i am a gentlemen @productofbridgerton - Tumblr Blog

Apr 29, 2023

Fever. Dream.

Benedict Bridgerton x Sophie Beckett Rated: G - romance, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending Word count: 10.1k (sorry!)

Summary: A twist on An Offer from a Gentleman where it's Sophie who falls ill on the escape from Cavender and in her fever, confesses things to Benedict.

Author's Note: This is an anon request fill (my first!). I loved the idea of reversing roles in the fever scene, leading to caretaker Benedict and an important reveal. Thank you Nonny, I hope you enjoy this! 💙

Sophie’s mind was blank to everything except one imperative: run. Despite how her joints ached and her lungs burned, she had to get off Cavender grounds. It was her only chance to escape prison, transportation, and the brutality that would no doubt be exacted before she was handed to the authorities.

Her feet didn’t fail her, propelling her to the road until the lights and noise of Cavender House were barely perceptible through the trees. As the roar began to fade from her ears she had to pause, wracked by a new bout of coughs. It was going to be a long walk to the nearest village but it was her only choice. In the cool night air under moonlight diffused by gathering clouds, she set off.

As she walked slowly with waning strength a sense of dread crept over her. She had attacked a gentleman. For a penniless maid such as herself it was an offense worthy of imprisonment on the other side of the world. But she had simply refused to fall prey to Phillip Cavender. With his parents away he had invited the most vile assortment of noblemen to fill the house with drink and smoke, shouts and chaos. She would have left as soon as his parents did, knowing how vulnerable she would be to his unwanted advances without Lady Cavender on the premises. But the cold she was combatting had settled into her bones leaving her weak and bleary. With no locks on the doors of the servants’ quarters, she had angled a chair in front of hers and sat upon her bed, praying that Phillip would find distraction with one of the many hired ladies in attendance.

Her prayers were not answered. Phillip had come banging into her room, easily shoving the chair aside, and began pawing at her. She had tried to reason with him, tried to beg him to leave her alone, but his slippery smile only grew wider as she struggled. Then some primal corner of her mind snapped to attention and took control of her body, making everything both crystal clear and numbingly distant at the same time. She knew, definitively, that she was going to get out of that situation no matter what it took. No matter what behavior she had to exhibit and to whom. Her knee moved before she commanded it to, driving swiftly up between Cavender’s legs.

She saw his eyes widen with pain for a split second before he doubled over, wheezing. When he tried to lunge for her again, her arm flew on its own, planting her fist into the side of his jaw. Cavender hit the floor with a thud, groaning as he began to roll across the boards. After the initial shock of her own actions, Sophie flew into a panic, stepping over the crumpled man to throw her few belongings into a bag and then tear away out into the night.

Now she trudged, trying to ignore how poorly she felt as she pushed onward toward the village of Rosemeade where she knew she could find an affordable bed for one night. What would happen to her after that was unclear. She certainly could not work in another household of the ton, lest word spread to find her. Maybe, she hoped, Cavender had drunk enough that he would not remember what had happened but she could not rely on that. Perhaps he would be too embarrassed to tell anyone. Then she may be able to work quietly in a home far away. But she could never be sure that Cavender would not visit that household someday and find her. No, as long as she stayed among the gentry she would always be at risk. There was nothing for it, she would need to change her occupation. She could find work in a city somewhere doing…something.

As she began to contemplate the many dangerous and demeaning ways poor women might make money in a city, Sophie heard the fall of hooves approaching behind her. Her stomach sank. It could be Cavender or someone he sent after her. She glanced over her shoulder and saw a single rider on a white horse moving at no great speed. The Cavenders did not own any white horses but nevertheless, she began to dart off toward the trees. She knew the rider had already seen her and how futile a chase would be but it was her only fleeting chance at freedom.

“Hello there?” The rider called out, his voice gentle, somehow familiar.

She paused. He certainly did not seem to be chasing her. Something within was telling her not to run. Where did she know that voice from? But she was not about to have a roadside chat with a stranger in the middle of the night. She needed to get to the village. She continued to walk along the side of the road, eyes forward, her steps purposeful but not frantic.

Naturally, the rider caught up with her in short order and slowed his horse to match her pace. “Good evening, Miss.”

He sounded polite enough but it didn’t stop Sophie from feeling a stab of annoyance. She was going to have to converse with this person, delaying her arrival to safety. Exhausted and unable to hide a grimace, she turned to look up at him. For a moment she could only see his silhouette, a tall shadow, with unruly hair and a high collar. Then her eyes adjusted and his features emerged in the moonlight. Dear God, it was Benedict Bridgerton.

She froze, every sound and every feeling melting away until all she could see was him. She didn’t even breathe as she stared. She had been fleeing for her life, running from torment, facing a hopeless future, and then suddenly Benedict Bridgerton appeared on a white horse like a knight in a fairy story. She wondered if she had fallen in the road and dashed her head on a rock because why else would she be seeing him unless she was hallucinating or in heaven?

Holding her breath for such a long moment had its consequences and she began to convulse and cough loudly, finally breaking eye contact as she bent over, fighting to catch her breath.

“Are you alright?” his voice was concerned as he stopped his horse and dismounted. Sophie dragged in a steadying breath. All she could think was that those were the exact words he had last said to her before she ran out of the masquerade so many years ago. She had heard them, echoing over and over in her dreams. Of course she recognized his voice. Straightening and swallowing to soothe her raw throat she nodded, looking him squarely in the eye, waiting for him to recognize her.

“It’s a bit unusual for a woman to be walking the road alone so late at night. Do you work at Cavender House?” He held the reins in his hand, looking her up and down.

She continued to wait silently, jutting her chin so that he might see her better. Surely he would be able to tell. Maybe it was too dark for him to see her properly.

“Miss?” his face was growing increasingly concerned.

