But then she’d disappeared. It was as if the world were actually flat, and she’d fallen right off the edge. He’d learned nothing in that irritating interview with Lady Penwood, and when he’d queried his friends and family, no one knew anything about a young woman wearing a silver dress.
She hadn’t arrived with anyone and she hadn’t left with anyone. For all intents and purposes, she hadn’t even existed.
He’d watched for her at every ball, party, and musicale he attended. Hell, he attended twice as many functions as usual, just in the hopes that he’d catch a glimpse of her.
But he’d always come home disappointed.
He’d thought he would stop looking for her. He was a practical man, and he’d assumed that eventually he would simply give up. And in some ways, he had. After a few months he found himself back in the habit of turning down more invitations than he accepted. A few months after that, he realized that he was once again able to meet women and not automatically compare them to her.
But he couldn’t stop himself from watching for her. He might not feel the same urgency, but whenever he attended a ball or took a seat at a musicale, he found his eyes sweeping across the crowd, his ears straining for the lilt of her laughter.
She was out there somewhere. He’d long since resigned himself to the fact that he wasn’t likely to find her, and he hadn’t searched actively for over a year, but . . .
He smiled wistfully. He just couldn’t stop from looking. It had become, in a very strange way, a part of who he was. His name was Benedict Bridgerton, he had seven brothers and sisters, was rather skilled with both a sword and a sketching crayon, and he always kept his eyes open for the one woman who had touched his soul.
He kept hoping . . . and wishing . . . and watching. And even though he told himself it was probably time to marry, he just couldn’t muster the enthusiasm to do so.
Because what if he put his ring on some woman’s finger, and the next day he saw her?
It would be enough to break his heart.
No, it would be more than that. It would be enough to shatter his soul.
Benedict breathed a sigh of relief as he saw the village of Rosemeade approaching. Rosemeade meant that his cottage was a mere five minutes away, and lud, but he couldn’t wait to get inside and throw himself into a steaming tub of water.
He glanced over at Miss Beckett. She, too, was shivering, but, he thought with a touch of admiration, she hadn’t let out even a peep of complaint. Benedict tried to think of another woman of his acquaintance who would have stood up to the elements with such fortitude and came up empty-handed. Even his sister Daphne, who was as good a sport as any, would have been howling about the cold by now.
“We’re almost there,” he assured her.
“I’m all—Oh! Are you all right?”
Benedict was gripped by wave of coughs, the deep, hacking kind that rumble down in one’s chest. His lungs felt as if they were on fire, and his throat like someone had taken a razor blade to it.
“I’m fine,” he gasped, jerking slightly on the reins to make up for the lack of direction he’d given the horses while he was coughing.
“You don’t sound fine.”
“Had a head cold last week,” he said with a wince. Damn, but his lungs felt sore.
“That didn’t sound like your head,” she said, giving him what she obviously hoped was a teasing smile. But it didn’t look like a teasing smile. In truth, she looked terribly concerned.
“Must’ve moved,” he muttered.
“I don’t want you getting sick on my account.”
He tried to grin, but his cheekbones ached too much. “I would’ve been caught in the rain whether I’d taken you along or not.”
“Still—”
Whatever she’d intended to say was lost under another stream of deep, chesty coughs.
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
“Let me drive,” she said, reaching for the reins.
He turned to her in disbelief. “This is a phaeton, not a single-horse wagon.”
Sophie fought the urge to throttle him. His nose was running, his eyes were red, he couldn’t stop coughing, and still he found the energy to act like an arrogant peacock. “I assure you,” she said slowly, “that I know how to drive a team of horses.”
“And where did you acquire that skill?”
“The same family that allowed me to share in their daughters’ lessons,” Sophie lied. “I learned to drive a team when the girls learned.”
“The lady of the house must have taken quite a liking to you,” he said.
“She did quite,” Sophie replied, trying not to laugh. Araminta had been the lady of the house, and she’d fought tooth and nail every time her father had insisted that she be allowed to receive the same instruction as Rosamund and Posy. They’d all three learned how to drive teams the year before the earl had died.
“I’ll drive, thank you,” Benedict said sharply. Then he ruined the entire effect by launching into yet another coughing fit.
Sophie reached for the reins. “For the love of—”
“Here,” he said, thrusting them toward her, as he wiped his eyes. “Take them. But I’ll be watching you.”
“I would expect no less,” she said peevishly. The rain didn’t exactly make for ideal driving conditions, and it had been years since she’d held reins in her hands, but she thought she acquitted herself rather nicely. There were some things one didn’t forget, she supposed.
It felt rather nice, actually, to do something she hadn’t done since her previous life, when she’d been, officially at least, an earl’s ward. She’d had fine clothes then, and good food, and interesting lessons, and . . .
She sighed. It hadn’t been perfect, but it had been better than anything that had come after.
“What’s wrong?” Benedict asked.
“Nothing. Why should you think something is wrong?”
“You sighed.”
“You heard me over the wind?” she asked incredulously.
“I’ve been paying close attention. I’m
sick enough”—cough cough—“without you landing us in a ditch.”
Sophie decided not even to credit him with a reply.
“Turn right up ahead,” he directed. “It’ll take us directly to my cottage.”
She did as he asked. “Does your cottage have a name?”
“My Cottage.”
“I might have known,” she muttered.
He smirked. Quite a feat, in her opinion, since he looked sick as a dog. “I’m not kidding,” he said.
Sure enough, in another minute they pulled up in front of an elegant country house, complete with a small, unobtrusive sign in front reading, MY COTTAGE.
“The previous owner coined the name,” Benedict said as he directed her toward the stables, “but it seemed to fit me as well.”
Sophie looked over at the house, which, while fairly small, was no humble dwelling. “You call this a cottage?”
“No, the previous owner did,” he replied. “You should have seen his other house.”
A moment later they were out of the rain, and Benedict had hopped down and was unhitching the horses. He was wearing gloves, but they were completely sodden and slipping on the bridle, and so he peeled them off and flung them away. Sophie watched him as he went about his work. His fingers were wrinkled like prunes and trembling from the cold. “Let me help,” she said, stepping forward.
“I can do it.”
“Of course you can,” she said placatingly, “but you can do it faster with my help.”
He turned, presumably to refuse her again, then doubled over as he was wracked by coughs. Sophie quickly rushed in and led him to a nearby bench. “Sit down, please,” she implored him. “I’ll finish up the job.”
She thought he’d disagree, but this time he gave in. “I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. “I—”
“There’s nothing to feel sorry about,” she said, making quick work of the job. Or as quick as she could; her fingers were still numb, and bits of her skin had turned white from having been wet for so long.
“Not very . . .” He coughed again, this one lower and deeper than before. “. . . gentlemanly of me.”
“Oh, I think I can forgive you this time, considering the way you saved me earlier this evening.” Sophie tried to give him a jaunty smile, but for some reason it wobbled, and without warning she found herself inexplicably near tears. She turned quickly away, not wanting him to see her face.