An Offer From a Gentleman: The 2nd Epilogue

  “I wish you the best with that,” Sophie said, not without sarcasm.

  “You don’t think I can?”

  “You’re the least eccentric person I know.”

  It was true, of course, but if Posy had to spend her life as an old maid, she wanted to be the eccentric one with the large hat, not the desperate one with the pinched mouth.

  “What is his name?” she asked.

  But before Sophie could answer, they heard the front door opening, and then it was the butler giving her her answer as he announced, “Mr. Woodson is here to see you, Mrs. Bridgerton.”

  Posy stashed her half-eaten biscuit under a serviette and folded her hands prettily in her lap. She was a little miffed with Sophie for inviting a bachelor for tea without warning her, but still, there seemed little reason not to make a good impression. She looked expectantly at the doorway, waiting patiently as Mr. Woodson’s footsteps drew near.

  And then . . .

  And then . . .

  Honestly, it wouldn’t do to try to recount it, because she remembered almost nothing of what followed.

  She saw him, and it was as if, after twenty-five years of life, her heart finally began to beat.

  Hugh Woodson had never been the most admired boy at school. He had never been the most handsome, or the most athletic. He had never been the cleverest, or the snobbiest, or the most foolish. What he had been, and what he had been all of his life, was the most well liked.

  People liked him. They always had. He supposed it was because he liked most everybody in return. His mother swore he’d emerged from the womb smiling. She said so with great frequency, although Hugh suspected she did so only to give her father the lead-in for: “Oh, Georgette, you know it was just gas.”

  Which never failed to set the both of them into fits of giggles.

  It was a testament to Hugh’s love for them both, and his general ease with himself, that he usually laughed as well.

  Nonetheless, for all his likeability, he’d never seemed to attract the females. They adored him, of course, and confided their most desperate secrets, but they always did so in a way that led Hugh to believe he was viewed as a jolly, dependable sort of creature.

  The worst part of it was that every woman of his acquaintance was absolutely positive that she knew the perfect woman for him, or if not, then she was quite sure that a perfect woman did indeed exist.

  That no woman ever thought herself the perfect woman had not gone unnoticed. Well, by Hugh, at least. Everyone else was oblivious.

  But he carried on, because there could be no point in doing otherwise. And as he had always suspected that women were the cleverer sex, he still held out hope that the perfect woman was indeed out there.

  After all, no fewer than four dozen women had said so. They couldn’t all be wrong.

  But Hugh was nearing thirty, and Miss Perfection had not yet seen fit to reveal herself. Hugh was beginning to think that he should take matters into his own hands, except that he hadn’t the slightest idea how to do such a thing, especially as he’d just taken a living in a rather quiet corner of Wiltshire, and there didn’t seem to be a single appropriately-aged unmarried female in his parish.

  Remarkable but true.

  Maybe he should wander over to Gloucestershire Sunday next. There was a vacancy there, and he’d been asked to pitch in and deliver a sermon or two until they found a new vicar. There had to be at least one unattached female. The whole of the Cotswolds couldn’t be bereft.

  But this wasn’t the time to dwell on such things. He was just arriving for tea with Mrs. Bridgerton, an invitation for which he was enormously grateful. He was still familiarizing himself with the area and its inhabitants, but it had taken but one church service to know that Mrs. Bridgerton was universally liked and admired. She seemed quite clever and kind as well.

  He hoped she liked to gossip. He really needed someone to fill him in on the neighborhood lore. One really couldn’t tend to one’s flock without knowing its history.

  He’d also heard that her cook laid a very fine tea. The biscuits had been mentioned in particular.

  “Mr. Woodson to see you, Mrs. Bridgerton.”

  Hugh stepped into the drawing room as the butler stated his name. He was rather glad he’d forgotten to eat lunch, because the house smelled heavenly and—

  And then he quite forgot everything.

  Why he’d come.

  Who he was.

  The color of the sky, even, and the smell of the grass.

