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“Mr. Bridgerton, do be careful!”
“Mrs. Crabtree, I believe I am perfectly capable of bringing my bride her break— Ow!”
Just as Sophie’s eyes begin to flutter open, blinking at the morning light glinting through the window, she hears an exasperated sigh from the other side of the door.
It takes her a moment to register where she is, the desk against the wall, the small iron furnace, the window looking out over a manicured garden and the English countryside, and when she does a smile slowly blooms across her lips.
Benedict’s bedchamber, she muses, and then, Our bedchamber.
Her heart flutters even as she overhears hushed whispers outside the room, but before she can try to make out what is being said, they stop.
And then a moment later, the door opens, and Benedict appears in the archway.
A blush on her cheeks, Sophie holds the coverlet against her chest as she moves to sit up, watching as Benedict steps through the doorway and softly closes the door behind him.
It is not the first day she has awoken as Benedict Bridgerton’s wife, they had gotten married in London because it had been easier for his family, and Sophie could not even imagine marrying Benedict without his family (or at least most of them, he does have quite a lot) after the kindness they had bestowed upon her.
But it is the first day she has awoken in their new home. Or her new home.
She has only ever been a guest or an almost-servant at My Cottage and she is finding she is still caught in the transition, unsure of herself.
That is, until she takes note of the way Benedict gazes at her, the affection in his eyes sending a shiver down her spine.
He has always had a way of making her feel herself, of feeling real even when she was often treated otherwise.
“You’re awake,” Benedict says softly, making his way over to her, and it is only when he bends down to set a familiar tray by her legs that she even realises he was carrying a platter of food for her.
Her heart squeezes with affection as he leans down to kiss her, his hands holding her face gently as his lips brush hers with the sweetest reverence she could ever imagine. He kisses her like that for several seconds, so soft and perfect, before he whispers against her lips, “You were supposed to be asleep.”
Her smile is still tinged with edges of sleep, easy and soft.
“You aren’t a very quiet butler.”
Benedict huffs as he slides onto the edge of the bed. It is rather spacious, far more so than what Sophie has slept on for most of her life, but he still manages to press his side to hers. She could, of course, make room for him, but she finds she quite likes the feel of him near, a warm presence at her side.
“I lost a fight with the bannister,” he answers a bit gruffly and Sophie cannot help but to smile.
“Did it chuck a candle stump at your head?” She asks, a particularly fabricated innocence in her voice as she glances up at him.
His eyes narrow like he is offended, but the grin on his lips as he recalls the memory of the first time they shared this home together assures her he is anything but.
“So cheeky you are, Mrs. Bridgerton,” he murmurs, leaning close so his breath fans over her cheek, his lips brushing the curve of her ear so he can whisper, low and deep, “What ever shall I do with you?”
Sophie suddenly feels rather warm and a great deal more awake than she did just a minute ago.
It is too early for her to do anything but melt into him, her heartbeat fluttering when he wraps his arms around her like he knows that’s just what she needs.
Benedict carefully shifts their bodies so they may both lay together and Sophie snuggles into him.
Unlike her, he has clothing on — no need to scandalise the Crabtrees so early in the day — though admittedly far less than he is usually seen in when he has fully dressed for the day, just a soft pair of breeches and a half-buttoned shirt, but Sophie still manages to find the sliver of skin, slipping a small hand beneath the fabric of his shirt and resting her head against his chest so she may listen to his heartbeat.
She feels his fingers against her bare back a moment later, dragging his fingertips across her skin in little patterns and she can’t help thinking about how it feels like a brushstroke, can’t help wondering what portrait he is painting on her body.
“I think I shall keep you,” Benedict whispers after a while, his voice soft but deep with promise.
“Hmm?” Sophie responds, picking her head up so she can rest her chin on his chest instead, her eyes meeting his.
“That is what I shall do with you,” he explains, using his other hand to trace the side of her face reverently, “I shall keep you.”
I shall keep you.
