An Offer From a Gentleman (Bridgertons 3)

Mr. Crabtree jerked his head toward Sophie. “Where’d she come from?”

“She was at the party.”

“I wasn’t at the party,” Sophie corrected. “I just happened to be there.”

Mr. Crabtree squinted at her suspiciously. “What’s the difference?”

“I wasn’t attending the party. I was a servant at the house.”

“You’re a servant?”

Sophie nodded. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

“You don’t look like a servant.” Mr. Crabtree turned to Benedict. “Does she look like a servant to you?”

Benedict shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know what she looks like.”

Sophie scowled at him. It might not have been an insult, but it certainly wasn’t a compliment.

“If she’s somebody else’s servant,” Mr. Crabtree persisted, “then what’s she doing here?”

“May I save my explanations until Mrs. Crabtree returns?” Benedict asked. “Since I’m certain she’ll repeat all of your questions?”

Mr. Crabtree looked at him for a moment, blinked, nodded, then turned back to Sophie. “Why’re you dressed like that?”

Sophie looked down and realized with horror that she’d completely forgotten she was wearing men’s clothes. Men’s clothes so big that she could barely keep the breeches from falling to her feet. “My clothes were wet,” she explained, “from the rain.”

Mr. Crabtree nodded sympathetically. “Quite a storm last night. That’s why we stayed over at our daughter’s. We’d planned to come home, you know.”

Benedict and Sophie just nodded.

“She doesn’t live terribly far away,” Mr. Crabtree continued. “Just on the other side of the village.” He glanced over at Benedict, who nodded immediately.

“Has a new baby,” he added. “A girl.”

“Congratulations,” Benedict said, and Sophie could see from his face that he was not merely being polite. He truly meant it.

A loud clomping sound came from the stairway; surely Mrs. Crabtree returning with breakfast. “I ought to help,” Sophie said, jumping up and dashing for the door.

“Once a servant, always a servant,” Mr. Crabtree said sagely.

Benedict wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw Sophie wince.

A minute later, Mrs. Crabtree entered, bearing a splendid silver tea service.

“Where’s Sophie?” Benedict asked.

“I sent her down to get the rest,” Mrs. Crabtree replied. “She should be up in no time. Nice girl,” she added in a matter-of-fact tone, “but she needs a belt for those breeches you lent her.”

Benedict felt something squeeze suspiciously in his chest at the thought of Sophie-the-housemaid, with her breeches ’round her ankles. He gulped uncomfortably when he realized the tight sensation might very well be desire.

Then he groaned and grabbed at his throat, because uncomfortable gulps were even more uncomfortable after a night of harsh coughing.

“You need one of my tonics,” Mrs. Crabtree said.

Benedict shook his head frantically. He’d had one of her tonics before; it had had him retching for three hours.

“I won’t take no for an answer,” she warned.

“She never does,” Mr. Crabtree added.

“The tea will work wonders,” Benedict said quickly, “I’m sure.”

But Mrs. Crabtree’s attention had already been diverted. “Where is that girl?” she muttered, walking back to the door and looking out. “Sophie! Sophie!”

“If you can keep her from bringing me a tonic,” Benedict whispered urgently to Mr. Crabtree, “it’s a fiver in your pocket.”

Mr. Crabtree beamed. “Consider it done!”

“There she is,” Mrs. Crabtree declared. “Oh, heaven above.”

“What is it, dearie?” Mr. Crabtree asked, ambling toward the door.

“The poor thing can’t carry a tray and keep her breeches up at the same time,” she replied, clucking sympathetically.

“Aren’t you going to help her?” Benedict asked from the bed.

“Oh yes, of course.” She hurried out.

“I’ll be right back,” Mr. Crabtree said over his shoulder. “Don’t want to miss this.”

“Someone get the bloody girl a belt!” Benedict yelled grumpily. It didn’t seem quite fair that everyone got to go out to the hall and watch the sideshow while he was stuck in bed.

And he definitely was stuck there. Just the thought of getting up made him dizzy.

He must have been sicker than he’d realized the night before. He no longer felt the urge to cough every few seconds, but his body felt worn-out, exhausted. His muscles ached, and his throat was damned sore. Even his teeth didn’t feel quite right.

He had vague recollections of Sophie taking care of him. She’d put cool compresses on his forehead, watched over him, even sung him a lullaby. But he’d never quite seen her face. Most of the time he hadn’t had the energy to open his eyes, and even when he had, the room had been dark, always leaving her in shadows, reminding him of—

Benedict sucked in his breath, his heart thumping crazily in his chest as, in a sudden flash of clarity, he remembered his dream.

