It was no use. She had a dreadfully wicked imagination, and there was no getting around it.
He should have just let her return to the house. Instead she was forced to wait, utterly mortified, while he dressed. Her skin felt like it was on fire, and she was certain her cheeks must be eight different shades of red. A gentleman would have let her weasel out of her embarrassment and hole up in her room back at the house for at least three days in hopes that he’d just forget about the entire affair. But Benedict Bridgerton was obviously determined not to be a gentleman this afternoon, because when she moved one of her feet—just to flex her toes, which were falling asleep in her shoes, honest!—barely half a second passed before he growled, “Don’t even think about it.”
“I wasn’t!” she protested. “My foot was falling asleep. And hurry up! It can’t possibly take so long to get dressed.”
“Oh?” he drawled.
“You’re doing this just to torture me,” she grumbled.
“You may feel free to face me at any time,” he said, his voice laced with quiet amusement. “I assure you that I asked you to turn your back for the sake of your sensibilities, not mine.”
“I’m just fine where I am,” she replied.
After what seemed like an hour but what was probably only three minutes, she heard him say, “You may turn around now.”
Sophie was almost afraid to do so. He had just the sort of perverse sense of humor that would compel him to order her around before he’d donned his clothing.
But she decided to trust him—not, she was forced to admit, that she had much choice in the matter—and so she turned around. Much to her relief and, if she was to be honest with herself, a fair bit of disappointment, he was quite decently dressed, save for a smattering of damp spots where the water from his skin had seeped through the fabric of his clothing.
“Why didn’t you just let me run home?” she asked.
“I wanted you here,” he said simply.
“But why?” she persisted.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Punishment, perhaps, for spying on me.”
“I wasn’t—” Sophie’s denial was automatic, but she cut herself off halfway through, because of course she’d been spying on him.
“Smart girl,” he murmured.
She scowled at him. She would have liked to have said something utterly droll and witty, but she had a feeling that anything emerging from her mouth just then would have been quite the opposite, so she held her tongue. Better to be a silent fool than a talkative one.
“It’s very bad form to spy on one’s host,” he said, planting his hands on his hips and somehow managing to look both authoritative and relaxed at the same time.
“It was an accident,” she grumbled.
“Oh, I believe you there,” he said. “But even if you didn’t intend to spy on me, the fact remains that when the opportunity arose, you took it.”
“Do you blame me?”
He grinned. “Not at all. I would have done precisely the same thing.”
Her mouth fell open.
“Oh, don’t pretend to be offended,” he said.
“I’m not pretending.”
He leaned a bit closer. ‘To tell the truth, I’m quite flattered.”
“It was academic curiosity,” she ground out. “I assure you.”
His smile grew sly. “So you’re telling me that you would have spied upon any naked man you’d come across?”
“Of course not!”
“As I said,” he drawled, leaning back against a tree, “I’m flattered.”
“Well, now that we have that settled,” Sophie said with a sniff, “I’m going back to Your Cottage.”
She made it only two steps before his hand shot out and grabbed a small measure of the fabric of her dress.
“I don’t think so,” he said.
Sophie turned back around with a weary sigh. “You have already embarrassed me beyond repair. What more could you possibly wish to do to me?”
Slowly, he reeled her in. “That’s a very interesting question,” he murmured.
Sophie tried to plant her heels into the ground, but she was no match for the inexorable tug of his hand. She stumbled slightly, then found herself mere inches away from him. The air suddenly felt hot, very hot, and Sophie had the bizarre sense that she no longer quite knew how to work her hands and feet. Her skin tingled, her heart raced, and the bloody man was just staring at her, not moving a muscle, not pulling her the final few inches against him.
Just staring at her.
“Benedict?” she whispered, forgetting that she still called him Mr. Bridgerton.
He smiled. It was a small, knowing sort of smile, one that sent chills right down her spine to another area altogether. “I like when you say my name,” he said.
“I didn’t mean to,” she admitted.
He touched a finger to her lips. “Shhh,” he admonished. “Don’t tell me that. Don’t you know that’s not what a man wishes to hear?”
“I don’t have much experience with men,” she said.
“Now that’s what a man wishes to hear.”
“Really?” she asked dubiously. She knew men wanted innocence in their wives, but Benedict wasn’t about to marry a girl like her.
He touched her cheek with one fingertip. “It’s what I want to hear from you.”
A soft rush of air crossed Sophie’s lips as she gasped. He was going to kiss her.