An Offer From a Gentleman: The 2nd Epilogue

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Sophie just shook her head as she walked to the door. Conversations with Benedict Bridgerton could be exhausting.

  “Oh, Sophie!” he called out.

  She turned around.

  He smiled slyly. “I knew you wouldn’t throw the spoon.”

  What happened next was surely not Sophie’s fault. She was, she was convinced, temporarily and fleetingly possessed by a demon. Because she absolutely did not recognize the hand that shot out to the small table next to her and picked up a stump of a candle. True, the hand appeared to be connected quite firmly to her arm, but it didn’t look the least bit familiar as it drew back and hurled the stump across the room.

  Straight at Benedict Bridgerton’s head.

  Sophie didn’t even wait to see if her aim had been true. But as she stalked out the door, she heard Benedict explode with laughter. Then she heard him shout out, “Well done, Miss Beckett!”

  And she realized that for the first time in years, her smile was one of pure, unadulterated joy.

  Chapter 10

  Although he responded in the affirmative (or so says Lady Covington) Benedict Bridgerton did not make an appearance at the annual Covington Ball. Complaints were heard from young women (and their mamas) across the ballroom.

  According to Lady Bridgerton (his mother, not his sister-in-law), Mr. Bridgerton left for the country last week and has not been heard from since. Those who might fear for Mr. Bridgerton’s health and well-being should not fret; Lady Bridgerton sounded more annoyed than worried. Last year no less than four couples met their future spouses at the Covington Ball; the previous year, three.

  Much to Lady Bridgerton’s dismay, if any matches are made at this year’s Covington Ball, her son Benedict will not be among the grooms.

  LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 5 MAY 1817

  There were advantages, Benedict soon discovered, to a long, drawn-out recovery.

  The most obvious was the quantity and variety of most excellent food brought forth from Mrs. Crabtree’s kitchen. He’d always been fed well at My Cottage, but Mrs. Crabtree truly rose to the occasion when she had someone tucked away in the sickroom.

  And even better, Mr. Crabtree had managed to intercept all of Mrs. Crabtree’s tonics and replace them with Benedict’s best brandy. Benedict dutifully drank every drop, but the last time he looked out the window, it appeared that three of his rosebushes had died, presumably where Mr. Crabtree had dumped the tonic.

  It was a sad sacrifice, but one Benedict was more than willing to make after his last experience with Mrs. Crabtree’s tonics.

  Another perk of staying abed was the simple fact that, for the first time in years, he could enjoy some quiet time. He read, sketched, and even closed his eyes and just daydreamed—all without feeling guilty for neglecting some other task or chore.

  Benedict soon decided that he’d be perfectly happy leading the life of the indolent.

  But the best part of his recovery, by far, was Sophie. She popped into his room several times a day, sometimes to fluff his pillows, sometimes to bring him food, sometimes just to read to him. Benedict had a feeling that her industriousness was due to her desire to feel useful, and to thank him with deeds for saving her from Phillip Cavender.

  But he didn’t much care why she came to visit; he just liked it that she did.

  She’d been quiet and reserved at first, obviously trying to adhere to the standard that servants should be neither seen nor heard. But Benedict had had none of that, and he’d purposefully engaged her in conversation, just so she couldn’t leave. Or he’d goad and needle her, simply to get a rise out of her, because he liked her far better when she was spitting fire than when she was meek and submissive.

  But mostly he just enjoyed being in the same room with her. It didn’t seem to matter if they were talking or if she was just sitting in a chair, leafing through a book while he stared out the window. Something about her presence brought him peace.

  A sharp knock at the door broke him out of his thoughts, and he looked up eagerly, calling out, “Enter!”

  Sophie poked her head in, her shoulder-length curls shaking slightly as they brushed against the edge of the door. “Mrs. Crabtree thought you might like tea.”

  “Tea? Or tea and biscuits?”

  Sophie grinned, pushing the door open with her hip as she balanced the tray. “Oh, the latter, to be sure.”

  “Excellent. And will you join me?”

