An Offer from a Gentleman with 2nd Epilogue (3 page)

“Ooof!”

Sophie looked up to see Rosamund crashing into Posy, who was barreling through the door.

“Watch where you're going, Posy!” Rosamund snapped.

“You could watch where you're going, too,” Posy pointed out.

“I
was
watching. It's impossible to get out of
your
way, you big oaf.”

Posy's cheeks stained red, and she stepped aside.

“Did you need something, Posy?” Sophie asked, as soon as Rosamund had disappeared.

Posy nodded. “Could you set aside a little extra time to dress my hair tonight? I found some green ribbons that look a little like seaweed.”

Sophie let out a long breath. The dark green ribbons weren't likely to show up very well against Posy's dark hair, but she didn't have the heart to point that out. “I'll try, Posy, but I have to mend Rosamund's dress and alter your mother's.”

“Oh.” Posy looked crestfallen. It nearly broke Sophie's heart. Posy was the only person who was even halfway nice to her in Araminta's household, save for the servants. “Don't worry,” she assured her. “I'll make sure your hair is lovely no matter how much time we have.”

“Oh, thank you, Sophie! I—”

“Haven't you gotten started on my gown yet?” Araminta thundered as she returned from the washroom.

Sophie gulped. “I was talking with Rosamund and Posy. Rosamund tore her gown and—”

“Just get to work!”

“I will. Immediately.” Sophie plopped down on the settee and turned the gown inside out so that she could take in the waist. “Faster than immediately,” she muttered. “Faster than a hummingbird's wings. Faster than—”

“What are you chattering about?” Araminta demanded.

“Nothing.”

“Well, cease your prattle immediately. I find the sound of your voice particularly grating.”

Sophie ground her teeth together.

“Mama,” Posy said, “Sophie is going to dress my hair tonight like—”

“Of course she's going to dress your hair. Quit your dillydallying this minute and go put compresses on your eyes so they don't look so puffy.”

Posy's face fell. “My eyes are puffy?”

Sophie shook her head on the off chance that Posy decided to look down at her.

“Your eyes are always puffy,” Araminta replied. “Don't you think so, Rosamund?”

Posy and Sophie both turned toward the door. Rosamund had just entered, carrying her Marie Antoinette gown. “Always,” she agreed. “But a compress will help, I'm sure.”

“You look stunning tonight,” Araminta told Rosamund. “And you haven't even started getting ready. That gold in your gown is an exquisite match to your hair.”

Sophie shot a sympathetic look at the dark-haired Posy, who never received such compliments from her mother.

“You shall snare one of those Bridgerton brothers,” Araminta continued. “I'm sure of it.”

Rosamund looked down demurely. It was an expression she'd perfected, and Sophie had to admit it looked lovely on her. But then again, most everything looked lovely on Rosamund. Her golden hair and blue eyes were all the rage that year, and thanks to the generous dowry settled upon her by the late earl, it was widely assumed that she would make a brilliant match before the season was through.

Sophie glanced back over at Posy, who was staring at her mother with a sad, wistful expression. “You look lovely, too, Posy,” Sophie said impulsively.

Posy's eyes lit up. “Do you think so?”

“Absolutely. And your gown is terribly original. I'm sure there won't be any other mermaids.”

“How would you know, Sophie?” Rosamund asked with a laugh. “It's not as if you've ever been out in society.”

“I'm sure you'll have a lovely time, Posy,” Sophie said
pointedly, ignoring Rosamund's jibe. “I'm terribly jealous. I do wish I could go.”

Sophie's little sigh and wish was met with absolute silence . . . followed by the raucous laughter of both Araminta and Rosamund. Even Posy giggled a bit.

“Oh, that's rich,” Araminta said, barely able to catch her breath. “Little Sophie at the Bridgerton ball. They don't allow bastards out in society, you know.”

“I didn't say I expected to go,” Sophie said defensively, “just that I wish I
could
.”

