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And, he thought with grim determination, Sophie was not going to leave him.
“I can live with you hating me,” he said to the closed door. “I just can’t live without you”
Chapter 13
It was previously reported in this column that This Author predicted a possible match between Miss Rosamund Reiling and Mr. Phillip Cavender. This Author can now say that this is not likely to occur. Lady Penwood  (Miss Reilings mother) has been heard to say that she will not settle for a mere mister, even though  Miss Reilings father, while certainly wellborn, was not a member of the aristocracy.
Not to mention, of course, that Mr. Cavender has begun to show a decided interest in Miss Cressida Cowper.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 9 MAY 1817
Sophie started feeling ill the minute the carriage departed My Cottage. By the time they stopped for the night at an inn  in Oxfordshire, she was downright queasy. And when they reached the outskirts of London ... Well, she was quite  convinced she would throw up.
Somehow she managed to keep the contents of her stomach where they belonged, but as their carriage wended farther  into the tangled streets of London, she was filled with an intense sense of apprehension.
No, not apprehension. Doom.
It was May, which meant that the season was in full swing. Which meant that Araminta was in residence.
Which meant that Sophie’s arrival was a bad, bad idea.
“Very bad,” she muttered.
Benedict looked up. “Did you say something?”
She crossed her arms mutinously. “Just that you’re a very bad man.”
He chuckled. She’d known he would chuckle, and it still irritated her.
He pulled the curtain away from the window and looked out. “We’re nearly there,” he said.
He’d said that he was taking her directly to his mother’s residence. Sophie remembered the grand house in Grosvenor  Square as if she’d been there the night before. The ballroom was huge, with hundreds of sconces on the walls, each  adorned by a perfect beeswax candle. The smaller rooms had been decorated in the Adam style, with exquisitely  scalloped ceilings and pale, pastel walls.
It had been Sophie’s dream house, quite literally. In all her dreams of Benedict and their fictional future together, she’d always seen herself in that house. It was silly, she knew, since he was a second son and thus not in line to inherit the property, but  still, it was the most beautiful home she’d ever beheld, and dreams weren’t meant to be about reality, anyway. If Sophie had  wanted to dream her way right into Kensington Palace, that was her prerogative.
Of course, she thought with a wry smile, she wasn’t likely ever to see the interior of Kensington Palace. “What are you  smiling about?” Benedict demanded. She didn’t bother to glance up as she replied, “I’m plotting your demise.”
He grinned—not that she was looking at him, but it was one of those smiles she could hear in the way he breathed.
She hated that she was that sensitive to his every nuance. Especially since she had a sneaking suspicion that he was the  same way about her. “At least it sounds entertaining,” he said.
“What does?” she asked, finally moving her eyes from the lower hem of the curtain, which she’d been staring at for what seemed like hours.
“My demise,” he said, his smile crooked and amused. “If you’re going to kill me, you might as well enjoy yourself while  you’re at it, because Lord knows, I won’t.”
Her jaw dropped a good inch. “You’re mad,” she said.
“Probably.” He shrugged rather casually before settling back in his seat and propping his feet up on the bench across  from him. “I’ve all but kidnapped you, after all. I should think that would qualify as the maddest thing I’ve ever done.”
“You could let me go now,” she said, even though she knew he never would.
“Here in London? Where you could be attacked by footpads at any moment? That would be most irresponsible of me,  don’t you think?”
“It hardly compares to abducting me against my will!”
“I didn’t abduct you,” he said, idly examining his fingernails. “I blackmailed you. There’s a world of difference.”
Sophie was saved from having to reply by the jolt of the carriage as it ground to a halt.
Benedict flipped back the curtains one last time, then let them fall into place. “Ah. Here we are.”
Sophie waited while he disembarked, then moved to the doorway. She briefly considered ignoring his outstretched hand  and jumping down herself, but the carriage was quite high off the ground, and she really didn’t wish to make a fool of  herself by tripping and landing in the gutter.
It would be nice to insult him, but not at the cost of a sprained ankle.
With a sigh, she took his hand.
“Very smart of you,” Benedict murmured.
Sophie looked at him sharply. How did he know what she’d been thinking?
“I almost always know what you’re thinking,” he said.
She tripped.
“Whoa!” he called out, catching her expertly before she landed in the gutter.
He held her just a moment longer than was necessary before depositing her on the pavement. Sophie would have said something, except that her teeth were ground together far too tightly for words.
“Doesn’t the irony just kill you?” Benedict asked, smiling wickedly.
She pried open her jaw. “No, but it may very well kill you.”
He laughed, the blasted man. “Come along,” he said. “I’ll introduce you to my mother. I’m sure she’ll find some position  or another for you.”