An Offer From a Gentleman (Bridgertons 3)

He touched her lips and she felt it in her toes. It was a singularly odd—and singularly wonderful—sensation.

Then his hand at the small of her back—the one that had guided her so effortlessly in their waltz—started to pull her toward him. The pressure was slow but inexorable, and Sophie grew hot as their bodies grew closer, then positively burned when she suddenly felt the length of him pressing against her.

He seemed very large, and very powerful, and in his arms she felt like she must be the most beautiful woman in the world.

Suddenly anything seemed possible, maybe even a life free of servitude and stigma.

His mouth grew more insistent, and his tongue darted out to tickle the corner of her mouth. His hand, which had still been holding hers in a waltz-pose, slid down the length of her arm and then up her back until it rested at the nape of her neck, his fingers tugging her hair loose from its coiffure.

“Your hair is like silk,” he whispered, and Sophie actually giggled, because he was wearing gloves.

He pulled away. “What,” he asked with an amused expression, “are you laughing about?”

“How can you know what my hair feels like? You’re wearing gloves.”

He smiled, a crooked, boyish sort of a smile that sent her stomach into flips and melted her heart. “I don’t know how I know,” he said, “but I do.” His grin grew even more lopsided, and then he added, “But just to be sure, perhaps I’d better test with my bare skin.”

He held out his hand before her. “Will you do the honors?”

Sophie stared at his hand for a few seconds before she realized what he meant. With a shaky, nervous breath, she took a step back and brought both of her hands to his. Slowly she pinched the end of each of the glove’s fingertips and gave it a little tug, loosening the fine fabric until she could slide the entire glove from his hand.

Glove still dangling from her fingers, she looked up. He had the oddest expression in his eyes. Hunger . . . and something else. Something almost spiritual.

“I want to touch you,” he whispered, and then his bare hand cupped her cheek, the pads of his fingers lightly stroking her skin, whispering upward until they touched the hair near her ear. He tugged gently until he pulled one lock loose. Freed from the coiffure, her hair sprang into a light curl, and Sophie could not take her eyes off it, wrapped golden around his index finger.

“I was wrong,” he murmured. “It’s softer than silk.”

Sophie was suddenly gripped by a fierce urge touch him in the same way, and she held out her hand. “It’s my turn,” she said softly.

His eyes flared, and then he went to work on her glove, loosening it at the fingers the same way she had done. But then, rather than pulling it off, he brought his lips to the edge of the long glove, all the way above her elbow, and kissed the sensitive skin on the inside of her arm. “Also softer than silk,” he murmured.

Sophie used her free hand to grip his shoulder, no longer confident of her ability to stand.

He tugged at the glove, allowing it to slide off her arm with agonizing slowness, his lips following its progress until they reached the inside of her elbow. Barely breaking the kiss, he looked up and said, “You don’t mind if I stay here for a bit.”

Helplessly, Sophie shook her head.

His tongue darted out and traced the bend of her arm.

“Oh, my,” she moaned.

“I thought you might like that,” he said, his words hot against her skin.

She nodded. Or rather, she meant to nod. She wasn’t sure if she actually did.

His lips continued their trail, sliding sensuously down her forearm until they reached the inside of her wrist. They remained there for a moment before finally coming to rest in the absolute center of her palm.

“Who are you?” he asked, lifting his head but not letting go of her hand.

She shook her head.

“I have to know.”

“I can’t say.” And then, when she saw that he would not take no for an answer, she lied and added, “Yet.”

He took one of her fingers and rubbed it gently against his lips. “I want to see you tomorrow,” he said softly. “I want to call on you and see where you live.”

She said nothing, just held herself steady, trying not to cry.

“I want to meet your parents and pet your damned dog,” he continued, somewhat unsteadily. “Do you understand what I mean?”

Music and conversation still drifted up from below, but the only sound on the terrace was the harsh rasp of their breath.