“Well, you shouldn't even bother doing that,” Rosamund chimed in. “If you wish for things you can't possibly hope for, you're only going to be disappointed.”

But Sophie didn't hear what she had to say, because in that moment, the oddest thing happened. As she was turning her head toward Rosamund, she caught sight of the housekeeper standing in the doorway. It was Mrs. Gibbons, who had come up from Penwood Park in the country when the town housekeeper had passed away. And when Sophie's eyes met hers, she winked.

Winked!

Sophie didn't think she'd ever seen Mrs. Gibbons wink.

“Sophie! Sophie! Are you listening to me?”

Sophie turned a distracted eye toward Araminta. “I'm sorry,” she murmured. “You were saying?”

“I was saying,” Araminta said in a nasty voice, “that you had better get to work on my gown this instant. If we are late for the ball,
you
will answer for it tomorrow.”

“Yes, of course,” Sophie said quickly. She jabbed her needle into the fabric and started sewing but her mind was still on Mrs. Gibbons.

A wink?

Why on earth would she wink?

T
hree hours later, Sophie was standing on the front steps of Penwood House, watching first Araminta, then Rosamund,
then Posy each take the footman's hand and climb up into the carriage. Sophie waved at Posy, who waved back, then watched the carriage roll down the street and disappear around the corner. It was barely six blocks to Bridgerton House, where the masquerade was to be held, but Araminta would have insisted upon the carriage if they'd lived right next door.

It was important to make a grand entrance, after all.

With a sigh, Sophie turned around and made her way back up the steps. At least Araminta had, in the excitement of the moment, forgotten to leave her with a list of tasks to complete while she was gone. A free evening was a luxury indeed. Perhaps she'd reread a novel. Or maybe she could find today's edition of
Whistledown
. She'd thought she'd seen Rosamund take it into her room earlier that afternoon.

But as Sophie stepped through the front door of Penwood House, Mrs. Gibbons materialized as if from nowhere and grabbed her arm. “There's no time to lose!” the housekeeper said.

Sophie looked at her as if she'd lost her mind. “I beg your pardon?”

Mrs. Gibbons tugged at her elbow. “Come with me.”

Sophie allowed herself to be led up the three flights of stairs to her room, a tiny little chamber tucked under the eaves. Mrs. Gibbons was acting in a most peculiar manner, but Sophie humored her and followed along. The housekeeper had always treated her with exceptional kindness, even when it was clear that Araminta disapproved.

“You'll need to get undressed,” Mrs. Gibbons said as she grasped the doorknob.

“What?”

“We really must rush.”

“Mrs. Gibbons, you . . .” Sophie's mouth fell open, and her words trailed off as she took in the scene in her bedroom. A steaming tub of water lay right in the center, and all three
housemaids were bustling about. One was pouring a pitcher of water into the tub, another was fiddling with the lock on a rather mysterious-looking trunk, and the third was holding a towel and saying, “Hurry! Hurry!”

Sophie cast bewildered eyes at the lot of them. “What is going on?”

Mrs. Gibbons turned to her and beamed. “You, Miss Sophia Maria Beckett, are going to the masquerade!”

O
ne hour later, Sophie was transformed. The trunk had held dresses belonging to the late earl's mother. They were all fifty years out of date, but that was no matter. The ball was a masquerade; no one expected the gowns to be of the latest styles.

At the very bottom of the trunk they'd found an exquisite creation of shimmering silver, with a tight, pearl-encrusted bodice and the flared skirts that had been so popular during the previous century. Sophie felt like a princess just touching it. It was a bit musty from its years in the trunk, and one of the maids quickly took it outside to dab a bit of rosewater on the fabric and air it out.

She'd been bathed and perfumed, her hair had been dressed, and one of the housemaids had even applied a touch of rouge to her lips. “Don't tell Miss Rosamund,” the maid had whispered. “I nicked it from her collection.”

