Chapter 59
There seemed little point in Sophie’s defending her mother.
“I didn’t just hate you, you know,” Araminta whispered. “I hated seeing you.”
Somehow, that didn’t surprise Sophie.
“I hated hearing your voice. I hated the fact that your eyes were his. I hated knowing that you were in
my house.”
“It was my house, too,” Sophie said quietly.
“Yes,” Araminta replied. “I know. I hated that, too.”
Sophie turned quite sharply, looking Araminta in the eye. “Why are you here?” she asked. “Haven’t you
done enough? You’ve already ensured my transportation to Australia.”
Araminta shrugged. “I can’t seem to stay away. There’s something so lovely about seeing you in jail. I
shall have to bathe for three hours straight to rid myself of the stench, but it’s worth it.”
“Then excuse me if I go sit in the corner and pretend to read a book,” Sophie spat out. “There is
nothing lovely about seeing you.” She marched over to the wobbly three-legged stool that was her
cell’s only piece of furniture and sat down, trying not to look as miserable as she felt. Araminta had
bested her, it was true, but her spirit had not been broken, and she refused to let Araminta think
otherwise.
She sat, arms crossed, her back to the cell opening, listening for signs that Araminta was leaving.
But Araminta stayed.
Finally, after about ten minutes of this nonsense, Sophie jumped to her feet and yelled, “Would you
go?”
Araminta cocked her head slightly to the side. “I’m thinking.”
Sophie would have asked, “About what?” but she was rather afraid of the answer.
“I wonder what it is like in Australia,” Araminta mused. “I’ve never been, of course; no civilized person
of my acquaintance would even consider it. But I hear it is dreadfully warm. And you with your fair skin.
That lovelyplexion of yours isn’t likely to survive the hot sun. In fact—”
But whatever Araminta had been about to say was cut off (thankfully—because Sophie feared she
might be moved to attempt murder if she had to listen to another word) by amotion erupting
around the corner.
“What the devil . . . ?” Araminta said, taking a few steps back and craning her neck for a better view.
And then Sophie heard a very familiar voice.
“Benedict?” she whispered.
Ccontent ? exclusive by N?/vel(D)ra/ma.Org.
“What did you say?” Araminta demanded.
But Sophie had already jumped to her feet and had her face pressed up against the bars of her cell.
“I said,” Benedict boomed, “let us pass!”
“Benedict!” Sophie yelled. She forgot that she didn’t particrly want the Bridgertons to see her in such
demeaning surroundings. She forgot that she had no future with him. All she could think was that he
hade for her, and he was here.
If Sophie could have fit her head through the bars, she would have.
A rather sickening smack, obviously that of flesh against bone, echoed through the air, followed by a
duller thud, most probably that of body against floor.
Running steps, and then . . .
“Benedict!”
“Sophie! My God, are you well?” His hands reached through the bars, cupping her cheeks. His lips
found hers; the kiss was not one of passion but of terror and relief.
“Mr. Bridgerton?” Araminta squeaked.
Sophie somehow managed to pull her eyes off of Benedict and onto Araminta’s shocked face. In the
flurry of excitement, she’d quite forgotten that Araminta was still unaware of her ties to the Bridgerton
family.
It was one of life’s most perfect moments. Maybe it meant she was a shallow person. Maybe it meant
that she didn’t have her priorities in the proper order. But Sophie just loved that Araminta, for whom
position and power were everything, had just witnessed Sophie being kissed by one of London’s most
eligible bachelors.
Of course, Sophie was also rather d to see Benedict.
Benedict pulled away, his reluctant hands trailing lightly across Sophie’s face as he drew back out of
her cell. As he crossed his arms, he gave Araminta a re that Sophie was convinced would scorch
earth.
“What are your charges against her?” Benedict demanded.
Sophie’s feelings for Araminta could best be categorized as “extreme dislike,” but even so, she never
would have described the older woman as stupid. She was now, however, prepared to reassess that
judgment because Araminta, instead of quaking and cowering as any sane person might do under such
fire, instead nted her hands on her hips and belted out, “Theft!”
At that very moment, Lady Bridgerton came scurrying around the corner. “I can’t believe Sophie would
do any such thing,” she said, rushing to her son’s side. Her eyes narrowed as she regarded Araminta.
“And,” she added rather peevishly, “I never liked you, Lady Penwood.”
Araminta drew back and nted an affronted hand on her chest. “This is not about me,” she huffed. “It
is about that girl”—(said with a scathing nce toward Sophie)—“who had the audacity to steal my
wedding band!”
“I never stole your wedding band, and you know it!” Sophie protested. “Thest thing I would want of
yours—”
“You stole my shoe clips!”
Sophie’s mouth shut into a belligerent line.
“Ha! See!” Araminta looked about, trying to gauge how many people had seen. “A clear admission of
guilt.”
“She is your stepdaughter,” Benedict ground out. “She should never have been in a position where she
felt she had to—”
Araminta’s face twisted and grew red. “Don’t you ever,” she warned, “call her my stepdaughter. She is
nothing to me. Nothing!”
“I beg your pardon,” Lady Bridgerton said in a remarkably polite voice, “but if she truly meant nothing to
you, you’d hardly be here in this filthy jail, attempting to have her hanged for theft.”
Araminta was saved from having to reply by the arrival of the magistrate, who was followed by an
extremely grumpy-looking warden, who also happened to be sporting a rather stunning ck eye.
As the warden had spanked her on the bottom while shoving her into her cell, Sophie really couldn’t
help but smile.
“What is going on here?” the magistrate demanded.
“This woman,” Benedict said, his loud, deep voice effectively blotting out all other attempts at an
answer
, “has used my fiancée of theft.”
Fiancée?
Sophie just managed to snap her mouth closed, but even so, she had to clutch tightly on to the bars of
her cell, because her legs had turned to instant water.
“Fiancée?” Araminta gasped.
The magistrate straightened. “And precisely who are you, sir?” he asked, clearly aware that Benedict
was someone important, even if he wasn’t positive who.
Benedict crossed his arms as he said his name.
The magistrate paled. “Er, any rtion to the viscount?”
“He’s my brother.”
“And she’s”—he gulped as he pointed to Sophie—“your fiancée?”
Sophie waited for some sort of supernatural sign to stir the air, branding Benedict as a liar, but to her
surprise, nothing happened. Lady Bridgerton was even nodding.
“You can’t marry her,” Araminta insisted.
Benedict turned to his mother. “Is there any reason I need to consult Lady Penwood about this?”
“None that I can think of,” Lady Bridgerton replied.
“She is nothing but a whore,” Araminta hissed. “Her mother was a whore, and blood runs—urp!”
Benedict had her by the throat before anyone was even aware that he had moved. “Don’t,” he warned,
“make me hit you.”
The magistrate tapped Benedict on the shoulder. “You really ought to let her go.”
“Might I muzzle her?”
The magistrate looked torn, but eventually he shook his head.
With obvious reluctance, Benedict released Araminta.
“If you marry her,” Araminta said, rubbing her throat, “I shall make sure everyone knows exactly what
she is—the bastard daughter of a whore.”
The magistrate turned to Araminta with a stern expression. “I don’t think we need that sort of
“I can assure you I am not in the habit of speaking in such a manner,” she replied, sniffing disdainfully,
“but the asion warrants strong speech.”
Sophie actually bit her knuckle as she stared at Benedict, who was flexing and unflexing his fingers in a
most menacing manner. Clearly he felt the asion warranted strong fists.
The magistrate cleared his throat. “You use her of a very serious crime.” He gulped. “And she’s
going to be married to a Bridgerton.”
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