She wasn’t sure if she knew how to form words anymore, but found herself replying, “Not anymore.”

“Oh,” Benedict frowned. This night was not turning out at all how he had anticipated. Cavender’s party was not exactly the bacchanalia he had been promised. Benedict had always found him to be a weaselly sort of fellow, but he had grown so bored with the stuffy events of the London season that he would have accepted any invitation that got him out of the city. Rather than finding distraction in the amusements on offer, he had been repulsed by the callow attendees, their slovenly overindulgences and blatant disregard for the women hired to entertain. He had seen his own share of raucous parties to be sure, but there was still such a thing as taste in how one enjoyed themselves and what he had discovered was that Cavender and his friends were lacking in it.

He had managed to extricate himself, tired and wanting nothing more than to throw himself into a bath at his nearby cottage. But now there was a strange young woman in the road and he was not one to ignore a soul in distress. The nearest village was at least two miles away and she was alone, carrying nothing but a small bag which, he guessed, was everything she owned if she had just left the employment of the house. From what he could see of her in the moonlight she was lovely, with a short crop of hair and large, luminous eyes. He had the oddest sensation that they may have met before, though he didn’t know how that was possible. Perhaps she had worked in a household he had visited.

“Something drove you out of the house in a hurry.” He was doing his best to seem trustworthy.

Sophie continued to stare, unwilling to believe that he didn’t recognize her even now that they were standing so close.

Benedict was running out of ideas to get her to speak so instinctively, he reverted to humor. “I’ve just come from there myself. Between you and I, it was turning my stomach to be around that bunch of louts. Plenty of drink, plenty of frivolity, but certainly no sense of taste.”

“No,” Sophie rasped, beginning to understand how he came to be there. It had indeed been a tasteless party, led by a tasteless host. She was reassured that Benedict wasn’t of the same ilk as Cavender, given his poor opinion of it. For the past two years the memory of him had been the only thing giving her the motivation to press on through the toil of each day, the dream of him and the fantasy life they may have shared together if she had been born legitimate. If it had turned out that he was no better than Cavender, she would have nothing left in her miserable little life. Not even the memory of the masquerade to treasure. But here he was, miraculously comforting her by the roadside, an avenue to safety.

She opened up to him, surprised at her own words. “I was treated roughly so decided to leave.” Not the whole truth, but enough to explain why she was walking through the night.

Benedict’s brow furrowed with concern and he nodded. “May I ask your name?”

Her name. The name he had begged her for at the masquerade. Now she would tell him for the first time. “Sophie Beckett,” she croaked.

“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Beckett. Are you headed to the village?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “To the Wayside Inn.”

“Would you permit me to take you there?” He chose his words carefully. He didn’t know what this woman had endured at Cavender’s but if it was enough to send her hiking out into the road at night it must have been awful. Being approached by another man was likely the last thing she wanted but if she trusted him, he’d rather it be him escorting her than God knows who else. If she declined, he would leave her be.

“Yes.” She agreed so readily it surprised him.

“Excellent,” he smiled. “I will drop you there and continue on.” His cottage was in fact a mile closer than the village but he didn’t mind. He would rest easier knowing she was safe. He held out his hand. She did not take it. She just continued to stare at him curiously, her head cocked to the side. “Are you certain you’re all right?” he asked.

And that’s when Sophie realized. When they first met her face had been covered by a mask. Her hair had been longer and powdered to a lighter shade, lovely tresses that she had since sold to a wigmaker. She had grown scrawny in the intervening years of hard servitude. It was two entire years ago and they had only spoken for an hour or so, outside in the dark of the Bridgerton House garden. She understood now. He didn’t recognize her. How could he? She was not the same woman he had met on that magical night.

She finally took his hand, her thoughts racing. Should she reveal herself? Would he believe her? As she followed him silently he led her to the horse and patted the beast gently. “This is Danae. Not as comfortable as a carriage I’m afraid, but certainly faster than walking.” He grinned, his lopsided smile crinkling his eyes and she felt her legs falter.

As her mind whirred Sophie moved automatically, lifting herself onto Danae and perching sideways behind the saddle. Benedict looked up at her, the cheeky grin still playing on his lips. “Where are my manners? I’m Mr. Benedict Bridgerton by the way.”

She almost said “I know,” but caught herself. Her voice cracked as she feigned ignorance. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

He glanced down at her legs. “If it would be easier, you can sit astride. No need to stand on ceremony with me.”

Benedict was on his most gentlemanly behavior. It was only right that he escort this quiet, poor young woman away from the fiend Cavender’s house and to a place of safety. It was also ridiculous to force her to ride sidesaddle. Firstly, she was not even properly in a saddle, and secondly, it was a most awkward feat that he had never understood how women managed. He genuinely wanted her to be secure and comfortable while they rode. But he also couldn’t help finding something alluring in the way she lifted her leg and swung it around to sit astride.

Sophie caught a flicker of something devilish in his eyes as she repositioned herself on Danae. It forced a smirk across her own face even as the debate raged within her on whether to tell him that they had met before.

Benedict mounted into the saddle and took the reins. He was an inch away from her now, his broad back and dark hair filling her vision. She could see the fine velvet texture of his coat, the glint of the moonlight off the waves of his hair, and she could smell his cologne - sandalwood, fresh parchment, a walk in a green forest. She closed her eyes, breathing him in, her every sense engulfed by the man in front of her. Was this a dream? Was it a nightmare?

“Hold on,” he said over his shoulder. Sophie’s eyes flew open. Oh God, she hadn’t thought about this when she agreed to ride with him. She would have to hold onto him, to wrap her arms around him and press their bodies together. She didn’t know if she would be able to bear it but there certainly wasn’t any way to avoid it now. With great trepidation, she settled her bag securely in her lap then lightly rested a hand on either side of his torso.

