An Offer from a Gentleman with 2nd Epilogue (12 page)

Sophie glared at him.

“You'll have plenty of room for breakfast,” he said gamely.

“It's only until I get her clothing cleaned up,” Mrs. Crabtree explained. “But at least it's decent.” She waddled over to Benedict. “How is your breakfast, Mr. Bridgerton?”

“Delicious,” he replied. “I haven't eaten so well in months.”

Mrs. Crabtree leaned forward and whispered, “I like your Sophie. May we keep her?”

Benedict choked. On what, he didn't know, but he choked nonetheless. “I beg your pardon?”

“Mr. Crabtree and I aren't as young as we used to be. We could use another set of hands around here.”

“I, ah, well . . .” He cleared his throat. “I'll think about it.”

“Excellent.” Mrs. Crabtree crossed back to the other side of the room and grabbed Sophie's arm. “You come with me. Your stomach has been growling all morning. When was the last time you ate?”

“Er, sometime yesterday, I should think.”

“When yesterday?” Mrs. Crabtree persisted.

Benedict hid a smile under his napkin. Sophie looked utterly overwhelmed. Mrs. Crabtree tended to do that to a person.

“Er, well, actually—”

Mrs. Crabtree planted her hands on her hips. Benedict grinned. Sophie was in for it now.

“Are you going to tell me that you didn't eat yesterday?” Mrs. Crabtree boomed.

Sophie shot a desperate look at Benedict. He replied with
a don't-look-to-
me
-for-help shrug. Besides, he rather enjoyed watching Mrs. Crabtree fuss over her. He'd be willing to bet that the poor girl hadn't been fussed over in years.

“I was very busy yesterday,” Sophie hedged.

Benedict frowned. She'd probably been busy running from Phillip Cavender and the pack of idiots he called friends.

Mrs. Crabtree shoved Sophie into the seat behind the desk. “Eat,” she ordered.

Benedict watched as Sophie tucked into the food. It was obvious that she was trying to put on her best manners, but eventually hunger must have gotten the best of her, because after a minute she was practically shoveling the food into her mouth.

It was only when Benedict noticed that his jaw was clamped together like a vise that he realized he was absolutely furious. At whom, he wasn't precisely certain. But he did
not
like seeing Sophie so hungry.

They had an odd little bond, he and the housemaid. He'd saved her and she'd saved him. Oh, he doubted his fever from the night before would have killed him; if it had been truly serious, he'd still be battling it now. But she had cared for him and made him comfortable and probably hastened his road to recovery.

“Will you make certain she eats at least another plateful?” Mrs. Crabtree asked Benedict. “I'm going to make up a room for her.”

“In the servants' quarters,” Sophie said quickly.

“Don't be a silly. Until we hire you on, you're not a servant here.”

“But—”

“Nothing more about it,” Mrs. Crabtree interrupted.

“Would you like my help, dearie?” Mr. Crabtree asked.

Mrs. Crabtree nodded, and in a moment the couple was gone.

Sophie paused in her quest to consume as much food as
humanly possible to stare at the door through which they'd just disappeared. She supposed they considered her one of their own, because if she'd been anything but a servant, they'd never have left her alone with Benedict. Reputations could be ruined on far less.

“You didn't eat at all yesterday, did you?” Benedict asked quietly.

Sophie shook her head.

“Next time I see Cavender,” he growled, “I'm going to beat him to a bloody pulp.”

If she were a better person, she would have been horrified, but Sophie couldn't quite prevent a smile at the thought of Benedict further defending her honor. Or of seeing Phillip Cavender with his nose relocated to his forehead.

“Fill up your plate again,” Benedict said. “If only for my sake. I assure you that Mrs. Crabtree counted how many eggs and strips of bacon were on the platter when she left, and she'll have my head if the numbers haven't gone down by the time she returns.”

“She's a very nice lady,” Sophie said, reaching for the eggs. The first plate of food had barely touched upon her hunger; she needed no further urging to eat.

“The best.”

Sophie expertly balanced a slice of ham between a serving fork and spoon and moved it to her plate. “How are you feeling this morning, Mr. Bridgerton?”

“Very well, thank you. Or if not well, then at least a damn sight better than I did last night.”

“I was very worried about you,” she said, spearing a corner of the ham with her fork and then cutting a piece off with her knife.

