He smiled wistfully. He just couldn’t stop from looking. It had become, in a very strange way, a part of who he was. His  name was Benedict Bridgerton, he had seven brothers and sisters, was rather skilled with both a sword and a sketching  crayon, and he always kept his eyes open for the one woman who had touched his soul.

He kept hoping ... and wishing ... and watching. And even though he told himself it was probably time to marry, he just  couldn’t muster the enthusiasm to do so.

Because what if he put his ring on some woman’s finger, and the next day he saw her!  It would be enough to break his heart. No, it would be more than that. It would be enough to shatter his soul.

Benedict breathed a sigh of relief as he saw the village of Rosemeade approaching. Rosemeade meant that his cottage was a mere five minutes away, and lud, but he couldn’t wait to get inside and throw himself into a steaming tub of water. He glanced over at Miss Beckett. She, too, was shivering, but, he thought with a touch of admiration, she hadn’t let out even a peep of complaint. Benedict tried to think of another woman of his acquaintance who would have stood up to the elements with such fortitude and came up empty-handed. Even his sister Daphne, who was as good a sport as any, would have been howling about the cold by now. “We’re almost there,” he assured her. “I’m all—Oh! Are you all right?” Benedict was gripped by  wave of coughs, the deep, hacking kind that rumble down in one’s chest. His lungs felt as if they were on fire, and his throat  like someone had taken a razor blade to it.

“I’m fine,” he gasped, jerking slightly on the reins to make up for the lack of direction he’d given the horses while he was coughing.

“You don’t sound fine.”

“Had a head cold last week,” he said with a wince. Damn, but his lungs felt sore.

“That didn’t sound like your head,” she said, giving him what she obviously hoped was a teasing smile. But it didn’t look like  a teasing smile. In truth, she looked terribly concerned.

“Must’ve moved,” he muttered.

“I don’t want you getting sick on my account.”

He tried to grin, but his cheekbones ached too much. “I would’ve been caught in the rain whether I’d taken you along or not.”

“Still—”

Whatever she’d intended to say was lost under another stream of deep, chesty coughs.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Let me drive,” she said, reaching for the reins.

He turned to her in disbelief. “This is a phaeton, not a single-horse wagon.”

Sophie fought the urge to throttle him. His nose was running, his eyes were red, he couldn’t stop coughing, and still he found  the energy to act like an arrogant peacock. “I assure you,” she said slowly, “that I know how to drive a team of horses.”

“And where did you acquire that skill?”

“The same family that allowed me to share in their daughters’ lessons,” Sophie lied. “I learned to drive a team when the girls learned.”

“The lady of the house must have taken quite a liking to you,” he said.

“She did quite,” Sophie replied, trying not to laugh. Araminta had been the lady of the house, and she’d fought tooth and nail every time her father had insisted that she be allowed to receive the same instruction as Rosamund and Posy. They’d all  three learned how to drive teams the year before the earl had died.

“I’ll drive, thank you,” Benedict said sharply. Then he ruined the entire effect by launching into yet another coughing fit.

Sophie reached for the reins. “For the love of—” “Here,” he said, thrusting them toward her, as he wiped his eyes. “Take  them. But I’ll be watching you.”

“I would expect no less,” she said peevishly. The rain didn’t exactly make for ideal driving conditions, and it had been years since she’d held reins in her hands, but she thought she acquitted herself rather nicely. There were some things one didn’t  forget, she supposed.

It felt rather nice, actually, to do something she hadn’t done since her previous life, when she’d been, officially at least, an  earl’s ward. She’d had fine clothes then, and good food, and interesting lessons, and ...

She sighed. It hadn’t been perfect, but it had been better than anything that had come after. “What’s wrong?” Benedict asked.

“Nothing. Why should you think something is wrong?”

“You sighed.”

“You heard me over the wind?” she asked incredulously.

“I’ve been paying close attention. I’m sick enough”— cough cough—”without you landing us in a ditch.”

Sophie decided not even to credit him with a reply.

‘Turn right up ahead,” he directed. “It’ll take us directly to my cottage.”

She did as he asked. “Does your cottage have a name?”

“My Cottage.”

“I might have known,” she muttered.

He smirked. Quite a feat, in her opinion, since he looked sick as a dog. “I’m not kidding,” he said.

Sure enough, in another minute they pulled up in front of an elegant country house, complete with a small, unobtrusive sign  in front reading, MY COTTAGE.

“The previous owner coined the name,” Benedict said as he directed her toward the stables, “but it seemed to fit me as well.”

Sophie looked over at the house, which, while fairly small, was no humble dwelling. “You call this a cottage?”