An Offer from a Gentleman with 2nd Epilogue (16 page)

“She did,” Benedict cut in smoothly. “I took ill from driving in the rain, and she nursed me to health.”

“You would have recuperated without me,” she insisted.

“But not,” Benedict said, directing his words at his mother, “with such speed or in such comfort.”

“Weren't the Crabtrees at home?” Violet asked.

“Not when we arrived,” Benedict replied.

Violet looked at Sophie with such obvious curiosity that Benedict was finally forced to explain, “Miss Beckett had been employed by the Cavenders, but certain circumstances made it impossible for her to stay.”

“I . . . see,” Violet said unconvincingly.

“Your son saved me from a most unpleasant fate,” Sophie said quietly. “I owe him a great deal of thanks.”

Benedict looked to her in surprise. Given the level of her hostility toward him, he hadn't expected her to volunteer complimentary information. But he supposed he should have done; Sophie was highly principled, not the sort to let anger interfere with honesty.

It was one of the things he liked best about her.

“I see,” Violet said again, this time with considerably more feeling.

“I was hoping you might find her a position in your household,” Benedict said.

“But not if it's too much trouble,” Sophie hastened to add.

“No,” Violet said slowly, her eyes settling on Sophie's face with a curious expression. “No, it wouldn't be any trouble at all, but . . .”

Both Benedict and Sophie leaned forward, awaiting the rest of the sentence.

“Have we met?” Violet suddenly asked.

“I don't think so,” Sophie said, stammering slightly. How
could Lady Bridgerton think she knew her? She was positive their paths had not crossed at the masquerade. “I can't imagine how we could have done.”

“I'm certain you're right,” Lady Bridgerton said with a wave of her hand. “There is something vaguely familiar about you. But I'm sure it's just that I've met someone with similar features. It happens all the time.”

“Especially to me,” Benedict said with a crooked smile.

Lady Bridgerton looked to her son with obvious affection. “It's not my fault all my children ended up looking remarkably alike.”

“If the blame can't be placed with you,” Benedict asked, “then where may we place it?”

“Entirely upon your father,” Lady Bridgerton replied jauntily. She turned to Sophie. “They all look just like my late husband.”

Sophie knew she should remain silent, but the moment was so lovely and comfortable that she said, “I think your son resembles you.”

“Do you think?” Lady Bridgerton asked, clasping her hands together with delight. “How lovely. And here I've always just considered myself a vessel for the Bridgerton family.”

“Mother!” Benedict said.

She sighed. “Am I speaking too plainly? I do that more and more in my old age.”

“You are hardly elderly, Mother.”

She smiled. “Benedict, why don't you go visit with your sisters while I take your Miss Bennett—”

“Beckett,” he interrupted.

“Yes, of course, Beckett,” she murmured. “I shall take her upstairs and get her settled in.”

“You need only take me to the housekeeper,” Sophie said. It was most odd for a lady of the house to concern herself with the hiring of a housemaid. Granted, the entire situation
was unusual, what with Benedict asking that she be hired on, but it was very strange that Lady Bridgerton would take a personal interest in her.

“Mrs. Watkins is busy, I'm sure,” Lady Bridgerton said. “Besides, I believe we have need for another lady's maid upstairs. Have you any experience in that area?”

Sophie nodded.

“Excellent. I thought you might. You speak very well.”

“My mother was a housekeeper,” Sophie said automatically. “She worked for a very generous family and—” She broke off in horror, belatedly remembering that she'd told Benedict the truth—that her mother had died at her birth. She shot him a nervous look, and he answered it with a vaguely mocking tilt of his chin, silently telling her that he wasn't going to expose her lie.

“The family she worked for was very generous,” Sophie continued, a relieved rush of air passing across her lips, “and they allowed me to share many lessons with the daughters of the house.”

“I see,” Lady Bridgerton said. “That explains a great deal. I find it difficult to believe you've been toiling as a housemaid. You are clearly educated enough to pursue loftier positions.”

“She reads quite well,” Benedict said.

Sophie looked to him in surprise.

He ignored her, instead saying to his mother, “She read to me a great deal during my recuperation.”

“Do you write, as well?” Lady Bridgerton asked.

Sophie nodded. “My penmanship is quite neat.”

“Excellent. It is always handy to have an extra pair of hands at my disposal when we are addressing invitations. And we do have a ball coming up later in the summer. I have two girls out this year,” she explained to Sophie. “I'm hopeful that one of them will choose a husband before the season is through.”

