“One could make the argument,” he said with deliberate softness, “that you haven’t gotten very far.”

Her arms straightened into sticks. Straight rigid sticks with little tight fists at the end. And then, while he waited for her to say something, she started walking away.

“Wait!” he called out, and he caught up with her in under three strides, grabbing hold of her wrist. He tugged at her until she was forced to turn around. “Don’t go,” he said.

“It is not my habit to remain in the company of people who insult me.”

Benedict nearly flinched, and he knew he would be forever haunted by the stricken look in her eyes. “I wasn’t insulting you,”  he said, “and you know it. I was speaking the truth. You’re not meant to be a housemaid, Sophie. It’s clear to me, and it  ought to be clear to you.”

She laughed—a hard, brittle sound he’d never thought to hear from her. “And what do you suggest I do, Mr. Bridgerton?”  she asked. “Find work as a governess?”

Benedict thought that was a fine idea, and he started to tell her so, but she interrupted him, saying, “And who do you think  will hire me?”

“Well...”

“No one,” she snapped. “No one will hire me. I have no references, and I look far too young.”

“And pretty,” he said grimly. He’d never given much thought to the hiring of governesses, but he knew that the duty usually  fell to the mother of the house. And common sense told him that no mother wanted to bring such a pretty young thing into  her household. Just look what Sophie had had to endure at the hands of Phillip Cavender.

“You could be a lady’s maid,” he suggested. “At least then you wouldn’t be cleaning chamber pots.”

“You’d be surprised,” she muttered.

“A companion to an elderly lady?”

She sighed. It was a sad, weary sound, and it nearly broke his heart. “You’re very kind to try to help me,” she said,  “but I have already explored all of those avenues. Besides, I am not your responsibility.”

“You could be.”

She looked at him in surprise.

In that moment, Benedict knew that he had to have her. There was a connection between them, a strange, inexplicable bond that he’d felt only one other time in his life, with the mystery lady from the masquerade. And while she was gone, vanished  into thin air, Sophie was very real. He was tired of mirages. He wanted someone he could see, someone he could touch.

And she needed him. She might not realize it yet, but she needed him. Benedict took her hand and tugged, catching her off-balance and wrapping her to him when she fell against his body.

“Mr. Bridgerton!” she yelped.

“Benedict,” he corrected, his lips at her ear.

“Let me—”

“Say my name,” he persisted. He could be very stubborn when it suited his interests, and he wasn’t going to let her go until  he heard his name cross her lips.

And maybe not even then.

“Benedict,” she finally relented. “I—”

“Hush.” He silenced her with his mouth, nibbling at the corner of her lips. When she went soft and compliant in his arms, he drew back, just far enough so that he could focus on her eyes. They looked impossibly green in the late-afternoon light,  deep enough to drown in.

“I want you to come back to London with me,” he whispered, the words tumbling forth before he had a chance to consider them. “Come back and live with me.”

She looked at him in surprise.

“Be mine,” he said, his voice thick and urgent. “Be mine right now. Be mine forever. I’ll give you anything you want. All I want  in return is you.”

Chapter 12

Speculation continues to abound concerning the disappearance of Benedict Bridgerton. According  to Eloise Bridgerton, who as his sister ought to know, he was due back in town several days ago.

But as Eloise must be the first to admit, a man of Mr. Bridgertons age and stature need hardly  report his whereabouts to his younger sister.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 9 MAY 1817

‘You want me to be your mistress,” she said flatly. He gave her a confused look, although she couldn’t be sure  whether that was because her statement was so obvious or because he objected to her choice of words.  “I want you to be with me,” he persisted.

The moment was so staggeringly painful and yet she found herself almost smiling. “How is that different from being  your mistress?”

“Sophie—”

“How is it different?” she repeated, her voice growing strident.

“I don’t know, Sophie.” He sounded impatient. “Does it matter?”

“It does to me.”

“Fine,” he said in a short voice. “Fine. Be my mistress, and have this.”

Sophie had just enough time to gasp before his lips descended on hers with a ferocity that turned her knees to water.  It was like no kiss they’d ever shared, harsh with need, and laced with an odd, strange anger.

His mouth devoured hers in a primitive dance of passion. His hands seemed to be everywhere, on her breasts, around her waist, even under her skirt. He touched and squeezed, caressed and stroked.

And all the while, he had her pressed up so tightly against him she was certain she’d melt into his skin.

“I want you,” he said roughly, his lips finding the hollow at the base of her throat. “I want you right now. I want you here.”