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Lady Violet Bridgerton had always believed that a well-run household possessed a certain routine. Breakfing fast at the proper hour. Calls paid in the afternoon. Respectable silence after dusk.
Benedict and Sophie had ruined the last entirely.
The sound reached Violet before she could pretend she had not heard it. She stood in the corridor outside the morning room, correspondance from Lady Danbury in hand, when the now-familiar sound reached her ears. Not words, not at first, but breathing. Quick, uneven, unmistakably alive. The sort of breath that carried through a corridor because it could not be contained by walls or good sense.
Then she heard laughter - Benedict’s - low and delighted, followed by Sophie’s voice, half protest, half plea, "Benedict”
“Oh,” Violet said concernedly.
There was a pause. Then a very deliberate thump, not violent, but emphatic, as though the furniture itself wished to make a point.
Violet closed her eyes, drew a measured breath, and reminded herself that this was what she had wanted for her son. A love match. Joy. Passion. A marriage not entered into out of duty but delight.
Still, delight need not be announced with such… architectural consequences.
Whatever came next was lost to a sharp, breathless sound that made Violet’s steps falter. It was unguarded. Joyful. The sound of a woman utterly certain she was safe and wanted. Violet’s chest tightened in a way she had not expected.
Another sound followed, Sophie again, this time louder, her voice breaking free in a way that suggested she had forgotten herself entirely. Violet stopped entirely now, one hand braced against the wall as if the house itself had shifted.
“Oh, my word” she murmured.
The noise that followed, something between a laugh and a cry, ended in a sharp, unmistakable thump that echoed down the corridor.
Violet straightened her spine.
She turned and walked away with dignity intact, though she did instruct the footman later that afternoon to delay delivering any trays to Benedict’s room unless the house was on fire.
When she finally encountered her second son and daughter-in-law before supper, Benedict looked infuriatingly well, relaxed, smiling, entirely untroubled by the fact that him and his wife's echoes of their escapades through the walls mortified the soul of his mother.
“You seem happy,” Violet observed.
Benedict’s grin widened. “I am.”
“Yes,” she said dryly. “The entire household has heard.”
Sophie, seated beside him, went pink. Benedict merely laughed and reached for his wife’s hand, thumb brushing her knuckles in a way Violet pretended not to see.
“I shall say this once,” Violet continued serenely. “I am thrilled you both are so devoted to one another. I am less thrilled by the acoustics.”
Benedict leaned back. “We’ll try to be considerate.”
Violet raised a brow. “You said that last week.”
“And we meant it,” Sophie said earnestly.
Benedict kissed her fingers. “Briefly.”
Violet sighed, but there was laughter in her eyes.
Anthony was reviewing estate accounts when it happened.
A vibration, subtle but insistent through the ceiling of his office. Kate who was keeping him company before retiring to bed, looked up immediately, lips pressing together as if she were suppressing a smile.
Then came the sound.
Sophie’s voice, high, breathless, unmistakably undone, cut cleanly through the ceiling. Anthony froze. Kate closed her eyes.
The sound was followed by Benedict’s voice, low and murmuring, the cadence intimate enough that Anthony’s ears burned despite the lack of discernible words. Then Sophie again, louder now, her composure entirely abandoned, the sound sharp and unrestrained enough that Anthony pushed back from the desk as if struck.
Kate did not look up from her embroidery. “Count to ten.”
“I will not,” Anthony said through clenched teeth, as another unmistakable sound echoed down the stairs. “This is my house.”
Kate’s needle paused. “And yet, you are not the one enjoying it.”
He shot her a look. She smiled sweetly.
Another cry, Sophie this time, unmistakably a scream, the sort torn free by feeling rather than pain, rang through the space, followed by a crash that rattled the chandelier.
Anthony stared at the ceiling as if it had personally offended him.
“Do you remember,” she asked, “how your mother threatened to move you to the far wing after our wedding?”
“That was different.”
“Because you were quiet?” Kate asked innocently.
Anthony opened his mouth. Closed it.
From above, Benedict’s voice drifted through the floor, low, deliberate, and full of playful triumph. “That’s it, my love… just like that. Good girl.” Sophie’s laugh followed, breathless, delighted, tinged with mischief making Anthony practically bolted upright.
“That is enough” he barked, hand clenched on the table.
Kate reached for his sleeve, calm and infuriating. “Anthony.”
“I will speak to him.”
“If you do,” she said mildly, “I will remind you precisely how little authority you possess over marital enthusiasm.”
His hand tightened in hers. “You would not.”
Kate leaned closer. “The door, the desk, the window….”
Anthony sat down immediately.
They did not speak of it again. They could not. The floors had opinions, and it was determined to share them.
Mrs. Crabtree had been asleep. Properly asleep. The sort of sleep one earns after thirty-seven years of marriage, two grown children, and an unwavering belief that nothing in life ought to be hurried past nine o’clock in the evening. Until she woke to the sound of a woman utterly forgetting herself.
It was not the first sound, those had been murmurs, laughter, the creak of a bed protesting exertion, but this one cut through the night, sharp and breathless.
She opened one eye. Then nudged her husband.
“Charles,” she whispered.
Mr. Crabtree grunted. “Mm.”
“They’re awake.”
“So are we,” he muttered. “Tragic.”
They lay there, listening as the sounds rose and fell, Sophie’s breathless cries, Benedict’s low murmurs, the rhythm unmistakable even without detail. The bed above them thudded once. Twice.
Mrs. Crabtree sighed and stared at the ceiling. “That cannot be good for the furniture.”
Mr. Crabtree listened more carefully, lips twitching despite himself. “Young people have no respect for craftsmanship.”
