Page 44

Benedict watched her hands as she prepared his tea. She moved with an innate sense of grace, and she poured the tea as if she’d been to the manner born. Clearly the art of afternoon tea had been another one of those lessons she’d learned from her mother’s generous employers. Or maybe she’d just watched other ladies closely while they’d prepared tea. Benedict had noticed that she was a very observant woman.
They’d enacted this ritual often enough that she didn’t have to ask how he liked his tea. She handed him his cup—milk, no sugar—and then placed a selection of biscaits and scones on a plate.
“Fix yourself a cup,” Benedict said, biting into a biscuit, “and come sit by me.”
She hesitated again. He knew she’d hesitate, even though she’d already agreed to join him. But he was a patient man, and his patience was rewarded with a soft sigh as she reached out and plucked another cup off the tray.
After she’d fixed her own cup—two lumps of sugar, just the barest splash of milk—she sat in the velvet-covered, straight-backed chair by his bed, regarding him over the rim of her teacup as she took a sip.
“No biscuits for you?” Benedict asked.
She shook her head. “I had a few straight out of the oven.”
“Lucky you. They’re always best when they’re warm.” He polished off another biscuit, brushed a few crumbs off of his sleeve, and reached for another. “And how have you spent your day?”
“Since I last saw you two hours earlier?”
Benedict shot her a look that said he recognized her sarcasm but chose not to respond to it.
“I helped Mrs. Crabtree hi the kitchen,” Sophie said. “She’s making a beef stew for supper and needed some potatoes peeled. Then I borrowed a book from your library and read in the garden.”
“Really? What did you read?”
“A novel.”
“Was it good?”
She shrugged. “Silly, but romantic. I enjoyed it.”
“And do you long for romance?”
Her blush was instantaneous. “That’s a rather personal question, don’t you think?”
Benedict shrugged and started to say something utterly flip, like, “It was worth a try,” but as he watched her face, her cheeks turning delightfully pink, her eyes cast down to her lap, the strangest thing happened.
He realized he wanted her.
He really, really wanted her.
He wasn’t certain why this so surprised him. Of course he wanted her. He was as red-blooded as any man, and one couldn’t spend a protracted amount of time around a woman as gamine and adorable as Sophie without wanting her. Hell, he wanted half the women he met, in a purely low-intensity, non-urgent sort of way.
But in that moment, with this woman, it became urgent.
Benedict changed positions. Then he bunched the coverlet up over his lap. Then he changed positions again.
“Is your bed uncomfortable?” Sophie asked. “Do you need me to fluff your pillows?”
Benedict’s first urge was to reply in the affirmative, grab her as she leaned across him, and then have his wicked way with  her, since they would, rather conveniently, be in bed.
But he had a sneaking suspicion that that particular plan would not go over well with Sophie, so instead he said, “I’m fine,”  then winced when he realized his voice sounded oddly squeaky.
She smiled as she eyed the biscuits on his plate, saying, “Maybe just one more.”
Benedict moved his arm out of the way to allow her easy access to his plate, which was, he realized somewhat belatedly, resting on his lap. The sight of her hand reaching toward his groin—even if she was aiming for a plate of biscuits—did funny things to him, to his groin, to be precise.
Benedict had a sudden vision of things ... shifting down there, and he hastily grabbed the plate, lest it become unbalanced.
“Do you mind if I take the last—”
“Fine!” he croaked.
She plucked a ginger biscuit off the plate and frowned. “You look better,” she said, giving the biscuit a little sniff, “but you  don’t sound better. Is your throat bothering you?”
Benedict took a quick sip of his tea. “Not at all. I must’ve swallowed a piece of dust.”
“Oh. Drink some more tea, then. That shouldn’t bother you for long.” She set her teacup down. “Would you like me to read  to you?”
“Yes!” Benedict said quickly, bunching up his coverlet around his waist. She might try to take away the strategically placed plate, and then where would he be?
“Are you certain you’re all right?” she asked, looking far more suspicious than concerned.
He smiled tightly. “Just fine.”
“Very well,” she said, standing up. “What would you like me to read?”
“Oh, anything,” he said with a blithe wave of his hand.
“Poetry?”
“Splendid.” He would have said, “Splendid,” had she offered to read a dissertation on botany in the arctic tundra.
Sophie wandered over to a recessed bookshelf and idly perused its contents. “Byron?” she asked. “Blake?”
“Blake,” he said quite firmly. A hour’s worth of Byron’s romantic drivel would probably send him quite over the edge.
She slid a slim volume of poetry off the shelf and returned to her chair, swishing her rather unattractive skirts before she sat down.
Benedict frowned. He’d never really noticed before how ugly her dress was. Not as bad as the one Mrs. Crabtree had lent  her, but certainly not anything designed to bring out the best in a woman.