He’d dreamed of her.

It was not a new dream, although it had been months since he’d been visited by it. It was not a fantasy for the innocent, either. Benedict was no saint, and when he dreamed of the woman from the masquerade, she was not wearing her silver dress.

She was not, he thought with a wicked smile, wearing anything.

But what perplexed him was why this dream would return now, after so many months of dormancy. Was there something about Sophie that had triggered it? He’d thought—he’d hoped—that the disappearance of the dream had meant he was over her.

Obviously not.

Sophie certainly didn’t look like the woman he’d danced with two years earlier. Her hair was all wrong, and she was far too thin. He distinctly remembered the lush, curvy feel of the masked woman in his arms; in comparison, Sophie could only be called scrawny. He supposed their voices were a bit similar, but he had to admit to himself that as time passed, his memories of that night grew less vivid, and he could no longer recall his mystery woman’s voice with perfect clarity. Besides, Sophie’s accent, while exceptionally refined for a housemaid, was not as upper-crust as hers had been.

Benedict let out a frustrated snort. How he hated calling her her. That seemed the cruelest of her secrets. She’d kept from him even her name. Part of him wished she’d just lied and given him a false name. At least then he’d have something to think of her by in his mind.

Something to whisper in the night, when he was staring out the window, wondering where in hell she was.

Benedict was saved from further reflection by the sounds of stumbling and bumbling in the hallway. Mr. Crabtree was the first to return, staggering under the weight of the breakfast tray.

“What happened to the rest?” Benedict asked suspiciously, eyeing the door.

“Mrs. Crabtree went off to find Sophie some proper clothing,” Mr. Crabtree replied, setting the tray down on Benedict’s desk. “Ham or bacon?”

“Both. I’m famished. And what the devil does she mean by ‘proper clothing’?”

“A dress, Mr. Bridgerton. That’s what women wear.”

Benedict seriously considered lobbing a candle stump at him. “I meant,” he said with what he considered saintly patience, “where is she going to find a dress?”

Mr. Crabtree walked over with a plate of food on a footed tray that would fit over Benedict’s lap. “Mrs. Crabtree has several extras. She’s always happy to share.”

Benedict choked on the bite of egg he’d shoveled into his mouth. “Mrs. Crabtree and Sophie are hardly the same size.”

“Neither are you,” Mr. Crabtree pointed out, “and she wore your clothes just fine.”

“I thought you said the breeches fell off in the hall.”

“Well, we don’t have to w

orry about that with the dress, do we? I hardly think her shoulders are going to slip through the neck hole.”

Benedict decided it was safer for his sanity to mind his own business, and he turned his full attention to his breakfast. He was on his third plate when Mrs. Crabtree bustled in.

“Here we are!” she announced.

Sophie slunk in, practically drowning in Mrs. Crabtree’s voluminous dress. Except, of course, at her ankles. Mrs. Crabtree was a good five inches shorter than Sophie.

Mrs. Crabtree beamed. “Doesn’t she look smashing?”

“Oh, yes,” Benedict replied, lips twitching.

Sophie glared at him.

“You’ll have plenty of room for breakfast,” he said gamely.

“It’s only until I get her clothing cleaned up,” Mrs. Crabtree explained. “But at least it’s decent.” She waddled over to Benedict. “How is your breakfast, Mr. Bridgerton?”

“Delicious,” he replied. “I haven’t eaten so well in months.”

Mrs. Crabtree leaned forward and whispered, “I like your Sophie. May we keep her?”

Benedict choked. On what, he didn’t know, but he choked nonetheless. “I beg your pardon?”

“Mr. Crabtree and I aren’t as young as we used to be. We could use another set of hands around here.”

“I, ah, well . . .” He cleared his throat. “I’ll think about it.”

“Excellent.” Mrs. Crabtree crossed back to the other side of the room and grabbed Sophie’s arm. “You come with me. Your stomach has been growling all morning. When was the last time you ate?”

“Er, sometime yesterday, I should think.”

“When yesterday?” Mrs. Crabtree persisted.

Benedict hid a smile under his napkin. Sophie looked utterly overwhelmed. Mrs. Crabtree tended to do that to a person.

“Er, well, actually—”

Mrs. Crabtree planted her hands on her hips. Benedict grinned. Sophie was in for it now.

“Are you going to tell me that you didn’t eat yesterday?” Mrs. Crabtree boomed.