“I wouldn’t have wanted so much. It would have been easier.”

She turned back around, her eyes falling upon her single, meager bag. She hadn’t wanted to take any of the dresses that  Lady Bridgerton and her daughters had given her, but she’d had little choice in the matter, as her old dresses had already  been relegated to the rag bin. So she’d chosen only two, the same number with which she’d arrived—the one she happened  to be wearing when Benedict had discovered her identity, and a spare, which she’d tucked in the bag. The rest had been left hanging, neatly pressed, in the wardrobe.

Sophie sighed, closing her eyes for a moment. It was time to go. Where, she didn’t know, but she couldn’t stay here.

She leaned down and picked up the bag. She had a little money saved. Not much, but if she worked and was frugal,  she’d have enough funds for passage to America within a year. She’d heard that things were easier there for those of less-than-respectable birth, that the boundaries of class weren’t quite as strict as they were here in England.

She poked her head out into the hall, which was blessedly vacant. She knew she was a coward, but she didn’t want to have  to say good-bye to the Bridgerton daughters. She might do something really stupid, like cry, and then she’d feel even worse. Never in her life had she had the chance to spend time with women of her own age who treated her with respect and affection. She’d once hoped that Rosamund and Posy would be her sisters, but that had never come to pass. Posy might have tried, but Araminta wouldn’t allow it, and Posy, for all her sweetness, had never been strong enough to stand up to her mother.

But she did have to bid farewell to Lady Bridgerton. There was no getting around that. Lady Bridgerton had been kind to  her far beyond any expectations, and Sophie would not thank her by sneaking out and disappearing like some criminal. If she was lucky, Lady Bridgerton would not yet have heard of her altercation with Benedict. Sophie could give her notice, bid her farewell, and be off.

It was late afternoon, well past tea time, so Sophie decided to take a chance and see if Lady Bridgerton was in the small office she kept off of her bedchamber. It was a warm and cozy little room, with a writing desk and several bookshelves—a place where Lady Bridgerton penned her correspondence and settled the household accounts.

The door was ajar, so Sophie knocked softly, allowing the door to swing open a few inches as her knuckles connected with  the wood.

“Enter!” came Lady Bridgerton’s bidding.

Sophie pushed the door open and poked her head in. “Am I interrupting?” she asked quietly.

Lady Bridgerton set down her quill. “Yes, but it’s a welcome interruption. I’ve never enjoyed balancing the household accounts.”

“I would—” Sophie bit her tongue. She had been about to say that she would have been happy to take over the task; she’d always been good with numbers.

“You were saying?” Lady Bridgerton asked, her eyes warm.

Sophie gave her head a little shake. “Nothing.”

The room lapsed into silence until Lady Bridgerton gave Sophie a slightly amused smile, and asked, “Was there a specific reason you knocked on my door?”

Sophie took a deep breath that was meant to settle her nerves (but didn’t) and said, “Yes.”

Lady Bridgerton looked at her expectantly but didn’t say anything.

“I’m afraid I must resign my position here,” Sophie said.

Lady Bridgerton actually rose out of her seat. “But why? Aren’t you happy? Have any of the girls been mistreating you?”

“No, no,” Sophie hastened to assure her. “That could not be further from the truth. Your daughters are so lovely—in heart as well as in appearance. I’ve never— That is to say, no one has ever—”

“What is it, Sophie?”

Sophie clutched at the doorframe, desperately trying to find her balance. Her legs felt unsteady, her heart felt unsteady. Any moment now she was going to burst into tears, and why? Because the man she loved would never marry her? Because he hated her for lying to him? Because he’d broken her heart twice—once by asking her to be his mistress, and once by making her love his family and then forcing her to leave?

He might not have demanded that she go, but it couldn’t have been more obvious that she could not stay.

“It’s Benedict, isn’t it?”

Sophie’s head snapped up.

Lady Bridgerton smiled sadly. “It’s obvious that there is some feeling between you,” she said gently, answering the question  that Sophie knew must show in her eyes.

“Why didn’t you fire me?” Sophie whispered. She didn’t think that Lady Bridgerton knew that Sophie and Benedict had  been intimate, but no one of Lady Bridgerton’s position would want her son pining for a housemaid.

“I don’t know,” Lady Bridgerton replied, looking more conflicted than Sophie could ever have imagined. “I probably should have done.” She shrugged, her eyes strangely helpless. “But I like you.”

The tears Sophie had been working so hard to keep in check began to roll down her face, but beyond that, she somehow managed to keep her composure. She didn’t shake, and she didn’t make a sound. She just stood there, utterly still, as the  tears came forth.

When Lady Bridgerton spoke again, her words held a very careful and measured quality, as if she were choosing them with great care, searching for a specific reply. “You are,” she said, her eyes never leaving Sophie’s face, “the sort of woman I would like for my son. Our acquaintance has not been a long one, but I know your character and I know your heart. And I wish—”