She does not know how she would have felt hearing these words just a few short weeks ago. Certainly, she would not have expected to be here; In Benedict’s arms, in his bed, as his wife. The idea of finding a new life for herself across the ocean had seemed more plausible then.
Sophie never expected being jailed would have lead her to finding a family, a real family.
These last few weeks have been a whirlwind, to be sure.
“I should like to keep you, too,” she murmurs, her stomach swooping when he smiles down at her.
“Good. It is settled, then.” Benedict announces, his eyes shining beautifully, and whether it is from the morning light pouring in through the window or it is from somewhere deep inside his soul she does not know, but it is beautiful. “We shall keep each other.”
He nudges her off his chest so he can drag her forward until they are nose to nose. “Forever,” he adds, leaning forward to kiss her again.
She sighs softly, allowing him to shower her with attention, but after a moment he seems to catch on that she is not fully with him.
“What is it?” He asks, and her heart gives a soft thump when she remembers how well he understands her, how he always sees her when no one else does.
“Do you remember our first night here? After the storm?” Sophie asks after a moment, her voice timid in a way it has not been since before they wed.
Benedict blinks, pulling back to look at her fully.
“Of course,” he answers, a faint little crease appearing between his eyebrows. “Perhaps not everything, I was rather ill, but—“ He pauses, assessing her carefully before asking, “What is this about, Sophie?”
Sophie shifts so she is sitting in his lap more than laying atop him, Benedict’s hand instinctively reaching out for her hip.
“Do you remember asking me if you did anything that night?”
Benedict’s eyes widen and a rush of air escapes his lungs in a whoosh.
“I did do something,” Benedict mumbles, almost to himself, “Sophie, what did I—“
“You did not!” Sophie rushes to say, realising she is going about this poorly, “Not really.”
“Tell me,” Benedict pleads, his eyes searching her face desperately. “Sophie, please, you must tell me what I have done.”
She’s been thinking about this since last night. About how it is a secret, about how they wish to have no more secrets between each other and yet she has been holding onto this one.
“You asked me to kiss you,” Sophie finally explains in a rush. And then, after taking a deep breath, “And I did.”
Benedict’s hand flexes at her hip.
“You kissed me?” He asks her, breathless, staring back at her as if he is seeing something entirely new.
“Yes. I kissed you and I lied about it and I’m sorry and—“
“You mean to tell me I was resisting pulling you into bed and kissing you for days when I had already done so?” Benedict interrupts her rambling apology, flabbergasted.
This time it is Sophie’s turn to blink blankly at him.
“You wished to kiss me when you were recovering?” She asks. It is not all that surprising, given his attentions had certainly been clear before they left for London. It makes sense that they did not appear out of thin air, surely they must have been present before his offer, and yet Sophie finds herself wanting to ask when—
“Sophie.”
“It was just one kiss,” Sophie mumbles, cheeks heating even though she has shared so much more with him by now, “And I felt rather guilty about it.”
Benedict makes a thoughtful noise, as though he has just realised something. “I was dreaming of you.”
Sophie’s mouth falls open.
But he wasn’t! He had said, however lucidly, that he had not wanted her! That was not the sort of thing one forgot.
“Not— It was of the Lady in Silver. I had dreamed of her, of you, so often after that ball, for months and months. They stopped being so frequent when I began to lose hope that I would ever find her.” Benedict explains, and suddenly Sophie’s own recollection is shifting to make room for this information.
He had dreamed of her?
“I did not understand upon waking why she chose to return to me that night.” He swallows, his other hand slipping to rest at her opposite hip, holding her carefully. “But it was you,” Benedict whispers, the awe in his voice undeniable. “I knew. Somehow I knew.”
Sophie can feel moisture in her eyes as she gazes at him; Her head, her heart, all of her body is overcome with emotion, overcome with love.
He is hers and she is his.
Benedict pulls her in again, and this time their kiss is not soft nor lazy, this time it is deep and filled with an indescribable emotion.
When they part, they are panting and wrapped up in each other so tightly it is as though they need each other to exist in that moment.
