.

‘Benedict, what is this about?’

His words, which emerged slowly, were muffled by his hands, ‘What if I cannot do it? What if I am destined to be forever mediocre?’

‘We both know you are more than capable, need I remind you of what hangs over our mantle?’
He lifted his hands now, letting them flop to his sides, ‘I may have produced one good painting, but one painting does not make an artist.’

She scoffed, ‘I think that is quite ridiculous, what of your sketches, what of your time at the Academy?’

‘The Academy my brother paid me to attend, because I surely could not have done it alone?’ He huffed, ‘All of my work, all that I have tried, and the conclusion still seems to be that I am simply unremarkable.’

‘I admit I did not know that about the Academy.’ She said, stiffening in her seat.

He rolled over as a grumpy child might, ‘That is the family, Sophie, each of us thwarted by our very particular circumstances. No, I cannot just be a man, I must be a Bridgerton first, my brother made that perfectly clear.’

She stood at this, walking over to the window, surveying the scene he wished to paint.

‘Perhaps it is true that your family have prevented you from developing your own name, but you can never deny what a privilege it is to be a part of it. You have never known what it means to be lonely, to be unsupported, to have nothing…’

‘I did not mean…’

‘I know what you meant.’ She said, ‘I know very well what you meant, that it pains you to exist within the confines of the most respectable family in London, that a pressure exists there to be perfectly accomplished, but that is not reason enough to give up altogether.’

When she turned around, he was sitting up. She could see in his eyes an awareness that had not been there previously, that he had come back down to earth.

‘I am sorry.’

She nodded, raking through her hands with her hair, an expression somewhere between exasperation and bewilderment.

‘Come here,’ he said, looking to the space beside him.

She sat, pondering.

‘It strikes me that perhaps you are getting in your own way, it would certainly not be the first time.’

He gave a wry smile, wrinkles forming around his eyes.

‘You are so concerned with being remarkable,’ She told him, ‘That you cannot let yourself first be unremarkable, for everything must start somewhere.’
This gave him pause for consideration. He did not like to admit it to himself, but part of him was concerned with ideas of genius, with the thought that each new piece might be his magnum opus. That he might be grand, revered, worthy of respect eventually.

He leant over to kiss his wife on the cheek, ‘You are so much smarter than me.’

She shrugged her shoulders, ‘I would not say that. I would say, perhaps, that my mind is a little clearer. It is so much easier to have no expectations, than to…’

‘… Be clouded with notions of grandeur.’ He finished.

‘Quite,’ She replied, her expression shifting a little, hands moving to her stomach, ‘Oh.’

‘What is wrong?’ He asked, immediately noticing her change.

‘The baby,’ She said, a startled grin rising now, ‘I can feel it.’

He reached out a hand, hardly daring to touch. There still seemed some impossibility in it, some unrecognised potential.

‘Here,’ she said, holding his hand in hers, reaching around her belly.

‘I cannot feel anything,’ He said, ‘Perhaps I am in the wrong place.’

‘It is subtle,’ she said, quietening as if to listen, ‘But it is there, our baby.’

‘Our baby,’ he rolled his lower lip over his teeth, quite overwhelmed.

She turned to him, looking mildly amused, ‘It is as if it was reacting to you, as if it knew you were there.’

That was more than enough to kiss her properly, wrapping his hand around her neck, holding her face close to his. Even if she was exaggerating, indulging him, she understood how deeply he needed them both. He felt a warmth spreading through him, an ease to be found in the softness of her mouth, her gentle touching of his arm, her very presence.

How foolish, to forget that he was more than just himself, his name, that there existed joy ahead of him. That life continued to spring forth, whether he could recognise it or not. What could he possibly uncover, fretting over the shape his great masterpiece would take, when he was already spoilt for riches?

Chapter Text

The new footman was helping the guests from their carriage. He had come recommended from the Dowager Viscountess herself, ever skilled as she was in procuring the best staff. This footman, Fred, had arrived with his wife, Tess, a most charming girl who assisted in the kitchen and gardens. The Crabtrees had seemed most grateful for the company, and the help. Mostly, Sophie and Benedict were glad that the conversation about acquiring staff may now be over.