“Ooooh, look,” Mrs. Gibbons said. “I found matching gloves.”

Sophie looked up to see the housekeeper holding up a pair of long, elbow-length gloves. “Look,” she said, taking one from Mrs. Gibbons and examining it. “The Penwood crest. And it's monogrammed. Right at the hem.”

Mrs. Gibbons turned over the one in her hand. “SLG. Sarah Louisa Gunningworth. Your grandmother.”

Sophie looked at her in surprise. Mrs. Gibbons had never referred to the earl as her father. No one at Penwood Park
had ever verbally acknowledged Sophie's blood ties to the Gunningworth family.

“Well, she
is
your grandmother,” Mrs. Gibbons declared. “We've all danced around the issue long enough. It's a crime the way Rosamund and Posy are treated like daughters of the house, and you, the earl's true blood, must sweep and serve like a maid!”

The three housemaids nodded in agreement.

“Just once,” Mrs. Gibbons said, “for just one night,
you
will be the belle of the ball.” With a smile on her face, she slowly turned Sophie around until she was facing the mirror.

Sophie's breath caught. “Is that me?”

Mrs. Gibbons nodded, her eyes suspiciously bright. “You look lovely, dearling,” she whispered.

Sophie's hand moved slowly up to her hair.

“Don't muss it!” one of the maids yelped.

“I won't,” Sophie promised, her smile wobbling a bit as she fought back a tear. A touch of shimmery powder had been sprinkled onto her hair, so that she sparkled like a fairy princess. Her dark blond curls had been swept atop her head in a loose topknot, with one thick lock allowed to slide down the length of her neck. And her eyes, normally moss green, shone like emeralds.

Although Sophie suspected that might have had more to do with her unshed tears than anything else.

“Here is your mask,” Mrs. Gibbons said briskly. It was a demi-mask, the sort that tied at the back so that Sophie would not have to use one of her hands to hold it up. “Now all we need are shoes.”

Sophie glanced ruefully at her serviceable and ugly work shoes that sat in the corner. “I have nothing suitable for such finery, I'm afraid.”

The housemaid who had rouged Sophie's lips held up a pair of white slippers. “From Rosamund's closet,” she said.

Sophie slid her right foot into one of the slippers and just as quickly slid it back out. “It's much too big,” she said,
glancing up at Mrs. Gibbons. “I'll never be able to walk in them.”

Mrs. Gibbons turned to the maid. “Fetch a pair from Posy's closet.”

“Hers are even bigger,” Sophie said. “I know. I've cleaned enough scuff marks from them.”

Mrs. Gibbons let out a long sigh. “There's nothing for it, then. We shall have to raid Araminta's collection.”

Sophie shuddered. The thought of walking anywhere in Araminta's shoes was somewhat creepy. But it was either that or go without, and she didn't think that bare feet would be acceptable at a fancy London masquerade.

A few minutes later the maid returned with a pair of white satin slippers, stitched in silver and adorned with exquisite faux-diamond rosettes.

Sophie was still apprehensive about wearing Araminta's shoes, but she slipped one of her feet in, anyway. It fit perfectly.

“And they match, too,” one of the maids said, pointing to the silver stitching. “As if they were made for the dress.”

“We don't have time for admiring shoes,” Mrs. Gibbons suddenly said. “Now listen to these instructions very carefully. The coachman has returned from taking the countess and her girls, and he will take you to Bridgerton House. But he has to be waiting outside when they wish to depart, which means you must leave by midnight and not a second later. Do you understand?”

Sophie nodded and looked at the clock on the wall. It was a bit after nine, which meant she'd have more than two hours at the masquerade. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Oh, thank you so much.”

Mrs. Gibbons dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “You just have a good time, dearling. That's all the thanks I need.”

Sophie looked again at the clock. Two hours.

Two hours that she'd have to make last a lifetime.

