An Offer from a Gentleman with 2nd Epilogue (4 page)

It was nothing but a dream, but it had been so terribly long since she'd let herself dream.

Banishing all caution, she allowed him to lead her out of the ballroom. He walked quickly, even as he wove through the pulsing crowd, and she found herself laughing as she tripped along after him.

“Why is it,” he said, halting for a moment when they reached the hall outside the ballroom, “that you always seem to be laughing at me?”

She laughed again; she couldn't help it. “I'm happy,” she said with a helpless shrug. “I'm just so happy to be here.”

“And why is that? A ball such as this must be routine for one such as yourself.”

Sophie grinned. If he thought she was a member of the
ton
, an alumna of dozens of balls and parties, then she must be playing her role to perfection.

He touched the corner of her mouth. “You keep smiling,” he murmured.

“I like to smile.”

His hand found her waist, and he pulled her toward him. The distance between their bodies remained respectable, but the increasing nearness robbed her of breath.

“I like to watch you smile,” he said. His words were low and seductive, but there was something oddly hoarse about his voice, and Sophie could almost let herself believe that he really meant it, that she wasn't merely that evening's conquest.

But before she could respond, an accusing voice from down the hall suddenly called out, “There you are!”

Sophie's stomach lurched well into her throat. She'd been found out. She'd be thrown into the street, and tomorrow probably into jail for stealing Araminta's shoes, and—

And the man who'd called out had reached her side and was saying to her mysterious gentleman, “Mother has been
looking all over for you. You weaseled out of your dance with Penelope, and
I
had to take your place.”

“So sorry,” her gentleman murmured.

That didn't seem to be enough of an apology for the newcomer, because he scowled mightily as he said, “If you flee the party and leave me to that pack of she-devil debutantes, I swear I shall exact revenge to my dying day.”

“A chance I'm willing to take,” her gentleman said.

“Well, I covered up for you with Penelope,” the other man grumbled. “You're just lucky that I happened to be standing by. The poor girl's heart looked broken when you turned away.”

Sophie's gentleman had the grace to blush. “Some things are unavoidable, I'm afraid.”

Sophie looked from one man to the other. Even under their demi-masks, it was more than obvious that they were brothers, and she realized in a blinding flash that they must be the Bridgerton brothers, and this must be their house, and—

Oh, good Lord, had she made a total and utter fool of herself by asking him how he knew of a private terrace?

But which brother was he? Benedict. He had to be Benedict. Sophie sent a silent thank-you to Lady Whistledown, who'd once written a column completely devoted to the task of telling the Bridgerton siblings apart. Benedict, she recalled, had been singled out as the tallest.

The man who made her heart flip in triple time stood a good inch above his brother—

—who Sophie suddenly realized was looking at her quite intently.

“I see why you departed,” Colin said (for he must be Colin; he certainly wasn't Gregory, who was only fourteen, and Anthony was married, so he wouldn't care if Benedict fled the party and left him to fend off the debutantes by himself.) He looked at Benedict with a sly expression. “Might I request an introduction?”

Benedict raised a brow. “You can try your best, but I
doubt you'll meet with success. I haven't learned her name yet myself.”

“You haven't asked,” Sophie could not help pointing out.

“And would you tell me if I did?”

“I'd tell you
some
thing,” she returned.

“But not the truth.”

She shook her head. “This isn't a night for truth.”

“My favorite kind of night,” Colin said in a jaunty voice.

“Don't you have somewhere to
be
?” Benedict asked.

Colin shook his head. “I'm sure Mother would prefer that I
be
in the ballroom, but it's not exactly a requirement.”

“
I
require it,” Benedict returned.

Sophie felt a giggle bubbling in her throat.

“Very well,” Colin sighed. “I shall take myself off.”

“Excellent,” Benedict said.

“All alone, to face the ravenous wolves . . .”

“Wolves?” Sophie queried.

“Eligible young ladies,” Colin clarified. “A pack of ravenous wolves, the lot of them. Present company excluded, of course.”