‘Mother!’ Benedict greeted, rushing forth to hug her.

Eloise, Hyacinth, and Gregory made first for Sophie, each embracing her with enthusiasm. Francesca was the last to emerge from the carriage, unassuming as she was prone to be. When she found her brother’s eye, she offered a meek smile.

By the time Benedict had greeted his four siblings, Sophie had managed to find Violet, who swept her into a warm hug.

‘Sophie, you do look well!’

‘I am indeed. I do hope the journey was not too tiresome.’

Violet waved a hand of indifference, ‘The carriage may have been rather full, but everyone was most excited to visit.’

It had been easy to forget just how maternal Violet was, especially to those who were not her children, but the feeling then seemed to pierce Sophie in the heart, a comforting sort of warmth washing over her.

‘I did hope,’ Sophie began, ‘That you and I might take tea while Benedict catches up with the others.’

‘That sounds excellent, Sophie’ Violet said, taking her hand now and squeezing it.

The plan had not been strategic, per se, but they had considered the best ways to deliver their news, how to do so delicately and with concern for Francesca, who, still in mourning, had now transitioned from black dresses to other surly colours. Benedict had found it very upsetting, explaining to Sophie the ghastly details of the days after John’s death, the many ways in which his sister had been violated, all in the name of propriety. How hard he had tried to stop it.

Sophie was, by now, quite visibly pregnant, but such high-waisted dresses did a lot of work in concealing the fact. They were no longer trying to hide it; everyone who lived at the house was well aware, but in circumstances such as these, the concealment was rather convenient.

Sophie and Violet took tea in the drawing room, the raucous sound of the siblings echoing from somewhere downstairs.

‘He was always so good with them,’ Violet said with a tight smile, speaking of Benedict and his younger siblings, ‘Of all my children, he seems to have the most natural way with humour, to lighten up a dark room, a role I imagine he took on after dear Edmund passed.’

‘He is most entertaining,’ Sophie agreed, ‘Although, I find, also capable of seriousness when needed.’

‘Well, that side of Benedict is relatively new to me,’ Violet admitted, ‘But there is a great deal of love and care within him, to be sure.’

‘We were hoping to share some news with you, on this visit.’

Sophie gulped. She did not know why nerves suddenly fluttered around her, but she supposed there were several possible reasons.

‘Yes?’ Violet responded, her head turning slightly with endearment.

‘I am with child,’ the words spilling out all at once, ‘You are to have another grandchild before the year is out.’

Violet’s face immediately lifted, an utter and unmistakeable joy shining from her. ‘Oh, Sophie, that is wonderful,’ she paused a second, ‘Was there a reason you wished to share this with me alone?’

‘I was hoping for your advice, actually. We are of course overjoyed, but we feel reluctant to share such happy news with Francesca at present, it hardly feels proper.’

‘That is most thoughtful, Sophie. As you know, it has been a most challenging time indeed. One hardly knows what to say when someone is experiencing such pain, even when you yourself have experienced it too.’

‘I have always found grief to be unique to each individual concerned, no two persons ever quite feeling it the same.’

‘Of course, you are most wise,’ Violet said, placing a hand over Sophie’s, ‘And I dare say such pain can be a source of great wisdom.’

‘I do not think it makes it any easier, though, telling Francesca.’

There was a shuffling noise in the doorway, both of them turning to see the very girl they were speaking of stood there, a placid look on her face.

‘My darling,’ Violet began, ‘Do come in.’

Francesca sat down across from them. ‘They are being quite loud,’ She said, ‘It is lovely to see them having so much fun, but yes, it is loud.’

‘That is quite all right, dear, you are welcome to join us.’

‘Were you speaking of me?’ Francesca asked, ‘When I came in? I heard my name…’

‘Uh,’ Violet’s voice caught in her throat. Her eyes flitted to Sophie and back to her daughter.
‘Francesca,’ Sophie said on an intake of breath. This was not how it was supposed to go, not how she had imagined it. But she also knew there were worse places to express it. ‘Benedict and I, we are… we are expecting a baby. I know this may not be easy news for you to receive, and I do not expect you to pretend to be happy if you are not...’

‘I know,’ she said.

