by Julia Quinn
Julia Quinn
An Offer from a Gentleman
The Second Epilogue
Contents
Begin Reading
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
At five-and-twenty, Miss Posy Reiling was considered nearly a spinster. There were those who might have considered her past the cutoff from young miss to hopeless ape leader; three-and-twenty was often cited as the unkind chronological border. But Posy was, as Lady Bridgerton (her unofficial guardian) often remarked, a unique case.
In debutante years, Lady Bridgerton insisted, Posy was only twenty, maybe twenty-one.
Eloise Bridgerton, the eldest unmarried daughter of the house, put it a little more bluntly: Posy’s first few years out in society had been worthless and should not be counted against her.
Eloise’s youngest sister Hyacinth, never one to be verbally outdone, simply stated that Posy’s years between the ages of seventeen and twenty-two had been “utter rot.”
It was at this point that Lady Bridgerton had sighed, poured herself a stiff drink, and sunk into a chair. Eloise, whose mouth was as sharp as Hyacinth’s (though thankfully tempered by some discretion), had remarked that they had best get Hyacinth married off quickly or their mother was going to become an alcoholic. Lady Bridgerton had not appreciated the comment, although she privately thought it might be true.
Hyacinth was like that.
But this is a story about Posy. And as Hyacinth has a tendency to take over anything in which she is involved…please do forget about her for the remainder of the tale.
The truth was, Posy’s first few years on the Marriage Mart had been utter rot. It was true that she’d made her debut at a proper age of seventeen. And, indeed, she was the stepdaughter of the late Earl of Penwood, who had so prudently made arrangements for her dowry before his untimely death several years prior.
She was perfectly pleasant to look at, if perhaps a little plump, she had all of her teeth, and it had been remarked upon more than once that she had uncommonly kind eyes.
Anyone assessing her on paper would not understand why she’d gone so long without even a single proposal.
But anyone assessing her on paper might not have known about Posy’s mother, Araminta Gunningworth, the dowager Countess of Penwood.
Araminta was splendidly beautiful, even more so than Posy’s elder sister, Rosamund, who had been blessed with fair hair, a rosebud mouth, and eyes of cerulean blue.
Araminta was ambitious, too, and enormously proud of her ascent from the gentry to the aristocracy. She’d gone from Miss Wincheslea to Mrs. Reiling to Lady Penwood, although to hear her speak of it, her mouth had been dripping silver spoons since the day of her birth.
But Araminta had failed in one regard; she had not been able to provide the earl with an heir. Which meant that despite the Lady before her name, she did not wield a terribly large amount of power. Nor did she have access to the type of fortune she felt was her due.
And so she pinned her hopes on Rosamund. Rosamund, she was sure, would make a splendid match. Rosamund was achingly beautiful. Rosamund could sing and play the pianoforte, and if she wasn’t talented with a needle, then she knew exactly how to poke Posy, who was. And since Posy did not enjoy repeated needle-sized skin punctures, it was Rosamund’s embroidery that always looked exquisite.
Posy’s, on the other hand, generally went unfinished.
And since money was not as plentiful as Araminta would have her peers believe, she lavished what they had on Rosamund’s wardrobe, and Rosamund’s lessons, and Rosamund’s everything.
She wasn’t about to let Posy look embarrassingly shabby, but really, there was no point in spending more than she had to on her. You couldn’t turn a sow’s ear into a silk purse, and you certainly couldn’t turn a Posy into a Rosamund.
But.
(And this is a rather large but.)
Things didn’t turn out so well for Araminta. It’s a terribly long story, and one probably deserving of a book of its own, but suffice it to say that Araminta cheated another young girl of her inheritance, one Sophia Beckett, who happened to be the earl’s illegitimate daughter. She would have got away with it completely, because who cares about a bastard, except that Sophie had had the temerity to fall in love with Benedict Bridgerton, second son in the aforementioned (and extremely well-connected) Bridgerton family.
This would not have been enough to seal Araminta’s fate, except that Benedict decided he loved Sophie in return. Quite madly. And while he might have overlooked embezzlement, he certainly could not do the same for having Sophie hauled off to jail (on mostly fraudulent charges).
Things were looking grim for dear Sophie, even with intervention on the part of Benedict and his mother, the also aforementioned Lady Bridgerton. But then who should show up to save the day but Posy?
Posy, who had been ignored for most of her life.
Posy, who had spent years feeling guilty for not standing up to her mother.
Posy, who was still a little bit plump and never would be as beautiful as her sister, but who would always have the kindest eyes.
Araminta had disowned her on the spot, but before Posy had even a moment to wonder if this constituted good or bad fortune, Lady Bridgerton had invited her to live in her home for as long as she wished.
Posy might have spent twenty-two years being poked and pricked by her sister, but she was no fool. She accepted gladly and did not even bother to return home to collect her belongings.
And as for Araminta, well, she’d quickly ascertained that it was in her best interest not to make any public comment about the soon-to-be Sophia Bridgerton unless it was to declare her an absolute joy and delight.