She could hear him chuckle under his breath. “Tighter than that or else you’ll fall off, Miss Beckett.” Gently, he pulled her hands across his chest. Her palms rested against the buttons of his coat and she trembled as she realized she could feel him breathing.

“There we are,” she could hear the smile in his voice. Then he signaled to Danae, tapped her with the stirrups and they set off in a gentle, steady trot.

They encountered no one else on the road and the night was silent save for the trills of evening insects. This was nothing like the masquerade where they had so much to say to one another. But Sophie reminded herself that this was different. She was a maid and he was a gentleman of the ton. They shouldn’t have anything in common now.

She couldn’t spare too much energy on the debate raging within her because a coughing fit was pressing against her ribs just as insistently. She allowed one small, rasping cough and tried clearing her throat to fight it down. Benedict tilted his head back toward her.

“Is that bag all that you have?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “This is everything.” But speaking released another hacking cough and she turned away, desperate to maintain her composure though she was starting to feel woozy.

“Are you unwell, Miss?” Benedict asked.

“I’m fine,” she gasped, certain that she sounded unconvincing. It was getting harder and harder to mask how ill she truly felt. She was growing more weary with each passing minute and had to focus to stay upright with the canter of the horse.

Benedict flicked the reins, his eyes ahead but his mind focused entirely on the woman behind him. What a strange night. As eager as he was to return to his home, he also felt singularly invested in seeing Miss Beckett safely delivered to the inn. While rare enough to have a stranger riding on Danae, with her arms wrapped around him he felt the oddest tingling sensation across his skin where she was touching him. The heat of her against his back nearly made him shudder. There was something about her he couldn’t place. He stole a glance over his shoulder. There was something familiar about the curve of her cheek as well…

“Have we met?” he blurted out.

“No,” she choked, her answer instinctual as a spike of fear shot through her. “I don’t believe so.” But she admonished herself as soon as the words left her lips. Didn’t she want him to recognize her? Wasn’t she hoping he would come to his senses, leap off the horse, gather her in his arms and declare his love? Didn’t she want him to carry her off to the life of her dreams?

But that was precisely the problem. They were just dreams. In her dreams she knew Benedict Bridgerton. In her dreams he loved her. Loved her enough to marry her despite the circumstances of her birth and the chasm of a class divide that existed between them. These were dreams and nothing more. In reality she barely knew this man. He had flirted with her at a masquerade when he believed she was a debutante. They had shared a kiss, one that had stopped her heart with all of its passion, but perhaps he had kissed many ladies at many balls. Just because it had been special for her did not mean it was special for him. Perhaps it was so insignificant that he never again thought of the lady in silver. If she revealed herself to him now, there was a fair chance he would feel honor bound to return her to Cavender House, or perhaps to Araminta. Either way she would end up in prison for theft or attack. Quite the opposite of a dream come true.

It was best if he did not recognize her. She didn’t know if she could survive his rejection or retribution. She would be grateful for this second meeting that they had, though she railed against fate that it felt like a bittersweet joke being played upon her. She would enjoy the sight and feel and smell of him, the sound of his voice, for these brief moments, rounding off the dreams she had carried with her for years, then allow him to leave her at the inn and once again exit her life. It was heartbreakingly painful but she knew it was for the best.

As if the sky acknowledged her sorrow, she suddenly felt the plop of fat raindrops spattering her shoulders.

“It’s raining,” she observed, immediately scolding herself for sounding obtuse.

“Of course it is,” he said wryly. “Because we are out in the open. If we were in a carriage there wouldn’t be a could in the sky.”

“How close are we to the village?”

“Just under an hour,” he frowned. “Though the rain may slow us down.”

Sophie was just about to announce that she could tolerate getting wet when the heavens opened up in earnest with a crack of thunder. Within minutes both of them were soaked through, pummeled by rain that obscured the road and turned it muddy.

“I have a cottage up ahead,” Benedict called back to her. “It’s closer than the village. We can shelter there with my housekeepers.”

“Alright,” Sophie didn’t know if he could hear her over the deluge or even cared to wait for a reply because he had already kicked Danae to set off at a faster pace, driving her forward into the blinding storm and making for a small turnoff.

Sophie tightened her arms around him to hold on. She wasn't sure which part of her was tied into worse knots, her body, which was heating up as her throat began to ache, or her mind which continued to wrestle with this entire situation. Now she was being taken to Benedict’s home. Would he recognize her in better lighting? Would she slip up in their conversation and reveal herself? What would his housekeepers think of her? How quickly could she leave and continue on to the inn?

As her mind filled with questions, she was gripped by a new wave of coughs. Deep, rumbling ones that felt like they were borne out of a furnace in her lungs and were cutting her throat with razors. Benedict felt a pang of concern as he realized her pale hands were shivering against his chest. He winced as she convulsed against his back, her every cough reverberating into him.

“You don’t sound well.” He shouted over the wind.

“I…” Sophie gasped. “I have a cold. But I am alright.” Her voice faltered again as more hacking overtook her.

“We’re almost there,” he assured her. “Hold on tight.” Then he kicked Danae again, snapped the reins and she broke into a full gallop, splashing through the puddles of the country lanes as they wound through hedges and over a small bridge.

Sophie clung to Benedict, nestling her head against his back both to keep the rain out of her eyes and because she was losing the strength to stay upright. Her throat was torn raw, her chest wracked, and she could feel the portentous chills of fever starting up her spine. She told herself to keep a clear head at least until they reached the cottage. Then she would no doubt become a burden as she asked to rest until she was well again. She hoped his housekeepers would be kind and accommodate her, and she hoped her illness would not delay her in their company too long. She closed her eyes, cognizant only of the rocking of Benedict’s body in time with the horse’s strides. Even in the tumult of the storm he felt so solid, so safe.