‘You know?’ Violet asked, ‘How could you possibly…’

‘Well, perhaps I did not know, but I suspected. There is something different about you, Sophie - I do not mean visibly, something in the way that you seem, a different air about you, perhaps.’ Francesca went quiet a moment, before continuing, ‘I want you to know that I am happy, for both of you, even if it is difficult. You both deserve so much, such great happiness.’

Sophie tried to brush a tear away from her eye.

‘You deserve it too,’ Sophie said, ‘Happiness, among a many other things.’

She couldn’t help but feel as though she had said the wrong thing, watching Francesca look at them so plainly. It was then that Violet jumped in, assuring them both that there were numerous ways that happiness could be found, that bearing children was not the only way a woman could experience the fullness of life.

As they eventually got up to find the others, Francesca asked if she might give Sophie a hug. She found herself pulled in, the most amicable warmth in it, and drawing back Francesca was truly smiling, ‘You are a most thoughtful person, Sophie, and so very kind to have considered me.’

***

Dinner had now passed, and the guests had retired to their rooms for the night. Benedict and Sophie’s room was illuminated by the soft glow of candlelight, the pair lying together, talking and kissing, talking, kissing. The evening had passed pleasantly, particularly sharing their news with the rest of the visitors. He seemed happy; she told him.

‘It is one thing to love you, Sophie, but to share how much I love you with everyone else, that is quite another thing.’

It was a remarkable thing, she agreed, loving each other out loud. And they had fought hard enough to be able to love each other, to love each other publicly.

‘And now that you are mine,’ Benedict told her, tracing his hand down her side, the sensation tickling her, ‘You are mine forever, for as long as we might live.’

He began to nuzzle her, kissing her collarbone, the hollow at the centre of her neck. A small gasp escaped her as his hand reached her clit, rubbing a familiar circle into her.

‘Benedict,’ she breathed, ‘Your family are here.’

‘So we shall be quiet,’ he said, grinning devilishly, ‘I want you, I need you.’

She didn’t know what she had expected, whether their lovemaking would have slowed with the pregnancy, but it felt as though both their appetites had increased of late. There was a look he gave her, a new one now, this bewildering, all-consuming need. It was almost a look of anguish, the way his eyes grew wide with desperation. She saw it then as he hitched up her legs around him, watching her body rock back in pleasure.

‘You are so beautiful, Sophie,’ he said, ‘So beautiful like this, I wish I were able to capture you here in this moment.’

Pushing into her, he felt as she tightened around him, as if sating some deep hunger. He began with gentler strokes, his hands gripping her hips, a smirk of amusement as he listened to her purrs, her consciousness to suppress them.

‘It is alright,’ he said, returning to her mouth, ‘You need not make noise for me, I can tell already how much you want it.’

‘You are a knave, Benedict,’ she said with a wry smile, just before her breath seemed to leave her, his strokes growing harder, more determined.

‘A knave indeed,’ he drawled, returning a hand to her centre, rubbing over her in time with the motion of his hips.

He could not deny it. Just how much he wished to distil this, her very essence, to remember each and every sensation, to immortalise it so he might return whenever he wished. This feeling, like no other. The way she looked at him, eyes wide and overcome, the parting of her lips, the way she was growing, the increasing fullness of her, her stomach’s gentle protrusion above the hips. The fact that he was the only one to know her this way, to see her so completely.

‘Oh how I love you,’ he said, drawing little moans from her with each pass of his thumb over her centre, the heat inside her growing, ‘Come for me, my darling, please.’

As he felt her let go, he found himself swallowed by the feeling of her, their bodies so close as the heat began to intermingle, both smothered by that sense of wholeness. He stayed inside her, desperate to savour each stir of her body, kissing at her reddened lips with a hunger he knew he could never tame.

Chapter Text

Sophie had found it rather adorable, watching Benedict running around with his younger siblings, playing cards on the terrace, late-night brandies with Eloise and Francesca by the fireplace. She had known his mother was watching, surveying him for the tiny, almost-imperceptible ways he had changed in recent months. She had to assume it pleased her, not simply his being married and settled, but the great love that now evidently consumed him. This love, it seemed, let Violet relax her shoulders and simmer in quiet contentment.

