An Offer From a Gentleman (Bridgertons 3)

“Excellent,” he murmured. “Now then, I’m going to leave. And you have only one task while I go. You will stay right here, and you will keep smiling. Because it breaks my heart to see any other expression on your face.”

“You won’t be able to see me,” she pointed out.

He touched her chin. “I’ll know.”

And then, before her expression could change from that enchanting combination of shock and adoration, he left.

Chapter 16

The Featheringtons hosted a small dinner party yesterday eve, and, although This Author was not privileged enough to attend, it has been said that the evening was deemed quite a success. Three Bridgertons attended, but sadly for the Featherington girls, none of the Bridgertons were of the male variety. The always amiable Nigel Berbrooke was there, paying great attention to Miss Philippa Featherington.

This Author is told that both Benedict and Colin Bridgerton were invited, but had to send their regrets.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 19 MAY 1817

As the days melted into a week, Sophie discovered that working for the Bridgertons could keep a girl very busy indeed. Her job was to be maid to all three unmarried girls, and her days were filled with hairdressing, mending, pressing gowns, polishing shoes . . . She hadn’t left the house even once—unless one counted time out in the back garden.

But where such a life under Araminta had been dreary and demeaning, the Bridgerton household was filled with laughter and smiles. The girls bickered and teased, but never with the malice Sophie had seen Rosamund show to Posy. And when tea was informal—upstairs, with only Lady Bridgerton and the girls in attendance—Sophie was always invited to partake. She usually brought her basket of mending and darned or sewed buttons while the Bridgertons chattered away, but it was so lovely to be able to sit and sip a fine cup of tea, with fresh milk and warm scones. And after a few days, Sophie even began to feel comfortable enough to occasionally add to the conversation.

It had become Sophie’s favorite time of day.

“Where,” Eloise asked, one afternoon about a week after what Sophie was now referring to as the big kiss, “do you suppose Benedict is?”

“Ow!”

Four Bridgerton faces turned to Sophie. “Are you all right?” Lady Bridgerton asked, her teacup suspended halfway between her saucer and her mouth.

Sophie grimaced. “I pricked my finger.”

Lady Bridgerton’s lips curved into a small, secret smile.

“Mother has told you,” fourteen-year-old Hyacinth said, “at least a thousand times—”

“A thousand times?” Francesca asked with arched brows.

“A hundred times,” Hyacinth amended, shooting an annoyed look at her older sister, “that you do not have to bring your mending to tea.”

Sophie suppressed a smile of her own. “I should feel very lazy if I did not.”

“Well, I’m not going to bring my embroidery,” Hyacinth announced, not that anyone had asked her to.

“Feeling lazy?” Francesca queried.

“Not in the least,” Hyacinth returned.

Francesca turned to Sophie. “You’re making Hyacinth feel lazy.”

“I do not!” Hyacinth protested.

Lady Bridgerton sipped at her tea. “You have been working on the same piece of embroidery for quite some time, Hyacinth. Since February, if my memory serves.”

“Her memory always serves,” Francesca said to Sophie.

Hyacinth glared at Francesca, who smiled into her teacup.

Sophie coughed to cover a smile of her own. Francesca, who at twenty was merely one year younger than Eloise, had a sly, subversive sense of humor. Someday Hyacinth would be her match, but not yet.

“Nobody answered my question,” Eloise announced, letting her teacup clatter into its saucer. “Where is Benedict? I haven’t seen him in an age.”

“It’s been a week,” Lady Bridgerton said.

“Ow!”

“Do you need a thimble?” Hyacinth asked Sophie.

“I’m not usually this clumsy,” Sophie muttered.

Lady Bridgerton lifted her cup to her lips and held it there for what seemed like a rather long time.

Sophie gritted her teeth together and returned to her mending with a vengeance. Much to her surprise, Benedict had not made even the barest of appearances since the big kiss last week. She’d found herself peering out windows, peeking around corners, always expecting to catch a glimpse of him.

And yet he was never there.

Sophie couldn’t decide whether she was crushed or relieved. Or both.

She sighed. Definitely both.

“Did you say something, Sophie?” Eloise asked.

Sophie shook her head and murmured, “No,” refusing to look up from her poor, abused index finger. Grimacing slightly, she pinched her skin, watching blood slowly bead up on her fingertip.

“Where is he?” Eloise persisted.

“Benedict is thirty years of age,” Lady Bridgerton said in a mild voice. “He doesn’t need to inform us of his every activity.”

Eloise snorted loudly. “That’s a fine about-face from last week, Mother.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“‘Where is Benedict?’” Eloise mocked, doing a more-than-fair imitation of her mother. “‘How dare he go off without a word? It’s as if he’s dropped off the face of the earth.’”

“That was different,” Lady Bridgerton said.

“How so?” This, from Francesca, who was wearing her usual sly smile.

“He’d said he was going to that awful Cavender boy’s party, and then never came back, whereas this time . . .” Lady Bridgerton stopped, pursing her lips. “Why am I explaining myself to you?”

“I can’t imagine,” Sophie murmured.

Eloise, who was sitting closest to Sophie, choked on her tea.

Francesca whacked Eloise on the back as she leaned forward to inquire, “Did you say something, Sophie?”

Sophi

e shook her head as she stabbed her needle into the dress she was mending, completely missing the hem.

Eloise gave her a dubious sideways glance.

Lady Bridgerton cleared her throat. “Well, I think—” She stopped, cocking her head to the side. “I say, is that someone in the hall?”

Sophie stifled a groan and looked over toward the doorway, expecting the butler to enter. Wickham always gave her a disapproving frown before imparting whatever news he was carrying. He didn’t approve of the maid taking tea with the ladies of the house, and while he never vocalized his thoughts on the issue in front of the Bridgertons, he rarely took pains to keep his opinions from showing on his face.

But instead of Wickham, Benedict walked through the doorway.

“Benedict!” Eloise called out, rising to her feet. “We were just talking about you.”

He looked at Sophie. “Were you?”

“I wasn’t,” Sophie muttered.

“Did you say something, Sophie?” Hyacinth asked.

“Ow!”

“I’m going to have to take that mending away from you,” Lady Bridgerton said with an amused smile. “You’ll have lost a pint of blood before the day is through.”

Sophie lurched to her feet. “I’ll get a thimble.”

“You don’t have a thimble?” Hyacinth asked. “I would never dream of doing mending without a thimble.”

“Have you ever dreamed of mending?” Francesca smirked.

Hyacinth kicked her, nearly upsetting the tea service in the process.

“Hyacinth!” Lady Bridgerton scolded.

Sophie stared at the door, trying desperately to keep her eyes focused on anything but Benedict. She’d spent all week hoping for a glimpse, but now that he was here, all she wanted was to escape. If she looked at his face, her eyes inevitably strayed to his lips. And if she looked at his lips, her thoughts immediately went to their kiss. And if she thought about the kiss . . .

“I need that thimble,” she blurted out, jumping to her feet. There were some things one just shouldn’t think about in public.

“So you said,” Benedict murmured, one of his eyebrows quirking up into a perfect—and perfectly arrogant—arch.

“It’s downstairs,” she muttered. “In my room.”