Sophie was wheezing by the time they slowed and she opened her eyes to find they were sheltered under a small stable attached to a building. Everything was cast in shadow with no lanterns or candles lit anywhere. She moved to pull away from Benedict but found her arms stiff with cold. Her every bone ached, her skin was on fire, and her clothes were so heavy with rain that she felt she couldn’t rise.

Deftly, Benedict pried her arms open and hopped to the ground then looked back at her, extending his hands. “Allow me.”

Sophie appreciated his concern but did not want to burden him nor humiliate herself any further. She opened her mouth to decline his assistance but another round of coughs bent her double over the saddle and next she knew, he had wrapped his arms around her, slid her off Danae and was carrying her toward a side door. If she had been in any other state, Sophie knew her heart would be fluttering uncontrollably with this turn of events, but now it just fluttered because she was trying to regain her breath.

All was dark inside the house as Benedict kicked loudly on the door. He called out. “Mr. Crabtree? Mrs. Crabtree? Hello?” But it was obvious no one was on the premises.

“Dammit,” Benedict cursed under his breath. “They must be away for the night at their daughter’s. Serves me right for not telling them I was coming. Miss Beckett…”

Sophie met his eyes, now so close to her own, and they only contributed to her breathlessness.

“Would you wait here a moment?” He gently set her upon her feet. She could stand just fine despite the weight of exhaustion threatening to pull her down to the earth. She clutched her small bag of belongings, realizing it was as sopping wet as she was.

“Of course,” She rasped, her voice raw.

With a quick nod Benedict dashed out of the stable and back into the rain, darting around a corner of the house. This night had grown so strange Sophie didn’t know what to question anymore. Whether it was serendipity or misfortune that Benedict found her in the road, that a storm had driven them to seek shelter, that his home was nearby, and that they found themselves alone together. If she had been a proper lady such a situation would have been scandalous. But for a gentleman to be alone with a maid in his home? She doubted anyone would bat an eye. Assuming they could get inside, she vowed to keep to herself. She would light the fires, rest in the servants quarters and be on her way in the morning. She hoped the Crabtrees would have returned by then. She hated leaving Benedict alone but knew that she couldn’t trust herself in his presence any longer than absolutely necessary. Not because he would do anything, but because she would fall even more desperately in love.

Benedict reappeared, jogging to her side as the rain continued to pummel him in sheets. Once under the stable roof he tossed his head, sending water flying from the dark waves of his hair and leaving it charmingly tousled. Sophie despised him a bit for looking so attractive even when he appeared half-drowned. With a crooked grin he held up the brass key he had retrieved from somewhere and successfully unlocked the door to lead her inside.

Before Benedict even lit a candle Sophie could tell this was not a cottage. Despite how he had made it sound, this was not the thatched roof country home she had envisioned. This was a manor house with six bedrooms at least. With marble floors and gleaming wood everywhere, this would only be called a cottage by the wealthiest of people who didn’t know the common meaning of the word.

Spying a small door near the stairs, Sophie assumed it led to the servants’ level. “Thank you, sir.” She couldn’t stop herself from shivering as she spoke. “I will light the fires and then find myself a bed downstairs.”

“You’ll do no such thing.” Benedict moved to her side with a candle in hand. She could see his face clearly for the first time. She held her breath seeing how simultaneously similar but still how different he looked from the vision in her dreams. On the night of the masquerade he had been wearing a mask, the same as her, and she had only seen his full face for one fleeting moment after the gong had sounded and before she had run away. She had had to construct his face in her mind from that single image and often found it easier to remember him in the mask. But here he was in the flesh. His mouth was the same as her memory, his eyes the same bright hue but their shade something ephemeral, ever changing. They were always a different color in each dream and even now she wasn’t sure how she would describe them. But they were gentle and delightfully creased at the corners. Seeing all his features together, they were greater than the sum of their parts. He looked older now, slightly more world-weary and like he smiled less often. His hair too was shorter, lending him an air of increased responsibility, making him look less wild and boyish.

“Come with me,” he ordered and began walking up the curving staircase, making sure she stayed close behind. He led her into a bedroom richly decorated with a four-poster bed, upholstered armchairs and a tiled fireplace. She assumed it must be his bedroom.

“This is a guest room,” he explained, as if reading her mind and quashing her presumption. “And it is yours for the night.”

With comic timing, Sophie doubled over with a new bout of coughs. She was indeed overwhelmed by the generosity of his offer. She hadn’t slept in a room so luxurious since she was very small and newly welcomed into her father’s home. These days she only had the privilege to observe such places as she cleaned them. Benedict gently took her bag and set it on a chair. Then he moved about, eyeing her with concern as he lit more candles in sconces on the walls and holders by the bedside.

Sophie tugged at the knot of her cloak, hoping that losing the weight of it would grant her some relief. “Here,” Benedict stood behind her and pulled the garment from her shoulders, hanging it on a hook nearby. “Now, you’re soaked through. You’ll have to make do with my clothes, I’m afraid. I don’t keep any spare frocks around my bachelor lodgings.”

Sophie’s mind started to reel. She had a nightdress in her bag but knew it would be wet. “That’s quite alright, you don’t need to…” But before she could protest or formulate any kind of plan, Benedict had stepped out then reappeared with a set of folded clothing; a ruffled white shirt and a pair of linen trousers. He set them on the bed then crouched at the fireplace, plucking a nearby candle and holding it toward the wood already stacked within.

“I’ll get the fire going too.” He stayed focused on the task at hand, not turning as he spoke. “You need to warm up. Go on and change.”

A shiver ran down her spine but not from her illness. She was rooted in place. “Sir, this is most improper.” Her voice was a pathetic croak even to her own ears.