  Indeed, as he stood there in the arched doorway of the Bridgertons’ drawing room, he knew one thing, and one thing only.

  The woman on the sofa, the one with the extraordinary eyes who was not Mrs. Bridgerton, was Miss Perfection.

  Sophie Bridgerton knew a thing or two about love at first sight. She had, once upon a time, been hit by its proverbial lightning bolt, struck dumb with breathless passion, heady bliss, and an odd tingling sensation across her entire body.

  Or at least, that was how she remembered it.

  She also remembered that while Cupid’s arrow had, in her case, proven remarkably accurate, it had taken quite a while for her and Benedict to reach their happily ever after. So even though she wanted to bounce in her seat with glee as she watched Posy and Mr. Woodson stare at each other like a pair of lovesick puppies, another part of her—the extremely practical, born-on-the-wrong-side-of-the-blanket, I-am-well-aware-that-the-world-is-not-made-up-of-rainbows-and-angels part of her—was trying to hold back her excitement.

  But the thing about Sophie was, no matter how awful her childhood had been (and parts of it had been quite dreadfully awful), no matter what cruelties and indignities she’d faced in her life (and there, too, she’d not been fortunate), she was, at heart, an incurable romantic.

  Which brought her to Posy.

  It was true that Posy visited several times each year, and it was also true that one of those visits almost always coincided with the end of the season, but Sophie might have added a little extra entreaty to her recently tendered invitation. She might have exaggerated a bit when describing how quickly the children were growing, and there was a chance that she had actually lied when she said that she was feeling poorly.

  But in this case, the ends absolutely justified the means. Oh, Posy had told her that she would be perfectly content to remain unmarried, but Sophie did not believe her for a second. Or to be more precise, Sophie believed that Posy believed that she would be perfectly content. But one had only to look at Posy snuggling little William and Alexander to know that she was a born mother, and that the world would be a much poorer place if Posy did not have a passel of children to call her own.

  It was true that Sophie had, one time or twelve, made a point of introducing Posy to whichever unattached gentleman was to be found at the moment in Wiltshire, but this time . . .

  This time Sophie knew.

  This time it was love.

  “Mr. Woodson,” she said, trying not to grin like a madwoman, “may I introduce you to my dear sister, Miss Posy Reiling?”

  Mr. Woodson looked as if he thought he was saying something, but the truth was, he was staring at Posy as if he’d just met Aphrodite.

  “Posy,” Sophie continued, “this is Mr. Woodson, our new vicar. He is only recently arrived, what was it, three weeks ago?”

  He had been in residence for nearly two months. Sophie knew this perfectly well, but she was eager to see if he’d been listening well enough to correct her.

  He just nodded, never taking his eyes off Posy.

  “Please, Mr. Woodson,” Sophie murmured, “do sit down.”

  He managed to understand her meaning, and he lowered himself into a chair.

  “Tea, Mr. Woodson?” Sophie inquired.

  He nodded.

  “Posy, will you pour?”

  Posy nodded.

  Sophie waited, and then when it became apparent that Posy wasn’t going to do much of anything besides smile at Mr. Woodson, she said, “Posy.”


  Posy turned to look at her, but her head moved so slowly and with such reluctance, it was as if a giant magnet had turned its force onto her.

  “Will you pour Mr. Woodson’s tea?” Sophie murmured, trying to restrict her smile to her eyes.

  “Oh. Of course.” Posy turned back to the vicar, that silly smile returning to her face. “Would you like some tea?”

  Normally Sophie might have mentioned that she had already asked Mr. Woodson if he wanted tea, but there was nothing normal about this encounter, so she decided to simply sit back and observe.

  “I would love some,” Mr. Woodson said to Posy. “Above all else.”

  Really, Sophie thought, it was as if she weren’t even there.

  “How do you take it?” Posy asked.

  “However you wish.”

  Oh now, this was too much. No man fell so blindingly into love that he no longer held a preference for his tea. This was England, for heaven’s sake. More to the point, this was tea.

