Good God had he ever been this nervous? Benedict did not think it was possible. Nothing in his life before had prepared him for this. He might as well be courting a princess, so great was the class difference between himself and Miss Sophie Beckett. And now she was going to be spending the day with him! Outside of the city! While he painted! He could hardly believe his good luck.

He spent most of that morning pacing in the family's small flat. Benedict had decided against telling anyone in his family about Miss Beckett's accompanying him this afternoon; he didn't need them to tell him it was an awful idea; he already knew that. But he felt an explicable pull towards knowing Sophie. He knew it was a foolish pip dream; she could never be with someone like him, but if he could get a few selfish hours with her, he would take them.

Benedict wandered into the kitchen, knowing he could at least ask his mother to make up a picnic lunch without raising an alarm.

He found her sitting at the table, reading the latest edition of the gossip tag Lady Whistledown. The Bridgertons' neighbor could afford it, and was kind enough to let Violet borrow it each week when she was finished with it. Benedict had never seen any merit in the publication. WHy would he want to read about people who had a life he could never achieve? But now he was realizing there may be some advantages to following it, if only to catch a glimpse of Sophie's name in the columns.

"Good morning Mum," he greeted her as he swooped down to kiss her cheek.

"Good morning dear," she absentmindedly replied back.

Benedict rolled his eyes at his precious mother and her whims.

"Mum I was wondering, do you think you could pack me lunch for the afternoon? I'm heading into the hills to paint for a few hours.

She turned to look at him then.

"Of course darling. What would you like?"

Benedict wracked his brain. What did they have that could possibly be up to the tastes of a debutante. He was truly at a loss.

"Oh just the usual, some meats, cheeses, maybe a loaf of bread. I'm quite hungry and plan to be out for awhile."

She smiled at him, her artistic son. She knew he could get lost in his hobby for hours.

"I'll put some fresh fruit in as well. And maybe a bottle of wine?"

Starting, he looked into her eyes. There was a twinkle there, a gleam of knowing something more than she was letting on. It was odd for her to add wine. They rarely could afford it, usually only for special occasions. And now she was just giving it to him for an afternoon? Beginning to open his mouth to inquire about the odd gesture, he decided against it. Better to save himself from having to answer any questions in return.

"That sounds great Mum. Let me know when it's ready and I'll prepare to leave."

As he walked away, he swore he could hear his mother mumble under her breath, "I do hope it goes well."

He decided not to respond to that either

Sophie wasn't nervous. She had been courted hundreds of times. The four proposals she had rejected hadn't even brought out the nerves in her. She wasn't going to allow a picnic lunch to derail her track record of perfect poise.

And so she found herself at quarter to noon in her family's carriage, in a pretty morning dress, and with a bonnet over her golden curls. Her lady's maid sat quietly across from her, having brought a book to read. Sophie always encouraged the staff to read when they were bored. She knew the joy books could bring.

Sophie's gloved hands sat primly on her lap. She chuckled to herself as she thought of the lie she had told her parents. Just that she was going out to do some shopping. She had never lied to her parents before. It gave her an uncharacteristic thrill. Almost as if she were doing something dangerous. Which was nonsense really. Benedict Bridgerton was a gentleman. He would never compromise her virtue in any way, nor would he allow any harm to come to her. Besides, what could possibly befall her in the bucolic hills outside London? Nothing, she was sure.

The carriage rolled along, and Sophie began to ponder what she really knew about the mysterious Mr. Bridgerton. He was tall, with chestnut brown hair. His eyes were warm and kind. He had seven siblings and his mother. His father had died. And he liked to paint.

She frowned slightly. It was certainly far less than she knew about most people. Members of the ton usually knew everything about everyone else. It was impossible to keep anything private; prominent families were either talked about in Whistledown or other information was simply common knowledge. But now there was a family Sophie had never heard of, and a handsome son whom she was deeply curious about. She resolved to get more information out of him during today's outing.

Feeling the carriage roll to a stop, she peeked her head out the window, looking for her the man who had just been occupying her thoughts. She sucked in a breath as she laid eyes on him. He was dressed in a crisp white shirt, and very casual breeches. His hair was blowing gently in the breeze, perfectly in fashion as one strand fell across his brow. In one hand he carried a wicker basket, and in the other a rather old looking easel. And on his face, he had the widest and friendliest grin imaginable. He looked happy to see her. And Sophie couldn't help but return his grin with one of her own.

He opened the door, extending a hand to help her alight.

"Good afternoon Miss Beckett. You look lovely."

She blushed slightly. Why was she blushing? She received countless compliments every week, in grander clothes than this. And yet, coming from him, it seemed to be more genuine, more true. It warmed inside in a way that others' words couldn't.

"Hello Mr. Bridgerton. You look very relaxed."

He smiled at that. "I always feel rather peaceful when I know I am going to spend the day making art. And I am especially pleased that a beautiful lady will be joining me today."

Sophie could have swooned. "Get it together!" she thought to herself. He's just a man.

A man who looked very good even out of his finery from last evening.