Even without seeing his face she could detect his smirk. “Would you prefer I leave you in the cold and dark for the sake of propriety?” He challenged playfully. “You can trust me to keep my back turned, Miss. You need to get out of those clothes before you catch pneumonia.”

“I could say the same for you.” She volleyed back.

His head turned just far enough that she saw him arch a brow. “Do you want me to take mine off now too?”

Mortified, Sophie gaped like a fish then scurried into a far corner. She could hear him chuckle but true to his word, his eyes stayed focused on the spreading embers in front of him. She didn’t have the energy to protest further. She knew he was right, though he had a cheeky way of expressing his concern. She really was desperate to get out of the heavy layers of freezing fabric. Quick as she could, she started to peel them off: shoes, stocking, dress, chemise. She jumped into the pair of trousers he had provided, their outrageous length pooling around her ankles. All that was left were her stays. She had to sit on the bed to prevent the trousers from falling as she tried to loosen the laces. Not only were her fingers rigid with cold and slippery with rain but reaching back pushed her lungs into an uncomfortable position and she fell helplessly into another series of rasping, gagging coughs.

Benedict’s ears perked but he stayed where he was. “Is it safe to turn?”

Sophie continued to fiddle helplessly with her knots. “I can’t…” she gasped. “I can’t untie my stays.”

After a pause, he asked softly. “Would you like assistance?”

Sophie froze, her heart pounding as she looked over to him. The fire was now taking off in the grate as Benedict crouched in front of it. Why had she said anything? What else did she expect him to do than offer to help her? Was it that she had reached the end of her tether and just wanted to sleep in warmth and comfort as soon as possible? Or did some deeper, more devious part of herself want him to undress her?

“Yes.” She breathed, her body reacting before her mind could reason with it.

Slowly, Benedict got to his feet. Still facing away, he stripped off his jacket and dropped it on a chair by the fire where it started to drip onto the floor. Sophie was transfixed, shamelessly cataloging how the muscles moved in his back and arms. He wore a beautiful blue waistcoat, navy with a delicate gold brocade and a blue silk cravat. His shirt was so wet as to be transparent and it clung to the contours of his arms. That dangerous little whisper within her was hoping to watch him remove more but he only rolled up his sleeves then walked over to her, gesturing for her to stand and turn around in front of him.

She thought she saw something spark in his eyes when he beheld her in nothing but her stays and his trousers, clutching them bunched at her waist, but it could have been a reflection from the fire. The room was growing warmer but she didn’t know if it was the flames or the rush of her own blood as she stood before him trembling. She closed her eyes as he silently went to work pulling at her laces. He was gentle, his long dexterous finger making quick work of the bindings and pulling them wide as the garment loosened around her ribs.

“God, no wonder you can’t breathe.” He mumbled.

Sophie bit her lip, ashamed to admit to herself that she hoped to feel his touch, for his fingers to brush across her arms or the palms of his large hands to press against the skin of her back, soothing her, holding her, tempting her to…something.

“Alright now?”

His voice snapped her out of her fantasy and her eyes flew open. He hadn’t touched her, only performed the task as requested. “Yes, thank you.” She rasped, holding her stays to her chest and shooting a glance over her shoulder. He had turned away again and was facing the door. In a moment she wriggled out of her undergarment and slipped his billowy ruffled shirt over her head. She felt like a child, swimming in adult’s clothes for play.

“Tell me what you need.” He urged.

Another tickle in her throat made Sophie swallow. “Only…only water.”

“Of course.” Without a look back Benedict stepped into the hall, closed the door and was gone.

Sophie climbed into the bed and it positively enveloped her. A plush mattress, thick feather pillows and piles of soft blankets, it felt like absolute heaven. She couldn’t remember sleeping in such comfort and her weakened body went limp, grateful to be cradled so perfectly. Exhaustion would claim her soon. It was too much work to puzzle through everything that had transpired or what she should do next. All she wanted to do now was sleep. With a clearer head, she could piece things together in the morning. Abandoning her confusion, she allowed herself to accept it all as something like a dream. The handsome man she loved rescuing her on horseback, carrying her to his door, seeing tracts of her skin that should have been reserved for a husband alone. Fate’s bittersweet joke was more insidious than she had suspected, but a part of her was still grateful for it.

Benedict returned a few minutes later. Knocking softly, he entered the room carrying a small tray. He had also changed, wearing the same ensemble he had lent to her. With tousled, towel-dried hair and his shirt unbuttoned low he looked like sin. Sophie instinctively pulled the covers up to her chin.

“Comfortable?” Benedict grinned at her, placing the tray on the bedside table. A pitcher, a glass and a suspicious amber bottle.

“Sir, you are far too generous.” Sophie found that her voice was nearly spent. She sounded horrid, which was an accurate reflection of how she felt. “Really, I will be fine. I will…find some way to repay you.”

Benedict waved away her sentiment, kneeling to her level. “You can repay me by getting well. Do not worry about owing me anything. This is for my benefit as much as yours. I could not in good conscience leave you on the side of the road any more than I can allow you to perish under my roof. I’ll send for the doctor first thing tomorrow.”

Sophie vaguely thought of objecting, not wanting to involve more parties in this strange scenario but she was too distracted by Benedict uncorking the bottle. “In the meantime,” he continued, “brandy has always had a medicinal effect for me. In small doses of course.” He cracked a lopsided smile as he poured a splash into the glass and handed it to her. Sophie sat up, weakly returning his smile as her fingers wrapped around his to accept it. Benedict didn’t remove his hand but helped guide her gently as she drank down the spirit. Her fingers tingled where they met his. He did the same with a glass of water next. She was so worn through that she was grateful for his help and for the fleeting chance to feel his skin.

With heavy eyelids she sank back into the pillows, barely able to mumble her thanks.

