- 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.
- "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.
- "Mr. Bridgerton?" she asked softly. "Mr. Bridgerton!" Benedict's head jerked up violently.
"What? What?"
"You fell asleep."
He blinked confusedly. "Is there a reason that's bad?"
"You can't fall asleep in your clothing. Does that feel better?" she asked, not expecting any sort of an answer but feeling nonetheless that she ought to continue with her one-sided conversation. "I really don't know very much about caring for the ill, but it just seems to me like you'd want something cool on your brow. I know if I were sick, that's how I'd feel."
He shifted restlessly, mumbling something utterly incoherent.
"Really?" Sophie replied, trying to smile but failing miserably. "I'm glad you feel that way."
He mumbled something else.
"No," she said, dabbing the cool cloth on his ear, "I'd have to agree with what you said the first time." He went still again.
"I'd be happy to reconsider," she said worriedly. "Please don't take offense." He didn't move.
Sophie sighed. One could only converse so long with an unconscious man before one started to feel extremely silly.
- He ought to buy her a new dress. She would never accept it, of course, but maybe if her current garments were accidentally burned...
...But how could he manage to burn her dress? She'd have to not be wearing it, and that posed a certain challenge in and of itself...
- In her heart she longed for this man, dreamed of a life that could never be.
- It suddenly made sense. Only twice in his life had he felt this inexplicable, almost mystical attraction to a woman. He'd thought it remarkable, to have found two, when in his heart he'd always believed there was only one perfect woman out there for him.
His heart had been right. There was only one.
- 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.
- "It's very bad form to spy on one's host," he said, planting his hands on his hips and somehow managing to look both authoritative and relaxed at the same time.
"It was an accident," she grumbled.
"Oh, I believe you there," he said. "But even if you didn't intend to spy on me, the fact remains that when the opportunity arose, you took it."
"Do you blame me?"
He grinned. "Not at all. I would have done precisely the same thing."
Her mouth fell open.
"Oh, don't pretend to be offended," he said.
"I'm not pretending."
He leaned a bit closer. "To tell the truth, I'm quite flattered."
"It was academic curiosity," she ground out. "I assure you."
His smile grew sly. "So you're telling me that you would have spied upon any naked man you'd come across?"
"Of course not!"
"As I said," he drawled, leaning back against a tree, "I'm flattered."
"Well, now that we have that settled," Sophie said with a sniff, "I'm going back to Your Cottage. I'm leaving!" she said, with, in her opinion, great drama and resolve.
But he just answered her with a sly half smile, and said, "I'm following."
And the bloody man remained two strides behind her the entire way home.
- "Do you live here?" Sophie asked dryly.
"No," he said, plopping down into the chair next to her, "although my mother is constantly telling me to make myself right at home.
- "If you cannot recognize the problem, there is no way that I could explain it to you."
He laughed, damn the man. "My goodness," he said, "that was an expert sidestep."
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.
- "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.
- "Mr. Bridgerton?" she asked softly. "Mr. Bridgerton!" Benedict's head jerked up violently.
"What? What?"
"You fell asleep."
He blinked confusedly. "Is there a reason that's bad?"
"You can't fall asleep in your clothing. Does that feel better?" she asked, not expecting any sort of an answer but feeling nonetheless that she ought to continue with her one-sided conversation. "I really don't know very much about caring for the ill, but it just seems to me like you'd want something cool on your brow. I know if I were sick, that's how I'd feel."
He shifted restlessly, mumbling something utterly incoherent.
"Really?" Sophie replied, trying to smile but failing miserably. "I'm glad you feel that way."
He mumbled something else.
"No," she said, dabbing the cool cloth on his ear, "I'd have to agree with what you said the first time." He went still again.
"I'd be happy to reconsider," she said worriedly. "Please don't take offense." He didn't move.
Sophie sighed. One could only converse so long with an unconscious man before one started to feel extremely silly.
- He ought to buy her a new dress. She would never accept it, of course, but maybe if her current garments were accidentally burned...
...But how could he manage to burn her dress? She'd have to not be wearing it, and that posed a certain challenge in and of itself...
- In her heart she longed for this man, dreamed of a life that could never be.
- It suddenly made sense. Only twice in his life had he felt this inexplicable, almost mystical attraction to a woman. He'd thought it remarkable, to have found two, when in his heart he'd always believed there was only one perfect woman out there for him.
His heart had been right. There was only one.
- 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.
- "It's very bad form to spy on one's host," he said, planting his hands on his hips and somehow managing to look both authoritative and relaxed at the same time.
"It was an accident," she grumbled.
"Oh, I believe you there," he said. "But even if you didn't intend to spy on me, the fact remains that when the opportunity arose, you took it."
"Do you blame me?"
He grinned. "Not at all. I would have done precisely the same thing."
Her mouth fell open.
"Oh, don't pretend to be offended," he said.
"I'm not pretending."
He leaned a bit closer. "To tell the truth, I'm quite flattered."
"It was academic curiosity," she ground out. "I assure you."
His smile grew sly. "So you're telling me that you would have spied upon any naked man you'd come across?"
"Of course not!"
"As I said," he drawled, leaning back against a tree, "I'm flattered."
"Well, now that we have that settled," Sophie said with a sniff, "I'm going back to Your Cottage. I'm leaving!" she said, with, in her opinion, great drama and resolve.
But he just answered her with a sly half smile, and said, "I'm following."
And the bloody man remained two strides behind her the entire way home.
- "Do you live here?" Sophie asked dryly.
"No," he said, plopping down into the chair next to her, "although my mother is constantly telling me to make myself right at home.
- "If you cannot recognize the problem, there is no way that I could explain it to you."
He laughed, damn the man. "My goodness," he said, "that was an expert sidestep."
No comments:
Post a Comment