“I could give you whatever you wanted,” he bit off. “Clothes, jewels—Hell, forget about the clothes and jewels, I could  give you a bloody roof over your head, which is more than you have now.”

“That is true,” she said quietly.

He leaned forward, his eyes burning hot into hers. “I could give you everything.”

Somehow she managed to stand up straight, and somehow she managed not to cry. And somehow she even managed to  keep her voice even as she said, “If you think that’s everything, then you probably wouldn’t understand why I must refuse.”

She took a step back, intending to head to His Cottage and pack her meager bag, but he obviously wasn’t through with her  yet, because he stopped her with a strident, “Where are you going?”

“Back to the cottage,” she said. ‘To pack my bag.”

“And where do you think you’re going to go with that bag?”

Her mouth fell open. Surely he didn’t expect her to stay.

“Do you have a job?” he demanded. “A place to go?”

“No,” she replied, “but—”

He planted his hands on his hips and glared at her. “And you think I’m going to just let you leave here, with no money or prospects?”

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Sophie was so surprised she started to blink uncontrollably. “W-well,” she stammered, “I didn’t think—”

“No, you didn’t think,” he snapped.

She just stared at him, eyes wide and lips parted, unable to believe what she was hearing.

“You bloody fool,” he swore. “Do you have any idea how dangerous it is in the world for a woman alone?”

“Er, yes,” she managed. “Actually, I do.”

If he heard her, he gave no indication, just went on about “men who take advantage” and “helpless women” and “fates  worse than death.” Sophie wasn’t positive, but she thought she even heard the phrase, “roast beef and pudding.” About  halfway through his tirade, she lost all ability to focus on his words. She just kept watching his mouth and hearing the tone  of his voice, all the while trying to comprehend the fact that he seemed remarkably concerned for her welfare, considering  that she’d just summarily rejected him.

“Are you even listening to a word I’m saying?” Benedict demanded.

Sophie didn’t nod or shake her head, instead doing an odd combination of both.

Benedict swore under his breath. “That’s it,” he announced. “You’re coming back to London with me.”

That seemed to wake her up. “I just said I’m not!”

“You don’t have to be my damned mistress,” he bit off. “But I’m not leaving you to fend for yourself.”

“I was fending for myself quite adequately before I met you.”

“Adequately?” he sputtered. “At the Cavenders’? You call that adequate?”

“You’re not being fair!”

“And you’re not being intelligent.”

Benedict thought that his argument was most reasonable, if a little overbearing, but Sophie obviously did not agree, because, much to his surprise, he found himself lying faceup on the ground, having been felled by a remarkably quick right hook.

“Don’t you ever call me stupid,” she hissed.

Benedict blinked, trying to get his eyesight back to the point where he only saw one of her. “I wasn’t—”

“Yes, you were,” she replied in a low, angry voice. Then she turned on her heel, and in the split second before she stalked away, he realized he had only one way to stop her. He certainly wasn’t going to make it to his feet with anything resembling speed in his current befuddled state, so he reached out and grabbed one of her ankles with both of his hands, sending her sprawling onto the ground right next to him.

It wasn’t a particularly gentlemanly maneuver, but beggars really couldn’t be choosers, and besides, she had thrown the  first punch.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he growled.

Sophie slowly lifted her head, spitting out dirt as she glared at him. “I cannot believe,” she said scathingly, “that you just  did that.”

Benedict let go of her foot and hauled himself to a crouching position. “Believe it.”

“You—”

He held up a hand. “Don’t say anything now. I beg you.”

Her eyes bugged out. “You’re begging me?”

“I hear your voice,” he informed her, “therefore you must be speaking.”

“But—”

“And as for begging you,” he said, effectively cutting her off again, “I assure you it was merely a figure of speech.”

She opened her mouth to say something, then obviously thought the better of it, clamping her lips shut with the petulant look  of a three-year-old. Benedict let out a short breath, then offered her his hand. She was, after all, still sitting in the dirt and not looking especially happy about it.

She stared at his hand with remarkable revulsion, then moved her gaze to his face and glared at him with such ferocity that Benedict wondered if he had recently sprouted horns. Still not saying a word, she ignored his offer of help and hefted herself  to her feet.

“As you like,” he murmured.

“A poor choice of words,” she snapped, then started marching away.

As Benedict was on his feet this time, he felt no need to incapacitate her. Instead, he dogged her every step, remaining a  mere (and annoying, he was sure) two paces behind her. Finally, after about a minute, she turned around and said,  “Please leave me alone.”




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