#paradiselostwrites

Sometimes.

Theirs had not been a love match, as was quite the norm in the upper echelons of society. No, she'd been in her second year out and her father had arranged her marriage with a titled man with rolling acres in Northern Yorkshire, a man a decade her senior. But they'd gotten along quite well when they were introduced formally and he courted her quite ardently in the weeks leading up to their wedding.

His encouraging and patient nature didn't change after their wedding. Their marriage had been a happy one.

She could have been happily married now, if Benedict Bridgerton had agreed to turn their relationship more serious, as she'd proposed at the end of last season.

His face the day he saw her kissing Paul — his expression came into her mind often and refused to leave.

Something had shattered seeing them together.

And it wasn't about his yet undiscovered attraction to Paul.

No, he'd been hopeful he and Tilley could make it work. And then she'd stopped the idea in its tracks. And then she'd changed her mind.

It was the wrong decision.

Because she was now chasing someone who had already decided that she wasn’t capable of the love and adoration he wanted to give her.

Every moment she now spent under the glittering chandeliers of the ballroom cemented that.

A murmur ebbed and flowed till it reached all corners of the room.

Benedict Bridgerton, who had been missing from society for weeks on end, had formed an attachment with a girl from Penwood House. They'd met in the countryside, apparently.

She didn't know Lady Penwood very well but whatever she knew of her one conversation with her and her eldest daughter Rosamund cemented how rancid a human being she was.

She didn't think this girl was likely related to Lady Penwood, given how sweet-natured Benedict was.

Tilley clutched the coupe in her left hand as she watched Benedict and the — his, she mentally corrected, girl, join the dancers on the ballroom floor for the waltz.

It was as if the world had ceased to exist aside from the two of them.

Of course she knew what it felt like to be adored by Benedict. To be the recipient of his sole attention and love and care.

She'd been callous enough to not know it's worth because she'd been too drunk on her ability to bed whoever she wanted now that she wasn't tied down to a marriage. She'd never known freedom like this before, despite the rather extraordinary tastes she had shared with her husband.

And now, freedom often felt tasteless. As she'd told Benedict that morning.

As she was discovering now.

She didn't know her name but his young lady was dressed in a pale blue dress which hung off her shoulders. It reminded Tilley of the midnight blue dress she'd worn when encountering Benedict for the second time at the Hawkins Ball. When they'd introduced themselves. It'd hung off her frame similarly but this girl, she looked ethereal.

Small, pretty face. Dark hair pulled back from her face. Delicate and a fairy come to life.

As they spun on the floor, Tilley noticed how everyone let go of their arms and let their partners spin them on the spot. Benedict’s young lady clung on and looked at him, mesmerized. Benedict did not look away from her even once.

The dance ended and Benedict tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and slowly walked with her to join the crowd at the side of the ballroom.

Her eyes disappeared into half-moon crescents when she smiled.

She was absolutely beautiful.

Tilley’s heart clenched painfully as she watched Benedict pull out something from his waistcoat and then speak to her about something he couldn't hear. She answered him, smiling. As he took her glove off, Tilley realized it was a ring.

A public betrothal, in front of the queen no less.

For Benedict Bridgerton, known rake and lover of pleasure, determined bachelor, to propose to an eligible young lady in full view of the whole ton was as if the sun has chosen to rise from somewhere other than the East.

Her stomach clenched painfully as she watched them laugh together, wholly and fully, touching their foreheads together, without a care for who might be seeing.

This wasn't obligation or being pushed by his mother to settle down.

This was love.

It was beautiful to see him in love. Her regret knew no bounds knowing it wouldn't ever happen for her. Not with him.

Because she knew him. As much as he was a rake, he was a romantic at heart. His family was romantic. Every one of his siblings who were now married had made a love match. His parents had been a love match. It was unheard of in the ton.

The Bridgertons were a wealthy, well-connected, prolific family. But what what made them stand out was how they all married for love. Their mother the matriarch insisted on it. That they not be bound to duty but instead to experience the beauty of love.

Plenty of gentlemen choose to take mistresses. He wouldn't take one. She knew it.

He'd met his match.

Tilley saw Benedict reluctantly let go of his fiancée as she was surrounded by his sister and sisters-in-law, gushing over her. He was still looking in her direction but he was now alone.

She made her way over to him, placing the emptied glass on a table nearby.

“I must offer my sincerest congratulations to you,” she began.

Benedict startled, for she'd caught him unawares from behind. He turned and saw Tilley standing there in a deep red gown, structured in a way so much of the latest fashion was not. Her neck was laid bare and the sleeves of the dress fell off her shoulders.

He'd have been taken in by her still had this been last season.

This wasn't last season. He'd lived a few lifetimes in this season alone.

He couldn't believe he'd allowed himself to entertain thoughts on compatibility with her when Sophie was out there waiting for him.

Sometimes he wondered if he should have looked for her earlier, saved her from her stepmother earlier. Before she was cast aside from ward of Lord Penwood to maid to Lady Penwood.

No matter. He’d rectified that unfortunate circumstance now.

“Lady Arnold,” he greeted formally.

Tilley winced. “We are back to formality, are we?” She took one step forward, closer to him than was appropriate.

Benedict immediately stepped to the side so as to maintain their previous distance, his smile amiable and welcoming but sharper at the edges.

“I think that is quite suitable, isn't it? And thank you for your congratulations, I am the luckiest man,” he said, smiling genuinely for the first time.

“I am glad to hear it, Benedict,” responded Tilley, her face softened as she took him in. He was just as handsome as before, the newer lines around his expressive eyes deeper than last year.

“I didn't catch the name of your affianced.”

“She's named Sophie Gun. She's a relation of the late Lord Penwood, the daughter of one of his cousins,” he said, scratching the back of his head.

“How did you meet?”

He hesitated. “In the countryside. I went to call on an old family friend while at my Wiltshire cottage and she was visiting one of the daughters of the family.”

“I see.”

“Are you well,” he asked.

Was she well? She had bedded a different man every month for the past year. When that didn’t satisfy, she bedded women. That had been particularly more pleasurable. Yet her life felt empty.

But she had started to host parties and she had Paul by her side, her long time friend. She was meeting newer people. Artists (like Benedict, she was reminded painfully everytime), models, people from other classes of society who frequented her parlour.

It felt hollower than she'd like to admit, but it had it merits. She didn't feel lonely anymore.

“I am well,” she smiled.

He smiled back, genuine in its sentiment. “I am glad to hear it.”

He excused himself and walked up to his fiancée who had been looking around and had seen him speak to her. She did not spare Tilley more than a cursory glance, so sure she was in her affection towards Benedict.

Tilley had let something valuable slip through her hands.

She watched Benedict pick up Sophie’s hand and gently kiss the back of it, wrap an arm around her waist and tug her in with a familiarity that said that they'd taken intimacies with each other that no one else knew about. She leaned into him without care for who might see, both of her arms wrapped around his waist.

For a moment, she entertained the thought of not having invited Paul to that dinner with Benedict. Of her eventually proposing they entertain something serious. Of him agreeing. Of her meeting his family as the woman he was courting.

But she couldn't see any further than that.

She'd been introduced to his eldest brother and his wife last season during his brother’s engagement party and they'd been perfectly polite and welcoming.

But they didn't latch on to her the way she now saw his younger sister Eloise clutch Sophie's hand in hers, both hands fully wrapped around her free one.

It wasn't the age difference between her and Benedict, she realized, it was the openness to the kind of love the Bridgertons were famous for possessing.

They loved each other fiercely and protected and encouraged that love in equal measure.

Tilley had worn her armour for too long. It had set in, hard to take off. She was comfortable with that armour.

Benedict’s family was not. Benedict was not.

She’d always been good at wearing a tougher armour because it had served her well. She’d refused to take it off in the tender moments with him when she should have.

And his family had seen that.

Benedict did not turn around to look at her even once and yet Tilley had been unable to take her eyes off of him from the moment she’d seen him and Sophie enter the ballroom.

He had moved on. To the love of his life.

This is why she couldn't go further in her dream world. Because Sophie felt inevitable.

The way he looked at her now, she knew, had she and Benedict been married, he wouldn't touch her until she did the same — until she chose to open up the marriage — but he would pine for Sophie from the moment he met her.

He would keep her somewhere safe and sound and be with her, even if he couldn't be with her properly.

It wouldn't be such a scandal every society gentleman had a mistress but it would devastate her. For she had great affection for him and wanted that to turn to something long-lasting. And she had adored him too much to see him hurt.

Perhaps, she thought as she turned around and made her way back to the far corner where a few gentlemen were conversing, it was better this way.

She did not want him to know the details of what Araminta had done to her.

She had an inkling that Anthony had been looking for a way into the Penwood mob without wanting to resort to marriage or violence and it was taking some time. She also knew he could use her as a pawn and there’s nothing she could do about it.

Right now, standing in the courtyard of this delightful afternoon party hosted by the Duke and Duchess of Hastings, all Sophie could think about was keeping her hands from trembling. And occupied with something. So she was listening to Hyacinth talk excitedly about the decor and the people — there were a couple of sporting personalities present at this party — busied herself with a glass of champagne and tried to participate in her joy of attending her first party.

“Do you not think the way Daphne has everything arranged is so beautiful?” asked Hyacinth animatedly.

Behind her, Eloise gave a faint scoff and muttered, “She took those banal classes on keeping a house and flower arranging for years on end, I’d be surprised if she didn’t make it faintly attractive.”

Hyacinth stared at Eloise, face crestfallen.

Sophie stepped in before they got into a fight at a work party. “She is very good at it, I agree, Hyacinth,” she said, drawing Hyacinth’s attention to her, gently placing a hand on her arm. Hyacinth’s bright eyes focused back on her. “The key is to not make it ostentatious but should you look a little closer, you’d be able to see where the attention is designed to be drawn.”

Hyacinth began looking at the courtyard through new eyes, tiff with Eloise momentarily forgotten, while Sophie took a sip from her champagne and inadvertently locked eyes with Araminta across the space.

Araminta stuck to wearing deeper mourning colours even now, even though Sophie’s father had been dead for nearly a decade. The cut of her dress was formal and yet informal enough for this little gathering and she played the role of amicable guest so well, yet everytime Sophie saw her across the room, she was momentarily thrown back into that house at the edge of London.

The house she grew up in. She could still feel the faint raised edges around her waist from where her bullwhip would strike her repeatedly.

Araminta had been careful in her abuse. No marks on Sophie’s face, or along her neck or her decolletage. None where they’d be exposed along her back.

Sophie broke out of her reverie to look at Araminta’s entourage. It was just Rosamund today. Surprisingly, Rosamund looked vaguely uncomfortable standing beside her fiance, Jason Stotter. His family wasn’t titled but he was part of the Featherington syndicate, meaning there was greater issues within the Penwood House than Araminta had let known.