It had grown tiresome though, this entertaining. Benedict found himself less urbane, less familiar with the customs that had once felt second nature. In truth, this was what he had always sought, to feel a separation between himself and the ton, a tangible breaking away from his established life. He remained fluent with his family: the same expressions, the same jokes, the same games, but he realised at some point in their visit that this required of him effort now. It did not feel like he had become a new man entirely, rather he found he was sinking further into himself, that each shift brought him deeper, closer to the truth of who he was.

And so they were alone again, just as the full heat of summer began to bear down on them from clear skies above. With the languid days, he felt himself growing softer at the edges, his clothes looser, face unshaven, lying on the cool tile floor of his studio. Sophie would often join him, sighing in contentment as her thighs melted into the ground, morning dress riding further up her legs the bigger she grew, her dark, shiny laid out across the tiles.

She loved to watch him sketch, the way he pressed his lips together in concentration, the flit of his fingers across the page, rubbing and smudging, his eyes glancing up at their subject, then quickly back down again. It felt like a dance, all his little rhythms and motions, but without any of the pressures of attending a ball.

Benedict tossed down his pad, Sophie spying over at his rendering of a Roman bust that stood in the other corner of the room. He had all the proportions correct, the thin aquiline nose and heavy brow, but the shading was not yet complete. He placed the stubs of his charcoal in a dish on the side table, dusty fingers stroking over his face, leaving him with mottled grey imprints on his cheeks.

She gave a little chuckle at this, studying him as he lay back, stretching out his legs, yawning. His contentedness turned into a grin as he caught her watching him, nudging at her foot with his own. ‘Sophie,’ he said, his voice low and smooth.
‘Benedict,’ she replied, prodding him back playfully.

‘Would you mind terribly if I drew you?’ he asked, putting on his slightly pathetic voice now, pushing out his lower lip.

It wasn’t that she disliked being drawn. He had done hundreds of sketches of her, more still if you counted those rushed, messy renderings of the lady in silver. Harder though, Sophie found, was sitting still, absorbing his penetrating gaze, accepting the attention he poured into her on those occasions. She had managed to sit for a few hours while he finished her portrait, but that had been in London, before they were wed, and the giddy excitement between them both had made it easier.

‘Of course you can,’ she said, his eyes widening with pleasant surprise, ‘But you will have to assist me if you wish for me anywhere but the floor.’

In lieu of response, he offered a hand, lifting her up to sit on the couch. His voice quiet, considering, he gave little instructions as he posed her, ‘Lie back, let your arms fall just there, arch your leg slightly. No, the other one, yes, like that.’

She wouldn’t tell him, at least not in that moment, but there was something that swirled in her when he decided her movements like that.

‘Now look at me,’ he said finally.

He grabbed again his paper and a remnant of charcoal, their eyes meeting momentarily as he began to trace the form of her body, fixated on the edge of a line that seemed to thread her whole body. From her arm, leant back, past her chest, hidden in its smock, along the widening of her hips, stretching right along her leg to the tip of her toes.

She did not speak, but gazed at him with a sleepy, attentive consideration, her eyelashes fluttering occasionally, the warmth of the day seeming to settle into her.

‘You look perfect,’ he told her, ‘A most brilliant muse.’

She gave a lazy smile, considering, and next looking up at her he noticed as her brows seemed heavy over her eyes. She spoke, at last: ‘You have taken many lovers, yes?’

He turned himself away from the page instantly, lips seeming to falter before he could collect himself, ‘Uh, yes – I suppose you could say I sowed my wild oats, perhaps a few times… How do you…’

She raised an eyebrow, ‘They do not name somebody the most notorious rake in London without… just cause.’

He gulped, for even if he didn’t regret a thing, he certainly wasn’t proud. His exploits had been… fine. Often enjoyable. Sometimes riotous. And yet it didn’t please him to be told this by someone else. Not least someone he loved.

‘I only wondered…’ She went on, ‘If any of them ever became the subject of your drawings.’

He had returned to his page now, carving shapes for the curvature of her breasts, her nipples peeking through the cotton of her dress in summer’s ripe warmth, a glowy sheen sitting on the exposed part of her chest. With his fingers he played with shadow and light, softening his marks where the dress seemed to cling to her body. Looking at her like this, he felt something pull within him, a desire simply to keep looking, to savour her in this state.