“I don't think Eloise wants to marry,” Benedict said.

“Quiet your mouth,” Lady Bridgerton said.

“Such a statement is sacrilege around here,” Benedict said to Sophie.

“Don't listen to him,” Lady Bridgerton said, walking toward the stairs. “Here, come with me, Miss Beckett. What did you say your given name was?”

“Sophia. Sophie.”

“Come with me, Sophie. I'll introduce you to the girls. And,” she added, her nose crinkling with distaste, “we'll find you something new to wear. I cannot have one of our maids dressed so shabbily. A person would think we didn't pay you a fair wage.”

It had never been Sophie's experience that members of the
ton
were concerned about paying their servants fairly, and she was touched by Lady Bridgerton's generosity.

“You,” Lady Bridgerton said to Benedict. “Wait for me downstairs. We have much to discuss, you and I.”

“I'm quaking in my boots,” he deadpanned.

“Between him and his brother, I don't know which one of them will kill me first,” Lady Bridgerton muttered.

“Which brother?” Sophie asked.

“Either. Both. All three. Scoundrels, the lot of them.”

But they were scoundrels she clearly loved. Sophie could hear it in the way she spoke, see it in her eyes when they lit with joy upon seeing her son.

And it made Sophie lonely and wistful and jealous. How different her life might have been had her mother lived through childbirth. They might have been unrespectable, Mrs. Beckett a mistress and Sophie a bastard, but Sophie liked to think that her mother would have loved her.

Which was more than she received from any other adult, her father included.

“Come along, Sophie,” Lady Bridgerton said briskly.

Sophie followed her up the stairs, wondering why, if she
were merely about to begin a new job, she felt as if she were entering a new family.

Itfelt . . . nice.

And it had been a long, long while since her life had felt nice.

Rosamund Reiling swears that she saw Benedict Bridgerton back in London. This Author is inclined to believe the veracity of the account; Miss Reiling can spot an unmarried bachelor at fifty paces.

Unfortunately for Miss Reiling, she can't seem to land one.

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

B
enedict had barely taken two steps toward the sitting room when his sister Eloise came dashing down the hall. Like all the Bridgertons, she had thick, chestnut hair and a wide smile. Unlike Benedict, however, her eyes were a clear, crisp gray, a shade quite unlike that possessed by any of her brothers and sisters.

“Benedict!” she called out, throwing her arms rather exuberantly around him. “Where have you been? Mother has been grumbling all week, wondering where you'd gone off to.”

“Funny, when I spoke to Mother, not two minutes ago, her grumbles were about
you
, wondering when you were finally planning to marry.”

Eloise pulled a face. “When I meet someone worth marrying, that's when. I do wish someone new would move to town. I feel as though I meet the same hundred or so people over and over again.”

“You
do
meet the same hundred or so people over and over again.”

“Exactly my point,” she said. “There are no secrets left in London. I already know everything about everyone.”

“Really?” Benedict asked, with no small measure of sarcasm.

“Mock me all you want,” she said, jabbing her finger toward him in a manner he was
sure
his mother would deem unladylike, “but I am not exaggerating.”

“Not even a little bit?” he grinned.

She scowled at him. “Where
were
you this past week?”

He walked into the sitting room and plopped down on a sofa. He probably should have waited for her to sit, but she was just his sister, after all, and he'd never felt the need to stand on ceremony when they were alone. “Went to the Cavender party,” he said, propping his feet up on a low table. “It was abominable.”

“Mother will kill you if she catches you with your feet up,” Eloise said, sitting down in a chair that was kitty-corner to him. “And why was the party so dreadful?”

“The company.” He looked at his feet and decided to leave them where they were. “A more boring bunch of lazy louts, I've never met.”

“As long as you don't mince words.”

Benedict raised a brow at her sarcasm. “You are hereby forbidden from marrying anyone who was in attendance.”

“An order I shall probably have no difficulty obeying.” She tapped her hands against the arms of her chair. Benedict had to smile; Eloise had always been a bundle of nervous energy.

“But,” she said, looking up with narrowed eyes, “that doesn't explain where you were all
week
.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you are exceedingly nosy?”

“Oh, all the time. Where were you?”

“And persistent, too.”

“It's the only way to be. Where were you?”

“Have I mentioned I'm considering investing in a company that manufactures human-sized muzzles?”

She threw a pillow at him. “Where
were
you?”