Sophie thought it best not to point out that she was not an “eligible young lady” at all.

“My mother—” Colin began.

Benedict groaned.

“—would like nothing better than to see my dear elder brother married off.” He paused and pondered his words. “Except, perhaps, to see
me
married off.”

“If only to get you out of the house,” Benedict said dryly.

This time Sophie
did
giggle.

“But then again, he's considerably more ancient,” Colin continued, “so perhaps we should send him to the gallows—er, altar first.”

“Do you have a
point
?” Benedict growled.

“None whatsoever,” Colin admitted. “But then again, I rarely do.”

Benedict turned to Sophie. “He speaks the truth.”

“So then,” Colin said to Sophie with a grand flourish of his arm, “will you take pity on my poor, long-suffering mother and chase my dear brother up the aisle?”

“Well, he hasn't asked,” Sophie said, trying to join the humor of the moment.

“How much have you had to drink?” Benedict grumbled.

“Me?” Sophie queried.

“Him.”

“Nothing at all,” Colin said jovially, “but I'm thinking quite seriously of remedying that. In fact, it might be the only thing that will make this eve bearable.”

“If the procurement of drink removes you from my presence,” Benedict said, “then it will certainly be the only thing that will make
my
night bearable as well.”

Colin grinned, gave a jaunty salute, and was gone.

“It's nice to see two siblings who love each other so well,” Sophie murmured.

Benedict, who had been staring somewhat menacingly at the doorway through which his brother had just disappeared, snapped his attention back to her. “You call
that
love?”

Sophie thought of Rosamund and Posy, who were forever sniping at each other, and not in jest. “I do,” she said firmly. “It's obvious you would lay your life down for him. And vice versa.”

“I suppose you're right.” Benedict let out a beleaguered sigh, then ruined the effect by smiling. “Much as it pains me to admit it.” He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms and looking terribly sophisticated and urbane. “So tell me,” he said, “have you any siblings?”

Sophie pondered that question for a moment, then gave a decisive, “No.”

One of his brows rose into a curiously arrogant arch. He cocked his head very slightly to the side as he said, “I find myself rather curious as to why it took you so long to determine the answer to that question. One would think the answer would be an easy one to reach.”

Sophie looked away for a moment, not wanting him to see the pain that she knew must show in her eyes. She had always wanted a family. In fact, there was nothing in life she had ever wanted more. Her father had never recognized her as his daughter, even in private, and her mother had died at her birth. Araminta treated her like the plague, and Rosamund and Posy had certainly never been sisters to her. Posy had occasionally been a friend, but even she spent most of the day asking Sophie to mend her dress, or style her hair, or polish her shoes . . .

And in all truth, even though Posy asked rather than ordered, as her sister and mother did, Sophie didn't exactly have the option of saying no.

“I am an only child,” Sophie finally said.

“And that is all you're going to say on the subject,” Benedict murmured.

“And that is all I'm going to say on the subject,” she agreed.

“Very well.” He smiled, a lazy masculine sort of smile. “What, then, am I permitted to ask you?”

“Nothing, really.”

“Nothing at all?”

“I suppose I might be induced to tell you that my favorite color is green, but beyond that I shall leave you with no clues to my identity.”

“Why so many secrets?”

“If I answered that,” Sophie said with an enigmatic smile, truly warming to her role as a mysterious stranger, “then that would be the end of my secrets, wouldn't it?”

He leaned forward ever so slightly. “You could always develop new secrets.”

Sophie backed up a step. His gaze had grown hot, and she had heard enough talk in the servants' quarters to know what that meant. Thrilling as that was, she was not quite as daring as she pretended to be. “This entire night,” she said, “is secret enough.”

“Then ask me a question,” he said. “I have no secrets.”

Her eyes widened. “None? Truly? Doesn't everyone have secrets?”

“Not I. My life is hopelessly banal.”

“
That
I find difficult to believe.”

“It's true,” he said with a shrug. “I've never seduced an innocent, or even a married lady, I have no gambling debts, and my parents were completely faithful to one another.”