Sophie ran a hand down her outfit self-consciously — she was in a fitted navy blue dress with short ruffled sleeves that ended below her knees. Her hair was pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck, looking uncomplicated for the many twists she knows she put it into.

She was today a companion to Hyacinth and Eloise, so she had dressed accordingly. Benedict didn’t need her at the moment, engrossed in conversation with Viscount Lumley on the other side of the room.

She looked back up and Araminta’s cold gaze pierced her once again. She knew she couldn’t do anything to her here, right in the Bridgertons’ lair, standing with them and undoubtedly exposed. But she could stare straight at Sophie, cold and unflinching and remind her of what she could still do to her, if given the opportunity.

Sophie felt a chill go down her spine. She needed a moment to collect herself. She made some random excuse to Hyacinth, put down her glass at a nearby table and walked out of the garden and inside Hastings House as quick as she could.

The house was vast but she knew where Daphne’s private library was. She’d spent a lot of time in there with her, where Daphne had also shoved a desk to make it her makeshift home office. She worked better surrounded by books, she claimed, and Sophie found herself in agreement with that sentiment.

She made her way upstairs, to the second floor, heels quietly clicking into the carpeted corridor. Staff were stationed at every floor, keeping a watchful eye. She nodded towards one of the footmen, James — who nodded back in return — and started walking towards her library, she could hear familiar, steady footfalls behind her. She didn’t hasten her pace.

She got into the library and closed the door, leaned against the wall opposite and closed her eyes, taking in a deep breath.

The door opened again, closed quietly and she found herself pressed into the wall by Benedict wrapping his arms around her, gently putting his chin over her head. She shoved her face in his neck, the heels giving her added height, pulled her arms around his waist tight and started breathing him in.

“One of these days you are going to tell me in detail what that woman did to you,” murmured Benedict, voice vibrating through her head, down her body.

“Nothing,” came her voice, muffled against the starch collar of his shirt, “I just needed a moment.”

Gentle fingers pried her chin up so she could meet his eyes. Even in tall heels, she was so much shorter than him. Her hands came up to wind around his neck while he captured her lips in his. Ran his hands down the front of her dress, pressing slightly against her nipples. Her breath hitched for completely different reasons now.

She’d woken up this morning in her own bed and with Benedict in it. He already had two fingers inside her, stroking languidly, while he laved and bit down alternatively on her nipples. The torture continued for the better part of an hour while she lost her mind to his clever hands — the same hands she’d seen pull the trigger and put a bullet through the skull of a thieving subordinate the night before.

(She’d flinched the first time she saw him do it. She still couldn’t stop the bodily reaction but someone would now usually shield her against the actual act — either one of the Johns.)

And now she was sore. He grinned against her mouth while she put her hands on top of his, stilling them.

“Sore?” he asked, mouth still attached to hers.

She let out a shuddering breath while she nodded.

“Good,” he growled out, pressing back down on her boobs and sliding down to her ass, squeezing her firmly.

“We should head back,” Sophie whispered, breaking their kiss. She had given up trying to stay away from him and his addictive touch. His hands had made their way down the length of her dress and rucked it up —

only to find her wearing tights.

He pressed his forehead against hers and let out a frustrated groan. She giggled.

“One of these days,” he said, voice still gravelly, “I am going to take you like this. And then we will head back out to whatever event we are at, my come dripping out of you,” he finished, eyes locked on, chin in his grasp once more.

They hadn’t had actual penetrative sex yet. He was going at her pace. But by heavens if that didn’t send a shiver up her spine and flood her panties once again — held up against the wall by him, fucked by whatever pace he set and just taking it. She wanted to be owned that publicly by him.

He liked whatever he saw in her face because he grinned that lopsided crooked smile she loved so much and pressed a quick kiss before stepping back and arranging her clothes so she looked presentable again.

Her lipstain was probably nonexistent but he didn’t touch her hair so she probably looked alright nontheless.

She looked at him again — when he dressed up for formal events like these, he always looked incredible. But there was quite something about a double breasted blazer stretched across his wide shoulders that made her pussy throb. He looked powerful and sinful.

He opened the door and gestured her to pass first before shutting it firmly behind him and following at her heels, hand coming to rest possessively low at her waist.

.

.

.

“You know you don’t have to drive me home every night, don’t you, Joe?” said Sophie exasperated, as she stepped out of the Bridgerton Group headquarters and moved towards the waiting car.

Joe chuckled. “Mr. Bridgerton would have my head, Ms. Baek. I’d rather not.”

Sophie huffed as she got into the passenger seat and buckled in, as Joe did the same and started the car, slowly moving out of the car park and making way to Grosvenor Square.

Joe had been assigned to Sophie in the past couple of years as her primary driver when she was not in the same car as Benedict. He’d become ever more stringent with her security ever since they’d started this unnamed thing between them.

Last night - after - had been them having dinner at her place. She’d cooked, he’d cleaned and it had been oddly domestic. They’d gotten ready for bed together, slipping to each other’s arms in bed like they had been doing this forever.

She sometimes thought back to his past lovers, a lot of whom she encountered over the years. Tilley, Paul, Louis. Tilley in particular had been sharp-eyed at seeing her beside Benedict, despite her having only been working for him for a year at that point. It was as if she could sense something between them.

She’d not missed the way she’d forcibly brushed past her, almost knocking her off balance that one time.

He had looked at none of them in public the way he had looked at her. In either the privacy and comfort of their flats or at events and gatherings. People were starting to notice how Benedict Bridgerton, number 2 in the Bridgerton hierarchy, kept his assistant uncommonly close to him at all times. A hand on the crook of her elbow, sometimes standing so close she could feel the heat from his body against her back.

Seeing Araminta the other day had unnerved her. The car she was travelling in was bulletproof, like most of the Bridgertons’ fleet, but she’d been assigned this particular BMW just this week.

They stopped at a traffic light while a motorcycle pulled up beside them. Ducati, one of the older models. Fast. The rider was clad in all black. Sophie noticed — like she noticed everything — that he glanced once towards her and Joe and then turned away. Quick enough to have been just another biker, checking out the cars beside him, but her gut was saying something else.

She looked out the back of the car in her seat. Two cars and then another security vehicle of theirs.

The light turned yellow and the biker pulled out a concealed handgun, silencer attached, and fired at the driver’s side. Joe hit the steering wheel and Sophie ducked when the gun inevitably fired at her side. She could feel the honking of the cars behind her. The car slowly started moving.

The windshield shattered, the car moved uncontrollably until it hit something else. Sophie got jerked back in her seat, the airbags deploying.

One and twenty years of never stepping foot beyond London and now My Cottage with its rolling acres felt like home.

Sophie wandered across the backyard and found two swings tied to a sturdy branch from a tree.

She looked around. No one was there. Though she suspected not for very long as it was nearing dawn and the servants would be up to begin their day soon.

It was beginning to get lighter, the ink black darkness fading into something less severe.

She idly wondered, as she made her way to the swings and sat down on one, if her heat cycle was due sometime soon.

It had always been a little erratic, her cycle. From the minimal information she had obtained, she should have been getting her cycle once every twelve or sixteen weeks. She could attest that one time she had gone fifty-two without one.

Of course, Araminta had waved it away and not considered it her concern when she’d gingerly asked, one year into servitude, if she may be granted access to a doctor, because Irma had insisted that she see one. Araminta refused, saying it was her work load and that she needed to be more rested.

She did not lessen Sophie’s work load or give her the rest.

Sophie in the now counted back. Her last cycle had been twenty-four weeks ago. It had somehow stuck to that pattern of once in five or six months but Sophie had been feeling the effects of pre-heat for the past two days, ever since they came back from Wiltshire.

Sleeplessness, restlessness, sweating through her thin chemise during the night and sometimes during the afternoon too. Eloise had looked at her askance at last night’s dinner and passed her her handkerchief. Sophie had dabbed her neck with it. A whiff of freshly brewed tea. A wonderful compliment to her brother’s scent. Most pleasant.

Today was the day of the meeting with the Archbishop. She had finally made her acquaintance with Simon and Daphne the day previous and he had informed her, lips thinned, that the Archbishop had involved the Archdeacon of the parish where her father’s will was executed. Daphne had informed her that she had an invitation to tea secured with the Queen for the same morning.

“Do you think it will be of much use, speaking to the Queen if there’s nothing in the will for me,” Sophie had asked, fretting, putting down her nearly full teacup on the table.

“It is us preparing for all circumstances, Sophie,” Daphne had explained kindly. “You can be assured that the Archdeacon will be speaking to the deacon who looked over the will and will reprimand him. Which means that —-”

“— it will reach Araminta’s ears,” finished Sophie. The sentiment did not fill her with hope.

Benedict quietly put his hand over hers in her lap and squeezed. She put her other hand on top and held him there.

Violet cleared her throat and Benedict audibly groaned. “We are amongst family, mother. Can we not?”

“No, you cannot. There cannot be a hint of impropriety between the two of you when it comes to your meeting at Lambeth Palace,” reprimanded Violet, tone firm. “If you cannot control your urges here then you cannot in front of other people and we need this managed carefully.”

Sophie went to remove her hand, because Violet was right, but Benedict stared down his mother and refused. Violet rolled her eyes and the warmth of Benedict’s hand remained on hers throughout the whole conversation.

Its as if the residual heat helped assuage her stress.

Daphne watched her brother and his mate-to-be with all-knowing eyes, cleared her throat and continued, “If things do not go our way with the Archbishop, then at the very least, approval with Her Majesty means that you will not need to hide in the countryside. You can choose; you can remain there wherever you wish, you can stay here for the season if you wish to. The choice will be yours, and that is important, I feel.”

Sophie, who had never been given a choice in anything. Sophie, who had been dropped off at her father’s door at three with a note from her ailing grandmother saying she could not take further care of her. Sophie, who was disdained by a woman who met her for the first time and formed an impression of her without her doing anything to earn it. Sophie, who accepted servitude as her due because why shouldn’t it be so, that her father forgot her in his will when he did not care enough to tell her she’d be taken care of if he wasn’t there? When he saw Araminta’s cruelty and do nothing to stop it? Year after year after year?

Sophie would now have a choice, even if things did not work themselves out in an acceptable manner.

“I would like that choice,” she said, voice small, looking at Daphne now. Benedict squeezed her hand gently, in agreement and in solidarity. She squeezed back.

Daphne smiled and nodded at her. “Then we shall do our best to ensure it is how it works out.”

“Are you sure you shall not like me being there with you, Daphne?” asked Violet, fretting, sitting in an armchair beside Sophie and Benedict on the settee. Violet was going to accompany Sophie, Benedict and Simon to the meeting at Lambeth Palace.

Daphne smiled at her mother, now no longer just the sibling of a Viscount and the daughter of a Viscountess, but a Duchess in her own right.