“Try to get some sleep.” Benedict said softly. She nodded, feeling herself drifting into a comforting darkness. The last thought she registered was that Benedict didn’t leave, but was pulling a chair over to the bedside and watching her intently.

—

Heat. That is what lifted Sophie out of her calm slumber. Sweltering heat burning through her very skin. Eyes closed, she didn’t know where she was but she knew that she felt smothered. She tossed, attempting to kick aside her covers but only seemed to entangle herself further. Every bone issued a pang of protest as she moved, stoking the fire that seemed to have replaced her blood. Her head throbbed. She groaned and gasped, fighting to find air that didn’t feel stifling.

As she started to thrash she was dimly aware of something on her forehead, pressing on her one moment and removed the next.

“Oh God, you’re burning up,” a voice murmured beside her. Whoever it was, she wanted to answer in the affirmative and ask them to help free her. But she hadn’t found her breath and didn’t know up from down.

“Here.” The voice spoke again and then something cool was laid across her forehead. A rush of relief stilled her movements. She was still burning, her whole body pulsing with waves of heat, but now she had a focal point, something to orient and distract her from her discomfort. The coolness moved, smearing down the side of her face and onto her neck, being pressed into her skin. “Does that feel better?”

It did indeed. It calmed her enough that she was able to drag her eyes open. Everything she saw swam just out of focus. She was in some kind of ornate room but had no idea how she had gotten there. She wouldn’t be lying in such a nice room at Cavender House. Maybe she was in Penwood Park? She turned to see who was beside her. Perhaps that would help solve the mystery.

Her eyes did manage to focus on the figure kneeling at her bedside and her breath hitched. It was him. Him. The man she had met one beautiful night and who now lived entirely in her dreams. It all made sense now. This was a dream. Benedict Bridgerton was with her, as vivid as he had ever looked, dark hair tousled, soft lips parted, bright eyes meeting hers. She was grateful to her mind for painting such a lovely tableau to live in, even for just a moment. It was Benedict who was dragging a cloth across her skin, giving her relief. Of course he would be her savior in her dreams.

She smiled faintly and closed her own hand over his where it rested at her neck. “Thank you, Benedict.” She could only manage a whisper.

He grinned back in return, the grin that made her lose all sense. One of the reasons she would always recognize him without a mask. “No thanks necessary.”

This may have been a dream, but if it was one where she could converse with him, she wanted to tell him the things she could never say to the real Benedict. She wanted him to know how much their evening had meant to her. “You were so kind to me.”

He moved the cloth back up to her forehead, dabbing lightly. “Any gentleman would do the same.”

“No,” Sophie pouted. “They all stayed in the ballroom.” It was only Benedict who had followed her out into the garden of Bridgerton House and struck up a conversation during the masquerade. Even though every bachelor of the ton had stared at her agog when she arrived, she hadn’t given any of them the opportunity to request a dance. Too anxious with the dawning realization that her dancing skills were inadequate, she had swiped two flutes of champagne and ducked out into the garden. She hoped the bubbles would instill her with courage and she had been clumsily mimicking the dancers she could see through the windows, attempting in vain to teach herself the quadrille when Benedict stumbled upon her and her world was turned on its axis.

Dream Benedict’s brow furrowed and he placed the cloth on the table beside him. He leaned in closer. “What was that?”

“You found me outside.” She stated plainly. Surely he remembered.

“Yes, on the road.” Tentatively, he took one of her hands and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

“In the garden.” She insisted. He had taken her second glass of champagne. He had revealed his own disdain for dancing and they had laughed together.

Dream Benedict seemed at a loss. “I’m not sure what you’re…”

“It was Handel,” Sophie sighed, hearing the music again in her mind. The soft melody that had spurred them both to stop snickering and give it a try. That memory was growing more vivid now, calling her back as it had so many times before. “The moonlight. Thank you for teaching me to dance.”

Benedict’s skin suddenly went ashen and he dropped her hand. His eyes began to dart frantically over her face but the rest of him was paralyzed. “You… No, you…”

Sophie was already stepping back into the garden, her mind too distant to register anything more than that his sweet face was beside her. She brought a hand to his cheek, willing him to recall everything they had shared and to understand her gratitude.

She smiled, eyes glassy. “It was all I wanted. One night. Happy. Like a dream…”

Benedict watched in shock as her voice faded and her eyes fluttered closed again, her hand falling limply back onto the bed. He was nearly convinced his heart had stopped until he felt it pounding again at full force, pushing him back on his haunches as he all but collapsed on the floor. He felt sick. He felt blind. He felt insane. Was he feverish too? Was this all some hallucination? Was this strange woman some faerie or witch that had ensnared him in a spell to taunt him with what he wanted most in the world? It was impossible that finding his lady in silver, the quest that had seemed so hopeless it had been calcifying his heart for two years, could be so easily concluded. That he could happen upon her on a country roadside at precisely the right moment.

But Sophie was a maid, not the glamorous woman of the ton that had captured his affection. And yet she knew all the details of the masquerade. Details no one else could know. None of it made sense. Until he remembered the numbness. The telltale sensation that started in his limbs and spread into his torso, infusing him with an acute awareness that something significant was about to occur. It had happened only twice before. The first time was moments before his father had died and the second time was on the night of the masquerade - a certainty that he had to go out to the garden, and that was when he had found her.

That tingling sensation had hit him again earlier this evening just after mounting Danae to escape from Cavender’s. It had frozen him in the saddle for a moment but he chose to ignore it. Maybe he was lightheaded from the smoky air indoors or his jump onto the horse. Maybe he was falling ill. Or maybe his wiring was well and truly ruined after two years of trying to soothe his heartache with too many liquors, teas and herbs. He hadn’t thought there was any chance something fateful could happen on his ride home down a country lane. But it had.

Was it possible that it was the most fateful night of his life?

