An Offer from a Gentleman with 2nd Epilogue

by Julia Quinn

  He leaned against the fence, his posture deceptively lazy. “That’s a custom, isn’t it, to share frocks with one’s maid?”

  Sophie nodded. “When one is through with them, of course. No one would give a new frock away.”

  “I see.”

  Sophie eyed him suspiciously, wondering why on earth he cared about the status of her new dress.

  “Didn’t you want to go inside?” he inquired.

  “What are you up to?” she asked.

  “Why would you think I’m up to anything?”

  Her lips pursed before she said, “You wouldn’t be you if you weren’t up to something.”

  He smiled at that. “I do believe that was a compliment.”

  “It wasn’t necessarily intended as such.”

  “But nonetheless,” he said mildly, “that’s how I choose to take it.”

  She wasn’t sure how best to respond, so she said nothing. She also didn’t move toward the door. She wasn’t sure why, since she’d been quite vocal about her desire to be alone. But what she said and what she felt weren’t always one and the same. In her heart she longed for this man, dreamed of a life that could never be.

  She shouldn’t be so angry with him. He shouldn’t have forced her against her wishes to come to London, that was true, but she couldn’t fault him for offering her a position as his mistress. He had done what any man in his position would have done. Sophie had no illusions about her place in London society. She was a maid. A servant. And the only thing that separated her from other maids and servants was that she’d had a taste of luxury as a child. She’d been reared gently, if without love, and the experience had shaped her ideals and values. Now she was forever stuck between two worlds, with no clear place in either.

  “You look very serious,” he said quietly.

  Sophie heard him, but she couldn’t quite break herself from her thoughts.

  Benedict stepped forward. He reached out to touch her chin, then checked himself. There was something untouchable about her just then, something unreachable. “I can’t bear it when you look so sad,” he said, surprised by his own words. He hadn’t intended to say anything; it had just slipped out.

  She looked up at that. “I’m not sad.”

  He gave his head the tiniest shake. “There’s a sorrow deep in your eyes. It’s rarely gone.”

  Her hand flew to her face, as if she could actually touch that sorrow, as if it were solid, something that could be massaged away.

  Benedict took her hand and raised it to his lips. “I wish you would share your secrets with me.”

  “I have no—”

  “Don’t lie,” he cut in, his tone harsher than he’d intended. “You have more secrets than any woman I’ve—” He broke off, a sudden image of the woman from the masquerade flashing through his mind. “More than almost any woman I’ve known,” he finished.

  Her eyes met his for the briefest of seconds, and then she looked away. “There is nothing wrong with secrets. If I choose—”

  “Your secrets are eating you alive,” he said sharply. He didn’t want to stand there and listen to her excuses, and his frustration gnawed at his patience. “You have the opportunity to change your life, to reach out and grasp happiness, and yet you won’t do it.”

  “I can’t,” she said, and the pain in her voice nearly unmanned him.

  “Nonsense,” he said. “You can do anything you choose. You just don’t want to.”

  “Don’t make this harder than it already is,” she whispered.

  When she said that, something snapped inside of him. He felt it palpably, a strange popping sensation that released a rush of blood, feeding the frustrated anger that had been simmering inside of him for days. “You think it’s not hard?” he asked. “You think it’s not hard?”

  “I didn’t say that!”

  He grabbed her hand and pulled her body against his, so she could see for herself just how hard he was. “I burn for you,” he said, his lips touching her ear. “Every night, I lie in bed, thinking of you, wondering why the hell you’re here with my mother, of all people, and not with me.”

  “I didn’t want—”

  “You don’t know what you want,” he cut in. It was a cruel statement, condescending in the extreme, but he was beyond caring. She’d wounded him in a way he hadn’t even known was possible, with a power he’d never dreamed she possessed. She’d chosen a life of drudgery over a life with him, and now he was doomed to see her almost every day, to see her and taste her and smell her just enough to keep his desire sharp and strong.

