An Offer from a Gentleman with 2nd Epilogue (9 page)

“It's my home,” Cavender shot back, “and she's my maid. And she'll do what I want.”

“I wasn't aware that slavery was legal in this country,” Benedict murmured.

“She has to do what I say!”

“Does she?”

“I'll fire her if she doesn't.”

“Very well,” Benedict said with a tiny quirk of a smile. “Ask her then. Ask the girl if she wants to tup with all three of you. Because that is what you had in mind, isn't it?”

Cavender sputtered as he fought for words.

“Ask her,” Benedict said again, grinning now, mostly because he knew his smile would infuriate the younger man. “And if she says no, you can fire her right here on the spot.”

“I'm not going to ask her,” Cavender whined.

“Well, then, you can't really expect her to do it, can you?” Benedict looked at the girl. She was a fetching thing, with a short bob of light brown curls and eyes that loomed almost too large in her face. “Fine,” he said, sparing a brief glance back at Cavender. “I'll ask her.”

The girl's lips parted slightly, and Benedict had the oddest sensation that they had met before. But that was impossible, unless she'd worked for some other aristocratic family. And even then, he would have only seen her in passing. His taste in women had never run to housemaids, and in all truth, he tended not to notice them.

“Miss . . .” He frowned. “I say, what's your name?”

“Sophie Beckett,” she gasped, sounding as if there were a very large frog caught in her throat.

“Miss Beckett,” he continued, “would you be so kind as to answer the following question?”

“No!” she burst out.

“You're not going to answer?” he asked, his eyes amused.

“No, I do
not
want to tup with these three men!” The words practically exploded from her mouth.

“Well, that seems to settle that,” Benedict said. He glanced up at the man still holding her. “I suggest you release her so that Cavender here may relieve her of employment.”

“And where will she go?” Cavender sneered. “I can assure you she won't work in this district again.”

Sophie turned to Benedict, wondering much the same thing.

Benedict gave a careless shrug. “I'll find her a position in my mother's household.” He looked over at her and raised a brow. “I assume that's acceptable?”

Sophie's mouth dropped open in horrified surprise. He wanted to take her to his
home
?

“That's not quite the reaction I expected,” Benedict said dryly. “It will certainly be more pleasant than your employment here. At the very least, I can assure you you won't be raped. What do you say?”

Sophie glanced frantically at the three men who had intended to rape her. She really didn't have a choice. Benedict Bridgerton was her only means off the Cavender property. She knew she couldn't possibly work for his mother; to be in such close proximity to Benedict and still have to be a servant would be more than she could bear. But she could find a way to avoid that later. For now she just needed to get away from Phillip.

She turned to Benedict and nodded, still afraid to use her voice. She felt as if she were choking inside, although she wasn't certain whether that was from fear or relief.

“Good,” he said. “Shall we be off?”

She gave a rather pointed look at the arm that was still holding her hostage.

“Oh, for the love of God,” Benedict snarled. “Will you let go of her or will I have to shoot your damned hand off?”

Benedict wasn't even holding a gun, but the tone of his voice was such that the man let go instantly.

“Good,” Benedict said, holding his arm out toward the maid. She stepped forward, and with trembling fingers placed her hand on his elbow.

“You can't just take her!” Phillip yelled.

Benedict gave him a supercilious look. “I just did.”

“You'll be sorry you did this,” Phillip said.

“I doubt it. Now get out of my sight.”

Phillip made a huffy sound, then turned his friends and said, “Let's get out of here.” Then he turned to Benedict and added, “Don't think you shall ever receive another invitation to one of my parties.”

“My heart is breaking,” Benedict drawled.

Phillip let out one more outraged snort, and then he and his two friends stalked back to the house.

Sophie watched them walk away, then slowly dragged her gaze back to Benedict. When she'd been trapped by Phillip and his leering friends, she'd known what they wanted to do to her, and she'd almost wanted to die. And then, all of a sudden, there was Benedict Bridgerton, standing before her like a hero from her dreams, and she'd thought maybe she
had
died, because why else would he be here with her unless she was in heaven?

She'd been so completely and utterly stunned, she'd almost forgotten that Phillip's friend still held her pinned against him and was grabbing her behind in a most humiliating manner. For one brief second the world had melted away, and the only thing she could see, the only thing she
knew
, was Benedict Bridgerton.

It had been a moment of perfection.