“As it happens,” he said, gently tossing the pillow back in her direction, “the answer isn't the least bit interesting. I was at My Cottage, recuperating from a nasty cold.”

“I thought you'd already recuperated.”

He regarded her with an expression that was an unlikely cross between amazement and distaste. “How do you
know
that?”

“I know everything. You should know that by now.” She grinned. “Colds can be so nasty. Did you have a setback?”

He nodded. “After driving in the rain.”

“Well, that wasn't very smart of you.”

“Is there any reason,” he asked, glancing about the room as if he were directing his question at someone other than Eloise, “why I am allowing myself to be insulted by my ninnyhammer of a younger sister?”

“Probably because I do it so well.” She kicked at his foot, trying to knock it off the table. “Mother will be here at any second, I'm sure.”

“No, she won't,” he returned. “She's busy.”

“Doing what?”

He waved his hand toward the ceiling. “Orienting the new maid.”

She sat up straight. “We have a new maid? Nobody told me about it.”

“Heavens,” he drawled, “something has happened and Eloise doesn't know about it.”

She leaned back in her chair, then kicked his foot again. “Housemaid? Lady's maid? Scullery?”

“Why do you care?”

“It's always good to know what's what.”

“Lady's maid, I believe.”

Eloise took all of one half second to digest that. “And how do you know?”

Benedict figured he might as well tell her the truth. The Lord knew, she'd know the whole story by sundown, even if he didn't. “Because I brought her here.”

“The maid?”

“No, Mother. Of course the maid.”

“Since when do you trouble yourself with the hiring of servants?”

“Since this particular young lady nearly saved my life by nursing me while I was ill.”

Eloise's mouth fell open. “You were
that
ill?”

Might as well let her believe he'd been at death's door. A little pity and concern might work to his advantage next time he needed to wheedle her into something. “I have felt better,” he said mildly. “Where are you going?”

She'd already risen to her feet. “To go find Mother and meet the new maid. She's probably going to wait on Francesca and me, now that Marie is gone.”

“You lost your maid?”

Eloise scowled. “She left us for that odious Lady Penwood.”

Benedict had to grin at her description. He remembered his one meeting with Lady Penwood quite well; he, too, had found her odious.

“Lady Penwood is notorious for mistreating her servants. She's gone through three lady's maids this year. Stole Mrs. Featherington's right out from under her nose, but the poor girl only lasted a fortnight.”

Benedict listened patiently to his sister's tirade, amazed that he was even interested. And yet for some strange reason, he was.

“Marie will come crawling back in a week, asking us to take her back on, you mark my words,” Eloise said.

“I always mark your words,” he replied, “I just don't always care.”

“You,” Eloise returned, pointing her finger at him, “are going to regret that you said that.”

He shook his head, smiling faintly. “Doubtful.”

“Hmmph. I'm going upstairs.”

“Do enjoy yourself.”

She poked her tongue out at him—surely not appropriate behavior for a woman of twenty-one—and left the room. Benedict managed to enjoy just three minutes of solitude before footsteps once again sounded in the hall, tapping rhythmically in his direction. When he looked up, he saw his mother in the doorway.

He stood immediately. Certain manners could be ignored for one's sister, but never for one's mother.

“I saw your feet on the table,” Violet said before he could even open his mouth.

“I was merely polishing the surface with my boots.”

She raised her brows, then made her way to the chair so recently vacated by Eloise and sat down. “All right, Benedict,” she said in an extremely no-nonsense voice. “Who is she?”

“Miss Beckett, you mean?”

Violet gave him one businesslike nod.

“I have no idea, save that she worked for the Cavenders and was apparently mistreated by their son.”

Violet blanched. “Did he . . . Oh dear. Was she . . .”

“I don't think so,” Benedict said grimly. “In fact, I'm certain she wasn't. But not for lack of trying on his part.”

“The poor thing. How lucky for her that you were there to save her.”

Benedict found he didn't like to relive that night on the Cavenders' lawn. Even though the escapade had ended quite favorably, he could not seem to stop himself from racing
through the gamut of “what-ifs.” What if he hadn't come along in time? What if Cavender and his friends had been a little less drunk and a little more obstinate? Sophie could have been raped. Sophie
would
have been raped.

And now that he knew Sophie, had grown to care about her, the very notion chilled him to the bone.

“Well,” Violet said, “she is not who she says she is. Of that I'm certain.”

Benedict sat up straight. “Why do you say that?”