‘On occasion,’ He answered, ‘There were models at the academy, and sometimes I would sketch at a party, should the mood strike.’

‘I hope it was not wrong to ask,’ she said, shifting slightly on her hips, the weight of the baby most impossible to ignore.

‘No, you are welcome to,’ he told her, etching in some ruffles for the waist of the dress, ‘I wish for you to know everything, Sophie, I only wonder sometimes that it might alter your perception of me.’

‘I do not treat your rakishness with any real concern, as I hope you would not dwell on my past, the things that happened to me.’ She said, ‘Besides, Benedict, I knew very well your reputation when I met you – I had read Whistledown before.’

‘I hope I live up to the fable,’ He chuckled, adding soft details to her legs, the knot of her ankle bone, the arch of her foot.

‘You are even better than imagined,’ she told him, Benedict leaning over now to show her his sketch. She lingered on the drawing a while, the ease with which he had seemed to capture her, bringing shapes forth from nothing, even the way her hair cascaded, ‘It is so good, Benedict.’

‘Perhaps I will paint this scene, I should quite like to remember it,’ he told her, placing the drawing on the table now, ‘I should quite like to remember you, just as you are in this moment.’

Chapter Text

Mrs Crabtree was at the kitchen window, hands immersed in soap suds, crockery soaking in the sink. Tess, beside her, was polishing the tea service, watching out the window as the couple traipsed the gardens. Their hands were together, fingers interlaced as though worried they might lose one another amongst the flowers. In the afternoon sun, Sophie seemed almost to glow, her eyes never leaving him, a smile affixed on her face.

Her stomach was, by now, rather round, the cotton of her dress flowing quite naturally over the bump. The pair watched as Benedict knelt down, as if to propose, picking a flower from one of the beds, rising to tuck it behind her ear. Mrs Crabtree tutted under her breath, for although a part of her softened seeing him like this, she did not appreciate his desecrating her dahlias.

‘They seem the perfect picture of happiness,’ Tess said, unaware of Mrs Crabtree’s expression.

‘They do indeed,’ Mrs Crabtree agreed, ‘It has been most surprising to see him settled, but it does rather warm the senses.’

‘Surprising?’ Tess asked, admittedly naïve to all that had come before.

‘Such a restless child, Benedict,’ Mrs Crabtree told her, ‘Not at all like his brothers, often seeming disquieted by the ways of the world, although he did not tend to let on.’

‘He is most charming,’ Tess admitted, catching a look from Mrs Crabtree, ‘I only mean to say, he strikes me an extremely affable character.’

Outside, the pair had sat, their forms almost hidden by the flower beds now, prompting their spectators to move towards other topics of conversation.

He was still holding her hand, stroking between her thumb and finger with measured strokes, not saying anything. He possessed a look, Sophie thought, quite overcome, not unlike that first night in his bedchamber at Bridgerton House, overwhelmed by her. She had believed for much of her life that love was fickle, pliable, that even if it appeared it was sure to subside eventually. But not Benedict, his passion for her seemed only to grow with time.

‘I love you, Benedict,’ she said, not wishing to pull him from his reverie.

‘I love you too.’ He replied, turning briefly to the flowers, which seemed almost to tower over them, such bright hues pouring with sunlight, oranges and pinks and purples. A flight of bees drifting around the plants, perching at their centres.

His face seemed to change, weakening, a crease forming across his brow. His vision remained on the flowers, the insects dancing around, luxuriating in the richness of their colours.

She spoke his name, snapping him from his trance.

‘Sorry, I was quite distracted,’ he said, ‘Dragged away by thoughts.’

‘Thinking of what exactly?’ She asked, squeezing her hand in his.

‘The garden at Aubrey Hall,’ he told her, a half-truth, ‘The flowers in the garden, a day quite like this one.’ He looked up briefly at the unending blue, running his spare hand through his hair.

‘Are you all right?’ She asked, ‘You seem almost as if you have seen a ghost.’

A rueful smile crept across his face. She was correct, as per usual.

‘My father,’ he said, ‘I have told you the story, I am sure.’