But then the world had come crashing back, and all she could think was—what on earth was he doing here? It was a disgusting party, full of drunkards and whores. When she'd met him two years ago, he hadn't seemed the sort who
would frequent such events. But she'd only known him for a few short hours. Perhaps she'd misjudged him. She closed her eyes in agony. For the past two years, the memory of Benedict Bridgerton had been the brightest light in her drab and dreary life. If she'd misjudged him, if he was little better than Phillip and his friends, then she'd be left with nothing.

Not even a memory of love.

But he
had
saved her. That was irrefutable. Maybe it didn't really matter why he'd come to Phillip's party, only that he had, and he had saved her.

“Are you all right?” he suddenly asked.

Sophie nodded, looking him squarely in the eye, waiting for him to recognize her.

“Are you certain?”

She nodded again, still waiting. It had to happen soon.

“Good. They were handling you roughly.”

“I'll be all right.” Sophie chewed on her lower lip. She had no idea how he would react once he realized who she was. Would he be delighted? Furious? The suspense was killing her.

“How much time will it take for you to pack your things?”

Sophie blinked rather dumbly, then realized she was still holding her satchel. “It's all right here,” she said. “I was trying to leave when they caught me.”

“Smart girl,” he murmured approvingly.

Sophie just stared at him, unable to believe he hadn't recognized her.

“Let's be off, then,” he said. “It makes me ill just to be on Cavender's property.”

Sophie said nothing, but her chin jutted slightly forward, and her head tilted to the side as she watched his face.

“Are you certain you're all right?” he asked.

And then Sophie started to think.

Two years ago, when she'd met him, half of her face had been covered by a mask.

Her hair had been lightly powdered, making it seem
blonder than it actually was. Furthermore, she'd since cut it and sold the locks to a wigmaker. Her previous long waves were now short curls.

Without Mrs. Gibbons to feed her, she'd lost nearly a stone.

And when one got right down to it, they'd only been in each other's company a mere hour and a half.

She stared at him, right into his eyes. And that was when she knew.

He wasn't going to recognize her.

He had no idea who she was.

Sophie didn't know whether to laugh or to cry.

It was clear to all of the guests at the Mottram ball Thursday last that Miss Rosamund Reiling has set her cap for Mr. Phillip Cavender.

It is the opinion of This Author that the two are well matched indeed.

L
ADY
W
HISTLEDOWN'S
S
OCIETY
P
APERS
, 30 A
PRIL
1817

T
en minutes later, Sophie was sitting next to Benedict Bridgerton in his phaeton.

“Is there something in your eye?” he asked politely.

That caught her attention. “I-I beg your pardon?”

“You keep blinking,” he explained. “I thought perhaps you had something in your eye.”

Sophie swallowed hard, trying to suppress a round of nervous laughter. What was she supposed to say to him? The truth? That she was blinking because she kept expecting to wake up from what could only be a dream? Or maybe a nightmare?

“Are you certain you're all right?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Just the aftereffects of shock, I imagine,” he said.

She nodded again, letting him think that was all that affected her.

How could he not have recognized her? She'd been dreaming of this moment for years. Her Prince Charming had finally come to rescue her, and he didn't even know who she was.

“What was your name again?” he asked. “I'm terribly sorry. It always takes me twice to remember a name.”

“Miss Sophia Beckett.” There seemed little reason to lie; she hadn't told him her name at the masquerade.

“I'm pleased to meet you, Miss Beckett,” he said, keeping his eyes on the dark road. “I'm Mr. Benedict Bridgerton.”

Sophie acknowledged his greeting with a nod even though he wasn't looking at her. She held silent for a moment, mostly because she simply didn't know what to say in such an unbelievable situation. It was, she realized, the introduction that had never taken place two years earlier. Finally, she just said, “That was a very brave thing you did.”

He shrugged.

“There were three of them and only one of you. Most men would not have intervened.”

This time he did look at her. “I hate bullies,” was all he said.

She nodded again. “They would have raped me.”

“I know,” he replied. And then he added, “I have four sisters.”

She almost said “I know,” but caught herself just in time. How was a housemaid from Wiltshire supposed to know that? So instead she said, “I expect that is why you were so sensitive to my plight.”

“I would like to think another man would come to their aid, should they ever find themselves in a similar situation.”

“I pray you never have to find out.”

He nodded grimly. “As do I.”

They rode on, silence cloaking the night. Sophie remembered
the masquerade ball, when they hadn't lacked for conversation, even for a moment. It was different now, she realized. She was a housemaid, not a glorious woman of the
ton
. They had nothing in common.

