“I’m afraid I can’t,” he said.
“Can’t or won’t?”
He thought about that for a moment. “Can’t.”
She scowled at him and kept walking.
“I find it as difficult to believe as you do,” Benedict called out, keeping pace with her.
She stopped and turned around. “That is impossible.”
“I can’t help it,” he said with a shrug. “I find myself completely unwilling to let you go.”
“ ‘Unwilling’ is a far cry from ‘can’t.’ “
“I didn’t save you from Cavender just to let you squander your life away.”
“That isn’t your choice to make.”
She had a point there, but he wasn’t inclined to give it to her. “Perhaps,” he allowed, “but I’m going to make it, anyway. You’re coming with me to London. We will discuss it no further.”
“You’re trying to punish me,” she said, “because I refused you.”
“No,” he said slowly, considering her words even as he answered. “No, I’m not. I’d like to punish you, and in my current state of mind I’d even go so far as to say you deserve to be punished, but that’s not why I’m doing it.”
“Then why are you?”
“It’s for your own good.”
“That’s the most condescending, patronizing—”
“I’m sure you’re right,” he allowed, “but nonetheless, in this particular case, at this particular moment, I know what’s best for you, and you clearly don’t, so—don’t hit me again,” he warned.
Sophie looked down at her fist, which she hadn’t even realized was pulled back and ready to fly. He was turning her into a monster. There was no other explanation. She didn’t think she’d ever hit anyone in her life, and here she was ready to do it for the second time that day.
Eyes never leaving her hand, she slowly unclenched her fist, stretching her fingers out like a starfish and holding them there for the count of three. “How,” she said in a very low voice, “do you intend to stop me from going my way?”
“Does it really matter?” he asked, shrugging nonchalantly. “I’m sure I’ll think of something.”
Her mouth fell open. “Are you saying you’d tie me up and—”
“I didn’t say anything of the sort,” he cut in with a wicked grin. “But the idea certainly has its charms.”
“You are despicable,” she spat.
“And you sound like the heroine of a very poorly written novel,” he replied. “What did you say you were reading this morning?”
Sophie felt the muscles working frenetically in her cheek, felt her jaw clenching to the point where she was certain her teeth would shatter. How Benedict managed to be the most wonderful and the most awful man in the world at the very same time, she would never understand. Right now, though, the awful side seemed to be winning, and she was quite certain—logic aside—that if she remained in his company one more second, her head would explode.
“I’m leaving!” she said, with, in her opinion, great drama and resolve.
But he just answered her with a sly half smile, and said, “I’m following.”
And the bloody man remained two strides behind her the entire way home.
* * *
Benedict didn’t often go out of his way to annoy people (with the notable exception of his siblings), but Sophie Beckett clearly brought out the devil in him. He stood in the doorway to her room as she packed, casually lounging against the doorframe. His arms were crossed in a manner that he somehow knew would vex her, and his right leg was slightly bent, the toe of his boot stubbed up against the floor.
“Don’t forget your dress,” he said helpfully.
She glared at him.
“The ugly one,” he added, as if clarification were necessary.
“They’re both ugly,” she spat out.
Ah, a reaction. “I know.”
She went back to shoving her belongings into her satchel.
He waved an arm expansively. “Feel free to take a souvenir.”
She straightened, her hands planted angrily on her hips. “Does that include the silver tea service? Because I could live for several years on what that would fetch.”
“You may certainly take the tea service,” he replied genially, “as you will not be out of my company.”
“I will not be your mistress,” she hissed. “I told you, I won’t do it. I can’t do it.”
Something about her use of the word “can’t” struck him as significant. He mulled that over for a few moments while she gathered up the last of her belongings and cinched shut the drawstring to her satchel.
“That’s it,” he murmured.
She ignored him, instead marching toward the door and giving him a pointed look.
He knew she wanted him to get out of the way so she could depart. He didn’t move a muscle, save for one finger that thoughtfully stroked the side of his jaw. “You’re illegitimate,” he said.
The blood drained from her face.
“You are,” he said, more to himself than to her. Strangely, he felt rather relieved by the revelation. It explained her rejection of him, made it into something that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with her.
It took the sting out.
“I don’t care if you’re illegitimate,” he said, trying not to smile. It was a serious moment, but by God, he wanted to break out in a grin because now she’d come to London with him and be bis mistress. There were no more obstacles, and—