  It was his own fault, of course. He could have let her stay in the country, could have saved himself this wrenching torture. But he’d surprised even himself by insisting that she come to London. It was odd, and he was almost afraid to analyze what it meant, but he needed to know that she was safe and protected more than he needed her for himself.

  She said his name, but her voice was laced with longing, and he knew that she was not indifferent to him. She might not fully understand what it meant to want a man, but she wanted him all the same.

  He captured her mouth with his, swearing to himself as he did so that if she said no, if she made any sort of indication that she didn’t want this, he’d stop. It’d be the hardest thing he’d ever done, but he would do it.

  But she didn’t say no, and she didn’t push against him or struggle or squirm. Instead, she positively melted into him, her hands twining in his hair as her lips parted beneath his. He didn’t know why she’d suddenly decided to let him kiss her—no, to kiss him—but he wasn’t about to lift his lips from hers to wonder why.

  He seized the moment, tasting her, drinking her, breathing her. He was no longer quite so confident that he would be able to convince her to become his mistress, and it was suddenly imperative that this kiss be more than just a kiss. It might have to last him a lifetime.

  He kissed her with renewed vigor, pushing away the niggling voice in his head, telling him that he’d been here, done this before. Two years earlier he’d danced with a woman, kissed her, and she’d told him that he’d have to pack a lifetime into a single kiss.

  He’d been overconfident then; he hadn’t believed her. And he’d lost her, maybe lost everything. He certainly hadn’t met anyone since with whom he could even imagine building a life.

  Until Sophie.

  Unlike the lady in silver, she wasn’t someone he could hope to marry, but also unlike the lady in silver, she was here.

  And he wasn’t going to let her get away.

  She was here, with him, and she felt like heaven. The soft scent of her hair, the slight taste of salt on her skin—she was, he thought, born to rest in the shelter of his arms. And he was born to hold her.

  “Come home with me,” he whispered in her ear.

  She said nothing, but he felt her stiffen.

  “Come home with me,” he repeated.

  “I can’t,” she said, the breath of each word whispering across his skin.

  “You can.”

  She shook her head, but she didn’t pull away, so he took advantage of the moment and brought his lips to hers one more time. His tongue darted in, exploring the warm recesses of her mouth, tasting the very essence of her. His hand found the swell of her breast and he squeezed gently, his breath catching as he felt her pucker beneath him. But it wasn’t enough. He wanted to feel her skin, not the fabric of her dress.

  But this was not the place. They were in his mother’s garden, for God’s sake. Anyone could come across them, and to be frank, if he hadn’t pulled her into the alcove right by the door, anyone could have seen them. It was the sort of thing that could cause Sophie to lose her job.

  Maybe he should be pulling her out into the open, where all the world would see, because then she’d be on her own again, and she’d have no choice but to be his mistress.

  Which was, he reminded himself, what he wanted.

  But it occurred to him—and frankly, he was rather surprised he had the presenc
e of mind at such a moment for anything to occur to him—that part of the reason he cared so much for her was her remarkably solid and unflinching sense of herself. She knew who she was, and unfortunately for him, that person didn’t stray from the bounds of respectable society.

  If he ruined her so publicly, in front of people she admired and respected, he’d break her spirit. And that would be an unforgivable crime.

  Slowly, he pulled away. He still wanted her, and he still wanted her to be his mistress, but he wasn’t going to force the issue by compromising her in his mother’s household. When she came to him—and she would, he vowed—it would be of her own free will.

  In the meantime, he would woo her, wear her down. In the meantime, he’d—

  “You stopped,” she whispered, looking surprised.

  “This isn’t the place,” he replied.

  For a moment her face showed no change of expression. Then, almost as if someone were pulling a shade over her face, horror dawned. It started in her eyes, which grew impossibly round and somehow even more green than usual, then it reached her mouth, her lips parting as a gasp of air rushed in.

  “I didn’t think,” she whispered, more to herself than to him.

  “I know.” He smiled. “I know. I hate it when you think. It always ends badly for me.”