There was a pause upstairs. Then Benedict’s voice, cheerfully unapologetic, murmured something unintelligible, followed by Sophie’s breathless laughter and a very firm, very final-sounding creak.
Mrs. Crabtree closed her eyes. “Do you remember when we used to sound like that?”
Mr. Crabtree considered this. “Vaguely. I also remember having more energy and fewer opinions about bedtime.”
She smiled despite herself. “They’re happy.”
“They are loud,” he corrected. “But yes. Happy.”
They lay in companionable silence for a moment, listening as the sounds softened, voices lower now, laughter quieter, the kind that came from shared jokes and familiar touches.
Mrs. Crabtree reached for her husband’s hand. He squeezed back, absentminded and warm.
“Well,” she said at last, “I suppose it is better than arguing.”
“By a wide margin,” he agreed.
The next morning, Mrs. Crabtree took one look at the clock and made an executive decision that breakfast would be late.
Mr. Crabtree raised a brow as she poured tea. “Giving them time?”
“Giving us peace,” she replied.
When the couple finally appeared, Sophie’s hair had escaped its usual neat arrangement, soft tendrils falling around her flushed cheeks. Benedict’s undershirt looked slightly rumpled, his collar loose, with an expression on his face looking entirely too pleased with the world. Both of them moved with a subtle sway, skin glimmering with a faint sheen of sweat, cheeks were tinged with color, eyes bright and shining with that unmistakable glow of exhilaration.
“Good day Mr. and Mrs. Crabtree,” Sophie said brightly.
“Is it?” Mrs. Crabtree asked dryly.
Benedict grinned. “We may have lost track of time.”
“So it would seem,” Mr. Crabtree said, eyes flicking briefly to the staircase before returning to his newspaper.
Sophie flushed. Benedict reached for her hand without thinking.
Mrs. Crabtree watched them, really watched them, for a long moment. The way they leaned toward each other, how their smiles lingered, how even silence between them seemed full.
“Well,” she said briskly, pushing the teapot toward them, “eat up. You’ll need your strength.”
Sophie choked on her tea. Benedict laughed outright.
The Crabtrees exchanged an amused, fond look over the table with the satisfaction of knowing that while passion might be loud in youth, it aged into something just as fine.
And perhaps, Mrs. Crabtree thought, not quite so hard on the furniture.
Eloise had concluded, quite scientifically, that marriage was an invasive force. She had only just settled into her book, an argument on individual liberty that required concentration, when the wall betrayed her.
At first it was breath. Quick and uneven, as though someone were running when no one ought to be running indoors. Then a sound sharper than a sigh, pulled loose before it could be restrained. Sophie’s voice, recognizable now, distressingly so, followed by Benedict’s low murmur, rich with satisfaction and far too close to her ear for comfort.
Eloise went very still.
The rhythm above the ceiling told her everything: soft impacts, the subtle protest of furniture, a cadence far too familiar and far too unrestrained. In the middle of the day.
Then Sophie spoke, deliberate and controlled, every word a tease.
“You like that, don’t you?” Sophie whispered, low and certain.
Benedict groaned, ragged. “Soph… I—”
“Quiet,” she murmured, sharp and teasing. “Just feel me.”
Another gasp, low and victorious, escaped Sophie. Eloise’s hand gripped her book so tightly her knuckles whitened. Posy leaned forward, eyes wide, flushed with a mix of curiosity and shock. The air seemed to hum with the weight of it, Sophie commanding, Benedict undone, the walls echoing their boldness like some irreverent music.
Eloise pressed her fingers to her temples. This house is a menace.
Posy, seated opposite her, stared wide-eyed, scandalized but not quite able to look away. Another sound drifted through the wall: Sophie again, breathless and undone, followed by Benedict’s voice, lazy, teasing, entirely unashamed.
Posy swallowed. “Do you think they’re—”
“Yes,” Eloise snapped. “Constantly.”
A sharper cry cut through the air then, Sophie, clearly having abandoned all pretense of restraint and Posy’s eyes widened further, her cheeks warming as something like understanding dawned.
“And happily,” Posy added, her voice hushed, reverent.
Eloise paused. Considered. Scowled. “That is not the point.”
The wall seemed determined to argue. The sounds softened only briefly before resuming, quieter now but no less suggestive, murmurs, laughter, the unmistakable cadence of two people far too fond of each other to remember they were not alone in the world.
Eloise pressed her fingers to her temples. “I am being forced into conclusions I did not consent to.”
Posy hugged her cushion to her chest. “She sounds… happy.”
Eloise hated that she was right.
Later, Sophie found Eloise in the hall, arms crossed, posture rigid, as though bracing herself against another acoustic ambush.
“You are aware,” Eloise said flatly, “that enthusiasm need not echo.”
Sophie blinked once then smiled. Not apologetic. Not embarrassed. “We try not to let it.”
Eloise exhaled. “I suppose,” she said reluctantly, “if one must be married, one might as well enjoy it.”
From the far end of the corridor, Benedict called her name, drawn out, affectionate, threaded with promise. The sound alone made Eloise roll her eyes.
She crossed the space between them without hesitation, her steps light, her smile already softening into something private. Benedict met her halfway, one hand coming up as if by instinct to her waist. She rose onto her toes and kissed him, briefly, affectionately, the sort of kiss that spoke of familiarity of a hundred others shared without witnesses.
He smiled against her mouth, arm sliding around her shoulders as though she belonged there which, unmistakably, she did. Sophie slipped her arms around his waist in return, fingers curling into the fabric of his coat, and together they turned down the corridor, bodies aligned moving as one without any apparent need for words.
They did not notice Eloise watching.
Or if they did, they did not care.
Eloise watched them disappear, shook her head, and muttered, “Insufferable.”
But she was smiling.