  She hesitated, as she always did, but then she nodded, as she also always did. She’d long since learned that there was no arguing with Benedict when he had his mind set on something.

  Benedict rather liked it that way.

  “The color is back in your cheeks,” she commented as she set the tray down on a nearby table. “And you don’t look nearly so tired. I should think you’ll be up and out of bed soon,”

  “Oh, soon, I’m sure,” he said evasively.

  “You’re looking healthier every day.”

  He smiled gamely. “Do you think so?”

  She lifted the teapot and paused before she poured. “Yes,” she said with an ironic smile. “I wouldn’t have said so otherwise.”

  Benedict watched her hands as she prepared his tea. She moved with an innate sense of grace, and she poured the tea as if she’d been to the manner born. Clearly the art of afternoon tea had been another one of those lessons she’d learned from her mother’s generous employers. Or maybe she’d just watched other ladies closely while they’d prepared tea. Benedict had noticed that she was a very observant woman.

  They’d enacted this ritual often enough that she didn’t have to ask how he liked his tea. She handed him his cup—milk, no sugar—and then placed a selection of biscuits and scones on a plate.

  “Fix yourself a cup,” Benedict said, biting into a biscuit, “and come sit by me.”

  She hesitated again. He knew she’d hesitate, even though she’d already agreed to join him. But he was a patient man, and his patience was rewarded with a soft sigh as she reached out and plucked another cup off the tray.

  After she’d fixed her own cup—two lumps of sugar, just the barest splash of milk—she sat in the velvet-covered, straight-backed chair by his bed, regarding him over the rim of her teacup as she took a sip.

  “No biscuits for you?” Benedict asked.

  She shook her head. “I had a few straight out of the oven.”

  “Lucky you. They’re always best when they’re warm.” He polished off another biscuit, brushed a few crumbs off of his sleeve, and reached for another. “And how have you spent your day?”

  “Since I last saw you two hours earlier?”

  Benedict shot her a look that said he recognized her sarcasm but chose not to respond to it.

  “I helped Mrs. Crabtree in the kitchen,” Sophie said. “She’s making a beef stew for supper and needed some potatoes peeled. Then I borrowed a book from your library and read in the garden.”

  “Really? What did you read?”

  “A novel.”

  “Was it good?”

  She shrugged. “Silly, but romantic. I enjoyed it.”

  “And do you long for romance?”

  Her blush was instantaneous. “That’s a rather personal question, don’t you think?”

  Benedict shrugged and started to say something utterly flip, like, “It was worth a try,” but as he watched her face, her cheeks turning delightfully pink, her eyes cast down to her lap, the strangest thing happened.

  He realized he wanted her.

  He really, really wanted her.

  He wasn’t certain why this so surprised him. Of course he wanted her. He was as red-blooded as any man, and one couldn’t spend a protracted amount of time around a woman as gamine and adorable as Sophie without wanting her. Hell, he wanted half the women he met, in a purely low-intensity, non-urgent sort of way.

  But in that moment, with this woman, it became urgent.

  Benedict changed positions. T
hen he bunched the coverlet up over his lap. Then he changed positions again.

  “Is your bed uncomfortable?” Sophie asked. “Do you need me to fluff your pillows?”

  Benedict’s first urge was to reply in the affirmative, grab her as she leaned across him, and then have his wicked way with her, since they would, rather conveniently, be in bed.

  But he had a sneaking suspicion that that particular plan would not go over well with Sophie, so instead he said, “I’m fine,” then winced when he realized his voice sounded oddly squeaky.

  She smiled as she eyed the biscuits on his plate, saying, “Maybe just one more.”

  Benedict moved his arm out of the way to allow her easy access to his plate, which was, he realized somewhat belatedly, resting on his lap. The sight of her hand reaching toward his groin—even if she was aiming for a plate of biscuits—did funny things to him, to his groin, to be precise.

  Benedict had a sudden vision of things . . . shifting down there, and he hastily grabbed the plate, lest it become unbalanced.

  “Do you mind if I take the last—”

  “Fine!” he croaked.