But still, she kept waiting for him to recognize her, to yank the carriage to a halt, clasp her to his chest, and tell her he'd been looking for her for two years. But that wasn't going to happen, she soon realized. He couldn't recognize the lady in the housemaid, and in all truth, why should he?

People saw what they expected to see. And Benedict Bridgerton surely didn't expect to see a fine lady of the
ton
in the guise of a humble housemaid.

Not a day had gone by that she hadn't thought of him, hadn't remembered his lips on hers, or the heady magic of that costumed night. He had become the centerpiece of her fantasies, dreams in which she was a different person, with different parents. In her dreams, she'd met him at a ball, maybe her own ball, hosted by her devoted mother and father. He courted her sweetly, with fragrant flowers and stolen kisses. And then, on a mellow spring day, while the birds were singing and a gentle breeze ruffled the air, he got down on one knee and asked her to marry him, professing his everlasting love and adoration.

It was a fine daydream, surpassed only by the one in which they lived happily ever after, with three or four splendid children, born safely within the sacrament of marriage.

But even with all her fantasies, she never imagined she'd actually see him again, much less be rescued by him from a trio of licentious attackers.

She wondered if he ever thought of the mysterious woman in silver with whom he'd shared one passionate kiss. She liked to think that he did, but she doubted that it had meant as much to him as it had to her. He was a man, after all, and had most likely kissed dozens of women.

And for him, that one night had been much like any other. Sophie still read
Whistledown
whenever she could get her
hands on it. She knew that he attended scores of balls. Why should one masquerade stand out in his memory?

Sophie sighed and looked down at her hands, still clutching the drawstring to her small bag. She wished she owned gloves, but her only pair had worn out earlier that year, and she hadn't been able to afford another. Her hands looked rough and chapped, and her fingers were growing cold.

“Is that everything you own?” Benedict asked, motioning to the bag.

She nodded. “I haven't much, I'm afraid. Just a change of clothing and a few personal mementos.”

He was silent for a moment, then said, “You have quite a refined accent for a housemaid.”

He was not the first to make that observation, so Sophie gave him her stock answer. “My mother was a housekeeper to a very kind and generous family. They allowed me to share some of their daughters' lessons.”

“Why do you not work there?” With an expert twist of his wrists, he guided his team to the left side of the fork in the road. “I assume you do not speak of the Cavenders.”

“No,” she replied, trying to devise a proper answer. No one had ever bothered to probe deeper than her offered explanation. No one had ever been interested enough to care. “My mother passed on,” she finally replied, “and I did not deal well with the new housekeeper.”

He seemed to accept that, and they rode on for a few minutes. The night was almost silent, save for the wind and the rhythmic clip-clop of the horses' hooves. Finally, Sophie, unable to contain her curiosity, asked, “Where are we going?”

“I have a cottage not far away,” he replied. “We'll stay there a night or two, then I'll take you to my mother's home. I'm certain she'll find a position for you in her household.”

Sophie's heart began to pound. “This cottage of yours . . .”

“You will be properly chaperoned,” he said with a faint smile. “The caretakers will be in attendance, and I assure
you that Mr. and Mrs. Crabtree are not likely to let anything untoward occur in their house.”

“I thought it was
your
house.”

His smile grew deeper. “I have been trying to get them to think of it as such for years, but I have never been successful.”

Sophie felt her lips tug up at the corners. “They sound like people I would like very much.”

“I expect you would.”

And then there was more silence. Sophie kept her eyes scrupulously straight ahead. She had the most absurd fear that if their eyes met, he would recognize her. But that was mere fancy. He'd already looked her squarely in the eye, more than once even, and he still thought her nothing but a housemaid.

After a few minutes, however, she felt the oddest tingling in her cheek, and as she turned to face him she saw that he kept glancing at her with an odd expression.

“Have we met?” he blurted out.

“No,” she said, her voice a touch more choked than she would have preferred. “I don't believe so.”

“I'm sure you're right,” he muttered, “but still, you do seem rather familiar.”

“All housemaids look the same,” she said with a wry smile.

“I used to think so,” he mumbled.

She turned her face forward, her jaw dropping. Why had she said that? Didn't she
want
him to recognize her? Hadn't she spent the last half hour hoping and wishing and dreaming and—

And that was the problem. She was dreaming. In her dreams he loved her. In her dreams he asked her to marry him. In reality, he might ask her to become his mistress, and that was something she'd sworn she would never do. In reality, he might feel honor bound to return her to Araminta, who would probably turn her straightaways over to the magistrate
for stealing her shoe clips (and Sophie didn't for one moment think that Araminta hadn't noticed their disappearance.)

