Chapter 23


    “Water,” he rasped.


    “Right away.” Sophie had been dunking the cloths into the water in the pitcher, but she decided that


    now was no time to be fussy, so she grabbed hold of the ss she’d brought up from the kitchen and


    filled it. “Here you are,” she said, handing it to him.


    His fingers were shaky, so she did not let go of the ss as he brought it to his lips. He took a couple of


    sips, then sagged back against his pillows.


    “Thank you,” he whispered.


    Sophie reached out and touched his brow. It was still quite warm, but he seemed lucid once again, and


    Material ? N?velDrama.Org.


    she decided to take that as a sign that the fever had broken. “I think you’ll be better in the morning.”


    Heughed. Not hard, and not with anything approaching vigor, but he actuallyughed. “Not likely,” he


    croaked.


    “Well, not recovered,” she allowed, “but I think you’ll feel better than you do right now.”


    “It would certainly be hard to feel worse.”


    Sophie smiled at him. “Do you think you can scoot to one side of your bed so I can change your


    sheets?”


    He nodded and did as she asked, closing his weary eyes as she changed the bed around him. “That’s


    a neat trick,” he said when she was done.


    “Mrs. Cavender’s mother often came to visit,” Sophie exined. “She was bedridden, so I had to learn


    how to change the sheets without her leaving the bed. It’s not terribly difficult.”


    He nodded. “I’m going back to sleep now.”


    Sophie gave his shoulder a reassuring pat. She just couldn’t help herself. “You’ll feel better in the


    morning,” she whispered. “I promise.”


    It has oft been said that physicians make the worst patients, but it is the opinion of This Author that any


    man makes a terrible patient. One might say it takes patience to be a patient, and heaven knows, the


    males of our speciesck an abundance of patience.


    LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 2 MAY 1817


    The first thing Sophie did the following morning was scream.


    She’d fallen asleep in the straight-backed chair next to Benedict’s bed, her limbs sprawled most


    inelegantly and her head cocked to the side in a rather ufortable position. Her sleep had been


    light at first, her ears perked to listen for any sign of distress from the sickbed. But after an hour or so of


    which one ought to awaken in peace, with a restful, easy smile on one’s face.


    Which may have been why, when she opened her eyes and saw two strange people staring at her, she


    had such a fright that it took a full five minutes for her heart to stop racing.


    “Who are you?” The words tumbled out of Sophie’s mouth before she realized exactly who they must


    be: Mr. and Mrs. Crabtree, the caretakers of My Cottage.


    “Who are you?” the man demanded, not a little bit belligerently.


    “Sophie Beckett,” she said with a gulp. “I . . .” She pointed desperately at Benedict. “He . . .”


    “Spit it out, girl!”


    “Don’t torture her,” came a croak from the bed.


    Three heads swiveled in Benedict’s direction. “You’re awake!” Sophie eximed.


    “Wish to God I weren’t,” he muttered. “My throat feels like it’s on fire.”


    “Would you like me to fetch you some more water?” Sophie asked solicitously.


    He shook his head. “Tea. Please.”


    She shot to her feet. “I’ll go get it.”


    “I’ll get it,” Mrs. Crabtree said firmly.


    “Would you like help?” Sophie asked timidly. Something about this pair made her feel like she were ten


    years old. They were both short and squat, but they positively exuded authority.


    Mrs. Crabtree shook her head. “A fine housekeeper I am if I can’t prepare a pot of tea.”


    Sophie gulped. She couldn’t tell whether Mrs. Crabtree was miffed or joking. “I never meant to imply—”


    Mrs. Crabtree waved off her apology. “Shall I bring you a cup?”


    “You shouldn’t fetch anything for me,” Sophie said. “I’m a ser—”


    “Bring her a cup,” Benedict ordered.


    “But—”


    He jabbed his finger at her, grunting, “Be quiet,” before turning to Mrs. Crabtree and bestowing upon


    her a smile that could have melted an ice cap. “Would you be so kind as to include a cup for Miss


    Beckett on the tray?”


    “Of course, Mr. Bridgerton,” she replied, “but may I say—”


    “You can say anything you please once you return with the tea,” he promised.


    She gave him a stern look. “I have a lot to say.”


    “Of that I have no doubt.”


    Benedict, Sophie, and Mr. Crabtree waited in silence while Mrs. Crabtree left the room, and then, when


    she was safely out of earshot, Mr. Crabtree


    positively chortled, and said, “You’re in for it now, Mr. Bridgerton!”


    Benedict smiled weakly.


    Mr. Crabtree turned to Sophie and exined, “When Mrs. Crabtree has a lot to say, she has a lot to


    say.”


    “Oh,” Sophie replied. She would have liked to have said something slightly more articte, but “oh”


    was truly the best she coulde up with on such short notice.


    “And when she has a lot to say,” Mr. Crabtree continued, his smile growing wide and sly, “she likes to


    say it with great vigor.”


    “Fortunately,” Benedict said in a dry voice, “we’ll have our tea to keep us upied.”


    Sophie’s stomach grumbled loudly.


    “And,” Benedict continued, shooting her an amused nce, “a fair bit of breakfast, too, if I know Mrs.


    Crabtree.”


    Mr. Crabtree nodded. “Already prepared, Mr. Bridgerton. We saw your horses in the stables when we


    returned from our daughter’s house this morning, and Mrs. Crabtree got to work on breakfast


    straightaway. She knows how you love your eggs.”


    Benedict turned to Sophie and gave her a conspiratorial sort of smile. “I do love eggs.”


    Her stomach grumbled again.


    “We didn’t know there’d be two of you, though,” Mr. Crabtree said.


    Benedict chuckled, then winced at the pain. “I can’t imagine that Mrs. Crabtree didn’t make enough to


    feed a small army.”


    “Well, she didn’t have time to prepare a proper breakfast with beef pie and fish,” Mr. Crabtree said, “but


    I believe she has bacon and ham and eggs and toast.”


    Sophie’s stomach positively growled. She pped a hand to her belly, just barely resisting the urge to


    hiss, “Be quiet!”


    “You should have told us you wereing,” Mr. Crabtree added, shaking a finger at Benedict. “We


    never would have gone visiting if we’d known to expect you.”


    “It was a spur-of-the-moment decision,” Benedict said, stretching his neck from side to side. “Went to a


    bad party and decided to leave.”


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