Meaning he wasn't a bastard. Somehow the thought brought an ache to Sophie's throat. Not, of course, because he was legitimate, but rather because she knew he would never pursue her—at least not in an honorable fashion—if he knew that she wasn't.

“You haven't asked me a question,” he reminded her.

Sophie blinked in surprise. She hadn't thought he'd been serious. “A-all right,” she half stammered, caught off guard. “What, then, is your favorite color?”

He grinned. “You're going to waste your question on that?”

“I only get one question?”

“More than fair, considering you're granting me none.” Benedict leaned forward, his dark eyes glinting. “And the answer is blue.”

“Why?”

“Why?” he echoed.

“Yes, why? Is it because of the ocean? Or the sky? Or perhaps just because you like it?”

Benedict eyed her curiously. It seemed such an odd question—
why
his favorite color was blue. Everyone else would have taken blue for an answer and left it at that. But this woman—whose name he still didn't even know—went deeper, beyond the whats and into the whys.

“Are you a painter?” he queried.

She shook her head. “Just curious.”

“Why is your favorite color green?”

She sighed, and her eyes grew nostalgic. “The grass, I
suppose, and maybe the leaves. But mostly the grass. The way it feels when one runs barefoot in the summer. The smell of it after the gardeners have gone through with their scythes and trimmed it even.”

“What does the feel and smell of grass have to do with the color?”

“Nothing, I suppose. And maybe everything. I used to live in the country, you see . . .” She caught herself. She hadn't meant to tell him even that much, but there didn't seem to be harm in his knowing such an innocent fact.

“And you were happier there?” he asked quietly.

She nodded, a faint rush of awareness shivering across her skin. Lady Whistledown must never have had a conversation with Benedict Bridgerton beyond the superficial, because she'd never written that he was quite the most perceptive man in London. When he looked into her eyes, Sophie had the oddest sense that he could see straight into her soul.

“You must enjoy walking in the park, then,” he said.

“Yes,” Sophie lied. She never had time to go to the park. Araminta didn't even give her a day off like the other servants received.

“We shall have to take a stroll together,” Benedict said.

Sophie avoided a reply by reminding him, “You never did tell me why your favorite color is blue.”

His head cocked slightly to the side, and his eyes narrowed just enough so that Sophie knew that he had noticed her evasion. But he simply said, “I don't know. Perhaps, like you, I'm reminded of something I miss. There is a lake at Aubrey Hall—that is where I grew up, in Kent—but the water always seemed more gray than blue.”

“It probably reflects the sky,” Sophie commented.

“Which is, more often than not, more gray than blue,” Benedict said with a laugh. “Perhaps that is what I miss—blue skies and sunshine.”

“If it weren't raining,” Sophie said with a smile, “this wouldn't be England.”

“I went to Italy once,” Benedict said. “The sun shone constantly.”

“It sounds like heaven.”

“You'd think,” he said. “But I found myself missing the rain.”

“I can't believe it,” she said with a laugh. “I feel like I spend half my life staring out the window and grumbling at the rain.”

“If it were gone, you'd miss it.”

Sophie grew pensive. Were there things in her life she'd miss if they were gone? She wouldn't miss Araminta, that was for certain, and she wouldn't miss Rosamund. She'd probably miss Posy, and she'd definitely miss the way the sun shone through the window in her attic room in the mornings. She'd miss the way the servants laughed and joked and occasionally included her in their fun, even though they all knew she was the late earl's bastard.

But she wasn't going to miss these things—she wouldn't even have the opportunity to miss them—because she wasn't going anywhere. After this evening—this one amazing, wonderful, magical evening—it would be back to life as usual.

She supposed that if she were stronger, braver, she'd have left Penwood House years ago. But would that have really made much difference? She might not like living with Araminta, but she wasn't likely to improve her lot in life by leaving. She might have liked to have been a governess, and she was certainly well qualified for the position, but jobs were scarce for those without references, and Araminta certainly wasn't going to give her one.