Benedict had told her about a nearby pond, and she thought she might amble that way, maybe even dip her toes in the water  if she was feeling particularly daring.

She smiled up at the sun. The air might be warm, but the water was surely still freezing, so early in May. Still, it would feel good. Anything felt good that represented leisure time and peaceful, solitary moments.

She paused for a moment, frowning thoughtfully at the horizon. Benedict had mentioned that the lake was south of My  Cottage, hadn’t he? A southward route would take her right through a rather densely wooded patch, but a bit of a hike  certainly wouldn’t kill her.

Sophie picked her way through the forest, stepping over tree roots, and pushing aside low-lying branches, letting them snap back behind her with reckless abandon. The sun barely squeaked through the canopy of leaves above her, and down at  ground level, it felt more like dusk than midday.

Up ahead, she could see a clearing, which she assumed must be the pond. As she drew closer, she saw the glint of sunlight  on water, and she breathed a little sigh of satisfaction, happy to know that she’d gone in the correct direction. But as she  drew even closer, she heard the sound of someone splashing about, and she realized with equal parts terror and curiosity that she was not alone.

She was only ten or so feet from the edge of the pond, easily visible to anyone in the water, so she quickly flattened herself behind the trunk of a large oak. If she had a sensible bone in her body, she’d turn right around and run back to the house,  but she just couldn’t quite keep herself from peeking around the tree and looking to see who might be mad enough to splash about in a lake so early in the season.

With slow, silent movements, she crept out from behind the tree, trying to keep as much of herself concealed as possible.

And she saw a man.

A naked man.

A naked...

Benedict?

Chapter 11

The housemaid wars rage on in London. Lady Penwood called Mrs. Featherington a conniving, ill-bred thief  in front of no less than three society matrons, including the very popular dowager Viscountess Bridgerton!

Mrs. Featherington responded by calling Lady Penwood’s home no better than a workhouse, citing the ill treatment of her lady’s maid (whose name, This Author has learned, is not Estelle as was originally claimed,  and furthermore, she is not remotely French. The girl’s name is Bess, and she hails from Liverpool.)

Lady Penwood stalked away from the altercation in quite a huff, followed by her daughter, Miss Rosamund Reiling. Lady Penwood’s other daughter, Posy (who was wearing an unfortunate green gown) remained  behind with a somewhat apologetic look in her eyes until her mother returned, grabbed her by the sleeve,  and dragged her off.

This Author certainly does not make up the guest lists at society parties, but it is difficult to imagine that  the Penwoods will be invited to Mrs. Featheringtons next soiree.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 7 MAY 1817

It was wrong of her to stay.

So wrong.

So very, very wrong.

And yet she did not move an inch.

She found a large, bald-pated rock, mostly obscured by a short, squat bush, and sat down, never once taking her eyes  off of him.

He was naked. She still couldn’t quite believe it.

He was, of course, partially submerged, with the edge of the water rippling against his rib cage.

The lower — she thought giddily — edge of his rib cage.

Or perhaps if she were to be honest with herself, she’d have to rephrase her previous thought to: He was, unfortunately, partially submerged.

Sophie was as innocent as the next ... as, well, the next innocent, but dash it all, she was curious, and she was more than halfway in love with this man. Was it so very wicked to wish for a huge gust of wind, powerful enough to create a small  tidal wave that would whip the water away from his body and deposit it somewhere else? Anywhere else?

Very well, it was wicked. She was wicked, and she didn’t care.

She’d spent her life taking the safe road, the prudent path. Only one night in her short life had she completely thrown caution  to the wind. And that night had been the most thrilling, the most magical, the most stupendously wonderful night of her life.

And so she decided to remain right where she was, stay the course, and see what she saw. It wasn’t as if she had anything to lose. She had no job, no prospects save for Benedict’s promise to find her a position in his mother’s household (and she had  a feeling that would be a very bad idea, anyway.)

And so she sat back, tried not to move a muscle, and kept her eyes wide, wide open.

*  *  *

Benedict had never been a superstitious man, and he’d certainly never thought himself the sort with a sixth sense, but once  or twice in his life, he’d experienced a strange surge of awareness, a sort of mystical tingling feeling that warned him that  something important was afoot.

The first time had been the day his father had died. He’d never told anyone about this, not even his older brother Anthony, who’d been utterly devastated by their father’s death, but that afternoon, as he and Anthony had raced across the fields of  Kent in some silly horse race, he’d felt an odd, numb feeling in his arms and legs, followed by the strangest pounding in his head. It hadn’t hurt, precisely, but it had sucked the air from his lungs and left him with the most intense sensation of terror  he could ever imagine.

He’d lost the race, of course; it was difficult to grip reins when one’s fingers refused to work properly. And when he’d  returned home, he’d discovered that his terror had not been unwarranted. His father was already dead, having collapsed  after being stung by a bee. Benedict still had difficulty believing that a man as strong and vital as his father could be felled  by a bee, but there had been no other explanation.