  She plucked a ginger biscuit off the plate and frowned. “You look better,” she said, giving the biscuit a little sniff, “but you don’t sound better. Is your throat bothering you?”

  Benedict took a quick sip of his tea. “Not at all. I must’ve swallowed a piece of dust.”

  “Oh. Drink some more tea, then. That shouldn’t bother you for long.” She set her teacup down. “Would you like me to read to you?”

  “Yes!” Benedict said quickly, bunching up his coverlet around his waist. She might try to take away the strategically placed plate, and then where would he be?

  “Are you certain you’re all right?” she asked, looking far more suspicious than concerned.

  He smiled tightly. “Just fine.”

  “Very well,” she said, standing up. “What would you like me to read?”

  “Oh, anything,” he said with a blithe wave of his hand.

  “Poetry?”

  “Splendid.” He would have said, “Splendid,” had she offered to read a dissertation on botany in the arctic tundra.

  Sophie wandered over to a recessed bookshelf and idly perused its contents. “Byron?” she asked. “Blake?”

  “Blake,” he said quite firmly. A hour’s worth of Byron’s romantic drivel would probably send him quite over the edge.

  She slid a slim volume of poetry off the shelf and returned to her chair, swishing her rather unattractive skirts before she sat down.

  Benedict frowned. He’d never really noticed before how ugly her dress was. Not as bad as the one Mrs. Crabtree had lent her, but certainly not anything designed to bring out the best in a woman.

  He ought to buy her a new dress. She would never accept it, of course, but maybe if her current garments were accidentally burned . . .

  “Mr. Bridgerton?”

  But how could he manage to burn her dress? She’d have to not be wearing it, and that posed a certain challenge in and of itself . . .

  “Are you even listening to me?” Sophie demanded.

  “Hmmm?”

  “You’re not listening to me.”

  “Sorry,” he admitted. “My apologies. My mind got away from me. Please continue.”

  She began anew, and in his attempt to show how much attention he was paying her, he focused his eyes on her lips, which proved to be a big mistake.

  Because suddenly those lips were all he could see, and he couldn’t stop thinking about kissing her, and he knew—absolutely knew—that if one of them didn’t leave the room in the next thirty seconds, he was going to do something for which he’d owe her a thousand apologies.

  Not that he didn’t plan to seduce her. Just that he’d rather do it with a bit more finesse.

  “Oh, dear,” he blurted out.

  Sophie gave him an odd look. He didn’t blame her. He sounded like a complete idiot. He didn’t think he’d uttered the phrase, “Oh, dear,” in years. If ever.

  Hell, he sounded like his mother.

  “Is something wrong?” Sophie asked.

  “I just remembered something,” he said, rather stupidly, in his opinion.

  She raised her brows in question.

  “Something that I’d forgotten,” Benedict said.

  “The things one remembers,” she said, looking exceedingly amused, “are most often things one had forgotten.”

  He scowled at her. “I’ll need a bit of privacy.”

  She stood instantly. “Of course,” she murmured.

  Benedict fought off a groan. Damn. She looked hurt. He hadn’t meant to injure her feelings. He just needed to get her out of the room so that he didn’t yank her into the bed. “It’s a personal matter,” he told her, trying to make her feel better but suspecting that all he was doing was making himself look like a fool.

  “Ohhhhh,” she said knowingly. “Would you like me to bring you the chamber pot?”

  “I can walk to the chamber pot,” he retorted, forgetting that he didn’t need to use the chamber pot.

  She nodded and stood, setting the book of poetry onto a nearby table. “I’ll leave you to your business. Just ring the bellpull when you need me.”

  “I’m not going to summon you like a servant,” he growled.

  “But I am a—”

  “Not for me you’re not,” he said. The words emerged a little more harshly than was necessary, but he’d always detested men who preyed on helpless female servants. The thought that he might be turning into one of those repellent creatures was enough to make him gag.

  “Very well,” she said, her words meek like a servant. Then she nodded like a servant—he was fairly certain she did it just to annoy him—and left.