“It was very kind of you to care for me.”

She chewed, swallowed, then said, “It was nothing, really. Anyone would have done it.”

“Perhaps,” he said, “but not with such grace and good humor.”

Sophie's fork froze in midair. “Thank you,” she said softly. “That is a lovely compliment.”

“I didn't . . . er . . .” He cleared his throat.

Sophie eyed him curiously, waiting for him to finish whatever it was he wanted to say.

“Never mind,” he mumbled.

Disappointed, she put a piece of ham in her mouth.

“I didn't do anything for which I ought to apologize, did I?” he suddenly blurted out.

Sophie spat the ham out into her napkin.

“I'll take that as a yes,” he muttered.

“No!” she said quickly. “Not at all. You merely startled me.”

His eyes narrowed. “You wouldn't lie to me about this, would you?”

Sophie shook her head as she remembered the single, perfect kiss she'd given him. He hadn't done anything that required an apology, but that didn't mean that
she
hadn't.

“You're blushing,” he accused.

“No, I'm not.”

“Yes,” he said, “you are.”

“If I'm blushing,” she replied pertly, “it's because I'm wondering why
you
would think you had any reason to apologize.”

“You have a rather smart mouth for a servant,” he said.

“I'm sorry,” Sophie said quickly. She had to remember her place. But that was hard to do with this man, the one member of the
ton
who had treated her—if only for a few hours—as an equal.

“I meant it as a compliment,” he said. “Do not stifle yourself on my account.”

She said nothing.

“I find you rather . . .” He paused, obviously searching for the correct word. “Refreshing.”

“Oh.” She set her fork down. “Thank you.”

“Have you plans for the rest of the day?” he asked.

She looked down at her huge garments and grimaced. “I thought I'd wait for my clothes to be readied, and then I suppose I'll see if any of the nearby houses are in need of housemaids.”

Benedict scowled at her. “I told you I would find you a position with my mother.”

“And I do appreciate that,” she said quickly. “But I would prefer to stay in the country.”

He shrugged the shrug of one who has never been thrown one of life's great stumbles. “You can work at Aubrey Hall, then. In Kent.”

Sophie chewed on her lower lip. She couldn't exactly come out and say she didn't want to work for his mother because then she'd have to see
him
.

She couldn't think of a torture that would be more exquisitely painful.

“You shouldn't think of me as your responsibility,” she finally said.

He gave her a rather superior glance. “I told you I would find you a new position.”

“But—”

“What could there possibly be to discuss?”

“Nothing,” she grumbled. “Nothing at all.” Clearly, it was no use arguing with him just then.

“Good.” He leaned back contentedly against his pillows. “I'm glad you see it my way.”

Sophie stood. “I should be going.”

“To do what?”

She felt rather stupid as she said, “I don't know.”

He grinned. “Have fun with it, then.”

Her hand tightened around the handle of the serving spoon.

“Don't do it,” he warned.

“Do what?”

“Throw the spoon.”

“I wouldn't dream of it,” she said tightly.

He laughed aloud. “Oh, yes you would. You're dreaming of it right now. You just wouldn't
do
it.”

Sophie's hand was gripping the spoon so hard it shook.

Benedict was chuckling so hard his bed shook.

Sophie stood, still holding the spoon.

Benedict smiled. “Are you planning to take that with you?”

Remember your place
, Sophie was screaming at herself.
Remember your place
.

“Whatever could you be thinking,” Benedict mused, “to look so adorably ferocious? No, don't tell me,” he added. “I'm sure it involves my untimely and painful demise.”

Slowly and carefully, Sophie turned her back to him and put the spoon down on the table. She didn't want to risk any sudden movements. One false move and she knew she'd be hurling it at his head.

Benedict raised his brows approvingly. “That was very mature of you.”

Sophie turned around slowly. “Are you this charming with everyone or only me?”

“Oh, only you.” He grinned. “I shall have to make sure you take me up on my offer to find you employment with my mother. You do bring out the best in me, Miss Sophie Beckett.”

“This is the best?” she asked with obvious disbelief.

“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.

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.

L
ADY
W
HISTLEDOWN'S
S
OCIETY
P
APERS
, 5 M
AY
1817

T
here 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. Then 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.

“I
f 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.