No, it was best if he did not recognize her. It would only complicate her life, and considering that she had no source of income, and in fact very little beyond the clothes on her back, her life did not need complications at this point.

And yet she felt unaccountably disappointed that he had not instantly known who she was.

“Is that a raindrop?” Sophie asked, eager to keep the conversation on more benign topics.

Benedict looked up. The moon was now obscured by clouds. “It didn't look like rain when we left,” he murmured. A fat raindrop landed on his thigh. “But I do believe you're correct.”

She glanced at the sky. “The wind has picked up quite a bit. I hope it doesn't storm.”

“It's sure to storm,” he said wryly, “as we are in an open carriage. If I had taken my coach, there wouldn't be a cloud in the sky.”

“How close are we to your cottage?”

“About half an hour away, I should think.” He frowned. “Provided we are not slowed by the rain.”

“Well, I do not mind a bit of rain,” she said gamely. “There are far worse things than getting wet.”

They both knew exactly what she was talking about.

“I don't think I remembered to thank you,” she said, her words quiet.

Benedict turned his head sharply. By all that was holy, there was something damned familiar about her voice. But when his eyes searched her face, all he saw was a simple housemaid. A very attractive housemaid, to be sure, but a housemaid nonetheless. No one with whom he would ever have crossed paths.

“It was nothing,” he finally said.

“To you, perhaps. To me it was everything.”

Uncomfortable with such appreciation, he just nodded and gave one of those grunts men tended to emit when they didn't know what to say.

“It was a very brave thing you did,” she said.

He grunted again.

And then the heavens opened up in earnest.

It took about one minute for Benedict's clothes to be soaked through. “I'll get there as quickly as I can,” he yelled, trying to make himself heard over the wind.

“Don't worry about me!” Sophie called back, but when he looked over at her, he saw that she was huddling into herself, her arms wrapped tightly over her chest as she tried to conserve the heat of her body.

“Let me give you my coat.”

She shook her head and actually laughed. “It'll probably make me even wetter, soaked as it is.”

He nudged the horses into a faster pace, but the road was growing muddy, and the wind was whipping the rain every which way, reducing the already mediocre visibility.

Bloody hell. This was just what he needed. He'd had a head cold all last week, and he probably wasn't completely recovered. A ride in the freezing rain would most likely set him back, and he'd spend the next month with a runny nose, watery eyes . . . all those infuriating, unattractive symptoms.

Of course . . .

Benedict couldn't quite contain a smile. Of course, if he were ill again, his mother couldn't try to cajole him into attending every single party in town, all in the hopes that he would find some suitable young lady and settle down into a quiet and happy marriage.

To his credit, he always kept his eyes open, was always on the lookout for a prospective bride. He certainly wasn't opposed to marriage on principle. His brother Anthony and his sister Daphne had made splendidly happy matches. But
Anthony's and Daphne's marriages were splendidly happy because they'd been smart enough to wed the right people, and Benedict was quite certain he had not yet met the right person.

No, he thought, his mind wandering back a few years, that wasn't entirely true. He'd once met someone . . .

The lady in silver.

When he'd held her in his arms and twirled her around the balcony in her very first waltz, he'd felt something different inside, a fluttering, tingling sensation. It should have scared the hell out of him.

But it hadn't. It had left him breathless, excited . . . and determined to have her.

But then she'd disappeared. It was as if the world were actually flat, and she'd fallen right off the edge. He'd learned nothing in that irritating interview with Lady Penwood, and when he'd queried his friends and family, no one knew anything about a young woman wearing a silver dress.

She hadn't arrived with anyone and she hadn't left with anyone. For all intents and purposes, she hadn't even existed.

He'd watched for her at every ball, party, and musicale he attended. Hell, he attended twice as many functions as usual, just in the hopes that he'd catch a glimpse of her.

But he'd always come home disappointed.

He'd thought he would stop looking for her. He was a practical man, and he'd assumed that eventually he would simply give up. And in some ways, he had. After a few months he found himself back in the habit of turning down more invitations than he accepted. A few months after that, he realized that he was once again able to meet women and not automatically compare them to her.

But he couldn't stop himself from watching for her. He might not feel the same urgency, but whenever he attended
a ball or took a seat at a musicale, he found his eyes sweeping across the crowd, his ears straining for the lilt of her laughter.