“I am quite capable of managing affairs, you know, mama,” she said lightly, humour coating her voice.

Violet huffed. “You know that is not what I mean,” she said.

“I know, I know. But the queen desires gossip over everything else. And I shall satisfy that desire of hers with personal information that no one has received before. Not even Whistledown,” said Daphne with a wink towards her mother.

Sophie relaxed a little, even if the anxiety hadn’t quite left the pit in her stomach.

As Sophie now watched the early light of dawn streak through the sky, she hoped and prayed that this wonderful family — who had accepted her as their own, without question, who were willing to risk their reputation for a half-noble Omega of illegitimate origins, simply for the happiness of their son — would not suffer indignities on her behalf.

Drawing the dressing robe closer around her body, she gathered her mind and her self and decided to head back to her bedroom before someone noticed she’d been out of bed before the servants woke. She stood up from the swing and noticed a figure come out to stand near the garden doors.

Tousled dark hair, sleeping robe thrown haphazardly on his body, steady gaze locked on her.

Benedict.

She was sure she made no noise as she came downstairs. But he’d known anyway. Despite the different bedrooms.

Something about a realization dawning on Violet a few days ago in the countryside flew through her mind.

He made his way quietly and quickly to her, as if he too wanted this meeting to remain out of prying eyes. They had been forced to remain entirely proper and entirely suitable whilst amongst his siblings. No lingering touches beyond Benedict kissing her goodnight for an indeterminable amount of time and him holding her hand in the drawing room while they took their tea.

She’d been given a guest room in the same corridor as his siblings and him — his mother hadn’t done him the disservice of banishing him to his bachelor apartment — and yet the distance might have been the Western Ocean for all she cared.

It had been nothing short of torture.

Sophie didn’t even know she was walking towards him till she had tucked her face into his chest and his arms were around her, holding her to him tightly. It felt like the first deep breath she’d taken in days. From the way he inhaled at the top of her head, it likely felt the same for him.

“Why are you awake so early,” she asked, voice muffled in his chest.

“I was sleeping lightly, as I have been the past few days that you are not in the same bed as me,” he rumbled quietly, “and I suddenly had a feeling that you were anxious. I woke up, and followed that feeling.”

“You didn’t check my room?”

“No,” he said, voice gravelly still, “my senses told me to follow you here.”

A quiet ensued. Then:

“I am happy to hold you like this,” said Sophie. She was aware she was being too forward, that such a thing was not done. That it was not viewed politely, for an unmated Omega woman and an unmated Alpha gentleman to hold each other so, as if both were terrified the other would disappear should they blink. She could not bring herself to care.

Benedict pulled back and cupped her face, looking at her with such love she was intimidated. How could she ever be enough for him? Still, she did her best to not move her eyes away from him. Not when he had done nothing so far but adore her.

“It is only a couple more days, Sophie,” he said, voice low in that way it got in the mornings. It sent a shiver down her spine. His eyes on her, unmoving and unblinking. The warmth from his hands, covering her whole face.

“And then we can decide our own future.”

.

.

Sophie brushed down her pale blue and violet dress once again. Lent by Penelope from her previous season, she said it had been one of her favourite dresses. It fit Sophie a little loosely, but the skirt of the dress needed no hemming, she was about the same height as her. Hazel had fitted it to her body the night before, the puff sleeves lending character to her. Her hair had been let loose with a half-updo that Sophie thought was unbecoming but Violet and Penelope had both assured her that unmated Omega gentlewomen in society were expected to leave some part of their hair down. She anxiously rubbed her earlobes, both adored with Violet’s gift of amethyst earrings.

She tucked the shawl closer to her body and wondered how Violet and Daphne were faring with the Queen, as she waited with Simon and Benedict waiting to be called into the Archbishop’s office.

They hadn’t had much choice in the matter when a missive was delivered from the Royal Household requesting Violet’s presence alongside her eldest daughter the Duchess of Hastings, just after they’d finished evening tea and Daphne and Simon were about to leave.

A request wasn’t so much a chance to deny a meeting as it was a command to explain things.

Violet read the note, calmly explained things to all of them, gathered around the foyer as they were about to bid Simon and Daphne goodbye, and said, “Perhaps this will be a chance to explain my side as well, considering I have spent time with Sophie and Benedict.”

“It cannot be a bad sign that she wants us both there,” said Daphne, fretting as she was despite her words. She was wringing her hands, then Simon’s hand covered hers calming her movement.

“No,” said Violet, closing the note and tucking it back into the envelope it came in, “it isn’t. Or so is the belief I am taking with me tomorrow.”

.

.

A young ordinand, no older than six and ten per Sophie’s estimate, walked briskly towards them and came to a halt in front of them. He swallowed, uncharacteristically nervous, and said, “The Archbishop would like to see you now, your grace, Mr. Bridgerton and Miss Baek. P-please follow me.”

It seemed as if being near members of the Queen’s close circle had caused him to lose composure. Which was odd, because if she remembered correctly, the third and fourth sons of the nobility — meaning anyone who was expendable aside from the heir and the spare — were sent to the church or military as it was considered a respectable profession. These young men had grown up with silver spoons in their mouths, being in rarefied air was nothing new to them.

She let her musings wander as they walked up the expansive steps from the anteroom they’d been guided to with refreshments on hand. Benedict let his hand hover near the small of Sophie’s back, guiding, never touching, as he followed the young man and Simon up the stairs. Simon had huffed at being delayed.

The ordinand pushed open heavy doors to let them in a room with tall ceilings and plushly appointed settees and sofas. The Archbishop was looking down at a document laid out in front of him while a younger man, clergy, was looking stressed and panicked and explaining things to him quite rapidly. Arched windows behind him let in the dappled morning light. He bid the man beside him quiet with a wave of his hand as he looked up and saw them entering the room. “Ah, Your Grace,” proclaimed the Archbishop as he stepped out from behind his desk and greeted Simon. “It is good to see you again, though perhaps we should make it a habit of meeting under less strenuous circumstances.”

“Your Grace,” Simon greeted back, “I couldn’t agree more. May I introduce my brother-in-law, Mr. Benedict Bridgerton, and Miss Sophie Baek?”

Benedict murmured a greeting and Sophie dropped into a quick curtsey, not knowing if it was proper or not, but deciding at the moment it didn’t hurt to be respectful. The Archbishop seemed pleased, so it wouldn’t have been a break in protocol. If there was one for meetings like this.

“Please, let us have a seat and then discuss the matter,” said the Archbishop while walking towards the settees and waving them forward. “I have been going through the will just now and speaking with Reverend Josephs here and there’s a lot of explanation that needs to come about.”

“How so,” asked Simon, taking a seat whereas Benedict and Sophie shared the other settee. Their hands reached for one another. If the Archbishop noticed, he didn’t comment on it.

“The Dowager Countess was allocated a yearly stipend of four thousand pounds for the care and welfare of Miss Sophie Baek, therein noted as the ward of the late Earl of Penwood, up until she reached the age of one and twenty. The sum was in addition to her jointure, and was provided with the express intent of housing and clothing Miss Baek to enable her in making her debut and a suitable match in society,” said the Archbishop, reading from the documents at his desk. He moved forward to where the visiting party was seated and then extended the documents to Simon to read.

Benedict leaned in so that he could get a better look and read it for himself. Sophie sat there, unmoving. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

Four thousand pounds a year for her care. In addition to the yearly or monthly stipend that Araminta would have received as part of the dower. Sophie had seen none of it. Oh, she had been housed alright, but not in a proper room beside Rosamund and Posy, but in a cold room near the attics. She had been clothed, in servant’s uniform and plain wool dresses instead of the frothy concoctions Rosamund was allowed to get made at the modiste’s.

“Sir, if you would pl—” interrupted the Reverend, nervously.

“Quiet, Mr. Josephs,” said the Archbishop sternly, and the Reverend fell silent. “I have heard enough from you this day.”

“There is a dowry allotted for Miss Baek, a sum of eighteen thousand pounds, to be provided when she finds herself a suitable Alpha gentleman of her interest with the intent to marry,” continued the Archbishop, looking at them.

“There is also an additional clause,” said Simon, now looking over the annexure, “which states that should Araminta not debut Sophie for any reason and not ensure she makes a suitable match, the four thousand pound stipend would be clawed back and awarded to Miss Baek as compensation. And that her jointure would be curtailed by ninety percent forthwith.”

There was a stunned silence before the Reverend started speaking again, panicked this time. “Sirs, I had no idea this was happening! I was told that the will had been executed as per the norms by the deacon!”

“So not only are you incompetent, you are also an idiot who believed something without verifying,” asked Simon, his voice terrifyingly calm. He was leaning back against back of the tufted Chesterfield, in control, every inch the fearsome Duke who was part of the Queen’s inner circle.

Simon busied himself with looking at the additional sections in the late Earl’s will.

Rev. Josephs swallowed noisily from where he was standing beside the Archbishop. He was wringing his hands again. “I had n-no reason to doubt the deacon, your Grace, you must understand! He’d been ordained ten years prior and had nothing but good things said about him and he returned the opinion with nothing but good deeds! I had no reason t-to think he would stand to dupe a young woman of limited means in order to line his own pockets.”

“And you are sure of that, yes?”

He nodded, shakily. “He was meticulous in the way he maintained the parish’s ledgers. Someone else was assigned to it, but he kept a thorough detail. There was a sum paid to the parish and to the church, right around the time the Earl of Penwood’s will was executed. That sum was recorded as an entry but its usage and further allocations cannot be matched. And a sum has been withdrawn in the past few months.”

“How much were the sums,” asked Benedict, speaking for the first time.

“Eight hundred pounds was donated,” said Rev. Josephs, “and a lumpsum of five hundred was withdrawn in the past few months.”

The Archbishop sighed. “You do understand, Caleb, that as Archdeacon, you are now responsible for clearing up the matter?”

“Y-yes I am,” stuttered Rev. Josephs. The man seemed to be at a loss as to why he was navigating a matter never even brought to his attention for seven long years, but knew he had no choice in the matter. Sophie would have felt pity for him to suffer the consequences of someone else’s greed had she not been sitting in a mixture of rage and resignation.

Sophie spoke up for the first time in the whole conversation. “Your Grace,” she directed her question to the Archbishop, “might I be permitted to ask a question?” She could not clear up anything without asking the questions she needed to.

The Archbishop smiled, the action making his wrinkled face look more paternal. “Considering we are discussing your life and future, please do, Miss Baek,” he answered amiably.

“Why is it that I have been allocated a sum for Araminta’s malfeasance? Wouldn’t the sum be returned to the estate? Wouldn’t the new Earl require it?”

The Archbishop raised an eyebrow in her direction, impressed. Benedict and Simon smiled at her, encouraging. The Archbishop turned to the clergyman. Rev. Josephs swallowed and said in a quieter voice, “I am unsure as to why the new Earl did not enquire about the execution of the will.”