The Bridgertons are truly a unique family. Surely there cannot be anyone in London who does not know that they all look remarkably alike, or that they are famously named in alphabetical order: Anthony, Benedict, Colin, Daphne, Eloise, Francesca, Gregory, and Hyacinth.

It does make one wonder what the late viscount and (still very-much alive) dowager viscountess would have named their next child had their offspring numbered nine. Imogen? Inigo?

Perhaps it is best they stopped at eight.

L
ADY
W
HISTLEDOWN'S
S
OCIETY
P
APERS
, 2 J
UNE
1815

B
enedict Bridgerton was the second of eight children, but sometimes it felt more like a hundred.

This ball his mother had insisted upon hosting was supposed to be a masquerade, and Benedict had dutifully donned a black demi-mask, but everyone knew who he was. Or rather, they all
almost
knew.

“A Bridgerton!” they would exclaim, clapping their hands together with glee.

“You must be a Bridgerton!”

“A Bridgerton! I can spot a Bridgerton anywhere.”

Benedict was a Bridgerton, and while there was no family to which he'd rather belong, he sometimes wished he were considered a little less a Bridgerton and a little more himself.

Just then, a woman of somewhat indeterminate age dressed as a shepherdess sauntered over. “A Bridgerton!” she trilled. “I'd recognize that chestnut hair anywhere. Which are you? No, don't say. Let me guess. You're not the viscount, because I just saw him. You must be Number Two or Number Three.”

Benedict eyed her coolly.

“Which one? Number Two or Number Three?”

“Two,” he bit off.

She clapped her hands together. “That's what I thought! Oh, I must find Portia. I told her you were Number Two—”

Benedict,
he nearly growled.

“—but she said, no, he's the younger one, but I—”

Benedict suddenly had to get away. It was either that or kill the twittering ninnyhammer, and with so many witnesses, he didn't think he could get away with it. “If you'll excuse me,” he said smoothly. “I see someone with whom I must speak.”

It was a lie, but he didn't much care. With a curt nod toward the overage shepherdess, he made a beeline toward the ballroom's side door, eager to escape the throng and sneak into his brother's study, where he might find some blessed peace and quiet and perhaps a glass of fine brandy.

“Benedict!”

Damn. He'd nearly made a clean escape. He looked up to see his mother hurrying toward him. She was dressed in some sort of Elizabethan costume. He supposed she was meant to be a character in one of Shakespeare's plays, but for the life of him, he had no idea which.

“What can I do for you, Mother?” he asked. “And don't say ‘Dance with Hermione Smythe-Smith.' Last time I did that I nearly lost three toes in the process.”

“I wasn't going to ask anything of the sort,” Violet replied. “I was going to ask you to dance with Prudence Featherington.”

“Have mercy, Mother,” he moaned. “She's even worse.”

“I'm not asking you to marry the chit,” she said. “Just dance with her.”

Benedict fought a groan. Prudence Featherington, while essentially a nice person, had a brain the size of a pea and a laugh so grating he'd seen grown men flee with their hands over their ears. “I'll tell you what,” he wheedled. “I'll dance with Penelope Featherington if you keep Prudence at bay.”

“That'll do,” his mother said with a satisfied nod, leaving Benedict with the sinking sensation that she'd wanted him to dance with Penelope all along.

“She's over there by the lemonade table,” Violet said, “dressed as a leprechaun, poor thing. The color is good for her, but someone really must take her mother in hand next time they venture out to the dressmaker. A more unfortunate costume, I can't imagine.”

“You obviously haven't seen the mermaid,” Benedict murmured.

She swatted him lightly on the arm. “No poking fun at the guests.”

“But they make it so easy.”

She shot him a look of warning before saying, “I'm off to find your sister.”

“Which one?”

“One of the ones who isn't married,” Violet said pertly. “Viscount Guelph might be interested in that Scottish girl, but they aren't betrothed yet.”

Benedict silently wished Guelph luck. The poor bloke was going to need it.