Benedict looked at her apologetically.

"I would offer you my arm Miss Beckett, but unfortunately both of them are otherwise occupied," he said, nodding at the supplies in either hand.

"Nonsense," Sophie replied. "I shall carry the basket and then you can escort me properly."

Benedict gaped at her. Never had he met a proper young lady who was so . . . . capable. Sophie Beckett took charge. She did things for herself, and she certainly wasn't as dainty as she appeared to be.

Deciding against arguing with her, he handed her the basket, then offered her his left arm. She took it, placing her small hand in the crook of his elbow. He shivered as he felt the pressure through his light shirt. Even though she wore gloves, he could feel the what of her skin. It made him light-headed.

They began to walk, heading the direction of Benedict's favorite spot. It was near a large oak tree, a frequent subject of his paintings. It was located on a grassy knoll, which gave him an excellent view of his surroundings. One could see London's taller buildings far off; the skyline also appearing in his works.

They made pleasant small talk as they walked, inquiring about one another's week to come, how the rest of the Featherington ball had been, what their respective families were up to that day. Benedict made sure to keep many of his answers vague, which didn't escape Sophie's notice. She watched him out of the corner of her eye, searching his face for any clues. He acted light and breezy, giving off the sense that he was an open book. But something felt off to Sophie. Not quite right. She didn't know why she felt he wasn't being forthcoming with her, only that it felt like he wasn't. She tried to push her worries from her mind.

After walking for a quarter of an hour, Benedict suddenly halted, stopping her short next to him. Her lady's maid, who was traveling behind them at a distance, also stopped.

"This is the spot," he informed her. "I'm going to lie the blanket down and set everything up."

Sophie nodded, stepping out of the way to allow him to do so. He moved deliberately, taking a checkered cloth from the basket she had set down at their feet. He unfurled it, and carefully settled it on the ground. He adjusted it this way and that, seemingly unsatisfied with its positioning.

Sophie couldn't help it; she giggled out loud.

He turned to look at her, mock gasping as he said, "Why Miss Beckett are you laughing at me?"

She tried to shake her head, but her traitorous giggles ruined the effect.

"I'm sorry Mr, Bridgerton, but you're just so . . . . particular."

He shrugged. "I like order. It makes me feel in control."

She smiled, because she knew exactly what he meant.

Benedict motioned her to sit next to him, and she obligingly took a seat near him. Not too close though, there was propriety to consider. Her lady's maid wasn't far away either. Sophie had convinced her to stay just out of earshot. The maid had brought a blanket of her own and seemed quite content sitting there with her book, paying Sophie and Benedict no mind.

Sophie watched Benedict unpack the basket. She paid special attention to his hands, noticing how deftly his fingers moved. His hands were strong, but calloused. This was a surprise; men of the ton usually had smooth hands, unmarked by labor. Sophie made a mental note of this information. It could just be from his painting, but she found it hard to believe such a hobby would result in hands that looked like that. He removed each item from the basket with the utmost care. Sophie watched as he gently placed each object on the blanket, positioning them juuust so. She found it endearing how much attention he paid to the little details.

As soon as he had arranged everything, she made sure to compliment him.

"This looks wonderful Mr. Bridgerton. I'm impressed."

"I wish I could take the credit Miss Beckett, but my mother was kind enough to make this for us."

She raised an eyebrow.

"Your mother? Couldn't she have had one of the servants do it?"

She saw panic flash behind his eyes. Curiouser and curiouser.

"She could have," he stuttered. "But she's so maternal sometimes she just likes to do these things herself. My mother is a tad unconventional that way."

She nodded, pretending to understand. How utterly strange this family seemed to her. So many things just didn't make sense.

He poured her a small glass of wine, and pushed the cheese plate towards her. She gratefully took some, nibbling on it lightly, lost in her own thoughts about this odd man and his family.

Benedict spoke then, pulling her out of her reverie.

"So Miss Beckett, any advancements on your prospects last night?"

She glared at him, though she felt a small smile playing on her face.

"Why Mr. Bridgerton you know it is bad form to discuss other suitors whilst one is being called upon."

"Ah but I didn't call about you in your home, did I? Instead I lured you out into the wilderness," he said with a waggle of his eyebrows.

She burst out laughing.

"Oh I don't think you lured anyone. I practically had to beg you to invite me."

He looked sheepish at that.

"I simply didn't think that was how you wanted to spend your afternoon."

She tilted her head and looked at him seriously.

"Well Mr. Bridgerton we just met. There is much you don't know about me."

He leaned forward, closing some of the gap between them. It made her shiver.

"Well I would like to know everything about you."

She smiled mischievously.

"All in due time Mr. Bridgerton. It is my turn to ask soje questions, as you have been quite mysterious about yourself.

His face became drawn.

"What would you like to know?" he asked, a little gruffly.

Good at least she was getting somewhere. She would have to be very careful with what she asked.

"Tell me more about your family. How do you all spend your days and make your money?"

He took a deep breath, appearing to think hard. Then he spoke.