“She is far too educated to be a housemaid. Her mother's employers may have allowed her to share in some of their daughters' lessons, but all of them? I doubt it. Benedict, the girl speaks French!”

“She does?”

“Well, I can't be positive,” Violet admitted, “but I caught her looking at a book on Francesca's desk that was written in French.”

“Looking is not the same as reading, Mother.”

She shot him a peevish look. “I'm telling you, I was looking at the way her eyes were moving. She was reading it.”

“If you say so, you must be correct.”

Violet's eyes narrowed. “Are you being sarcastic?”

“Normally,” Benedict said with a smile, “I would say yes, but in this case, I was speaking quite seriously.”

“Perhaps she is the cast-off daughter of an aristocratic family,” Violet mused.

“Cast-off?”

“For getting herself with child,” she explained.

Benedict was not used to his mother speaking quite so frankly. “Er, no,” he said, thinking about Sophie's steadfast refusal to become his mistress. “I don't think so.”

But then he thought—why not? Maybe she refused to bring an illegitimate child into this world because she had already
had
an illegitimate child and didn't want to repeat the mistake.

Benedict's mouth suddenly tasted quite sour. If Sophie had had a child, then Sophie had had a lover.

“Or maybe,” Violet continued, warming to the endeavor, “she's the illegitimate child of a nobleman.”

That was considerably more plausible—and more palatable. “One would think he'd have settled enough funds on her so that she didn't have to work as a housemaid.”

“A great many men completely ignore their by-blows,” Violet said, her face wrinkling with distaste. “It's nothing short of scandalous.”

“More scandalous than their having the by-blows in the first place?”

Violet's expression turned quite peevish.

“Besides,” Benedict said, leaning back against the sofa and propping one ankle on the other knee, “if she were the bastard of a nobleman, and he'd cared for her enough to make sure she had schooling as a child, then why is she completely penniless now?”

“Hmmm, that's a good point.” Violet tapped her index finger against her cheek, pursed her lips, then continued tapping. “But have no fear,” she finally said, “I shall discover her identity within a month.”

“I'd recommend asking Eloise for help,” Benedict said dryly.

Violet nodded thoughtfully. “Good idea. That girl could get Napoleon to spill his secrets.”

Benedict stood. “I must be going. I'm weary from the road and would like to get home.”

“You can always avail yourself here.”

He gave her a half smile. His mother liked nothing better than to have her children close at hand. “I need to get back to my own lodgings,” he said, leaning down and dropping a kiss on her cheek. “Thank you for finding a position for Sophie.”

“Miss Beckett, you mean?” Violet asked, her lips curving slyly.

“Sophie, Miss Beckett,” Benedict said, feigning indifference. “Whatever you wish to call her.”

When he left, he did not see his mother smiling broadly at his back.

S
ophie knew that she should not allow herself to grow too comfortable at Bridgerton House—she would, after all, be leaving just as soon as she could make the arrangements—but as she looked around her room, surely the nicest any servant had ever been assigned, and she thought about Lady Bridgerton's friendly manner and easy smile . . .

She just couldn't help wishing that she could stay forever.

But that was impossible. She knew that as well as she knew that her name was Sophia Maria Beckett, not Sophia Maria Gunningworth.

First and foremost, there was always the danger that she'd come into contact with Araminta, especially now that Lady Bridgerton had elevated her from housemaid to lady's maid. A lady's maid might, for example, find herself acting as a chaperone or escort on outings outside the house. Outings to places where Araminta and the girls might choose to frequent.

And Sophie had no doubt that Araminta would find a way to make her life a living hell. Araminta hated her in a way that defied reason, went beyond emotion. If she saw Sophie in London, she would not be content simply to ignore her. Sophie had no doubt that Araminta would lie, cheat, and steal just to make Sophie's life more difficult.

She hated Sophie that much.

But if Sophie were to be honest with herself, the true reason she could not remain in London was not Araminta. It was Benedict.

How could she avoid him when she lived in his mother's household? She was furious with him right now—beyond furious, in all truth—but she knew, deep down, that anger could only be short-lived. How could she resist him, day in
and day out, when the mere sight of him made her weak with longing? Someday soon he'd smile at her, one of those sideways, crooked sorts of smiles, and she'd find herself clutching on to the furniture, just to keep herself from melting into a pathetic pool on the floor.

She'd fallen in love with the wrong man. She could never have him on her terms, and she refused to go to him on his.