An Offer from a Gentleman with 2nd Epilogue (24 page)

“Mother!”

“Just hear me out. She's a lovely girl . . .”

The gallows indeed.

Miss Posy Reiling (younger step-daughter to the late Earl of Penwood) isn't a frequent subject of this column (nor, This Author is sad to say, a frequent subject of attention at social functions) but one could not help but notice that she was acting very strangely at her mother's musicale on Tuesday eve. She insisted upon sitting by the window, and she spent most of the performance staring at the streetscape, as if looking for something . . . or perhaps someone?

L
ADY
W
HISTLEDOWN'S
S
OCIETY
P
APERS
, 11 J
UNE
1817

F
orty-five minutes later, Benedict was slouching in his chair, his eyes glazed. Every now and then he had to stop and make sure his mouth wasn't hanging open.

His mother's conversation was
that
boring.

The young lady she had wanted to discuss with him had actually turned out to be seven young ladies, each of which she
assured
him was better than the last.

Benedict thought he might go mad. Right there in his mother's sitting room he was going to go stark, raving mad. He'd suddenly pop out of his chair, fall to the floor in a frenzy, his arms and legs waving, mouth frothing—

“Benedict, are you even
listening
to me?”

He looked up and blinked. Damn. Now he would have to focus on his mother's list of possible brides. The prospect of losing his sanity had been infinitely more appealing.

“I was trying to tell you about Mary Edgeware,” Violet said, looking more amused than frustrated.

Benedict was instantly suspicious. When it came to her children dragging their feet to the altar, his mother was never amused. “Mary who?”

“Edge—Oh, never mind. I can see that I cannot compete with whatever is plaguing you just now.”

“Mother,” Benedict said abruptly.

She cocked her head slightly to the side, her eyes intrigued and perhaps a bit surprised. “Yes?”

“When you met Father—”

“It happened in an instant,” she said softly, somehow knowing what he'd meant to ask.

“So you knew that he was the one?”

She smiled, and her eyes took on a faraway, misty look. “Oh, I wouldn't have admitted it,” she said. “At least not right away. I fancied myself a practical sort. I'd always scoffed at the notion of love at first sight.” She paused for a moment, and Benedict knew she was no longer in the room with him, but at some long-ago ball, meeting his father for the first time. Finally, just when he thought she'd completely forgotten the conversation, she looked back up and said, “But I knew.”

“From the first moment you saw him?”

“Well, from the first time we spoke, at least.” She took his offered handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes, smiling sheepishly, as if embarrassed by her tears.

Benedict felt a lump forming in his throat, and he looked away, not wanting her to see the moisture forming in his own eyes. Would anyone cry for him more than a decade after he died? It was a humbling thing to be in the presence of
true love, and Benedict suddenly felt so damned jealous—of his own
parents
.

They'd found love and had the good sense to recognize and cherish it. Few people were so fortunate.

“There was something about his voice that was so soothing, so warm,” Violet continued. “When he spoke, you felt like you were the only person in the room.”

“I remember,” Benedict said with a warm, nostalgic smile. “It was quite a feat, to be able to do that with eight children.”

His mother swallowed convulsively, then said, her voice once again brisk, “Yes, well, he never knew Hyacinth, so I suppose it was only seven.”

“Still . . .”

She nodded. “Still.”

Benedict reached out and patted her on the hand. He didn't know why; he hadn't planned to. But somehow it seemed the right thing to do.

“Yes, well,” she said, giving his hand a little squeeze before returning hers to her lap. “Was there any particular reason you asked about your father?”

“No,” he lied. “At least not . . . Well . . .”

She waited patiently, with that mildly expectant expression that made it impossible to keep one's feelings to oneself.

“What happens,” he asked, as surprised by the words tumbling forth as she undoubtedly was, “when one falls in love with someone unsuitable?”

“Someone unsuitable,” she repeated.

Benedict nodded painfully, immediately regretting his words. He should never have said anything to his mother, and yet . . .