He was broken out of his thoughts by Sophie shifting again under the covers. She was mumbling, writhing with her eyes closed as the feverish heat continued to pour off of her. He moved back to her side and scrutinized her face, his heart racing faster as details began to fall into place. Her hair was different than his lady in silver and she was thinner, but the shape of her face was the same. Her lips were the same. The gamine little point on the end of her chin was the same. He panted, desperate to see the color of her eyes but knew that it would have to wait.

Her breath was growing shorter and her teeth were beginning to chatter. He held her by the arms, sending out a silent prayer that she could fight her way through until morning. He would do anything to make sure she awoke. He would not be reunited with the love of his life for a few cruel minutes only to have her snatched away again.

—

Turning away from Benedict in the ornate bedroom, Sophie stepped forward into the garden at Bridgerton House. There was Benedict again, this time back in his tails and blue demi mask with his tireless smile, reaching out until she slipped her silver-gloved hand into his. The air was soft with moonlight and fragrant with wisteria. He wrapped his arms around her.

“You’re trembling.” When he spoke Sophie could hear an echo, a second voice repeating him somewhere distantly. She had trembled in his arms that night, wracked with nerves and excitement.

Benedict guided her hands, one onto his shoulder and the other into his outstretched grasp. She felt his fingers wrap around hers and hold tightly, the sensation so realistic she could feel the heat of his palm.

“Hold onto me. That’s it.” Again two voices spoke in stereo.

Sophie gripped his hand and was confused. Her bodice feeling a bit too tight and her skin a bit too hot. But she had been in this dream so many countless times before, she knew she was safe.

Benedict smiled down at her and she realized for the first time what color his eyes were. They were the color of their love story. They were blue - his family color and his favorite hue. They were green - to match her own and her favorite hue. They were grey - shimmering like the moonlight under which they had met. They were a kaleidoscope of everything she treasured.

“I’ve got you.” He assured her, his voice echoing somewhere far away. And then they began to dance. This was her favorite moment. All she had to do was give herself over and let him lead her, spinning her through the steps as music drifted out of the house nearby. She could lose herself in his arms and find happiness, however fleeting. If this was all she could have of Benedict Bridgerton anymore, it was enough. Not enough to stem her yearning but enough to make her feel that her life had at least one mote of joy within it.

As she swayed she gazed up at him. The most handsome man she had ever met. The man who made her believe in love at first sight. The man that she both celebrated and regretted meeting every day. The memory of him filled her with so much delight and torment equally. She could never decide which was less painful: to have known him and lost him, or to never have known him at all.

He held her tight and spoke again, but this time his lips did not move. It was only the disembodied voice, sounding as if it were right by her ear. It was pleading, desperate.

“Do not leave me. Not again.”

Bewildered, Sophie declared in her heart that she would never leave. Then as Benedict spun her under his arm the moonlight grew brighter, refracting off the embellishments of her dress until she was swirling in a silver cloud. Everything became gauzy and faded into light.

—

The next sound Sophie heard was birdsong. A gentle backdrop to the cozy, nestled feeling she had upon waking. She blinked her eyes open to find herself in the bedroom of the cottage, the memory of the prior evening catching up to her. She had been exhausted with her cold and had fallen asleep. Now, happily, the sun was shining through the bedroom window. Her muscles were still sore as she sat up and her throat felt as if it had been slashed and burned, but she was clear headed.

“Good morning.” Benedict’s deep voice made her snap to face him. He was sitting in a chair at her bedside, scrutinizing her in an odd fashion. It didn’t appear that he had slept at all.

“Sir.” Sophie nodded at him, finding that her voice was a pitiful rasp.

He leaned forward and studied her face so intently that it made her self conscious. Was he that concerned for her wellbeing? Had her sickness done something dreadful to her skin? With a sharp breath he finally sat back, his brow stern.

“How are you feeling? Your fever broke a few hours ago.”

Sophie didn’t quite recall having a fever, though she had felt one was likely to start. Thankfully she had slept it off. She drank from the water glass beside her. “My throat is worse for the wear but I will be fine.” She offered him a small smile. “Thank you again for…”

“Who are you?” He cut her off, something suddenly harsh in his tone.

She stared at him, confused. “Sir?”

“Did you give me your true name?”

Sophie couldn’t fathom what was happening. “Yes. Why do you ask that?”

“Because you kept so much else from me, I had to know if your name was a lie too.” His words were clipped, his nostrils beginning to flare.

Oh God, did he know? How could he?

“Sir, I…”

“It’s you.” His voice was tight, his eyes fiery. “From the masquerade.”

Sophie felt her stomach plummet to her feet. Her mind wiped blank.

“I didn’t recognize you, so changed and in the dark. But I see it now. Your eyes in the daylight. I have not forgotten your eyes.”

As he glowered at her, Sophie stuttered. Her mouth moved but no words would come out. She had wanted him to recognize her, so why did it feel so terrifying? Why was he so angry?

Benedict continued. “You were delirious. You confessed it in your fever. You thanked me for teaching you to dance.”

Betrayed by her own fever addled brain. Everything inside her sank. Maybe if she hadn’t been such a dreamy romantic this wouldn’t have happened. Maybe if she had learned to school her emotions and not cling to the memory of him so desperately, she wouldn’t have gone talking about it when she was half mad. Embarrassed and ashamed, she managed to babble, “I didn’t…I’m sorry…”

Benedict learned forward again, his brow knotted with confusion. “Where have you been all this time? How are you a servant?”

Sophie’s stomach did another flip as her previous fears flared. If he learned the truth he might cast her out. He may send her back to her stepmother or her rancid employers and both of them would see her rot in a jail cell or a foreign land for the rest of her days. She had to be tactful but couldn’t bring herself to lie to him when she saw the pain in his eyes. “I’ve always been a servant. My life is…complicated. I had no right to be at the masquerade. I snuck in.” She hung her head in apology.