“He probably assumed it had been executed by the dowager Countess and the solicitors and so he inherited an estate which required him to do nothing on behalf of the previous holder of the title and their family,” interjected Benedict, cogs turning in his head.

“The sum is, to my knowledge, allocated to you, my dear, on account of your status as an Omega,” explained the Archbishop. “I cannot be sure of course without speaking to the previous executor of the will, who is absconding at the moment,” he said, scoffing. Rev. Josephs turned a deeper shade of red. “But typically such provisions were made for the protection of Omegan wards, especially when their protectors were no longer around to care for their well-being.”

“What else is required of me then, sir,” asked Sophie. Benedict squeezed her hand, she squeezed it back.

“I shall confirm the validity of the will and its proper execution with the Privy Council and shall set up a meeting with the current Earl’s solicitors, and perhaps the Earl himself, to ensure the sum is transferred to you in an account of your choosing.”

Sophie knew she would not be able to hold the sum under her own name, such liberties were not present yet in this society. She looked at Benedict, who nodded at her. She squeezed his hand back.

“How long would the process take,” asked Simon.

“Not long,” affirmed the Archbishop. “Considering we are rectifying a mistake in execution and this is an Earl’s will, this whole matter should be resolved in less than a fortnight.”

Sophie listened to them iron out the details of the execution while her mind wandered.

Eighteen thousand pounds was chump change to him and his family. She had seen the house in London, she had also seen Benedict’s estate. She had seen sketches of Aubrey Hall and its expansive grounds, ten times the size of the Wilshire mansion. This was not considering the Scottish estates in Aberdeen and Glasgow or the Irish estates in Kilshenny and County Antrim. The dowry and the compensation together would make her a very desirable debutante, yes, coupled with her Omega status, but the money truly was a drop in the ocean to him.

But it would make her a more even match, even if she couldn’t do anything about her illegitimacy. Which she was sure the Archbishop knew about. But he had chosen not to say anything, and she did not look a gift horse in the mouth and kept quiet.

Her hands were still shaking.

So many years scrubbing the floors of her home, suffering through heats alone, screaming for something during her exhausting heats and being called worse than a lightskirt by Araminta for even wanting someone to hold her through it.

And now Araminta would feel the burden of what it would be like to be on the unsavoury side when someone’s generosity has been tested.

Perhaps the best part, thought Sophie, as she curtsied and left the Archbishop’s office along with her companions, was that Araminta wasn’t expecting the rug to be pulled out from underneath her at all. Not after so many years had passed.

Benedict. He had done what she should’ve expected he’d do once he knew in detail what had happened to her under Araminta’s care. But she still didn’t expect him to do it.

The Bridgertons had dealings with her cousin, the current Earl, Jonathan Gun. She and Jonathan were distantly related and barely knew each other.

His wife, Cressida, had been an old friend of Eloise’s. Apparently they had a falling out, but when she greeted Sophie as her husband’s cousin, she bore no malice or ill-intent.

She was networking, and Sophie let her do it.

She stood at the back of Araminta and Rosamund’s funeral, hand held firmly in Benedict’s grip. If there was a sentiment that she’d been in the Bridgerton’s employ before, now there was no doubt that she was a part of them.

Rosamund had been fished out of the Thames two days after Araminta’s death was reported within their circles. There were signs of strangulation but most evidence was washed away as the body bloated. Jonathan requested Scotland Yard close the investigation and turn over the body so they could give them proper burials.

Sophie eyed Posy, who stood in the front of the queue, alongside Jonathan and Cressida and her husband Hugh, receiving condolences. Face stoic, for the most part. When she and Benedict reached the front of the line, Posy hugged her tightly, unmindful of her injuries and whispered in her ear fiercely, “We are free, Sophie.”

Sophie gripped her just as tightly. It was like a band had loosened around her chest.

Benedict kept the details of the murders to himself till she asked him for it. He told her and then she finally gave him the entire gory detail of her abuse under Araminta. He had killed for her, he deserved to know everything.

In return, he told her about her getting cheated out of her trust fund, which had been larger than she’d been intially been led to believe. As compensation, Jonathan, who’d been unaware of her trickery, gave her an additional percentage of profits from the business.

She looked up the solicitor who’d told her of the will. It turned out, soon after Araminta’s death, he’d applied for voluntary erasure with the governing board, closed down his practice and left for the countryside permanently. He had not been seen in London or in his country home in Essex since.

Violet had suggested she take a trip along with Eloise to Aubrey Hall, their country seat in Kent. She’d spent one week there before Benedict had lured her to his private country home which he’d called my cottage. She, stupidly, thought it was a cottage.

It was probably only slightly smaller than Aubrey Hall in expanse. This man was an idiot.

Her idiot.

He’d gone to London yesterday and was supposed to be back today. The Crabtrees were to leave on a trip for the next two weeks. They would have security, spread throughout the vast property, just not within the house.

He wanted privacy for a little while, just the two of them.

She could read between the lines.

.

.

She was in the library looking through the collection of books — first editions of Austen and Hardy — when she heard the car pull into the driveway. She stepped out and made her way to the expansive living area as Benedict came in.

He was dressed in a light blue shirt and complimentary jeans, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and he looked so good she wanted to jump him. He greeted Mr. and Mrs. Crabtree who made their way out the front door.

They’d be alone for the next several days.

He stopped near the fireplace when he saw her and opened his arms. Sophie speed-walked into him and hugged him tight.

“I have missed you,” said Sophie blearily. She was tired from the gardening. She was tired of waiting for him.

“I have missed you too, baby,” his voice came, low and vibrating through her body from where he’d tucked her beneath his chin.

“I thought you’d be here earlier.”

“So did I, but Anthony wanted me to go over a few things before this break so it took a while.”

“Do you think it is a good idea to be away right now,” asked Sophie, fretting. Much as she wanted time for them both — and be fucked into the mattress by him, if she was being real — she didn’t know if they should be away during a time of upheaval.

Benedict murdering Araminta and Rosamund had some far-reaching repercussions.

The Featheringtons had abided by what Violet told them to, but were still caught off-guard when Araminta was killed. A prominent leader being killed by another influential leader invited a lot of chatter and unease. The Stotters had abided by Anthony’s request and put on a farce to get their son’s engagement broken. The Guns simply said that they’d pruned their tree to keep it in better health.

But the Featheringtons, who had eventually formed a working relationship with Araminta were not consulted for Araminta’s premeditated murder beforehand and they were furious. They had resorted to the social culling — uninviting the Bridgertons from their events and not allowing even Penelope, who had been a close friend of Colin and Eloise’s. to speak with them.

The Wangs and Lis had reached out to Anthony seeking a clearer explanation of what had happened and why it had happened. Anthony was trying to be upfront while reserving details, especially with two family-owned conglomerates who could potentially be an in into the Chinese markets for them.

It had been his idea for Benedict and Sophie to leave London for a few weeks, separately, then spend some time together and remain outside of the chaos.

Sophie, who’d been given a clean bill of health by Dr. Carrera, agreed to it when Anthony told her and Benedict together.

She had some discolouration on account of the car’s impact against the light pole but aside from that, she felt as good as new.

Benedict took her chin in his hand and tilted her face up so she’d meet his eyes. “No better time than the present, Sophie.”

He slowly lowered his face to hers, eyes tracing every movement, and gently kissed her. She ran a hand down his back and kissed him back, opening her mouth to give him better access.

He ran his hands all over her body, up to hold her neck the way he liked so he could kiss her the way he wanted, other hand gently squeezing her breasts and then tugging on her nipples. She moaned breathily into his mouth and he chuckled as he spoke into her mouth, “Oh, we are going to have so much fun, sweetheart.”

He broke the kiss to bend down and pick her up. She wrapped herself around him and kissed his face while he carried her to the bedroom.

Clothes came off with ruthless efficiency, the sight of her small hands helping take off his jeans a startling one. He gently pushed her back to lie on the bed, kissing her throughout, and then he made his way down her body.

Licked and bit his way down her plush breasts and down her stomach and then removed her panties which stuck to her wetly, baring her to his gaze. He eyed her hungrily and then met her eyes.

His usual green eyes were a darker hue now, consumed with want for her.

She nodded her acquiescence. As if she could ever properly tell him no.

He placed a sweet kiss to her pubic bone and to the insides of her thighs and then breathed directly over her entrance. “Please, Ben,” she begged.

Benedict chuckled while he took her clit in his mouth and started sucking.

Benedict licked into her with the attitude of a man who had all the time in the world; languid and slow. Sophie could feel her brain melting out of her ears. It felt incredible having him doing this to her. She didn't know pleasure could make her feel this mindless. It's as if she had no pressing worries, none at all.

He slowly pushed in a finger, gently; she clenched around it so hard he had to press down over his cock on the bed, lest he come before he was inside her. A second finger and then crooking them both along the slightly raised ridge inside and she came so hard she screamed.

He didn't let her up. He wanted her loose and relaxed and boneless — he continued his ministrations, coaxing two more orgasms from her before she pushed at his face and pulled at his arms. He could take a hint.

He slowly crawled up her body, pressing kisses back up along her stomach, chest, neck and then finally her lips.

“Ben, please,” she said, voice hoarse.

He wasted no time. He took himself in hand and coated himself in her release and then slowly started to push in, one hand coming up to gently hold both of her wrists above her head.

Sophie bowed off the bed at the sensation.

She was so wet but the stretch would take some getting used to.

He knew he was larger than average, girthy and long, and she was small in size. He'd barely fit three fingers in the first time. He didn't want to hurt her but a part of him wanted her to ache from being empty after he’d pulled out. He wanted to shape her cunt to fit only his cock.

To be the first and only person to ever do this to her? He felt himself getting harder at the thought, as he pushed in further, bottoming out at the hilt.

“Okay?” He asked, both hands now wrapped around each of hers beside her head.

“Mm hmm,” she moaned, the pain-pleasure making her delirious.

He gently pressed kisses to her whole face and then finally her lips and she messily kissed him back. “Move, please,” she begged.

Breathing into her mouth, he started a steady pace and felt her cant her hips up to take him in better. Clever girl. He'd bottom out, grind in a lazy circle, pull out almost completely and then push back in. Repeatedly. It made her delirious.

She shuddered through another orgasm while he kept up his pace, except now he was more forceful with his thrusts, hands on her hips, sitting up, making sure she would take all of him.

She wailed and chanted Ben Ben Ben in a steady litany, while he fucked her hard enough for the 1790s headboard to start banging against the wall.

He didn't care. He'd replace all of the furniture if required. His girl needed to know only his cock. Nothing else in that sweet, overthinking brain of hers.

He pushed a pillow beneath her hips, moments before he came in her and kept them canted up while he set a rough pace even while he was coming in her.