  “We have both milk and sugar,” Sophie said, unable to help herself. She’d intended to sit and watch, but really, even the most hopeless romantic couldn’t have remained silent.

  Mr. Woodson didn’t hear her.

  “Either of them would be appropriate in your cup,” she added.

  “You have the most extraordinary eyes,” he said, and his voice was full of wonder, as if he couldn’t quite believe that he was right there in this room, with Posy.

  “Your smile,” Posy said in return. “It’s . . . lovely.”

  He leaned forward. “Do you like roses, Miss Reiling?”

  Posy nodded.

  “I must bring you some.”

  Sophie gave up trying to appear serene and finally let herself grin. It wasn’t as if either of them was looking at her, anyway. “We have roses,” she said.

  No response.

  “In the back garden.”

  Again, nothing.

  “Where the two of you might go for a stroll.”

  It was as if someone had just stuck a pin in both of them.

  “Oh, shall we?”

  “I would be delighted.”

  “Please, allow me to—”

  “Take my arm.”

  “I would—”

  “You must—”

  By the time Posy and Mr. Woodson were at the door, Sophie could hardly tell who was saying what. And not a drop of tea had entered Mr. Woodson’s cup.

  Sophie waited for a full minute, and then burst out laughing, clapping her hand over her mouth to stifle the sound, although she wasn’t sure why she needed to. It was a laugh of pure delight. Pride, too, at having orchestrated the whole thing.

  “What are you laughing about?” It was Benedict, wandering into the room, his fingers stained with paint. “Ah, biscuits. Excellent. I’m famished. Forgot to eat this morning.” He took the last one and frowned. “You might have left more for me.”

  “It’s Posy,” Sophie said, grinning. “And Mr. Woodson. I predict a very short engagement.”

  Benedict’s eyes widened. He turned to the door, then to the window. “Where are they?”

  “In the back. We can’t see them from here.”

  He chewed thoughtfully. “But we could from my studio.”

  For about two seconds neither moved. But only two seconds.

  They ran for the door, pushing and shoving their way down the hall to Benedict’s studio, which jutted out of the back of the house, giving it light from three directions. Sophie got there first, although not by entirely fair means, and let out a shocked gasp.

  “What is it?” Benedict said from the doorway.

  “They’re kissing!”

  He strode forward. “They are not.”

  “Oh, they are.”

  He drew up beside her, and his mouth fell open. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  And Sophie, who never cursed, responded, “I know. I know.”

  “And they only just met? Really?”

  “You kissed me the first night we met,” she pointed out.

  “That was different.”

  Sophie managed to pull her attention from the kissing couple on the lawn for just long enough to demand, “How?”

  He thought about that for a moment, then answered, “It was a masquerade.”

  “Oh, so it’s all right to kiss someone if you don’t know who they are?”

  “Not fair, Sophie,” he said, clucking as he shook his head. “I asked you, and you wouldn’t tell me.”

  That was true enough to put an end to that particular branch of the conversation, and they stood there for another moment, shamelessly watching Posy and the vicar. They’d stopped kissing and were now talking—from the looks of it, a mile a minute. Posy would speak, and then Mr. Woodson would nod vigorously and interrupt her, and then she would interrupt him, and then he looked like he was giggling, of all things, and then Posy began to speak with such animation that her arms waved all about her head.

  “What on earth could they be saying?” Sophie wondered.

  “Probably everything they should have said before he kissed her.” Benedict frowned, crossing his arms. “How long have they been at this, anyway?”

  “You’ve been watching just as long as I have.”

  “No, I meant, when did he arrive? Did they even speak before . . .” He waved his hand toward the window, gesturing to the couple, who looked about ready to kiss again.

  “Yes, of course, but . . .” Sophie paused, thinking. Both Posy and Mr. Woodson had been rather tongue-tied at their meeting. In fact, she couldn’t recall a single substantive word that was spoken. “Well, not very much, I’m afraid.”

  Benedict nodded slowly. “Do you think I should go out there?”