"My mother is the very core of our family. When my father died she was pregnant with my youngest sister, Hyacinth. It was a very difficult time for her, having to raise 8 children alone, with no real safety net. My brother was 18, so he immediately began to handle the family finances. I joined him shortly after, and so did my brother Colin as soon as he was able. We are . . . . involved with a factory in town."

"That must be quite lucrative," she interrupted. "I do hope you treat your worker well?"

He chuckled. "They are well-compensated if that's what you mean."

"Good," she relaxed. Nothing worse than a stingy gentleman she thought to herself.

"So that's what we do. My mother spends her days embroidering (not really a lie he thought to himself as she was a seamstress for others by trade). My sisters do what all young ladies do I suppose. Spend time with friends, study their French and prepare to be good wives (also not a lie because his sisters WERE learning French and their mother was teaching them how to cook and make tea and anything else they would need to know to be a farmer's wife). We live a quiet life, hence why you won't see us at events."

"But won't your sisters be out in society soon, if they aren't already?"

"Most of my sisters aren't of age yet. The only one is my sister Daphne and she already has an arrangement."

(The third not-lie, since Daphne was indeed engaged to marry a local blacksmith named Simon Bassett. He was a good fellow, and Benedict liked him well enough. And Daphne seemed very content with the match made between their families).

Sophie was relieved to hear all of this. His family sounded like any normal members of the ton and she wondered if she was just being paranoid by treating him with such suspicion.

"Alright Miss Beckett my turn to ask a question. Why have you turned down proposals and have seemingly little interest in the marriage mart this year?"

Her mouth fell open, so shocked was she at his forwardness. She was confused all over again, as this was not a proper topic of conversation between two unmarried people.

She considered not answering him at all, as impertinent as he was, but the more she thought about it, confiding in him made sense. Not just because of his kind and trusting eyes, or the way he made her feel oddly safe, but because she trusted him. Against all her better instincts, she had faith in Benedict Bridgerton to do right by her. And so she divulged her secret.

"I want to marry for love. And as we both know, that is a rare thing in our society. My parents married out of practicality. All of my family did. Many of the girls I shared my first season with married the first decent man who didn't have a drinking or gambling problem, attraction be damned."

She blushed; using such language was not proper, but Benedict didn't seem to mind, so she continued.

"And I simply want more than that. I know it must sound whimsical and fanciful to you, but it's what I want. I know I am almost two and twenty, and my time is running out, but I just keep hoping my Prince Charming will arrive. He doesn't need to be a real prince of course. My dream is that when I see him, I will just know."

She stopped, taking a deep breath. It felt good to let it all out.

He looked at her softly, understanding written all over his face.

"I don't think that's foolish at all. It's what I would want for my sisters, it's what my mother had, and it's what I want for myself one day."

Surprised, she looked deep into his eyes.

"You do?"

"Yes. Why do you think I am eight and twenty and still unmarried? I haven't found her yet. Going off your analogy, my princess if you will. I know she's out there. And I cannot wait to give my heart to her. I will not settle for another when I feel she is so near."

His honest declaration took her breath away. Never did men speak of these things. They wanted two things out of marriage: a bedfellow and children. It had never occurred to Sophie that there were men who dreamt of more. But that's what made Benedict different. He was a soulful person, who loved art and beauty and cared not what other people thought about his dreams. She admired him.

"I'm sorry Miss Beckett I hope you don't think I'm speaking out of turn."

"Of course not! I was just thinking how nice it is to meet a kindred spirit who wants the same things out of life."

He reached out and took her hands in his own. Her heart stopped. It was the most intimate thing she had ever experienced with a man. She had long ago removed her gloves, so now her bare skin was touching his. His hands felt rough, just like she suspected, but they were warm and enveloped her with their size. She felt like a small child next to him.

"Sophie," he said as he gazed into her eyes, using her given name for the first time. "I very much feel like I've known you for longer than I really have. Almost as if we were destined to meet."

She sucked in a breath, almost completely overcome by his fervent words. And because she felt the same. As if she had known Benedict Bridgerton all her life. That they were two halves of the same whole. It made her giddy. It also frightened her. But she was drawn to this man. He intrigued her and she wanted to know more. She wanted to know all about him.

Swallowing nervously, she pulled her hands back.

"Well Mr. Bridgerton, you promised me an afternoon of watching you paint. I would like to see it very much.

If he noticed her evasion of what he said, he didn't let on at all. Instead he stood, brushing the grass from his trousers, and holding out a hand to help her rise. He turned then to the easel, unfurling it and setting it up facing away from the city. He retrieved paints and brushes from the basket, placing them carefully on the ground. Then he pulled out a folded up piece of canvas paper, and satisfied with his work, he turned to her again, looking at her inquisitively.

"So Miss Beckett, what would you like to see come to life? The trees, the hills, the buildings in the distance?"

She thought hard, her tongue sticking out from between her lips as she considered his question. Her father called it her "pondering face".

Suddenly, the idea came to her in a rush of genius.

"No, none of that. Actually Mr. Bridgerton, I would like to see you paint . . . . me."