He sighed. His mother had always been a remarkably good listener. And truly, for all her annoying matchmaking ways, she was more qualified to give advice on matters of the heart than anyone he knew.

When she spoke, she appeared to be choosing her words carefully. “What do you mean by unsuitable?”

“Someone . . .” He stopped, paused. “Someone someone like me probably shouldn't marry.”

“Someone perhaps who is not of our social class?”

He glanced at a painting on the wall. “Someone like that.”

“I see. Well . . .” Violet's brow scrunched a bit, then she said, “I suppose it would depend on how far out of our social class this person is.”

“Far.”

“A little bit far or quite a lot far?”

Benedict was convinced that no man of his age and reputation had ever had such a conversation with his mother, but he nonetheless answered, “Quite a lot.”

“I see. Well, I would have to say . . .” She chewed on her lower lip for a moment before continuing. “I would have to say,” she said, slightly more forcefully (although not, if one was judging in absolute terms, forceful at all).

“I would have to say,” she said for a third time, “that I love you very much and will support you in all things.” She cleared her throat. “If indeed we are talking about
you
.”

It seemed useless to deny it, so Benedict just nodded.

“But,” Violet added, “I would caution you to consider what you are doing. Love is, of course, the most important element in any union, but outside influences can put a strain on a marriage. And if you marry someone of, say”—she cleared her throat—“the servant class, then you will find yourself the subject of a great deal of gossip and no small amount of ostracism. And that will be difficult for one such as you to bear.”

“One such as me?” he asked, bristling at her choice of words.

“You must know I mean no insult. But you and your brothers do lead charmed lives. You're handsome, intelligent, personable. Everyone likes you. I cannot tell you how happy that makes me.” She smiled, but it was a wistful, slightly sad smile. “It is not easy to be a wallflower.”

And suddenly Benedict understood why his mother was always forcing him to dance with the girls like Penelope Featherington. The ones who stood at the fringes of the ballroom, the ones who always pretended they didn't actually
want
to dance.

She had been a wallflower herself.

It was difficult to imagine. His mother was hugely popular now, with an easy smile and piles of friends. And if Benedict had heard the story correctly, his father had been considered the catch of the season.

“Only you will be able to make this decision,” Violet continued, bringing Benedict's thoughts back to the here and now, “and I'm afraid it won't be an easy one.”

He stared out the window, his silence his agreement.

“But,” she added, “should you decide to join your life with someone not of our class, I will of course support you in every possible manner.”

Benedict looked up sharply. There were few women of the
ton
who would say the same to their sons.

“You are my son,” she said simply. “I would give my life for you.”

He opened his mouth to speak but was surprised to find that he couldn't make a sound.

“I certainly wouldn't banish you for marrying someone unsuitable.”

“Thank you,” he said. It was all he could manage to say.

Violet sighed, loudly enough to regain his full attention. She looked tired, wistful. “I wish your father were here,” she said.

“You don't say that very often,” he said quietly.

“I always wish your father were here.” She closed her eyes for a brief moment. “Always.”

And then somehow it became clear. As he watched his mother's face, finally realizing—no, finally
understanding
—the depth of his parents' love for one another, it all became clear.

Love. He loved Sophie. That was all that should have mattered.

He'd thought he'd loved the woman from the masquerade. He'd thought he'd wanted to marry her. But he understood now that that had been nothing but a dream, a fleeting fantasy of a woman he barely knew.

But Sophie was . . .

Sophie was Sophie. And that was everything he needed.

S
ophie wasn't a great believer in destiny or fate, but after one hour with Nicholas, Elizabeth, John, and Alice Wentworth, young cousins to the Bridgerton clan, she was beginning to think that maybe there was a reason she had never managed to obtain a position as a governess.

She was exhausted.

No, no, she thought, with more than a touch of desperation. Exhaustion didn't really provide an adequate description for the current state of her existence. Exhaustion didn't quite capture the slight edge of insanity the foursome had brought to her mind.