“And thank you for dancing with Penelope,” Violet said pointedly.

He gave her a rather ironic half smile. They both knew that her words were meant as a reminder, not as thanks.

His arms crossed in a somewhat forbidding stance, he watched his mother depart before drawing a long breath and turning to make his way to the lemonade table. He adored his mother to distraction, but she did tend to err on the side of meddlesome when it came to the social lives of her children. And if there was one thing that bothered her even more than Benedict's unmarried state, it was the sight of a young girl's glum face when no one asked her to dance. As a result, Benedict spent a lot of time on the ballroom floor, sometimes with girls she wanted him to marry, but more often with the overlooked wallflowers.

Of the two, he rather thought he preferred the wallflowers. The popular girls tended to be shallow and, to be frank, just a little bit dull.

His mother had always had a particular soft spot for Penelope Featherington, who was on her . . . Benedict frowned. On her
third
season? It must be her third. And with no marriage prospects in sight. Ah, well. He might as well do his duty. Penelope was a nice enough girl, with a decent wit and personality. Someday she'd find herself a husband. It wouldn't be
him
, of course, and in all honesty it probably wouldn't be anyone he even knew, but surely she'd find
some
one.

With a sigh, Benedict started to make his way toward the lemonade table. He could practically taste that brandy, smooth and mellow in his mouth, but he supposed that a glass of lemonade would tide him over for a few minutes.

“Miss Featherington!” he called out, trying not to shudder when three Miss Featheringtons turned around. With what he knew could not possibly be anything but the weakest of smiles, he added, “Er, Penelope, that is.”

From about ten feet away, Penelope beamed at him, and Benedict was reminded that he actually
liked
Penelope Featherington. Truly, she wouldn't be considered so antidotal if she weren't always lumped together with her unfortunate
sisters, who could easily make a grown man wish himself aboard a ship to Australia.

He'd nearly closed the gap between them when he heard a low rumble of whispers rippling across the ballroom behind him. He knew he ought to keep going and get this duty-dance over with, but God help him, his curiosity got the best of him and he turned around.

And found himself facing what had to be the most breathtaking woman he'd ever seen.

He couldn't even tell if she was beautiful. Her hair was a rather ordinary dark blond, and with her mask tied securely around her head he couldn't even see half of her face.

But there was something about her that held him mesmerized. It was her smile, the shape of her eyes, the way she held herself and looked about the ballroom as if she'd never seen a more glorious sight than the silly members of the
ton
all dressed up in ridiculous costumes.

Her beauty came from within.

She shimmered. She glowed.

She was utterly radiant, and Benedict suddenly realized that it was because she looked so damned
happy
. Happy to be where she was, happy to be
who
she was.

Happy in a way Benedict could barely remember. His was a good life, it was true, maybe even a great life. He had seven wonderful siblings, a loving mother, and scores of friends. But this woman—

This woman knew joy.

And Benedict had to know
her
.

Penelope forgotten, he pushed his way through the crowd until he was but a few steps from her side. Three other gentlemen had beaten him to his destination and were presently showering her with flattery and praise. Benedict watched her with interest; she did not react as any woman of his acquaintance might.

She did not act coy. Nor did she act as if she expected their compliments as her due. Nor was she shy, or tittering,
or arch, or ironic, or any of those things one might expect from a woman.

She just smiled. Beamed, actually. Benedict supposed that compliments were meant to bring a measure of happiness to the receiver, but never had he seen a woman react with such pure, unadulterated joy.

He stepped forward. He wanted that joy for himself.

“Excuse me, gentlemen, but the lady has already promised this dance to me,” he lied.

Her mask's eye-holes were cut a bit large, and he could see that her eyes widened considerably, then crinkled with amusement. He held out his hand to her, silently daring her to call his bluff.

But she just smiled at him, a wide, radiant grin that pierced his skin and traveled straight to his soul. She put her hand in his, and it was only then that Benedict realized he'd been holding his breath.