‘Of course,’ she said, eyes flitting to the flowers, ‘I had not forgotten.’

‘It must have been fifteen years, now.’ He said, ‘And yet I am still struck by the peculiarity of it, someone so full of life, gone in but a moment.’

She did not know whether to speak, but found herself talking anyway, ‘Mine was the same, although our relationship was quite different, as you know. He was still young; nobody saw it coming at all.’

He seemed to shake himself free of the thought then, ‘I do not wish to burden you with it, with thoughts that linger.’

‘No,’ she replied, gripping his hand tighter now, ‘I would be happy to listen, if you wished to tell me how you feel.’

His shoulders sagged, admitting defeat, although he did not know exactly to what he was surrendering.

‘Come here,’ she said, gesturing to her lap, ‘Although I cannot guarantee you much room at present.’

This raised a smile in him, lying his head across her legs, settling himself beside her stomach. With her hand she guided him to her belly, ‘Tell us how you feel.’

He closed his eyes.

‘Sometimes I am scared,’ he conceded, ‘Not often, but it is quite easy to be reminded of the fragility of life. If he could leave us, still full of love for his family, my mother, how fair could life possibly be?’

It was not often that these notions seemed to bother him, but he was rather hot-headed. When he was consumed, he was consumed. Thoughts did not easily drift past him. So rare were these glimpses, however, these fragments she could catch and hold on to.

‘It is understandable,’ Sophie began, stroking a hand through his hair, ‘To be afraid, to be terrified, even, that we might lose those closest to us. It does happen, I’m sorry to say, even if we do not deserve to suffer at all.’ Her mind went then to poor Francesca, that perpetually polite smile she wore now.

‘But death does not assuage love, Benedict. Love does not simply disappear. I spent a great deal of time believing my father did not so much as care for me, but it was a lie. It was all a lie. And your father loved you, as you will love our child.’

‘I already love her.’ Benedict said quietly.

‘Her?’

‘She is a girl,’ he replied, rather matter-of-factly.

‘Is she now?’ Sophie grinned, ‘And how exactly did you deduce this?’

‘I cannot say how, but I know it.’ A smile slipped from the corner of his mouth now, ‘I find fatherhood has made me rather wise.’

Chapter Text

The only light in the bedchamber emanated from a low-burning candle illuminating the pages of Sophie’s book. She was wrapped beneath the linens, taking steady breaths in an attempt to still herself, the jabbing pains that continued to strike at her ribcage from below.

Benedict had been drinking, which had made him silly and soft. Such occasions were not regular, but he had formed something of a club with Fred and Mr Crabtree. There had been a few nights where, struck with insomnia or some strange ache, she had ventured downstairs for a drink. In the kitchen she had found the trio, their brandy glasses laid out, playing cards scattered, Fred’s clay pipe wafting a ripe smoke through the room, clinging to the candlelight.

Her husband was always keen to offer an apology, upon noticing her there. He would grin like a child, ‘Sophieeeeee,’ he would say, eyes wrinkling, body slipping down in his chair, ‘Did we wake you? Why don’t you join us.’ He would gesture for her to sit on his lap, and she would roll her eyes while the other men chuckled.

What humoured her most was that she didn’t mind at all. They never woke her, the kitchen far away from the bedchamber, their noise really nothing at all. It made her happy, in fact, that her husband had found a sense of kinship in the house. Benedict’s meetings were harmless, unpretentious, and that inebriated grin on his face so gooey and sweet.

Benedict was tossing and turning, half-asleep and mumbling. She turned her page, before reaching out a hand behind her to find him, steady him. As she took his hand, he made a sort of stirring noise, rolling over to her side of the bed.

‘Sophie,’ he said into her hair. His voice was breathy and hoarse.

‘Benedict,’ she replied, returning to her page.

‘What are you reading?’ He asked, and turning slightly she realised his eyes were open, blinking, watching her.

‘It’s the story of Jason and the Argonauts.’ She told him, feeling then another pang of ache in her lower back, her body stiffening against the sensation.

Benedict was close enough to notice her muscles tensing, the way her hips jolted with the pain. He brought his hand to the centre of her back, working even strokes down her side, ‘Does that help?’ he asked.

