The words carried Sophie down the stairs and into her room, the door locked behind her. She heard them in her own voice, the French pronounced with the exquisite accent of a native-born Parisienne, and then again in Benedict’s, earnest and so terribly English.
He’d made the offer as a gift. The latest gift, for all that it was not trimmed with ribbon and rosebuds.
He’d given her the time at My Cottage—to be a guest, to wear the clothes of a viscount’s sister, to be waited upon and left to her own devices, to experience what it would be to have been her father’s ward, even if Mrs. Crabtree was quick to remind her she was a maid play-acting at being a lady.
He’d given her employment at his family home, shelter and position and a housekeeper who told her she must not overwork. He’d given her Hazel, hale and hearty, absolved her of any guilt, taken the burden of fearfulness for the other girl from her shoulders.
He’d given her his absence, when she asked it of him, until he couldn’t bear it and she knew, if she had not returned his affections, he would have taken his leave of her without reproaching her, bowing and bidding her farewell with the utmost politeness.
He might well be a rake, but what had happened between them was not a seduction; his embrace was not possession, but a mutual pleasure that upset his experience in equal measure with her innocence. Lady Sophie, the legitimate daughter of her aristocrat father, should be incensed that he would make the suggestion she become his mistress. Sophie Baek, housemaid, must appreciate he honored her with it.
Why was her heart broken?
Carte blanche with Benedict Bridgerton would mean her own house.
But not My Cottage. She could never return there as his mistress and face the Crabtrees. Not Mrs. Crabtree who’d given her such practical advice. Not Mr. Crabtree who’d had offered such fond encouragement.
She would have servants of her own but she could never hope for their respect.
She would be childless, if she were lucky and he was careful.
She would be the mother of a child like herself, nameless in all the ways that counted, a shame the Bridgerton family would try to overlook, unwilling to cast out their brother for his dalliance. A child without grandparents, without connections, borne of a mother who was entirely familiar with the circumstance and still allowed the terrible risk to her child.
She would be a terrible mother or none at all.
When he left, when he married properly, she would be left in a half-world she had made for herself. She would have to survive on the memory of his affection, like the faint fragrance found in linens folded with lavender buds and rose petals. To be satisfied with having once been cherished, but not forever.
He would not remain hers for their lives. He was not made to be a bachelor of the Ton, not with his family and his reputation, his appetite for the most wholesome comforts—a hand-made kite, a sketch of his nephews, Mrs. Crabtree’s apple tart and custard. He would not forget her but his remembrance would be worse, the house and the income the measure of his affections, Sophie reduced to a line in his ledger. She would have to hope he kept her a secret from his wife and steward, to merit secrecy rather than bland acknowledgement of the expense, equivalent with the butcher’s bill or the wine merchant’s.
He had meant the offer as an indication of his regard. His desire, that transcended their stations, his willingness to be modestly abased to become her entire world. He was a sweet man, gentle, protective, but those were the same reasons he would be hurt by the connection and would ultimately regret it.
She was familiar with regret. It would cost her less to shoulder his now than later. And if she refused, well then, she was left with something precious, a tale for younger, more naïve maids to listen to.
Once I was offered carte blanche by a gentleman of the Ton.
