An Offer From a Gentleman (Bridgertons 3)

“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.