“Have you permission to dance the waltz?” he murmured once they reached the dance floor.

She shook her head. “I do not dance.”

“You jest.”

“I'm afraid I do not. The truth is—” She leaned forward and with a glimmer of a smile said, “I don't know how.”

He looked at her with surprise. She moved with an inborn grace, and furthermore, what gently bred lady could reach her age without learning how to dance? “There is only one thing to do, then,” he murmured. “I shall teach you.”

Her eyes widened, then her lips parted, and a surprised laugh burst forth.

“What,” he asked, trying to sound serious, “is so funny?”

She grinned at him—the sort of grin one expects from an old school chum, not a debutante at a ball. Still smiling, she said, “Even I know that one does not conduct dancing lessons at a ball.”

“What does that mean, I wonder,” he murmured,
“even you?”

She said nothing.

“I shall have to take the upper hand, then,” he said, “and force you to do my bidding.”

“Force me?”

But she was smiling as she said it, so he knew she took no offense, and he said, “It would be ungentlemanly of me to allow this sorrowful state of affairs to continue.”

“Sorrowful, you say?”

He shrugged. “A beautiful lady who cannot dance. It seems a crime against nature.”

“If I allow you to teach me . . .”

“
When
you allow me to teach you.”

“
If
I allow you to teach me, where shall you conduct the lesson?”

Benedict lifted his chin and scanned the room. It wasn't difficult to see over the heads of most of the partygoers; at an inch above six feet, he was one of the tallest men in the room. “We shall have to retire to the terrace,” he said finally.

“The terrace?” she echoed. “Won't it be terribly crowded? It's a warm night, after all.”

He leaned forward. “Not the
private
terrace.”

“The private terrace, you say?” she asked, amusement in her voice. “And how, pray tell, would you know of a private terrace?”

Benedict stared at her in shock. Could she possibly not know who he was? It wasn't that he held such a high opinion of himself that he expected all of London to be aware of his identity. It was just that he was a Bridgerton, and if a person met one Bridgerton, that generally meant he could recognize another. And as there was no one in London who had not crossed paths with one Bridgerton or another, Benedict was generally recognized everywhere. Even, he thought ruefully, when that recognition was simply as “Number Two.”

“You did not answer my question,” his mystery lady reminded him.

“About the private terrace?” Benedict raised her hand to his lips and kissed the fine silk of her glove. “Let us just say that I have my ways.”

She appeared undecided, and so he tugged at her fingers, pulling her closer—only by an inch, but somehow it seemed she was only a kiss away. “Come,” he said. “Dance with me.”

She took a step forward, and he knew his life had been changed forever.

S
ophie hadn't seen him when she'd first walked into the room, but she'd felt magic in the air, and when he'd appeared before her, like some charming prince from a children's tale, she somehow knew that
he
was the reason she'd stolen into the ball.

He was tall, and what she could see of his face was very handsome, with lips that hinted of irony and smiles, and skin that was just barely touched by the beginnings of a beard. His hair was a dark, rich brown, and the flickering candlelight lent it a faint reddish cast.

People seemed to know who he was, as well. Sophie noticed that when he moved, the other partygoers stepped out of his path. And when he'd lied so brazenly and claimed her for a dance, the other men had deferred and stepped away.

He was handsome and he was strong, and for this one night, he was hers.

When the clock struck midnight, she'd be back to her life of drudgery, of mending and washing, and attending to Araminta's every wish. Was she so wrong to want this one heady night of magic and love?

She felt like a princess—a reckless princess—and so when he asked her to dance, she put her hand in his. And even though she knew that this entire evening was a lie, that she was a nobleman's bastard and a countess's maid, that her dress was borrowed and her shoes practically stolen—none of that seemed to matter as their fingers twined.

For a few hours, at least, Sophie could pretend that this
gentleman could be
her
gentleman, and that from this moment on, her life would be changed forever.