‘A little bit,’ she said, ‘I had been trying to distract myself, but she is determined to keep kicking me tonight.’

‘She is strong like her mother,’ He said, a warm kiss planted on her shoulder, ‘What about reading to me? It has been a long time since I heard the Argonautica, perhaps not since I was at Cambridge.’

‘You would like me to read to you?’ She asked, pleasantly taken by the feeling of his knuckles raking into her lower back, soothing the dull ache.

‘Yes, I love listening to your voice.’ He said, words muffled by another kiss on the shoulder.

‘Very well,’ she said, returning to her place in the tale. She read as Jason travelled through Colchis in search of the Golden Fleece, of the sorcery of Medea helping him through his impossible tasks, the passion erupting between the pair. She paused only to pace her breaths, pushing through the unpleasant sensations. Benedict continued to stroke her back, his hands curving up the bow of her hips.

She paused, the kicks seeming to subside, the tension in her back still pulsing against Benedict’s hands. Placing the book on her side table, she turned, although it was only the slightest movement before she was half on-top of him. She sighed.

‘Is it the baby?’ He asked, ‘Where can you feel her?’

‘I do not think it is her anymore, but I continue to ache.’

‘Here?’ He asked, massaging his fingers in circles at the space between her hip bones.

She nodded, murmuring at that pleasurable ache of his touch. She could not easily describe it, how the pain felt like heat radiating through her, his hands cool and lulling. He kissed the back of her neck, then another time, his hand running gently through her hair now, sliding the dress off her arm that he might kiss further, feel her tender skin beneath his lips.

‘Benedict,’ she moaned on an outbreath.

‘Tell me if you wish for me to stop,’ He said, ‘I do not want to hurt you.’

She turned back to him, pulling his lips into a hungry kiss, running her fingers into his hair, ‘Do not stop.’

She could feel him pressing against her, his body slowly writhing into hers as he pulled her closer, tracing his tongue along the soft edge of her shoulder blade, his hands pulling up the fabric of her dress with great haste.

He pushed into her slowly, savouring the sound of her gasp. His thighs pressing into hers, melding together in warmth. With a controlled hand on her hip, he moved out and in again, utterly consumed by the way she seemed to cling to him.

‘Do not stop,’ she repeated, ‘Harder, but slowly.’

He couldn’t help but smirk at her almost-conflicting request, stroking in again, this time to the hilt. Her noises grew louder, harsher, her hips beginning to bow into him.

‘God,’ he slurred, lifting her dress up further, helping it over her shoulders, the pile of fabric soon slipping off onto the floor. His mouth met her back, long, slow, worshipful kisses, ‘Sophie, you are everything.’

She was simply unlike anything else. This synchronicity. This feeling he possessed, sure she knew it too, their very souls colliding. The scent of her skin, the softness of her hair wrapped in his fingers, something so compelling in just her being.

She slowly bucked into his movements, pulling him closer. Her breaths felt ragged, but somehow steadier than before in her half-hearted attempts to soothe herself. She felt surety now, safety, in the very feeling of him. She felt his chest, slick with perspiration, rising against her back, his mouth moving up to her neck, her jaw, overcoming her entirely.

‘You’re too good, Sophie,’ he whispered, mouth close to her ear, ‘Just the feeling of you, it destroys me.’

It wasn’t that she crushed his defences; more she possessed the key that unlocked him. He was powerless to her, his motions hastening with each sound that passed her lips, desperate to let go. The moans became almost unable to bear, that honeyed noise escaping her, telling him she enjoyed it.

He grappled in the sheets for her hand, wrapping it in his, holding her to him as he finished, his strokes slowing but not wishing to leave her entirely, the syrupy feeling between them, waves of pleasure continuing to wash over.

She felt it in her temples, that warm, thick pleasure that overcame her tired body. It was as though the feeling swallowed her, a gentle hissing of static in her ears. She turned, slowly, to him, running her hands over her stomach. His eyes were already on her, half-asleep though they were, the smallest smile gathered on his lips.

‘I think I shall be able to sleep now.’ She told him.

‘Goodnight, my love.’ He replied, one last kiss on the edge of her shoulder.