Benedict makes a soft noise in his throat, his fingertips brushing against her cheekbone.
“You are so beautiful,” he murmurs, his lidded gaze watching her as though he cannot believe she is real. “Your soft hair. And your plush lips. And your eyes, how they look…”
“What?” Sophies asks in a whisper, her heart stuttering as he watches her like this, like she is something precious.
“Happier,” Benedict answers, his voice raw.
“They are,” she says quietly, “I am.”
Sophie moves her hand to his face, mirroring his touches with her fingertips, feeling the sharp curves of his cheek beneath her skin. “You make me happier, Benedict.”
Benedict closes his eyes, leaning into her touch. “You make me happier, too.”
Sophie’s lips twitch, the awe in her expression making way for amusement. A laugh bubbles up in her chest. “Well, now we’ve gone and said it so much it does not sound like a word anymore.”
“Hmm,” Benedict hums, a smile growing on his own lips that by the time he opens his eyes he’s nearly beaming at her. “Then perhaps I shall show you instead.”
“Perhaps I shall let you,” she responds easily.
Benedict’s smile melts into something softer, a quiet sort of affection in his expression that she is beginning to understand more with each day.
There had been a time, really only a very short time ago, where neither of them thought they would ever have this.
“I love you.”
“I love you.”
They say it at the same time, and then they laugh at the same time, and then Benedict is rolling her over onto her back and scrambling to climb over her.
“Benedict, the food!” Sophie gasps as he nearly knocks into the tray at the end of the bed, the forgotten breakfast he had brought with him practically begging to be knocked over.
Benedict stops, kneeling over her with two knees on either side of her and a slow growing smirk on his lips.
A smirk that always means mischief.
“Excellent idea, my beautiful wife,” Benedict coos, and Sophie does not understand how he can manage to coo while still smirking like an absolute rake but he does it anyhow.
Benedict bends over to grab something from one of the plates and Sophie tries not to think about how impressively flexible he appears, but when he turns back to her with a strawberry in his hand she can tell instantly that he knows exactly what she had been thinking.
With a grin, he leans down, offering the strawberry to her with his fingers. “For you,” he murmurs, his gentlemanly upbringing mixing with the sultry tones of his voice and she all but melts at the combination, taking the fruit he offers her easily.
The strawberry is sweet and juicy and she hums at the taste, never taking her eyes off him as he feeds it to her.
She can tell he likes this, whatever this is. It is still new to Sophie, to be allowed to desire such things. She knew far more than most women of the ton, but there were still things she was only beginning to understand, like why her husband feeding her fruit in bed, his dark eyes watching her and her tongue brushing his fingers, made her feel exceptionally warm.
At least it is not only her, she muses as Benedict leans over to kiss her again, exploring her with a desperate edge that feels needier than any of the others they’ve shared this morning.
When he pulls away again she feels on edge, something bright thrumming beneath her skin.
Benedict turns his attention to the food again, but when he returns to her he is not holding a strawberry, in fact he is not holding anything.
Two of his fingers have been covered in cream.
She gazes up at him curiously and he smiles, guiding his fingers toward her face, using one on his other hand to tug softly at her bottom lip, encouraging her to open for him.
She does and then he slides his coated fingers into her mouth.
Sophie closes her eyes and groans. She does not know why but she does.
When the cream has gone, he slips his fingers back out and her eyes blink open.
“Benedict,” Sophie whines, suddenly needing something, needing him.
Something dark and familiar flashes in his eyes and then he is popping the buttons on his shirt, slipping it off before he presses close to her.
“I know, love,” Benedict is murmuring, his voice low and smooth and exactly what she needs. “I've got you.”
She scrambles to grasp at his hair and he wraps his hands around her thighs so he can wedge himself between them. Their foreheads meet but instead of kissing again they are just breathing each other in, so close without giving into the pull just yet.
It is somehow maddening and calming in the same moment.
“I will always take care of you, Sophie,” Benedict whispers against her lips as his hands travel up, up, up until Sophie’s eyes roll back and her hips squirm beneath him. “Always.”