  “We can’t do this again.”

  “We certainly can’t do it here.”

  “No, I mean—”

  “You’re spoiling it.”

  “But—”

  “Humor me,” he said, “and let me believe the afternoon ended without your telling me this will never happen again.”

  “But—”

  He pressed a finger to her lips. “You’re not humoring me.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t I deserve this one little fantasy?”

  At last, he broke through. She smiled.

  “Good,” he said. “That’s more like it.”

  Her lips quivered, then, amazingly, her smile grew.

  “Excellent,” he murmured. “Now then, I’m going to leave. And you have only one task while I go. You will stay right here, and you will keep smiling. Because it breaks my heart to see any other expression on your face.”

  “You won’t be able to see me,” she pointed out.

  He touched her chin. “I’ll know.”

  And then, before her expression could change from that enchanting combination of shock and adoration, he left.

  Chapter 16

  The Featheringtons hosted a small dinner party yesterday eve, and, although This Author was not privileged enough to attend, it has been said that the evening was deemed quite a success. Three Bridgertons attended, but sadly for the Featherington girls, none of the Bridgertons were of the male variety. The always amiable Nigel Berbrooke was there, paying great attention to Miss Philippa Featherington.

  This Author is told that both Benedict and Colin Bridgerton were invited, but had to send their regrets.

  LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 19 MAY 1817

  As the days melted into a week, Sophie discovered that working for the Bridgertons could keep a girl very busy indeed. Her job was to be maid to all three unmarried girls, and her days were filled with hairdressing, mending, pressing gowns, polishing shoes . . . She hadn’t left the house even once—unless one counted time out in the back garden.

  But where such a life under Araminta had been dreary and demeaning, the Bridgerton household was filled with laughter and smiles. The girls bickered and teased, but never with the malice Sophie had seen Rosamund show to Posy. And when tea was informal—upstairs, with only Lady Bridgerton and the girls in attendance—Sophie was always invited to partake. She usually brought her basket of mending and darned or sewed buttons while the Bridgertons chattered away, but it was so lovely to be able to sit and sip a fine cup of tea, with fresh milk and warm scones. And after a few days, Sophie even began to feel comfortable enough to occasionally add to the conversation.

  It had become Sophie’s favorite time of day.

  “Where,” Eloise asked, one afternoon about a week after what Sophie was now referring to as the big kiss, “do you suppose Benedict is?”

  “Ow!”

  Four Bridgerton faces turned to Sophie. “Are you all right?” Lady Bridgerton asked, her teacup suspended halfway between her saucer and her mouth.

  Sophie grimaced. “I pricked my finger.”

  Lady Bridgerton’s lips curved into a small, secret smile.

  “Mother has told you,” fourteen-year-old Hyacinth said, “at least a thousand times—”

  “A thousand times?” Francesca asked with arched brows.

  “A hundred times,” Hyacinth amended, shooting an annoyed look at her older sister, “that you do not have to bring your mending to tea.”

  Sophie suppressed a smile of her own. “I should feel very lazy if I did not.”

  “Well, I’m not going to bring my embroidery,” Hyacinth announced, not that anyone had asked her to.

  “Feeling lazy?” Francesca queried.

  “Not in the least,” Hyacinth returned.

  Francesca turned to Sophie. “You’re making Hyacinth feel lazy.”

  “I do not!” Hyacinth protested.

  Lady Bridgerton sipped at her tea. “You have been working on the same piece of embroidery for quite some time, Hyacinth. Since February, if my memory serves.”

  “Her memory always serves,” Francesca said to Sophie.

  Hyacinth glared at Francesca, who smiled into her teacup.

  Sophie coughed to cover a smile of her own. Francesca, who at twenty was merely one year younger than Eloise, had a sly, subversive sense of humor. Someday Hyacinth would be her match, but not yet.

  “Nobody answered my question,” Eloise announced, letting her teacup clatter into its saucer. “Where is Benedict? I haven’t seen him in an age.”