Cervical penetration being an impossibility was a sad thing to consider, else he was pretty sure he'd spill directly inside her womb. He's sure enough, he thought as he came down from the high and kissed her messily, that he's pounded against her cervix this time.

The thought of her being sore the next day from his fucking made more come spill out of his spent cock.

Sophie pulled at his arms and he leaned his whole weight down on her, still inside her. He kissed the side of her face and tucked himself into her neck.

Good god, he could sleep like this. He could also die like this. A deep satisfaction.

He woke up the next day to Sophie kissing his face and then kissing down his body. He stopped her before she could reach his dick.

“You don't have to.”

“You don't want me to?”

“That's not what I said, baby. My size makes it a little difficult to….do that.”

“I wanna try still, will you teach me?” She asked, doe eyes out in full force.

Benedict groaned as she giggled.

“We stop if it gets too much, alright?”

Sophie's eyes twinkled at him. She nodded and said, “I don't think we will but yes. I agree.”

She took him into his mouth, suckling at the head and looking straight at him. He stared at her with hooded eyes and guided her hands to cover what her mouth couldn't fit.

And then she swallowed him whole, slowly, inch by slow inch, right down to his pubic bone, right down her throat.

He let out of a noisy groan. That throat. All her holes were turning out to be perfect for him.

He threaded his hands through her hair on both sides of her head and guided her. After a few more thrusts, his grip on her hair tightened and he took over. He was now setting the pace of how she’d take him. The glint in Sophie's watering eyes was triumphant, this is what she wanted all along.

“Relax that beautiful throat, baby,” he crooned as he fucked her throat slowly, that soon turned rougher and faster.

Sophie held on to his upper thighs and let him use her the way he wanted.

He started grinding whenever he buried himself entirely, balls hitting her chin, making her moan each time. She fondled his balls and squeezed once. In retailiation, he covered her throat with one hand and squeezed gently. She moaned around his cock more loudly and filthily while he chuckled.

“Oh, perfect girl, you wanna be used like this?” He said between thrusts. “Fucked brainless, can't speak?”. Thrust. Harsh grind. Pull out. Thrust. Repeat. “We can do that sweetheart, we certainly can.”

He braces his legs on the bed and fucked her throat relentlessly. Sophie moaned helplessly as she shuddered through her own orgasm, untouched.

Sounds of sex filled the room. The wet squelch of her throat and throaty moans, his grunts and filthy words just for her. He came with a groan and a grunt and held her face still while he buried himself deep. She moaned uncontrollably and swallowed noisily as he came down her throat.

He continued to come for minutes and he prolonged the sensation by fucking her throat in and out. In and out. She squeezed her throat tight around him and his hand in her hair tightened in response.

He loved how she acted on her instincts (rightly) around him.

When he stopped coming, he pulled out of her mouth, slowly. He was still half hard so he pulled her up and slid inside her dripping cunt in one smooth thrust that had him buried balls deep.

She was so wet, she still wailed at his abrupt entrance.

“That wet from just deepthroating me, baby? I'll fuck your throat every morning then,” he said as he fucked into her and set a punishing pace.

Sophie could do little but hold on to his muscled arms and take what he was giving her. A few minutes later, he flipped them around and railed her into the mattress.

“Did you like that,”she asked shyly, voice hoarse from the harsh fucking. He started laughing. “It was perfect. You're perfect. I need to be deepthroated every day now.”

She smiled through her tears, giddy at his agreement and happiness. “I loved doing that. Swallowing you like this.”

He touched her jaw tenderly as he slowed down his pace. “Your jaw will hurt.”

She replied cheekily, “You can get me an appointment for a mandibular massage then,” eyes twinkling, and he could do nothing but chuckle at her obvious pleasure in pleasuring him.

They spent the majority of the two weeks like this. Barely clothed, fucking whenever they could, wherever they could, eating the cold cuts and sandwiches and pies that Mrs. Crabtree had preprepared and frozen for them.

It's like a lid had been blown off. He couldn't stop touching her and neither could she.

Some of the more memorable times were in front of the blazing fireplace, one finger in her lubed asshole while she was on all fours, while he set a punishing pace from behind. She moaned uncontrollably. Each time he filled her pussy he made sure her hips were canted up so she didn't spill anything.

She was too out of it every time to question him. He knew chances of getting her pregnant were slim. Even when everything went right, it took more than a couple of weeks of fucking. He'd have to continue the same pace when they went back to London and the thought of it kept him excited.

Fucking in a shower was tricky in the best of times but Sophie was slight and maneuvering her so one of her legs was draped across the crook of his elbow, opening her up to him, back to the wall, was not much of a problem. The water cascaded on them from the rainfall showerhead above while he set a pace where she could only cling to him while he fucked her the way he preferred — her being unable to do much but be dicked down by him. It was peaceful and quiet save for their combined grunts and moans.

He loved being in control in bed and she readily gave it up to him.

Having her deepthroat him while he was sitting on the showerseat was not part of his plan, but she relished the taste of her cunt around his cock as she swallowed him the best she could. He let her head bob without directing her the first few minutes before he took over, setting a brutal pace again. She relaxed immediately and opened her throat so he could pound to his heart's content.

She loved him taking control, he could tell. A girl this perfect should be fucked whenever possible and kept close all the time.

The day before they were supposed to leave for London, he woke up with her on top of him. He'd fallen asleep still inside her and he'd already fucked her once, mindlessly, in his sleep, in the middle of the night. Now she was still sleeping. Snoring lightly. He gave a small grin while he observed her. What a precious girl. She trusted him so wholly, he never wanted to do anything to break that trust.

He was already half hard thinking about the night before and the way they went at it for hours.

He was sketching her in her red dress at his mother and sister-in-law’s soiree and she was cockwarming him, sitting fully on his lap. And she was doing a bad job of it. She already come twice and been fucked twice when she was supposed to just keep him wet and warm inside her. He let her come as many times as she wanted, sweetest girl, before he finally finished the sketch, placed it beside him on the bedside cabinet and fucked her into the mattress relentlessly.

He slowly started fucking into her. Without waking, Sophie spread her legs so he could have better access. He didn't want her to wake.

She was sore, he knew. She also liked being sore, she told him so when they were done.

Slow, shallow thrusts and her face was soon tucked into the side of his neck. Good god, she felt so right in his arms. So much bloodshed and violence in his life and she’s the only thing that felt safe and right for him.

Sophie slowly stirred, the slow thrusts waking her up. She blearily looked at him and then laid back down, spreading herself further so he could use her as he’d like. He pressed a kiss to her forehead as he quickened his thrusts. She squeezed him once and moaned out as she orgasmed and he followed soon after. He pulled the cover over them both and slowly drifted back to sleep.

“You still sore,” asked Benedict, sitting behind her in the deep, clawfoot tub while gently washing down her front with a loofah. Sophie squirmed a little bit. The water was hot, her boyfriend was warm behind her and she was almost asleep with how relaxed she felt. “A little,” she admitted. He pressed a kiss to the back of her head as she leaned back and pressed her face into his neck, eyes closed.

They had essentially fucked on all surfaces of the house knowing that they weren’t going to run into the caretakers at any point. Alfie was there somewhere on the property, in one of the designated holiday cottages, as was John.

Sophie was pretty sure sex could be mediocre with an inattentive partner, but Benedict was anything but. He had a voracious drive and always wanted to try a new position but ensuring she came first — and multiple times. It was explosive.

Him coming inside her so many times still made her shiver at the thought. Especially when he’d spread her legs and watch his come trickle out and then push it back in with either his fingers or his cock and mutter something about her needing to keep his release inside her warm, wet cunt.

She was so embarrassed now with how wet she was throughout. She’d drip into the floorboards if she wasn’t careful.

But it was also how Benedict made her feel as if her sexual needs were natural and normal. He egged her on and encouraged her in whatever she did and guided her where she didn’t know what to do.

They matched in so many ways.

She should’ve been riding this dick for longer, damn.

Tomorrow, they went back to London, and while she could still spend nights at his flat, if she wanted to, she would be missing the easy domesticity they shared here.

Benedict was surprisingly capable in the kitchen, even if he admitted that more complicated dishes were out of his repertoire. He made her hot drinks and breakfast every day and didn’t let her lift a finger.

She didn’t look at her phone the entire time she’d been here.

She opened her eyes to see him slowly trace her labia, his obscenely large hand under water. She inhaled sharply. Sore as she was, she was not going to stop him. He slipped two fingers in as he pressed a kiss to the side of her temple and she moaned out loud and threw her head back.

It reminded her of his fingers pushing his come back into her pussy. God.

Oh.

Oh shit.

“Ben,” she said, voice tinged with alarm. Benedict leaned forward so he could see her face, “What is it, love?”

“I am not on birth control.”

“I know.”

She stared at him. “We have been having unprotected sex for the past two weeks, Benedict!”

He pulled his lips in in an effort to stop smiling and then helplessly gave her a lopsided smile. A small one. Meant to soothe.

It didn’t soothe.

“This is serious, Benedict. We have only just gotten togeth—”

“—if you leave aside the fact that we’ve been circling each other for the past three years then sure—”

“That is not the point!”

Benedict exhaled and gently turned her to face him. She hooked her legs over his hips, arms around his torso and stared at him.

“When was your last cycle?”

Sophie thought back hard. “I think I am due for my next one in the next few days.”

Silence and then Benedict shrugged. “Alright, there’s a chance then, but I want to say something,” he said and when Sophie went to interrupt him he interjected softly, “Please.”

“Okay, go on.”

“It is not that easy to get pregnant. Even when the fertility of both parties is perfectly intact and all is well and stress levels are low and whatever. Sometimes it is, but most times it is not. It usually takes months of what we’ve been doing the past two weeks.”

Sophie put it together fast. “You wouldn’t mind though.”

“Mind what?”

He was going to make her say it out loud, the bastard. “If we were to find ourselves having a child this early into being together?”

“No. I wouldn’t,” he said, exhaling roughly.

He circled his arms tighter and pulled her closer within the confines of the tub. The mesmerising green of his eyes had her in its grip.

“I wouldn’t mind us having a child right now, because that child would only know our love, magnified. And,” he stopped and looked away for a moment. He then looked back and she could feel how intense his gaze was this time, “it would also mean that you would never be able to leave.”

Sophie softened at that. “I wouldn’t choose to leave even now.”

“I know. But you feared it once.”

“….I did.”

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Stop worrying about what has yet to happen. Let us cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Sophie squared her shoulders and ran her fingers up, up and intertwined them behind his neck.

“So if I am not pregnant, you wouldn’t object to me getting on some form of birth control, yes?”

Benedict swallowed, pursed his lips and then gave her a grin again, guiltily. He was caught, she thought triumphantly.

“No, I wouldn’t,” he said, hands running down her back. “I wouldn’t mind at all. I do think we can get away with using condoms — if you want to that is.”

“You just wanna knock me up,” she said in mock outrage.

