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“Then what?”
“We’re from different worlds, Benedict. Even then I knew that there could be no future for us. And it would have been torture. To tease myself with a dream that couldn’t come true? I couldn’t do that.”
“Who are you?” he asked suddenly.
She just stared at him, frozen into inaction.
“Tell me,” he bit off. ‘Tell me who you are. Because you’re no damned lady’s maid, that’s for certain.”
“I’m exactly who I said I was,” she said, then, at his murderous glare, hastily added, “Almost.”
He advanced on her. “Who are you?”
She backed up another step. “Sophia Beckett.”
“Who are you?”
“I’ve been a servant since I was fourteen.”
“And who were you before that?”
Her voice dropped to a whisper. “A bastard.”
“Whose bastard?”
“Does it matter?”
His stance grew more belligerent. “It matters to me.”
Sophie felt herself deflate. She hadn’t expected him to ignore the duties of his birth and actually marry someone like her, but she’d hoped he wouldn’t care quite that much.
“Who were your parents?” Benedict persisted.
“No one you know.”
“Who were your parents?” he roared.
“The Earl of Penwood,” she cried out.
He stood utterly still, not a muscle moving. He didn’t even blink.
“I am a nobleman’s bastard,” she said harshly, years of anger and resentment pouring forth. “My father was the Earl of Penwood and my mother was a maid. Yes,” she spat out when she saw his face grow pale, “my mother was a lady’s maid.  Just as I am a lady’s maid.”
A heavy pause filled the air, and then Sophie said in a low voice, “I won’t be like my mother.”
“And yet, if she’d behaved otherwise,” he said, “you wouldn’t be here to tell me about it.”
“That’s not the point.”
Benedict’s hands, which had been fisted at his sides, began to twitch. “You lied to me,” he said in a low voice.
“There was no need to tell you the truth.”
“Who the hell are you to decide?” he exploded. “Poor little Benedict, he can’t handle the truth. He can’t make up his own mind. He—”
He broke off, disgusted by the whiny edge to his voice. She was turning him into someone he didn’t know, someone he didn’t like.
He had to get out of there. He had to—
“Benedict?” She was looking at him oddly. Her eyes were concerned.
“I have to go,” he muttered. “I can’t see you right now.”
“Why?” she asked, and he could see from her face that she instantly regretted the question.
“I am so angry right now,” he said, each word a slow, staccato beat in the sentence, “that I don’t know myself. I—” He looked down at his hands. They were shaking. He wanted to hurt her, he realized. No, he didn’t want to hurt her. He would never want to hurt her. And yet...
And yet...
It was the first time in his life he’d felt so out of control. It scared him.
“I have to go,” he said again, and he brushed roughly past her as he strode out the door.
Chapter 20
While we are on the topic, Miss Reiling’s mother, the Countess ofPenwood, has also been acting very  strange of late. According to servants’ gossip (which we all know is always the most reliable sort),  the countess threw quite the tantrum last night, hurling no fewer than seventeen shoes at her servants.
One footman sports a bruised eye, but other than that, all remain in good health.
LADYWHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 11 JUNE 1817
Within an hour, Sophie had her bag packed. She didn’t know what else to do. She was gripped—painfully gripped— by nervous energy, and she could not sit still. Her feet kept moving and her hands were shaking, and every few minutes, she  found herself taking a big spontaneous gulp of air, as if the extra breath could somehow calm her inside.
She could not imagine that she would be allowed to remain here in Lady Bridgerton’s household after such a horrible  falling-out with Benedict. Lady Bridgerton was fond of Sophie, it was true, but Benedict was her son. Blood really was  thicker than just about anything else, especially when it was Bridgerton blood.
It was sad, really, she thought as she sat down on her bed, her hands still torturing a hopelessly mangled handkerchief. For  all her inner turmoil over Benedict, she’d liked living in the Bridgerton household. Sophie had never before had the honor of living amongst a group of people who truly understood the meaning of the word family.
She would miss them.
She would miss Benedict.
And she would mourn the life she could not have.
Unable to sit still, she jumped back to her feet and walked to the window. “Damn you, Papa,” she said, looking up at the  skies. “There. I’ve called you Papa. You never let me do that. You never wanted to be that.” She gasped convulsively,  using the back of her hand to wipe at her nose. “I’ve called you Papa. How does it feel?”
But there was no sudden clap of thunder, no gray cloud appearing out of nowhere to cover up the sun. Her father would never know how angry she was with him for leaving her penniless, leaving her with Araminta. Most likely, he wouldn’t have cared.
She felt rather weary, and she leaned against the window frame, rubbing her eyes with her hand. “You gave me a taste of another life,” she whispered, “and then left me in the wind. It would have been so much easier if I’d been raised a servant.