“Why?”

Clearly her explanation wasn’t enough. Over the past two years she had often asked herself the same question. Why had she snuck into the ball? Why had it felt so imperative to her at the time? She had risked so much for something that seemed so frivolous. Except she knew the answer if she was honest with herself. It had been worth it. It had been the happiest night of her life even if it was the cause of so much subsequent pain. With her identity now discovered, she had nothing left to lose by telling him the truth.

“Have you ever chased after a dream? Allowed yourself to imagine, even for a short while, that you were more than what your birth made you?” He shifted at that, something softening in his gaze. They had spoken at the masquerade about how they each hoped for more in their lives; some way to distinguish themselves that was entirely of their own doing. She hoped he understood. “I only wanted to see it,” she sighed. “To dance and laugh. I didn’t expect any of this would happen. I didn’t expect to meet you, or to feel…”

“What did you feel?” Benedict pressed forward, searching her eyes.

She couldn’t bring herself to say it. Love was a bridge too far. So she gave him her assessment of her feelings rather than the raw feelings themselves. “Foolish.”

He frowned, leaning back. “Is that why you ran away?”

She tugged at her fingers. “If you had realized I was an imposter you would have turned me away, or reported me. Or someone from my house would have recognized me. I had to leave.”

“You fled London entirely!” His voice raised, looking incredulous.

Sophie stared at him. “How do you know that?”

“I searched for you. For six bloody months!”

“You searched for me?” Sophie went numb. There was no way she had meant that much to him. She was a servant easily enamored by a handsome, wealthy gentleman. But he had his pick of young ladies. She could not have left such an impression on him over the course of one evening. “I…I had to. I was found out anyway and I was punished. I had to leave, I had nowhere to go.”

“You had me!” Benedict jabbed his fingers into his chest, sounding frantic. “I would have looked after you.”

Sophie couldn’t help but scoff. “No you wouldn’t…”

“I fell in love with you, Sophie!” The silence that followed his shouted declaration was deafening. They stared at one another, breathing heavily. Benedict with exasperation and Sophie with disbelief. He couldn’t be in earnest. Either she was still delirious or he was mad. A man like him did not fall in love with a woman like her, or at least would not want to pursue her after learning who she truly was. She was a servant but not a fool.

Fighting against the choking feeling in her throat, she spoke slowly. “You didn’t fall in love with me, sir.”

“Stop calling me sir.” He growled.

She appealed to his reason. “You don’t even know me, Benedict. We are from two different worlds. There could never be anything real between us.” Her heart clenched as she laid it out plainly, tears beginning to prick her eyes. “It was best for both of us that I left you alone.”

Benedict stared at her, eyes aflame, his jaw jutting around as if he were chewing his own tongue. Then he suddenly stood, turned on his heel and marched out the door.

This was the end. Sophie let the tears roll down her cheeks as she planned her next steps. Her limbs were still heavy but she would have to get up and dress quickly. She hoped her clothes were dry but even if they weren’t, she needed to leave. She could walk to the village from here. She could make it down the stairs without him seeing her. She needed to leave before he tossed her out or contacted the police. She should never have agreed to get on his horse. This was the heartbreaking but predictable conclusion to her dreams. This was the ironclad confirmation that she must stop reaching for things beyond her station.

Before she could muster the strength to swing her legs to the floor, Benedict reappeared in the doorway. He carried a stack of papers, uneven, varying in size and texture. He held them gingerly in both hands like priceless artifacts. As he walked toward her Sophie shrank back, wondering what on earth he was doing.

Benedict looked her in the eyes, an unreadable expression on his face, something like reluctance and yearning simultaneously. He reached the bedside and slowly started to spread the pages out before her, separating them to lay across her lap and the whole of the mattress so she could see each one. She gasped.

It was her.

They were all pictures of her.

Dozens of them. Charcoal sketches of a faceless woman in a cascading ball gown. Renderings of a face hidden by a mask with dark lips and starry earrings. A study of gloved hands, another of the curls of her coiffure. Oil paintings of a woman facing away in a dark garden. Watercolors of swirling blues and silver, some painted by his own fingers, abstract and without imagery but she knew what they signified. She held her breath and touched them in awe, her hands shaking. Tears streaming uncontrollably, she looked up at him, speechless.

“I have thought of nothing but you for two years,” Benedict’s voice was unsteady with emotion. “I couldn’t let myself forget you even though I didn’t know your face. You are all I can see. You are in every line I draw, every sky I paint. You are all that inspires and delights me. Don’t tell me that isn’t real, and don’t tell me you spared me any suffering by leaving.”

Swallowing hard, he knelt on one knee and took her hand in both of his own. “In my life, I have endeavored to be guided by one thing,” he paused, looking into her eyes. “My heart. And it is telling me that finding you again is not a coincidence. It is crying out for you. I know the circumstances are not perfect. I know our match would not be traditional.” He nearly spat the word. “But I have never put much stock in tradition or society. I must do what my heart bids me to, above all else. Let me show you the love and comfort that you deserve. We can find a way. Please do not condemn me to live the rest of my life as a broken man. Please, Sophie.”

Sophie’s mind was spinning. She didn’t know if there was air in the room because she couldn’t breathe. She didn’t know if she was lying or standing because she was floating. Her pulse was pounding so hard that her hand throbbed between his. In one moment everything she had ever wanted was placed before her for the taking. The love of Benedict Bridgerton. A life with him. A future. Something full of joy. It was too perfect, too unreal. Could it be this simple?

“This is real?” She asked him, her eyes dancing with a hopeful light. “I’m not still dreaming?”

Benedict grinned. “It is real. I love you Sophie, and I am begging you to stay.”