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And Benedict found himself giving voice to feelings he’d never shared with any other living soul, not even—no, especially  not his family. “To most of the world,” he said, “I’m merely a Bridgerton. I’m not Benedict or Ben or even a gentleman  of means and hopefully a bit of intelligence. I’m merely”—he smiled ruefully—”a Bridgerton. Specifically, Number Two.”
Her lips trembled, then they smiled. “You’re much more than that,” she said.
“I’d like to think so, but most of the world doesn’t see it that way.”
“Most of the world are fools.”
He laughed at that. There was nothing more fetching than Sophie with a scowl. “You will not find disagreement here,” he said.
But then, just when he thought the conversation was over, she surprised him by saying, “You’re nothing like the rest of your family.”
“How so?” he asked, not quite meeting her gaze. He didn’t want her to see just how important her reply was to him.
“Well, your brother Anthony ...” Her face scrunched in thought. “His whole life has been altered by the fact that he’s the  eldest. He quite obviously feels a responsibility to your family that you do not.”
“Now wait just one—”
“Don’t interrupt,” she said, placing a calming hand on his chest. “I didn’t say that you didn’t love your family, or that you wouldn’t give your life for any one of them. But it’s different with your brother. He feels responsible, and I truly believe he would consider himself a failure if any of his siblings were unhappy.”
“How many times have you met Anthony?” he muttered.
“Just once.” The corners of her mouth tightened, as if she were suppressing a smile. “But that was all I needed. As for your younger brother, Colin ... well, I haven’t met him, but I’ve heard plenty—”
“From whom?”
“Everyone,” she said. “Not to mention that he is forever being mentioned in Whistledown, which I must confess I’ve read for years.”
“Then you knew about me before you met me,” he said.
She nodded. “But I didn’t know you. You’re much more than Lady Whistledown realizes.”
“Tell me,” he said, placing his hand over hers. “What do you see?”
Sophie brought her eyes to his, gazed into those chocolatey depths, and saw something there she’d never dreamed existed.  A tiny spark of vulnerability, of need.
He needed to know what she thought of him, that he was important to her. This man, so self-assured and so confident,  needed her approval.
Maybe he needed her.
She curled her hand until their palms touched, then used her other index finger to trace circles and swirls on the fine kid of  his glove. “You are ...” she began, taking her time because she knew that every word weighed heavier in such a powerful moment. “You are not quite the man you present to the rest of the world. You’d like to be thought of as debonair and ironic  and full of quick wit, and you are all those things, but underneath, you’re so much more.
“You care,” she said, aware that her voice had grown raspy with emotion. “You care about your family, and you even care about me, although God knows I don’t always deserve it.”
“Always,” he interrupted, raising her hand to his lips and kissing her palm with a fervency that sucked her breath away. “Always.”
“And ... and ...” It was hard to continue when his eyes were on hers with such single-minded emotion.
“And what?” he whispered.
“Much of who you are comes from your family,” she said, the words tumbling forth in a rush. “That much is true. You can’t grow up with such love and loyalty and not become a better person because of it. But deep within you, in your heart, in your very soul, is the man you were bom to be. You, not someone’s son, not someone’s brother. Just you.”
Benedict watched her intently. He opened his mouth to speak, but he discovered that he had no words. There were no  words for a moment like this.
“Deep inside,” she murmured, “you’ve the soul of an artist.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head.
“Yes,” she insisted. “I’ve seen your sketches. You’re brilliant. I don’t think I knew how much until I met your family. You captured them all perfectly, from the sly look in Francesca’s smile to the mischief in the very way Hyacinth holds her shoulders.”
“I’ve never shown anyone else my sketches,” he admitted.
Her head snapped up. “You can’t be serious.”
He shook his head. “I haven’t.”
“But they’re brilliant. You’re brilliant. I’m sure your mother would love to see them.”
“I don’t know why,” he said, feeling sheepish, “but I never wanted to share them.”
“You shared them with me,” she said softly.
“Somehow,” he said, touching his fingers to her chin, “it felt right.”
And then his heart skipped a beat, because all of a sudden everything felt right.
He loved her. He didn’t know how it had happened, only that it was true.
It wasn’t just that she was convenient. There had been lots of convenient women. Sophie was different. She made him laugh. She made him want to make her laugh. And when he was with her—Well, when he was with her he wanted her like hell,  but during those few moments when his body managed to keep itself hi check ...