“I think if I say no, I’d be lying, so. Yes, I do,” he shrugged and smiled. “I want to fuck you bare like I did the past few days and I wanna make sure you spill none of my seed and I want that seed to take root. I am a possessive man, especially over you,” he said, voice low and causing her cunt to throb, “and I want to keep you with me at all times till the day both of us depart from this earth,” he finished, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

“My beautiful girl,” he said, kissing her again. Water splashed around them as Sophie grasped him lightly, making him hiss, and then guided him inside her again.

She knew that raising a child was no joke and she was still anxious about it but somehow he always managed to turn her brain off with his proximity.

She stopped thinking as Benedict picked up a rapid pace, manhandling her, water spilling out of the bath dangerously.

“You know, you really should be lettin’ me drive,” complained Alfie from the back, face propped up over one fist, arm resting over the open window.

“Oh come on, just let me drive, I barely get to drive anywhere now,” came Benedict’s response from the driver’s seat, one hand on the steering wheel, the other entwined with Sophie’s.

Alfie let out a sigh. “Fine, fine, we are switching after half an hour though. I don’t want a talkin’ to from your mum. She scares the wits out of me.”

Benedict chuckled as did John from the backseat, who snorted.

“What,” asked Alfie, “Violet Bridgerton is scary. No offense, Ben.”

“None taken, she can be scary when she wants to be. She scares me sometimes still.”

“See!”

Sophie laughed outright. It felt so freeing, speeding down the M4, the four of them, this camraderie, its as if their worries were behind them. And most of it was behind them.

She leaned her head on the other window and watched the rolling countryside pass her by.

It had been hectic for the past few weeks, with Violet deciding to throw a soiree with Kate, in what was her first party as a hostess since marrying Anthony. Sophie had been busy organizing the minutiae of the event — seating charts, the menu, the catering company, flower arrangements. Seating plans were of the utmost importance given the Bridgerton ballroom often saw entire Cabinets, including Prime Ministers of the past, hobnobbing with the elite, or whoever refused to see past the veneer of the elite and into the complex world of power beneath.

She’d been seated beside Benedict the night before. She remembered finalizing the seating chart with Violet and having put herself across from Benedict, in a junior seat at the table. She was his personal assistant, his manager, yes, but she didn’t need to be beside him all the time. It was becoming difficult to resist his charms on a regular basis.

He was always in her personal space, touches lingering a little too long, holding her a little too close. Anticipating her every need. It wasn’t by magic that she’d discovered her wallet had been fraying at the edges and suddenly there was a replacement sent to her flat. Saic Firenze, bespoke leatherwork, durable. She protested it once and Benedict gently told her that he had taken her practicality into account while picking the wallet for her. It was fine craftsmanship (which she couldn’t deny) and would last her years.

She wished he would give her something more run-of-the-mill. Coach maybe. She wished he’d give her nothing at all, not see through her at every opportunity.

She’d accepted a lot of things from the Bridgertons, because they’d ensured her continued safety and she’d swore her loyalty to them. Apparently that included gifts of exorbitant proportions, in addition to her salary, like the walk-in closet full of evening gowns, cocktail dresses, backless suits, a truly pathologically insane collection of shoes she never thought she’d need, but Violet had insisted because they did host an event every month, and she needed to be styled accordingly.

She’d turned down Violet’s standing offer for a stylist, so Francesca and Daphne, the fashion consultants of the family — yet another cover for the Bridgertons’ involvement in the fashion circles — had picked things out for her. There were an alarming number of dresses in the closet that were backless. It meant she’d have to forego a bra. It meant, tantalizingly, Benedict’s warm, wide, calloused palm rubbing soothingly down her back throughout the evening. She’d often end up so wet by the time the evening was over she was in half a mind to beg him to get her off, but she curbed those urges.

No good would come of being so wanton. As if her mother’s life hadn’t been a strong enough lesson for her.

Her mother had been respectable; she taught primary school. But she was from a common background and not nobility. Her father, the Earl of Penwood, much like the Bridgertons, relied on his noble heritage to conduct much more darker and sinister schemes away from the spotlight. Of course, no one could quite touch the Bridgertons with regards to their wealth, influence and power. But people like her father still tried.

That pursuit of power led her father to keep her mother and her cared for, but never with the full status and protection that marriage would’ve granted her.

It wasn’t the regency era, they didn’t need to be married in order for Sophie to move through the world, but it would have helped regardless.

Richard decided to marry Araminta Li of the Li clan, thus cementing an alliance that brought the vestiges of a great house into Penwood House. It also involved moving Sophie’s mother to more modest logdings with more modest staff who monitored her every step. Sophie was requested to stay with her father at his house, at his request. She refused.

Then her father died from a car accident. Her mother from a short illness. And her world fell apart.

Araminta made her the maid of all work. She became the housekeeper and house manager for no pay, while deeply understanding everything that went on. She’d have been glad to have had a roof over her head, yet no way out but to wait until she was 20 so that she could walk out with the inheritance her father had bequeathed her.

2 million pounds. Life-changing money. She’d never need anything else.

So she tolerated Araminta’s verbal abuse. The physical abuse too. She never went up to the attics of Bridgerton House, closed spaces still made her hyperventilate.

It was nothing short of a miracle to have been able to leave as she did, to have found the Bridgertons’ protection as she did, for the simple act of doing nothing but saving someone’s life. She’d have saved them anyway. But she was glad it was Eloise. She was glad for Eloise’s generosity towards her, for introducing her to her family, to have gained their support as she did.

She did not consider herself to be part of the family, but they still treated her as one. Benedict treated her with something close to reverence, and it scared the absolute daylights out of her.

Her parents’ relationship had not always been fraught and hostile — it had once been rooted in affection and love. It didn’t last, so why should this?

Albiet, the love and loyalty this family had towards each other, she’d never seen such mutual love. She was touch-starved, starved of affection and kindness. She accepted what was given greedily, and yet was never made to feel less than for asking for it.

Benedict scared her. He was soft and gentle with her, a side his younger siblings and his mother saw, his enemy would’ve begged to see. She knew of his reputation as a playboy — heartbreaker. Unattached. Did not form romantic connections. Though she suspected it was by design that that particular rumour floated about. It wouldn’t do to have a visible target painted for someone else to shoot at.

So his affection in the little things and his single-minded attention on her unnerved her. What was to stop him from abandoning her when she became inconvenient? Nothing. She doubted she’d be allowed to walk away scot-free.

But the unhealed child inside her craved his touch. His focus and his attention. He’d pull her down to sit on his lap and not let her move when they’d be finalizing or going over his schedule for the day. Interestingly, neither one of his siblings made a comment on it if they happened to be in the room with him.

His hands would wander, but always in a soothing motion. His very presence calmed her soul.

She’d patched him up too frequently and slept beside him in his bed one too many times to resist him. But she still tried to put distance between them. She always moved his hands when they ventured somewhere she didn’t like and he never put them there again.

She felt safe with him. Being with him was like sitting underneath the shade of a massive tree. Protected, calm, cool and safe.

The dress she wore to the soiree had his attention within minutes of her stepping foot into the room. Dark red with thin straps, no back to speak of, slit on the side so high she’d have a wardrobe malfunction if she wasn’t careful. Sideswept hair, secured in place with bejwelled clips. She checked her watch — a Vacheron Constantin, another gift. On time.

His hand curled inside her dress, around her back. When they’d been seated for dinner and Fran exchanged their place cards so she sat next to him, his hand wandered up, cupping the side of her breast and squeezing gently once. She’d inhaled sharply. The lighting was dim, few people could tell what was going on.

She felt like she’d been served on a platter and yet. She couldn’t bring herself to regret it.

She met Fran’s eyes across the table where she calmly sipped her wine. The hint was unmistakeable: she was Benedict’s to do with as he pleased.

This is what it meant to belong to someone else.

She should’ve known his control would snap sooner rather than later.

She still knew she had the upper hand. If she objected he’d stop. But she wasn’t sure she wanted him to stop. She so desperately wanted to give in.

His hands trailed down her back slowly, making her aware of every inch of his hand, the warmth making her shiver. He was so nonchalant about it too. He was in conversation with the gentleman seated to his other side, not even looking at her. But his hand - big enough to cover her back when splayed wide - caressed down her side before sliding up her thigh and settling there.

And then he moved his hand again. This time, he cupped her, warm palm fully holding her clothed cunt.

She really shouldn't. But she couldn't help herself. She was only human, and he was wearing her down. So she pushed forward in her seat so that he could settle his palm around her better.

The rest of the evening went that way. A hyper awareness of him, that cologne of his, his warm hand tucked so intimately between her legs. At some point he leaned towards her and whispered in her ear, voice deep and scratchy, “You good, baby?”

Baby. That one was new. She looked at him. His pupils were blown out. She gulped down the water she was drinking and whispered back, “Yeah.”

Now, she just stared up at him. She got to see this side of him a lot of the times now, but she wished she wouldn’t see it on account of him being injured and not letting her get back to her flat.

(Her flat, two floors below his in a converted Victorian building, paid for by the family. A security system that Benedict had overseen the installation of. Just a precaution, he’d said at the time.)

His hair was tousled in the morning light, face looking so young and at peace.

She didn’t know pleasure felt like that. Her feeble attempts at using her own hands were abysmal at best. If he felt that good with just his fingers, how good was he going to feel when he finally fucked her?

How was she going to take him, was a bigger question. She was already sore, a little deliciously so. And that was just his fingers.

He stirred, groaned and then pulled her into him, the smallest of spaces between them disappearing. Sophie closed her eyes and breathed him in, tucking her face into his neck.

“I want to keep you here forever,” he confessed, voice low, scratchy with sleep.

She stilled. That didn’t sound like someone who felt she was a convenience.

Sophie sat up and crossed her legs beneath her. Started first and laid it out for him — she felt he deserved the honesty. That she was incredibly grateful for a job, for their protection of her, for how safe she felt against her travesty of a stepmother and how much she adored Benedict. But that she was unsure if he meant for her to stick around long-term because she was aware of how these families worked and how much remained unspoken.

“I also know I will never be able to leave, if something goes wrong,” she finished quietly, indicating the space between them.

Benedict listened to her in silence, still lying back on the bed, arms braced on his elbows. “You are never going to be unsafe with me, Sophie,” he said, quietly. “This life is what it is. There’s also things you haven’t told me about Araminta Gun that I want to know, because I see how your hands tremble when she is in the same room as you.”

Her head shot up. She didn’t think she had been transparent.

“But,” he continued, “this isn’t a passing fancy for me. You see me, and you know me, and you choose to stay anyway.” He slowly reached for her and pulled her into his arms. She looked into his face and just saw him. Earnest and open, the way he’d been with her these past few years. She quickly reached up and pressed a kiss to his lips before she lost her nerve, and he took the chance to deepen it, leaving her reeling. He continued pressing kisses down her throat and then down her chest and murmured, “You never have to worry about a single thing that is now plaguing you if you are to be with me.”