Which she didn’t do. But she didn’t go around calling her a bastard, either, which was really all anyone could have expected.
All of this explains (in an admittedly roundabout way) why Lady Bridgerton was Posy’s unofficial guardian, and why she considered her a unique case. To her mind, Posy had not truly debuted until she came to live with her. Penwood dowry or no, who on earth would have looked twice at a girl in ill-fitting clothes, always stuck off in the corner, trying her best not to be noticed by her own mother?
And if she was still unmarried at twenty-five, why, that was certainly equal to a mere twenty for anyone else. Or so Lady Bridgerton said.
And no one really wanted to contradict her.
As for Posy, she often said that her life had not really begun until she went to jail.
This tended to require some explaining, but most of Posy’s statements did.
Posy didn’t mind. The Bridgertons actually liked her explanations. They liked her.
Even better, she rather liked herself.
Which was more important than she’d ever realized.
Sophie Bridgerton considered her life to be almost perfect. She adored her husband, loved her cozy home, and was quite certain that her two little boys were the most handsome, brilliant creatures ever to be born anywhere, anytime, any…well, any any one could come up with.
It was true that they had to live in the country because even with the sizable influence of the Bridgerton family, Sophie was, on account of her birth, not likely to be accepted by some of the more particular London hostesses.
(Sophie called them particular. Benedict called them something else entirely.)
But that didn’t matter. Not really. She and Benedict preferred life in the country, so it was no great loss. And even though it would always be whispered that Sophie’s birth was not what it should be, the official story was that she was a distant—and completely legitimate—relative of the late Earl of Penwood. And e
ven though no one really believed Araminta when she’d confirmed the story, confirmed it she had.
Sophie knew that by the time her children were grown, the rumors would be old enough so that no doors would be closed to them should they wish to take their spots in London society.
All was well. All was perfect.
Almost. Really, all she needed to do was find a husband for Posy. Not just any husband, of course. Posy deserved the best.
“She is not for everyone,” Sophie had admitted to Benedict the previous day, “but that does not mean she is not a brilliant catch.”
“Of course not,” he murmured. He was trying to read the newspaper. It was three days old, but to his mind it was all still news to him.
She looked at him sharply.
“I mean, of course,” he said quickly. And then, when she did not immediately carry on, he amended, “I mean whichever one means that she will make someone a splendid wife.”
Sophie let out a sigh. “The problem is that most people don’t seem to realize how lovely she is.”
Benedict gave a dutiful nod. He understood his role in this particular tableau. It was the sort of conversation that wasn’t really a conversation. Sophie was thinking aloud, and he was there to provide the occasional verbal prompt or gesture.
“Or at least that’s what your mother reports,” Sophie continued.
“Mmm-hmm.”
“She doesn’t get asked to dance nearly as often as she ought.”
“Men are beasts,” Benedict agreed, flipping to the next page.
“It’s true,” Sophie said with some emotion. “Present company excluded, of course.”
“Oh, of course.”
“Most of the time,” she added, a little waspishly.
He gave her a wave. “Think nothing of it.”
“Are you listening to me?” she asked, her eyes narrowing.
“Every word,” he assured her, actually lowering the paper enough to see her above the top edge. He hadn’t actually seen her eyes narrow, but he knew her well enough to hear it in her voice.
“We need to find a husband for Posy.”
He considered that. “Perhaps she doesn’t want one.”
“Of course she wants one!”
“I have been told,” Benedict opined, “that every woman wants a husband, but in my experience, this is not precisely true.”
Sophie just stared at him, which he did not find surprising. It was a fairly lengthy statement, coming from a man with a newspaper.
“Consider Eloise,” he said. He shook his head, which was his usual inclination while thinking of his sister. “How many men has she refused now?”
“At least three,” Sophie said, “but that’s not the point.”
“What is the point, then?”
“Posy.”
“Right,” he said slowly.
Sophie leaned forward, her eyes taking on an odd mix of bewilderment and determination. “I don’t know why the gentlemen don’t see how wonderful she is.”
“She’s an acquired taste,” Benedict said, momentarily forgetting that he wasn’t supposed to offer a real opinion.
“What?”
“You said she’s not for everyone.”
“But you’re not supposed to—” She slumped a bit in her seat. “Never mind.”
“What were you going to say?”
“Nothing.”
“Sophie,” he prodded.
“Just that you weren’t supposed to agree with me,” she muttered. “But even I can recognize how ridiculous that is.”
It was a splendid thing, Benedict had long since realized, to have a sensible wife.
Sophie didn’t speak for some time, and Benedict would have resumed his perusal of the newspaper, except that it was too interesting watching her face. She’d chew on her lip, then let out a weary sigh, then straighten a bit, as if she’d got a good thought, then frown.
Really, he could have watched her all afternoon.
“Can you think of anyone?” she suddenly asked.
“For Posy?”
She gave him a look. A whom-else-might-I-be-speaking-of look.
He let out a breath. He should have anticipated the question, but he’d begun to think of the painting he was working on in his studio. It was a portrait of Sophie, the fourth he’d done in their three years of marriage. He was beginning to think that he’d not got her mouth quite right. It wasn’t the lips so much as the corners of her mouth. A good portraitist needed to understand the muscles of the human body, even those on the face, and—
“Benedict!”
