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Sophie wondered how much injury he’d sustain if she threw the book at him. Probably not enough to make up for the loss  to her dignity.
It amazed her how easily he could infuriate her. She loved him desperately—she’d long since given up lying to herself  about that—and yet he could make her entire body shake with anger with one little quip.
“Good-bye, Mr. Bridgerton.”
He waved her off. “I’ll see you later, I’m sure.”
Sophie paused, not sure she liked his dismissive demeanor.
“I thought you were leaving,” he said, looking faintly amused.
“I am,” she insisted.
He cocked his head to the side but didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. The vaguely mocking expression in his eyes did  the job quite well.
She turned and walked toward the door leading inside, but when she was about halfway to her destination, she heard him  call out, “Your new dress is quite fetching.”
She stopped and sighed. She might have gone from faux-guardian of an earl to a mere lady’s maid, but good manners were good manners, and there was no way she could ignore a compliment. Turning around, she said, “Thank you. It was a gift  from your mother. I believe it used to belong to Francesca.”
He leaned against the fence, his posture deceptively lazy. “That’s a custom, isn’t it, to share frocks with one’s maid?”
Sophie nodded. “When one is through with them, of course. No one would give a new frock away.”
Sophie eyed him suspiciously, wondering why on earth he cared about the status of her new dress.
“Didn’t you want to go inside?” he inquired.
“What are you up to?” she asked.
“Why would you think I’m up to anything?”
Her lips pursed before she said, “You wouldn’t be you if you weren’t up to something.”
He smiled at that. “I do believe that was a compliment.”
“It wasn’t necessarily intended as such.”
“But nonetheless,” he said mildly, “that’s how I choose to take it.”
She wasn’t sure how best to respond, so she said nothing. She also didn’t move toward the door. She wasn’t sure why,  since she’d been quite vocal about her desire to be alone. But what she said and what she felt weren’t always one and the  same. In her heart she longed for this man, dreamed of a life that could never be.
She shouldn’t be so angry with him. He shouldn’t have forced her against her wishes to come to London, that was true, but  she couldn’t fault him for offering her a position as his mistress. He had done what any man in his position would have done. Sophie had no illusions about her place in London society. She was a maid. A servant. And the only thing that separated her from other maids and servants was that she’d had a taste of luxury as a child. She’d been reared gently, if without love, and  the experience had shaped her ideals and values. Now she was forever stuck between two worlds, with no clear place in either.
“You look very serious,” he said quietly.
Sophie heard him, but she couldn’t quite break herself from her thoughts.
Benedict stepped forward. He reached out to touch her chin, then checked himself. There was something untouchable about her just then, something unreachable. “I can’t bear it when you look so sad,” he said, surprised by his own words. He hadn’t intended to say anything; it had just slipped out.
She looked up at that. “I’m not sad.”
He gave his head the tiniest shake. “There’s a sorrow deep in your eyes. It’s rarely gone.”
Her hand flew to her face, as if she could actually touch that sorrow, as if it were solid, something that could be massaged away.
Benedict took her hand and raised it to his lips. “I wish you would share your secrets with me.”
“I have no—”
“Don’t lie,” he cut in, his tone harsher than he’d intended. “You have more secrets than any woman I’ve—” He broke off, a sudden image of the woman from the masquerade flashing through his mind. “More than almost any woman I’ve known,”  he finished.
Her eyes met his for the briefest of seconds, and then she looked away. “There is nothing wrong with secrets. If I choose—”
“Your secrets are eating you alive,” he said sharply. He didn’t want to stand there and listen to her excuses, and his frustration gnawed at his patience. “You have the opportunity to change your life, to reach out and grasp happiness, and yet you won’t  do it.”
“I can’t,” she said, and the pain in her voice nearly unmanned him.
“Nonsense,” he said. “You can do anything you choose. You just don’t want to.”
“Don’t make this harder than it already is,” she whispered.
When she said that, something snapped inside of him. He felt it palpably, a strange popping sensation that released a rush  of blood, feeding the frustrated anger that had been simmering inside of him for days. “You think it’s not hard?” he asked.  “You think it’s not hard?”
“I didn’t say that!”
He grabbed her hand and pulled her body against his, so she could see for herself just how hard he was. “I burn for you,” he said, his lips touching her ear. “Every night, I lie in bed, thinking of you, wondering why the hell you’re here with my mother,  of all people, and not with me.”