She swallowed. It was a big thing for him to promise her.

“Think about it?” he implored, green eyes looking up at her.

(Not that Francesca or Eloise weren’t refined, it was just customary for the both of them, their interests lying elsewhere — Francesca’s in the pianoforte and Eloise’s in books. She might have hope for Hyacinth yet.

Better yet, Hyacinth could shadow Sophie and learn from the best.)

“That is quite an accomplishment for someone who has been cut off from finishing lessons at a young age,” Violet said mildly, voice probing.

Sophie stilled for a moment and then continued stirring her tea. She took a sip, place the cup on her lap and responded, “I have always been observant, my lady, because finishing lessons were of great interest to me, even if I was not allowed to take them.”

“Violet, please. What age did you last take your lessons?”

“Fourteen. My reading and writing tutorials continued till I was sixteen but they were few and far between.”

Her lessons should’ve been managed till she debuted, even after that, especially dance and music, thought Violet.

“Did your father not fight for your corner?” asked Violet, irritated on her behalf. Especially for someone who had such potential and was able to exude such grace with so little training.

Sophie sighed. “He did not want to fight my stepmother on every single thing. She discontinued my dance lessons when I was ten and he said he would resolve it but they didn’t resume.”

Violet looked at Benedict over the rim of her cup. He looked incensed, though he said nothing.

She couldn’t believe a man of nobility such as an Earl, would willingly take on the burden of educating a young girl and then abandon her mid-way. It didn’t make any sense.

“Did you learn French or Latin while you were still being tutored?”

Sophie brightened at that. “I learnt both. I also learnt Korean and can speak it fluently. It was my parents’ native tongue.”

She looked down at her lap, somber at once. “Though my father and I only continued to speak in Korean when it was just the both of us. My stepmother did not appreciate us speaking a language she couldn’t understand.”

Violet eyed Mrs. Wilson, who’d been sitting beside her in a chair, sipping her own cup of tea. They’d have their work cut out for them when they eventually headed back to London.

“She has as much knowledge of art as I do, did you know that, mother?” piped up Benedict.

Sophie flushed and sushed him. “What? It is true! Flattering as it was to be compared to Michaelangelo’s skills.”

Sophie laughed outright, twinkling laugh, head thrown back. And then she just beamed at him.

As if they had forgotten they both had company.

Violet eyed her son once more. He looked…..content. In a way she’d never seen him. His scent calm instead of the agitated one she’d scented all throughout the last season and the beginning of this one. Mixed with Sophie’s rosewater and fresh rainfall scent, it set such an inviting environment. As if beckoning people to come and enjoy their company.

.

.

.

After enjoying a nice breakfast tea, Violet took Sophie by the hand and pulled her into her bedroom.

She started gently. “I know the Crabtrees have been chaperoning the both of you but I also know my son. Dearest, you cannot be sharing a bed until the two of you are wed. Or mated. Whichever comes first.”

Sophie pinkened. “Lady Bridgert—”

“Violet. Or mama. Whichever one you prefer.”

Sophie swallowed — what an enormous privilege to be afforded such belief. “Violet.”

Violet smiled and nodded at her to continue.

“We haven’t, that is,” she started and then stopped. She took a deep breath and let it out in one go. “We haven’t done anything aside from simply sleeping on the same bed together. I think we both feel very centered the more time we spend around each other.

It is as if all my anxiety ceases to exist around him. Because he sees me for who I am and I never need to construct a facade around him.”

Violet blinked. Oh.

“I apologize,” Sophie continued, unaware of Violet’s realization, “it was not what we’d intended. It is just…..really hard to stay apart. Even physically.”

Violet took both of her hands in her own.

“You need not apologize,” said Violet. “This is Benedict’s private home and there are no prying eyes. But people talk, especially servants. They keep our secrets but also judge them so you will need to be careful.

She waved in the air. “It will not matter when you’re mated. So just for a little while mor—”

“Yes, of course.”

“Good. Now, I have something for you.”

She pulled her to the front of her bed, where Sophie saw a trunk that was definitely not there as she was dressing herself in the morning.

Violet opened the trunk and started taking out some of the items within, while continuing to speak to Sophie. “These are Eloise and Francesca’s from last seasons’ and I made a wild guess that they’d fit you. We might need to hem them because I now think they are both taller than you. But nevertheless I got some things for you so that you wouldn’t have to keep rewearing the one or two dresses.”

Dresses upon dresses. Shoes, more pairs than she could count. Two pelisses, Spencers jackets. And then Violet dug into the bottom and picked out a flat jewellery box. The box was about the size of her palm.

“There aren’t too many pieces in here, just a few pairs of earrings and a couple of bracelets but I thought it’d do before we had some made specifically for you. Here.”

She plucked out a pair of drop earrings. Small, encased in gold, a small diamond on top of each amethyst.

Exactly matching the jewel of her necklace.

Sophie couldn’t even see the jewels properly because of how her eyesight blurred. This was too much. And from a woman she’d met just a few hours ago.

Violet stepped forward and gently threaded the earrings into her ear lobes, one after another.

When she was done, Sophie stepped forward and hugged her, startling her. “Thank you, mama,” she whispered through her tears.

Violet hugged her back. “Oh my darling,” she whispered back, hugging her back and swaying them back and forth. “You need never thank me for anything.”

Benedict stood at the threshold watching the scene as Sophie sniffled into his mother’s shoulder and Violet pressed a kiss to her head.

His heart felt more full than it’d done in a long time.

.

.

.

The letter from Simon arrived two days later in the evening.

Sophie, Benedict and Violet had enjoyed a wonderful dinner today, filled with laughter and with Violet regaling Sophie with Benedict’s antics from when he was younger.

There was a knock on the door and then a conversation with a runner and then Mr. Crabtree was bringing forward a letter to them, addressed jointly to both Benedict and Violet.

Estate of the Duke of Hastings

Clyvedon

August 19th, 1817

Dearest Violet and Benedict,

I am taking the liberty of addressing the both of you in the same letter since the matter concerned is of the utmost urgency.

Matters concerning wills where there’s a dispute in the title would be directed either to me or to one of the Marquesses in the Queen’s council. Since this is in essence an effort to legitimise Miss Baek following the death of her parents — who for all knowable reasons cannot stand in and claim her as their own — the will shall be examined in the Prerogative Court of Canterbury. Typically, a deacon or a vicar can overlook the proceedings but I have asked the Archbishop of Canterbury to look into the matter.

It should also be noted that Lady Penwood would not have thought to lie to Sophie, either by not showing her the will or by falsifying the records, without the help of the local deacon or vicar. They either incorrectly enforced the will — which is my suspcion — or they falsified the will, in return for a sum.

In either case, this would not bode well for the reputation of the Church, which is why the Archbishop, who surmised the same conclusion as me, agreed to set the nearest date and let us know when the examination can take place.

I have suggested to the Archbishop to communicate with you directly and to send a missive to Bridgerton House, so you do not miss out on the communique. I also suggest coming back to London in three days’ time if you do not hear from either of us by then.

I am making my way in to London and shall already be there by the time you are reading this letter so please direct future communications there.

I look forward to seeing my new sister-in-law-to-be in person soon. Please send her my love and best wishes.

Yours Sincerely,

Simon

Benedict slapped his forehead. Of course the queen’s council wouldn’t examine the will because it wasn’t regarding the Earl’s entail. The new Earl was already in place.

“I forgot about the inheritance court examining wills,” said Benedict sheepishly.

Sophie laid a hand on his thigh below the table and rubbed soothingly. “It is quite alright, Benedict.”

“No, I have been dealing with matters of the estate on Anthony’s behalf for a while now. I also managed when he was at Oxford for three years. I knew this then.”

Violet interjected. “You likely didn’t need to mediate on any wills that didn’t involve a title in all that time, did you?”

Benedict sighed. “No, I didn’t.”

“Then it is quite alright. It is alright to not know the answers. That is why we lean on family in times like this.”

Violet held Sophie and Benedict’s hands in each of hers and gave them a squeeze. Sophie smiled tremulously at her.

Benedict looked at Sophie for a long moment. She looked back. Their tranquil time in the country had come to an end.

“We will be back here before you know it,” said Benedict gently, taking one of Sophie’s hands in his own, rubbing soothingly along the back of it. It was as if he knew what she was thinking about.

The depth of the connection was bringing forth all kinds of theories that Violet was suspecting about the two of them but she didn’t want to share it with them just yet.

“We return tomorrow then?” asked Sophie.

Benedict nodded and Violet smiled warmly at her. “Tomorrow it is. The sooner we get this resolved, the sooner the two of you can begin your life together.”

Together.

Sophie tried to raise her right arm and couldn’t help but whimper with the pain that shot up her arm.

“Soph, easy,” came a voice from her side, slightly sluggish like they’d been jerked awake from sleep.

Alfie.

“How long have I been out, Alfie,” croaked Sophie, voice hoarse from disuse, trying to tug the the cannula from her nose. It was suffocating her.

Alfie caught her hand gently, probably guessing she was in pain.

“Just a few hours, Benedict stepped out to speak to the doctors about discharging you.”

Right. She’d been in an accident. Being shot at. Joe.

She suddenly tried to sit up, the enormity of what had passed hitting her. “Is Joe alright? I couldn’t do anything —”

“He is in surgery, Soph. They said the bullet passed too close to his carotid, but they’re doing their best,” urged Alfie, now holding both her wrists in his hands. “Please lie back down. Do you want some water?”

Sophie’s eyes filled with tears. This was her fault. That hitman was targeting her.

Rapid footsteps sounded as they rounded the corner of her bed and sat down beside her.

“Sophie,” came Benedict’s voice. Her face was in his hands but she could barely see him through her tears. He pressed kisses to her face as she kept crying and apologizing.

“What are you apologizing for? You almost died!”

“It is-is my fault Joe is in such bad shap—”

“No,” said Benedict, cutting her off firmly. “Not yours. You did nothing wrong. You did good signalling the car behind you.”

Fragments of that scene at the traffic light came back to her.

“Wasn’t the other car further behind ours?”

A ghost of a smile greeted his face, as if her question endeared him. “You didn’t think you had just another car for security, did you? The three cars behind you were ours.”

Its too much. He was making her security the same level as the rest of his siblings. She said as much to him.

He cupped her face gently with one hand and murmured, “Always worth it to me, baby.”

She was so tired, her whole body was aching, likely an aftereffect from the crash. She closed her eyes and rested her head against his shoulder. Cocooned in his embrace, she forgot she was in a hospital room, even if for a moment.

“I spoke to the doctor,” Benedict said quietly, not wanting to disturb the peace in the room, “and he said he can release you now into Dr. Carerra’s care. So you can rest at home.”

