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Slowly and carefully, Sophie turned her back to him and put the spoon down on the table. She didn’t want to risk any  sudden movements. One false move and she knew she’d be hurling it at his head.
Benedict raised his brows approvingly. “That was very mature of you.”
Sophie turned around slowly. “Are you this charming with everyone or only me?”
“Oh, only you.” He grinned. “I shall have to make sure you take me up on my offer to find you employment with my mother. You do bring out the best in me, Miss Sophie Beckett.”
“This is the best?” she asked with obvious disbelief.
“I’m afraid so.”
Sophie just shook her head as she walked to the door. Conversations with Benedict Bridgerton could be exhausting.
“Oh, Sophie!” he called out.
She turned around.
He smiled slyly. “I knew you wouldn’t throw the spoon.”
What happened next was surely not Sophie’s fault. She was, she was convinced, temporarily and fleetingly possessed by  a demon. Because she absolutely did not recognize the hand that shot out to the small table next to her and picked up a stump of a candle. True, the hand appeared to be connected quite firmly to her arm, but it didn’t look the least bit familiar as it drew back and hurled the stump across the room.
Straight at Benedict Bridgerton’s head.
Sophie didn’t even wait to see if her aim had been true. But as she stalked out the door, she heard Benedict explode with laughter. Then she heard him shout out, “Well done, Miss Beckett!”
And she realized that for the first time in years, her smile was one of pure, unadulterated joy.
Chapter 10
Although he responded in the affirmative (or so says Lady Covington) Benedict Bridgerton did not make an appearance at the annual Covington Ball. Complaints were heard from young women (and their mamas)  across the ballroom.
According to Lady Bridgerton (his mother, not his sister-in-law), Mr, Bridgerton left far the country last week and has not been heard from since. Those who might fear for Mr. Bridgerton’s health and well-being should  not fret; Lady Bridgerton sounded more annoyed than worried. Last year no less than four couples met their future spouses at the Covington Ball; the previous year, three.
Much to Lady Bridgerton’s dismay, if any matches are made at this year’s Covington Ball, her son Benedict  will not be among the grooms.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 5 MAY 1817
There were advantages, Benedict soon discovered, to a long, drawn-out recovery.
The most obvious was the quantity and variety of most excellent food brought forth from Mrs. Crabtree’s kitchen. He’d  always been fed well at My Cottage, but Mrs. Crabtree truly rose to the occasion when she had someone tucked away  in the sickroom.
And even better, Mr. Crabtree had managed to intercept all of Mrs. Crabtree’s tonics and replace them with Benedict’s  best brandy. Benedict dutifully drank every drop, but the last time he looked out the window, it appeared that three of his rosebushes had died, presumably where Mr. Crabtree had dumped the tonic.
It was a sad sacrifice, but one Benedict was more than willing to make after his last experience with Mrs. Crabtree’s tonics.
Another perk of staying abed was the simple fact that, for the first time in years, he could enjoy some quiet time. He read, sketched, and even closed his eyes and just daydreamed—all without feeling guilty for neglecting some other task or chore.
Benedict soon decided that he’d be perfectly happy leading the life of the indolent.
But the best part of his recovery, by far, was Sophie. She popped into his room several times a day, sometimes to fluff his pillows, sometimes to bring him food, sometimes just to read to him. Benedict had a feeling that her industriousness was due  to her desire to feel useful, and to thank him with deeds for saving her from Phillip Cavender.
But he didn’t much care why she came to visit; he just liked it that she did.
She’d been quiet and reserved at first, obviously trying to adhere to the standard that servants should be neither seen nor  heard. But Benedict had had none of that, and he’d purposefully engaged her in conversation, just so she couldn’t leave. Or he’d goad and needle her, simply to get a rise out of her, because he liked her far better when she was spitting fire than when she was meek and submissive.
But mostly he just enjoyed being in the same room with her. It didn’t seem to matter if they were talking or if she was just  sitting in a chair, leafing through a book while he stared out the window. Something about her presence brought him peace.
A sharp knock at the door broke him out of his thoughts, and he looked up eagerly, calling out, “Enter!”
Sophie poked her head in, her shoulder-length curls shaking slightly as they brushed against the edge of the door.  “Mrs. Crabtree thought you might like tea.”
“Tea? Or tea and biscuits?”
Sophie grinned, pushing the door open with her hip as she balanced the tray. “Oh, the latter, to be sure.” “Excellent. And  will you join me?” She hesitated, as she always did, but then she nodded, as she also always did. She’d long since learned  that there was no arguing with Benedict when he had his mind set on something.
Benedict rather liked it that way. “The color is back in your cheeks,” she commented as she set the tray down on a nearby table. “And you don’t look nearly so tired. I should think you’ll be up and out of bed soon,”
“Oh, soon, I’m sure,” he said evasively. “You’re looking healthier every day.” He smiled gamely. “Do you think so?” She lifted the teapot and paused before she poured. “Yes,” she said with an ironic smile. “I wouldn’t have said so otherwise.”