The landscapes were varied. Some were of My Cottage (or should she call it His Cottage?) and some were of a larger house, which Sophie supposed was the country home of the Bridgerton family. Most of the landscapes featured no architecture at all, just a babbling brook, or a windswept tree, or a rain-dappled meadow. And the amazing thing about his drawings was that  they seemed to capture the whole and true moment. Sophie could swear that she could hear that brook babbling or the wind ruffling the leaves on that tree.

The portraits were fewer in number, but Sophie found them infinitely more interesting. There were several of what had to be  his littlest sister, and a few of what she thought must be his mother. One of Sophie’s favorites was of what appeared to be  some kind of outdoor game. At least five Bridgerton siblings were holding long mallets, and one of the girls was depicted  at the forefront, her face screwed up in determination as she tried to aim a ball through a wicket.

Something about the picture almost made Sophie laugh out loud. She could feel the merriment of the day, and it made her  long desperately for a family of her own.

She glanced back at Benedict, still sleeping quietly in his bed. Did he realize how lucky he was to have been born into such a large and loving clan?

With a sigh, Sophie flipped through a few more pages until she reached the end of the book. The very last sketch was  different from the rest, if only because it appeared to be of a night scene, and the woman in it was holding her skirts above  her ankles as she ran across— Good God! Sophie gasped, thunderstruck. It was her! She brought the sketch closer to her face. He’d gotten the details of her dress—that wonderful, magical silver concoction that had been hers for only a single evening—perfectly. He’d even remembered her long, elbow-length gloves and the exact manner in which her hair had been styled. Her face was a little less recognizable, but one would have to make allowances for that given that he’d never actually seen it in its entirety. Well, not until now.

Benedict suddenly groaned, and when Sophie glanced over she saw that he was shifting restlessly in the bed. She closed up  the sketchbook and put it back into its place before hurriedly making her way to his side.

“Mr. Bridgerton?” she whispered. She wanted desperately to call him Benedict. That was how she thought of him; that was what she’d called him in her dreams these long two years. But that would be inexcusably familiar and certainly not in keeping with her position as a servant.

“Mr. Bridgerton?” she whispered again. “Are you all right?”

His eyelids fluttered open.

“Do you need anything?”

He blinked several times, and Sophie couldn’t be sure whether he’d heard her or not. He looked so unfocused, she couldn’t even be sure whether he’d truly seen her.

“Mr. Bridgerton?”

He squinted. “Sophie,” he said hoarsely, his throat sounding terribly dry and scratchy. “The housemaid.”

She nodded. “I’m here. What do you need?”

“Water,” he rasped.

“Right away.” Sophie had been dunking the cloths into the water in the pitcher, but she decided that now was no time to be fussy, so she grabbed hold of the glass she’d brought up from the kitchen and filled it. “Here you are,” she said, handing it to him.

His fingers were shaky, so she did not let go of the glass as he brought it to his lips. He took a couple of sips, then sagged  back against his pillows.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Sophie reached out and touched his brow. It was still quite warm, but he seemed lucid once again, and she decided to take  that as a sign that the fever had broken. “I think you’ll be better in the morning.”

He laughed. Not hard, and not with anything approaching vigor, but he actually laughed. “Not likely,” he croaked.

“Well, not recovered,” she allowed, “but I think you’ll feel better than you do right now.”

“It would certainly be hard to feel worse.”

Sophie smiled at him. “Do you think you can scoot to one side of your bed so I can change your sheets?”

He nodded and did as she asked, closing his weary eyes as she changed the bed around him. “That’s a neat trick,” he said when she was done.

“Mrs. Cavender’s mother often came to visit,” Sophie explained. “She was bedridden, so I had to learn how to change the sheets without her leaving the bed. It’s not terribly difficult.”

He nodded. “I’m going back to sleep now.”

Sophie gave his shoulder a reassuring pat. She just couldn’t help herself. “You’ll feel better in the morning,” she whispered.  “I promise.”

Chapter 9

It has oft been said that physicians make the worst patients, but it is the opinion of This Author that  any man makes a terrible patient. One might say it takes patience to be a patient, and heaven knows,  the males of our species lack an abundance of patience.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 2 MAY 1817

The first thing Sophie did the following morning was scream.

She’d fallen asleep in the straight-backed chair next to Benedict’s bed, her limbs sprawled most inelegantly and her head cocked to the side in a rather uncomfortable position. Her sleep had been light at first, her ears perked to listen for any sign  of distress from the sickbed. But after an hour or so of complete, blessed silence, exhaustion claimed her, and she fell into a deeper slumber, the kind from which one ought to awaken in peace, with a restful, easy smile on one’s face.