“What about Mr. Folsom?” he said quickly.
“The solicitor?”
He nodded.
“He looks shifty.”
She was right, he realized, now that he thought on it. “Sir Reginald?”
Sophie gave him another look, visibly disappointed with his selection. “He’s fat.”
“So is—”
“She is not,” Sophie cut in. “She is pleasantly plump.”
“I was going to say that so is Mr. Folsom,” Benedict said, feeling the need to defend himself, “but that you had chosen to comment upon his shiftiness.”
“Oh.”
He allowed himself the smallest of smiles.
“Shiftiness is far worse than excess weight,” she mumbled.
“I could not agree more,” Benedict said. “What about Mr. Woodson?”
“Who?”
“The new vicar. The one you said—”
“—has a brilliant smile!” Sophie finished excitedly. “Oh, Benedict, that’s perfect! Oh, I love you love you love you!” At that, she practically leapt across the low table between them and into his arms.
“Well, I love you, too,” he said, and he congratulated himself on having had the foresight to shut the door to the drawing room earlier.
The newspaper flew over his shoulder, and all was right with the world.
The season drew to a close a few weeks later, and so Posy decided to accept Sophie’s invitation for an extended visit. London was hot and sticky and rather smelly in the summer, and a sojourn in the country seemed just the thing. Besides, she had not seen either of her godsons in several months, and she had been aghast when Sophie had written to say that Alexander had already begun to lose some of his baby fat.
Oh, he was just the most squeezable, adorable thing. She had to go see him before he grew too thin. She simply had to.
And it would be nice to see Sophie, too. She’d written that she was still feeling a bit weak, and Posy did like to be a help.
A few days into the visit, she and Sophie were taking tea, and talk turned, as it occasionally did, to Araminta and Rosamund, whom Posy occasionally bumped into in London. After over a year of silence, her mother had finally begun to acknowledge her, but even so, conversation was brief and stilted. Which, Posy had decided, was for the best. Her mother might have had nothing to say to her, but she didn’t have anything to say to her mother, either.
As far as epiphanies went, it had been rather liberating.
“I saw her outside the milliner,” Posy said, fixing her tea just the way she liked it, with extra milk and no sugar. “She’d just come down the steps, and I couldn’t avoid her, and then I realized I didn’t want to avoid her. Not that I wished to speak with her, of course.” She took a sip. “Rather, I didn’t wish to expend the energy needed to hide.”
Sophie nodded approvingly.
“And then we spoke, and said nothing, really, although she did manage to get in one of her clever little insults.”
“I hate that.”
“I know. She’s so good at it.”
“It’s a talent,” Sophie remarked. “Not a good one, but a talent nonetheless.”
“Well,” Posy continued, “I must say, I was rather mature about the entire encounter. I let her say what she wished, then I bid her good-bye. And then I had the most amazing realization.”
“What is that?”
Posy gave
a smile. “I like myself.”
“Well, of course you do,” Sophie said, blinking with confusion.
“No, no, you don’t understand,” Posy said. It was strange, because Sophie ought to have understood perfectly. She was the only person in the world who knew what it meant to live as Araminta’s unfavored child. But there was something so sunny about Sophie. There always had been. Even when Araminta treated her as a virtual slave, Sophie had never seemed beaten. There had always been a singular spirit to her, a sparkle. It wasn’t defiance; Sophie was the least defiant person Posy knew, except perhaps for herself.
Not defiance…resilience. Yes, that was it exactly.
At any rate, Sophie ought to have understood what Posy had meant, but she didn’t, so Posy said, “I didn’t always like myself. And why should I have done? My own mother didn’t like me.”
“Oh, Posy,” Sophie said, her eyes brimming with tears, “you mustn’t—”
“No, no,” Posy said good-naturedly. “Don’t think anything of it. It doesn’t bother me.”
Sophie just looked at her.
“Well, not anymore,” Posy amended. She eyed the plate of biscuits sitting on the table between them. She really oughtn’t to eat one. She’d had three, and she wanted three more, so maybe that meant that if she had one, she was really abstaining from two…
She twiddled her fingers against her leg. Probably she shouldn’t have one. Probably she should leave them for Sophie, who had just had a baby and needed to regain her strength. Although Sophie did look perfectly recovered, and little Alexander was already four months old…
“Posy?”
She looked up.
“Is something amiss?”
Posy gave a little shrug. “I can’t decide whether I wish to eat a biscuit.”
Sophie blinked. “A biscuit? Really?”
“There are at least two reasons why I should not, and probably more than that.” She paused, frowning.
“You looked quite serious,” Sophie remarked. “Almost as if you were conjugating Latin.”
“Oh, no, I should look far more at peace if I were conjugating Latin,” Posy declared. “That would be quite simple, as I know nothing about it. Biscuits, on the other hand, I ponder endlessly.” She sighed and looked down at her middle. “Much to my dismay.”