  Sophie looked at him, then at the window, and then back. “Are you mad?”

  He shrugged. “She is my sister now, and it is my house . . .”

  “Don’t you dare!”

  “So I’m not supposed to protect her honor?”

  “It’s her first kiss!”

  He quirked a brow. “And here we are, spying on it.”

  “It’s my right,” Sophie said indignantly. “I arranged the whole thing.”

  “Oh you did, did you? I seem to recall that I was the one to suggest Mr. Woodson.”

  “But you didn’t do anything about it.”

  “That’s your job, darling.”

  Sophie considered a retort, because his tone was rather annoying, but he did have a point. She did rather enjoy trying to find a match for Posy, and she was definitely enjoying her obvious success.

  “You know,” Benedict said thoughtfully, “we might have a daughter someday.”

  Sophie turned to him. He wasn’t normally one for such non sequiturs. “I beg your pardon?”

  He gestured to the lovebirds on the lawn. “Just that this could be excellent practice for me. I’m quite certain I wish to be an overbearingly protective father. I could storm out and tear him apart from limb to limb.”

  Sophie winced. Poor Mr. Woodson wouldn’t stand a chance.

  “Challenge him to a duel?”

  She shook her head.

  “Very well, but if he lowers her to the ground, I am interceding.”

  “He won’t— Oh dear heavens!” Sophie leaned forward, her face nearly to the glass. “Oh my God.”

  And she didn’t even cover her mouth in horror at having blasphemed.

  Benedict sighed, then flexed his fingers. “I really don’t want to injure my hands. I’m halfway through your portrait, and it’s going so well.”

  Sophie had one hand on his arm, holding him back even though he wasn’t really moving anywhere. “No,” she said, “don’t—” She gasped. “Oh, my. Maybe we should do something.”

  “They’re not on the ground yet.”

  “Benedict!”

  “Normally I’d say to call the priest,” he remarked, “except that seems to be what got us into this mess in the first place.”

  Sophie swallowed. “Perhaps you can
procure a special license for them? As a wedding gift?”

  He grinned. “Consider it done.”

  It was a splendid wedding. And that kiss at the end . . .

  No one was surprised when Posy produced a baby nine months later, and then at yearly intervals after that. She took great care in the naming of her brood, and Mr. Woodson, who was as beloved a vicar as he’d been in every other stage of his life, adored her too much to argue with any of her choices.

  First there was Sophia, for obvious reasons, and then Benedict. The next would have been Violet, except that Sophie begged her not to. She’d always wanted the name for her daughter, and it would be far too confusing with the families living so close. So Posy went with Georgette, after Hugh’s mother, whom she thought had just the nicest smile.

  After that was John, after Hugh’s father. For quite some time it appeared that he would remain the baby of the family. After giving birth every June for four years in a row, Posy stopped getting pregnant. She wasn’t doing anything differently, she confided in Sophie; she and Hugh were still very much in love. It just seemed that her body had decided it was through with childbearing.

  Which was just as well. With two girls and two boys, all in the single digits, she had her hands full.

  But then, when John was five, Posy rose from bed one morning and threw up on the floor. It could only mean one thing, and the following autumn, she delivered a girl.

  Sophie was present at the birth, as she always was. “What shall you name her?” she asked.

  Posy looked down at the perfect little creature in her arms. It was sleeping quite soundly, and even though she knew that newborns did not smile, the baby really did look as if it were rather pleased about something.

  Maybe about being born. Maybe this one was going to attack life with a smile. Good humor would be her weapon of choice.

  What a splendid human being she would be.

  “Araminta,” Posy said suddenly.

  Sophie nearly fell over from the shock of it. “What?”

  “I want to name her Araminta. I’m quite certain.” Posy stroked the baby’s cheek, then touched her gently under the chin.

  Sophie could not seem to stop shaking her head. “But your mother . . . I can’t believe you would—”

  “I’m not naming her for my mother,” Posy cut in gently. “I’m naming her because of my mother. It’s different.”