“I want—” His voice dropped to a whisper, and his eyes looked vaguely surprised, as if he couldn’t quite believe the truth of his own words. “I want your future. I want every little piece of you.”

“Don’t say anything more,” she begged him. “Please. Not another word.”

“Then tell me your name. Tell me how to find you tomorrow.”

“I—” But then she heard a strange sound, exotic and ringing. “What is that?”

“A gong,” he replied. “To signal the unmasking.”

Panic rose within her. “What?”

“It must be midnight.”

“Midnight?” she gasped.

He nodded. “Time to remove your mask.”

One of Sophie’s hands flew up to her temple, pressing the mask harshly against her skin, as if she could somehow glue it onto her face through sheer force of will.

“Are you all right?” Benedict asked.

“I have to go,” she blurted out, and then, with no further warning, she hitched up her skirts and ran from the terrace.

“Wait!” she heard him call out, felt the rush of air as his arm swiped forward in a futile attempt to grab her dress.

But Sophie was fast, and perhaps more importantly, she was in a state of utter panic, and she tore down the stairs as if the fires of hell were nipping at her heels.

She plunged into the ballroom, knowing that Benedict would prove a determined pursuer, and she’d have the best chance of losing him in a large crowd. All she had to do was make it across the room, and then she could exit via the side door and scoot around the outside of the house to her waiting carriage.

The revelers were still removing their masks, and the party was loud with raucous laughter. Sophie pushed and jostled, anything to beat her way to the other side of the room. She threw one desperate glance over her shoulder. Benedict had entered the ballroom, his face intense as he scanned the crowd. He didn’t seem to have seen her yet, but she knew that he would; her silver gown would make her an easy target.

Sophie kept shoving people out of her way. At least half of them didn’t seem to notice; probably too drunk. “Excuse me,” she muttered, elbowing Julius Caesar in the ribs. “Beg pardon,” came out more like a grunt; that was when Cleopatra stepped on her toe.

“Excuse me, I—” And then the breath was quite literally sucked out of her, because she found herself face-to-face with Araminta.

Or rather, face to mask. Sophie was still disguised. But if anyone could recognize her, it would be Araminta. And—

“Watch where you’re going,” Araminta said haughtily. Then, while Sophie stood openmouthed, she swished her Queen Elizabeth skirts and swept away.

Araminta hadn’t recognized her! If Sophie hadn’t been so frantic about getting out of Bridgerton House before Benedict caught up with her, she would have laughed with delight.

Sophie glanced desperately behind her. Benedict had spotted her and was pushing his way through the crowd with considerably more efficiency than she had done. With an audible gulp and renewed energy, she pushed forth, almost knocking two Grecian goddesses to the ground before finally reaching the far door.

She looked behind her just long enough to see that Benedict had been waylaid by some elderly lady with a cane, then ran out of the building and around front, where the Penwood carriage was waiting, just as Mrs. Gibbons had said it would.

“Go, go, go!” Sophie shouted frantically to the driver.

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And she was gone.

Chapter 4

More than one masquerade attendee has reported to This Author that Benedict Bridgerton was seen in the company of an unknown lady dressed in a silver gown.

Try as she might, This Author has been completely unable to discern the mystery lady’s identity. And if This Author cannot uncover the truth, you may be assured that her identity is a well-kept secret indeed.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 7 JUNE 1815

She was gone.

Benedict stood on the pavement in front of Bridgerton House, surveying the street. All of Grosvenor Square was a mad crush of carriages. She could be in any one of them, just sitting there on the cobbles, trying to escape the traffic. Or she could be in one of the three carriages that had just escaped the tangle and rolled around the corner.

Either way, she was gone.

He was half-ready to strangle Lady Danbury, who’d jammed her cane onto his toe and insisted upon giving him her opinion on most of the partygoers’ costumes. By the time he’d managed to free himself, his mystery lady had disappeared through the ballroom’s side door.

And he knew that she had no intention of letting him see her again.