An Offer From a Gentleman (Bridgertons 3)

Ah, a reaction. “I know.”

She went back to shoving her belongings into her satchel.

He waved an arm expansively. “Feel free to take a souvenir.”

She straightened, her hands planted angrily on her hips. “Does that include the silver tea service? Because I could live for several years on what that would fetch.”

“You may certainly take the tea service,” he replied genially, “as you will not be out of my company.”

“I will not be your mistress,” she hissed. “I told you, I won’t do it. I can’t do it.”

Something about her use of the word “can’t” struck him as significant. He mulled that over for a few moments while she gathered up the last of her belongings and cinched shut the drawstring to her satchel.

“That’s it,” he murmured.

She ignored him, instead marching toward the door and giving him a pointed look.

He knew she wanted him to get out of the way so she could depart. He didn’t move a muscle, save for one finger that thoughtfully stroked the side of his jaw. “You’re illegitimate,” he said.

The blood drained from her face.

“You are,” he said, more to himself than to her. Strangely, he felt rather relieved by the revelation. It explained her rejection of him, made it into something that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with her.

It took the sting out.

“I don’t care if you’re illegitimate,” he said, trying not to smile. It was a serious moment, but by God, he wanted to break out in a grin because now she’d come to London with him and be his mistress. There were no more obstacles, and—

“You don’t understand anything,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s not about whether I’m good enough to be your mistress.”

“I would care for any children we might have,” he said solemnly, pushing himself away from the doorframe.

Her stance grew even more rigid, if that were possible. “And what about your wife?”

“I don’t have a wife.”

“Ever?”

He froze. A vision of the masquerade lady danced through his mind. He’d pictured her many ways. Sometimes she wore her silver ballgown, sometimes nothing at all.

Sometimes she wore a wedding dress.

Sophie’s eyes narrowed as she watched his face, then she snorted derisively as she stalked past him.

He followed. “That’s not a fair question, Sophie,” he said, dogging her heels.

She moved down the hall, not even pausing when she reached the stairs. “I think it’s more than fair.”

He raced down the stairs until he was below her, halting her progress. “I have to marry someday.”

Sophie stopped. She had to; he was blocking her path. “Yes, you do,” she said. “But I don’t have to be anyone’s mistress.”

“Who was your father, Sophie?”

“I don’t know,” she lied.

“Who was your mother?”

“She died at my birth.”

“I thought you said she was a housekeeper.”

“Clearly I misrepresented the truth,” she said, past the point of caring that she’d been caught in a lie.

“Where did you grow up?”

“It’s of no interest,” she said, trying to squirm her way past him.

One of his hands wrapped itself around her upper arm, holding her firmly in place. “I find it very interesting.”

“Let me go!”

Her cry pierced the silence of the hall, loud enough so that the Crabtrees would certainly come running to save her. Except that Mrs. Crabtree had gone to the village, and Mr. Crabtree was outside, out of earshot. There was no one to help her, and she was at his mercy.

“I can’t let you go,” he whispered. “You’re not cut out for a life of servitude. It will kill you.”

“If it were going to kill me,” she returned, “it would have done so years ago.”

“But you don’t have to do this any longer,” he persisted.

“Don’t you dare try to make this about me,” she said, nearly shaking with emotion. “You’re not doing this out of concern for my welfare. You just don’t like being thwarted.”

“That is true,” he admitted, “but I also won’t see you cast adrift.”

“I have been adrift all my life,” she whispered, and she felt the traitorous sting of tears prick her eyes. God above, she didn’t want to cry in front of this man. Not now, not when she felt so off-balance and weak.

He touched her chin. “Let me be your anchor.”

Sophie closed her eyes. His touch was painfully sweet, and a not very small part of her was aching to accept his offer, to leave the life she’d been forced to live and cast her lot with him, this marvelous, wonderful, infuriating man who had haunted her dreams for years.

But the pain of her childhood was still too fresh. And the stigma of her illegitimacy felt like a brand on her soul.

She would not do this to another child.

“I can’t,” she whispered. “I wish—”

“What do you wish?” he asked urgently.

She shook her head. She’d been about to tell him that she wished that she could, but she knew that such words would be unwise. He would only latch on to them, and press his cause anew.

And that would make it all the harder to say no.

“You leave me no choice, then,” he stated grimly.

Her eyes met his.

“Either you come with me to London, and—” He held up a silencing hand when she tried to protest. “And I will find you a position in my mother’s household,” he added pointedly.

“Or?” she asked, her voice sullen.

“Or I will have to inform the magistrate that you have stolen from me.”

Her mouth abruptly tasted like acid. “You wouldn’t,” she whispered.

“I certainly don’t want to.”

“But you would.”

He nodded. “I would.”

“They’d hang me,” she said. “Or send me to Australia.”

“Not if I requested otherwise.”

“And what would you request?”

His brown eyes looked strangely flat, and she sudd

enly realized that he wasn’t enjoying the conversation any more than she was.

“I would request,” he said, “that you be released into my custody.”

“That would be very convenient for you.”

His fingers, which had been touching her chin all the while, slid down to her shoulder. “I’m only trying to save you from yourself.”

Sophie walked to a nearby window and looked out, surprised that he hadn’t tried to stop her. “You’re making me hate you, you know,” she said.

“I can live with that.”

She gave him a curt nod. “I will wait for you in the library, then. I would like to leave today.”

Benedict watched her walk away, stood utterly still as the door to the library closed behind her. He knew she would not flee. She was not the sort to go back on her word.

He couldn’t let this one go. She had left—the great and mysterious “she,” he thought with a bitter smile—the one woman who had touched his heart.

The same woman who had not even given him her name.

But now there was Sophie, and she did things to him. Things he hadn’t felt since her. He was sick of pining for a woman who practically didn’t exist. Sophie was here, and Sophie would be his.

And, he thought with grim determination, Sophie was not going to leave him.

“I can live with you hating me,” he said to the closed door. “I just can’t live without you.”

Chapter 13

It was previously reported in this column that This Author predicted a possible match between Miss Rosamund Reiling and Mr. Phillip Cavender. This Author can now say that this is not likely to occur. Lady Penwood (Miss Reiling’s mother) has been heard to say that she will not settle for a mere mister, even though Miss Reiling’s father, while certainly wellborn, was not a member of the aristocracy.

Not to mention, of course, that Mr. Cavender has begun to show a decided interest in Miss Cressida Cowper.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 9 MAY 1817

Sophie started feeling ill the minute the carriage departed My Cottage. By the time they stopped for the night at an inn in Oxfordshire, she was downright queasy. And when they reached the outskirts of London . . . Well, she was quite convinced she would throw up.

Somehow she managed to keep the contents of her stomach where they belonged, but as their carriage wended farther into the tangled streets of London, she was filled with an intense sense of apprehension.