“No, no, no, that's
my
doll,” Elizabeth said to Alice.

“It's mine,” Alice returned.

“It is not!”

“Is too!”

“I'll settle this,” ten-year-old Nicholas said, swaggering over with his hands on his hips.

Sophie groaned. She had a feeling that it was not a terribly good idea to allow the dispute to be settled by a ten-year-old boy who happened to think he was a pirate.

“Neither of you will want the doll,” he said, with a devious gleam in his eye, “if I simply
lop
off its—”

Sophie leapt to intervene. “You will not lop off its head, Nicholas Wentworth.”

“But then they'll stop—”

“No,”
Sophie said forcefully.

He looked at her, obviously assessing her commitment to
that particular course of action, then grumbled and walked away.

“I think we need a new game,” Hyacinth whispered to Sophie.

“I
know
we need a new game,” Sophie muttered.

“Let go of my soldier!” John screeched. “Let go let go let go!”

“I'm never having children,” Hyacinth announced. “In fact, I may never get married.”

Sophie forbore to point out that when Hyacinth married and had children, she would certainly have a flotilla of nurses and nannies to aid her with their keeping and care.

Hyacinth winced as John pulled Alice's hair, then swallowed uncomfortably as Alice slugged John in the stomach. “The situation is growing desperate,” she whispered to Sophie.

“Blind man's bluff!” Sophie suddenly exclaimed. “What do you think, everyone? How about a game of blind man's bluff?”

Alice and John nodded enthusiastically, and Elizabeth gave a reluctant, “All right,” after carefully considering the issue.

“What do you say, Nicholas?” Sophie asked, addressing the last remaining holdout.

“It could be fun,” he said slowly, terrifying Sophie with the devilish gleam in his eye.

“Excellent,” she said, trying to keep the wariness out of her voice.

“But
you
must be the blind man,” he added.

Sophie opened her mouth to protest, but at that moment, the other three children started jumping up and down and squealing with delight. Then her fate was sealed when Hyacinth turned to her with a sly smile and said, “Oh, you must.”

Sophie knew that protest was useless, so she let out a long-suffering sigh—exaggerated, just to delight the children—and
turned around so that Hyacinth could fasten a scarf over her eyes.

“Can you see?” Nicholas demanded.

“No,” Sophie lied.

He turned to Hyacinth with a grimace. “She can see.”

How could he tell?

“Add a second scarf,” he said. “This one is too sheer.”

“The indignity,” Sophie muttered, but nonetheless, she leaned down slightly so that Hyacinth could tie another scarf over her eyes.

“She's blind now!” John hooted.

Sophie gave them all a sickly-sweet smile.

“All right now,” Nicholas said, clearly in charge. “You wait ten seconds so that we can take our places.”

Sophie nodded, then tried not to wince as she heard the sounds of a mad scramble around the room. “Try not to break anything!” she yelled, as if that would make any difference to an overexcited six-year-old.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

No response. That meant yes.

“Blind Man!” she called out.

“Bluff!”
came five voices in unison.

Sophie frowned in concentration. One of the girls was definitely behind the sofa. She took a few baby steps to the right.

“Blind Man!”

“Bluff!” Followed, of course, by a few titters and chuckles.

“Blind M— OW!”

More hoots and squeals of laughter. Sophie grunted as she rubbed her bruised shin.

“Blind Man!” she called, with considerably less enthusiasm.

“Bluff!”

“Bluff!”

“
BLUFF
!”

“BLUFF!”

“
BLUFF
!”

“You are all mine, Alice,” she muttered under her breath, deciding to go for the smallest and presumably weakest of the bunch. “All mine.”

B
enedict had nearly made a clean escape. After his mother had left the sitting room, he'd downed a much-needed glass of brandy and headed out toward the door, only to be caught by Eloise, who informed him that he absolutely
couldn't
leave yet, that Mother was trying
very
hard to assemble all of her children in one place because Daphne had an
important
announcement to make.