“At the flat?” asked Sophie, just as quietly.

“No, sweetheart, Bridgerton House,” said Benedict gently, “Mum wants you to recuperate there.”

Violet was an absolute saint. Bathed in blood, but a saint regardless.

Sophie looked up and gently pressed a kiss to his lips, holding on to his shirt collar tightly. Benedict returned the kiss with equal reverence and held her like spun glass. Like she’d shatter if he held her too tight.

.

.

A check-up later, during which she’d been cleared to go home and be kept under observation for a further twenty-four hours, Benedict helped her in to fresh clothes. The joggers were hers but the soft and worn tee was his, as was the zip-up fleece hoodie. He carefully put on socks for her, because she was always cold, and then laced up her sneakers.

It was so little and yet so much she wanted to start crying again.

Her body was aching and she was so tired and she wanted to eat something, perhaps something spicy, but she had to wait a few more hours before she could have something substantial. Right now, holding onto his hand felt like a balm.

Her hands were so small, she never realized it. Benedict’s completely covered her own. Any other time, her brain would have short-circuited. Now she was just grateful to have had a soft place to land. A place where she felt safe and secure.

She leaned against him in the elevator, closing her eyes. Alfie was on the other side, holding a bag containing her things from the crashed car.

As the elevator opened into the ground floor, one of the orderlies came forward with a wheelchair, saying that it was hospital policy for her to not exit by walking out hours after an accident.

Sophie looked at Benedict and then at Alfie, both of whom looked annoyed but agreed. As Sophie sat down gingerly into the wheelchair, she noticed the underlings milling about. Plainclothes, armed beneath their jackets and blending into the A&E crowd. More or less.

Benedict indicated to one of his lieutenants, Hiscox, who nodded to everyone else and they slowly closed ranks around the three of them while they exited the hospital.

Benedict thanked the orderly for placing her inside the car and then leaned in to buckle her in, pressing a kiss to her forehead. He shut the door and rounded the car to slide in beside her. He caught her hands in his own and squeezed reassuringly.

As the cars filed out of the hospital, Sophie counted the ones she could see in the rearview mirror without straining her neck. Atleast eight.

Benedict had brought a battalion just to escort her out of the hospital.

.

.

When she entered Bridgerton House, Violet was already standing in the foyer. She quickened her steps and hugged Sophie, mindful of her injuries. “We have set up a room for you upstairs, my darling.”

Sophie found herself crying for the umpteenth time. Little Sophie would have died to have this affection.

“Thank you, Violet.”

“Uh uh,” tutted Violet quietly in her ear, “what did we agree upon, darling?”

Sophie felt herself flushing. She couldn’t even look at Benedict, who was standing beside her. “Thank you, mama," she whispered.

Violet beamed at her and pressed a sweet kiss to her forehead. “Alright, upstairs, and I will send up something for you to munch on.”

Violet had assigned her the room opposite Benedict’s old bedroom — surely not a coincidence. Upon entering the room, she was greeted by Edwina, who had insisted on looking after her even though it was her day off-duty.

Sophie ate some seolleongtang that Mrs. Gibbons had sent up, convinced that the bone broth would give her strength. Edwina sat in the chair, monitoring her vitals and checking her eyes. Benedict came in, changed out of his clothing into a softer tee and joggers, and slipped into the bed beside her.

Edwina hooked her up to the monitors and said to them both, “Get some sleep, I will keep an eye out.”

Sleeping with her friend watching over her, and her boyfriend attached to her back, this was some of the best sleep she’d had in a long time.

.

.

.

“I noticed some things when examining Ms. Baek, Mr. Bridgerton. I did not put them down in her official report, but I made a note of it,” said Dr. King, the senior physician supervising Sophie's case.

Sophie was sleeping well in her hospital room, he'd left Alfie to keep an eye on her. She'd escaped the brunt of the attack, the airbags doing their job. She only needed to wear a soft collar to brace her neck while her bruising healed and she'd a mild concussion that rest and time would heal.

The car behind had taken off in hot pursuit of the assassin while the one behind got her and Joe out of the wreckage and into the hospital. He thanked God for telling his mother earlier that week about Sophie and listening to her about increasing her security. He shuddered to think of what would've happened had a passerby waited to call an ambulance, given the shooting.

Benedict sat down and asked her to start.

“She has multiple healed keloid scars consistent with being struck with a whip, either a bullwhip or something more severe, all across her thighs and her glutes. They're also old, so given she's now 25, she received them approximately eight or nine years ago? And they likely continued for four more years, by my estimate. Of course I cannot be sure because scarring and healing is different for every body.”

Dr. King handed him the detailed notes she's observed - handwritten. He perused them while trying to keep a lid on his temper.

He had a feeling Araminta would be behind this. And she'd tortured Sophie. To the point where her hands shook when she saw her from across the room at an event.

Where she's once seen him beat the life out of someone and immediately avoided him for the next two days, scurrying whenever he attempted to keep her near him for longer than five minutes.

(She'd later apologised and confessed to him that it'd unnerved her seeing him do that to someone, even if they deserved it. He's held her hands gently and told her to talk to him next time. He'd already started to fall for her then.)

She'd always look uncomfortable in elevators and try to take the stairs whenever possible. In taller buildings, she's stick closer to him, breathing a little fast, holding on to the back of his jacket or Alfie’s if she could, as if the enclosure couldn't move down fast enough.

He needed to talk to Alfie.

.

.

.

As Sophie’s breathing deepened, Benedict slowly untangled himself from her and pressed a kiss to the unmarred skin of her forehead, where it wasn’t covered with bandages. He looked at Edwina, who was adjusting the bedside drip and she nodded at him. He slipped out of the bedroom, closed the door softly and made his way to Anthony’s office.

Alfie, Violet and Colin were sitting there, waiting for him, Anthony behind the desk, looking grim. Kate was looking out of the window.

“Alfie,” said Benedict, clasping his hand, “I cannot thank you enough for today.”

Alfie shook his head. He looked worn out. Sophie had been his childhood friend, and he’d tried to keep her from harm. Alfie had also been the person to vouch for Sophie to Anthony and Violet, though Sophie hadn’t known that.

“I am sorry I couldn’t get there fast enough, Mr. Bridgerton,” said Alfie, “people wouldn’t move out of the way for some godforsaken reason.”

“We need to solve the problem with the Penwood clan now, Benedict,” said Anthony.

Benedict looked at him and then at his mother and then at Alfie and directed the next question at him. “How long did Araminta abuse Sophie, Alfie?”

Violet’s expression turned stormy.

Alfie inhaled sharply. “From when her parents died till she could legally emancipate herself, taking her inheritance from Richard Gun’s will — about six years.”

Six years. She’d been tortured for six years.

“She used to lock her up,” swallowed Alfie nervously, his face indicating he was remembering something from those days. “Either in a broom closet or in a walk-in closet. Anywhere that didn’t get a lot of light.”

The tension in the room was thick enough to be cut with a knife.

“I used to find her and let her go and Araminta would give me a stern talking to but not do anything else. But then she started locking her up in places where I couldn’t find her fast enough. Sometimes it would be up to a day.”

Benedict’s hand was enclosed on the back of a nearby chair. His hand tightened. It seemed hell wasn’t enough for Araminta.

Alfie let out a deep sigh. “And then I had the first chance to leave and I did. I don’t know what happened in the two years that I wasn’t there. Though I think Posy would be able to tell you.”

“Posy?”

“She is Mrs. Barnaby now. Araminta’s youngest daughter. She was close to Sophie. I think that is why her mother got her married as soon as she could, so that she could isolate Sophie.”

Baroness Barnaby, that is who Alfie was referring to, Benedict realized. Well, one less person to get rid of.

“We need to take their organization down now, Alfie,” said Violet calmly. “If they think they can get away with attempted murder the first time then they will attempt to finish the job.”

Alfie turned around. “Lady Bridgerton, we are still confirming if it was the—”

“It was them, Alfie,” Kate cut him off, speaking for the first time. “There was no one else in the car aside from her. I checked the cameras within and outside the doorframe of the car. The shooter saw who was in there before he pulled the gun out.”

Anthony let out a deep breath. “Alfie, could you leave us for a while?”

As soon as the door closed behind him, Colin looked straight at Anthony and said, “We start with their shipping business?”

“Yes,” affirmed Anthony. “We will move in for the kill once their assets are inaccessible.”

“There has to be no one surviving from that family, Anthony,” said Benedict, voice low.

“We need to ask Cressida and Jonathan, Bene-”

“Do that,” he cut him off. “And let me know what your plan is. I am going to erase Araminta’s entire bloodline regardless.”

“Not Posy,” chipped in Kate, firmly. “She is not involved. What is more, I have a feeling she might have been abused the same way Sophie was.”

“I cannot operate on a feeling, Kate,” snapped Benedict.

“You will watch your tone when you speak to my wife, brother,” said Anthony, voice rising.

Benedict buried his face in his hands. “I apologize, sister.”

“It is alright,” came Kate’s clipped voice. “I will find out and let you know. I have already asked Mrs. Wilson to set up a lunch tomorrow with Mrs. Barnaby.”

Benedict now looked straight at Kate. She looked tired. He would wager he didn’t look any better. “Sorry, Kate.”

Kate softened and crossed the room to speak to him quietly, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Its okay, our nerves are frayed. Go get some sleep. I bet Sophie wouldn’t mind the company.”

.

.

There was some debate on how they’d approach dismantling their operations but Benedict didn’t stick around for it.

He’d been tense since the moment Alfie had called him to tell him about the crash and that he was taking her and Joe to the hospital.

Benedict slipped into his office and sat down behind the desk to collect his thoughts.

He’d fallen in love with Sophie very shortly after she’d started working for him. He liked how she didn’t flinch at most things, so he’d been surprised that she’d reacted that way after she watched him murder someone in front of her. She tried to stay away — but then one day, when she’d tried to leave after going through his schedule instead of sitting and talking like she usually did, he cornered her. Held her hands and gently pulled her to him and wouldn’t let go till she answered him.

He’d been surprised to say the least, and he told her he wanted her to talk to him if she felt that way again, but he made sure he assigned either his brother-in-law John or his trusted lieutenant John to block her view during the act. He could tell something had gone wrong when she was at Penwood House, but she never told him the whole story. Eloise knew some parts, but she didn’t want to open it up so he didn’t push her.

It didn’t stop him from trying to be as physically close to her as possible. Pulling her into his lap and keeping her there when they were having conversations with other lieutenants or the heads of the other families. Women as property was a concept not absurd in this world they inhabited. He never felt that way about her, but he used it as a cover for keeping her close.

She’d always squirm deliciously when kept there too long, and he’d hook his chin above her shoulder to keep her in place.

Everyone knew she was his. And that she was not to be touched.

And yet it seemed Araminta Gun thought she could resurrect an old one-sided feud with a child under her care and get away with it.