  The minute she was gone, Benedict leapt out of the bed and ran to the window. Good. No one was in sight. He shrugged off his dressing gown, replaced it with a pair of breeches and a shirt and jacket, and looked out the window again. Good. Still no one.

  “Boots, boots,” he muttered, glancing around the room. Where the hell were his boots? Not his good boots—the pair for mucking around in the mud . . . ah, there they were. He grabbed the boots and yanked them on.

  Back to the window. Still no one. Excellent. Benedict threw one leg over the sill, then another, then grabbed hold of the long, sturdy branch that jutted out from a nearby elm tree. From there it was an easy shimmy, wiggle, and balancing act down to the ground.

  And from there it was straight to the lake. To the very cold lake.

  To take a very cold swim.

  “If he needed the chamber pot,” Sophie muttered to herself, “he could have just said so. It’s not as if I haven’t fetched chamber pots before.”

  She stamped down the stairs to the main floor, not entirely certain why she was going downstairs (she had nothing specific to do there) but heading in that direction simply because she couldn’t think of anything better to do.

  She didn’t understand why he had so much trouble treating her like what she was—a servant. He kept insisting that she didn’t work for him and didn’t have to do anything to earn her keep at My Cottage, and then in the same breath assured her that he would find her a position in his mother’s household.

  If he would just treat her like a servant, she’d have no trouble remembering that she was an illegitimate nobody and he was a member of one of the ton’s wealthiest and most influential families. Every time he treated her like a real person (and it was her experience that most aristocrats did not treat servants like anything remotely approaching a real person) it brought her back to the night of the masquerade, when she’d been, for one perfect evening, a lady of glamour and grace—the sort of woman who had a right to dream about a future with Benedict Bridgerton.

  He acted as if he actually liked her and enjoyed her company. And maybe he did. But that was the cruelest twist of all, because he was making her love him, making a small part of her think she had the right to dream about h
im.

  And then, inevitably, she had to remind herself of the truth of the situation, and it hurt so damned much.

  “Oh, there you are, Miss Sophie!”

  Sophie lifted up her eyes, which had been absently following the cracks in the parquet floor, to see Mrs. Crabtree descending the stairs behind her.

  “Good day, Mrs. Crabtree,” Sophie said. “How is that beef stew coming along?”

  “Fine, fine,” Mrs. Crabtree said absently. “We were a bit short on carrots, but I think it will be tasty nonetheless. Have you seen Mr. Bridgerton?”

  Sophie blinked in surprise at the question. “In his room. Just a minute ago.”

  “Well, he’s not there now.”

  “I think he had to use the chamber pot.”

  Mrs. Crabtree didn’t even blush; it was the sort of conversation servants often had about their employers. “Well, if he did use it, he didn’t use it, if you know what I mean,” she said. “The room smelled as fresh as a spring day.”

  Sophie frowned. “And he wasn’t there?”

  “Neither hide nor hair.”

  “I can’t imagine where he might have gone.”

  Mrs. Crabtree planted her hands on her ample hips. “I’ll search the downstairs and you search the up. One of us is bound to find him.”

  “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, Mrs. Crabtree. If he’s left his room, he probably had a good reason. Most likely, he doesn’t want to be found.”

  “But he’s ill,” Mrs. Crabtree protested.

  Sophie considered that, then pictured his face in her mind. His skin had held a healthy glow and he hadn’t looked the least bit tired. “I’m not so certain about that, Mrs. Crabtree,” she finally said. “I think he’s malingering on purpose.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Mrs. Crabtree scoffed. “Mr. Bridgerton would never do something like that.”

  Sophie shrugged. “I wouldn’t have thought so, but truly, he doesn’t look the least bit ill any longer.”

  “It’s my tonics,” Mrs. Crabtree said with a confident nod. “I told you they’d speed up his recovery.”

  Sophie had seen Mr. Crabtree dump the tonics in the rosebushes; she’d also seen the aftermath. It hadn’t been a pretty sight. How she managed to smile and nod, she’d never know.