  “It’s been a week,” Lady Bridgerton said.

  “Ow!”

  “Do you need a thimble?” Hyacinth asked Sophie.

  “I’m not usually this clumsy,” Sophie muttered.

  Lady Bridgerton lifted her cup to her lips and held it there for what seemed like a rather long time.

  Sophie gritted her teeth together and returned to her mending with a vengeance. Much to her surprise, Benedict had not made even the barest of appearances since the big kiss last week. She’d found herself peering out windows, peeking around corners, always expecting to catch a glimpse of him.

  And yet he was never there.

  Sophie couldn’t decide whether she was crushed or relieved. Or both.

  She sighed. Definitely both.

  “Did you say something, Sophie?” Eloise asked.

  Sophie shook her head and murmured, “No,” refusing to look up from her poor, abused index finger. Grimacing slightly, she pinched her skin, watching blood slowly bead up on her fingertip.

  “Where is he?” Eloise persisted.

  “Benedict is thirty years of age,” Lady Bridgerton said in a mild voice. “He doesn’t need to inform us of his every activity.”

  Eloise snorted loudly. “That’s a fine about-face from last week, Mother.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “‘Where is Benedict?’” Eloise mocked, doing a more-than-fair imitation of her mother. “‘How dare he go off without a word? It’s as if he’s dropped off the face of the earth.’”

  “That was different,” Lady Bridgerton said.

  “How so?” This, from Francesca, who was wearing her usual sly smile.

  “He’d said he was going to that awful Cavender boy’s party, and then never came back, whereas this time . . .” Lady Bridgerton stopped, pursing her lips. “Why am I explaining myself to you?”

  “I can’t imagine,” Sophie murmured.

  Eloise, who was sitting closest to Sophie, choked on her tea.

  Francesca whacked Eloise on the back as she leaned forward to inquire, “Did you say something, Sophie?”

  Sophi
e shook her head as she stabbed her needle into the dress she was mending, completely missing the hem.

  Eloise gave her a dubious sideways glance.

  Lady Bridgerton cleared her throat. “Well, I think—” She stopped, cocking her head to the side. “I say, is that someone in the hall?”

  Sophie stifled a groan and looked over toward the doorway, expecting the butler to enter. Wickham always gave her a disapproving frown before imparting whatever news he was carrying. He didn’t approve of the maid taking tea with the ladies of the house, and while he never vocalized his thoughts on the issue in front of the Bridgertons, he rarely took pains to keep his opinions from showing on his face.

  But instead of Wickham, Benedict walked through the doorway.

  “Benedict!” Eloise called out, rising to her feet. “We were just talking about you.”

  He looked at Sophie. “Were you?”

  “I wasn’t,” Sophie muttered.

  “Did you say something, Sophie?” Hyacinth asked.

  “Ow!”

  “I’m going to have to take that mending away from you,” Lady Bridgerton said with an amused smile. “You’ll have lost a pint of blood before the day is through.”

  Sophie lurched to her feet. “I’ll get a thimble.”

  “You don’t have a thimble?” Hyacinth asked. “I would never dream of doing mending without a thimble.”

  “Have you ever dreamed of mending?” Francesca smirked.

  Hyacinth kicked her, nearly upsetting the tea service in the process.

  “Hyacinth!” Lady Bridgerton scolded.

  Sophie stared at the door, trying desperately to keep her eyes focused on anything but Benedict. She’d spent all week hoping for a glimpse, but now that he was here, all she wanted was to escape. If she looked at his face, her eyes inevitably strayed to his lips. And if she looked at his lips, her thoughts immediately went to their kiss. And if she thought about the kiss . . .

  “I need that thimble,” she blurted out, jumping to her feet. There were some things one just shouldn’t think about in public.

  “So you said,” Benedict murmured, one of his eyebrows quirking up into a perfect—and perfectly arrogant—arch.

  “It’s downstairs,” she muttered. “In my room.”