An Offer From a Gentleman (Bridgertons 3)

In all truth, that seemed an awful lot more plausible than the truth, which was that Sophie just happened to have been blackmailed into taking a job as a lady’s maid just down the street.

And so, Sophie’s emotions kept darting back and forth from melancholy to nervous, brokenhearted to downright fearful.

She’d managed to keep most of this to herself, but she knew she had grown distracted and quiet, and she also knew that Lady Bridgerton and her daughters had noticed it. They looked at her with concerned expressions, spoke with an extra gentleness. And they kept wondering why she did not come to tea.

“Sophie! There you are!”

Sophie had been hurrying to her room, where a small pile of mending awaited, but Lady Bridgerton had caught her in the hall.

She stopped and tried to manage a smile of greeting as she bobbed a curtsy. “Good afternoon, Lady Bridgerton.”

“Good afternoon, Sophie. I have been looking all over for you.”

Sophie stared at her blankly. She seemed to do a lot of that lately. It was difficult to focus on anything. “You have?” she asked.

“Yes. I was wondering why you haven’t been to tea all week. You know that you are always invited when we are taking it informally.”

Sophie felt her cheeks grow warm. She’d been avoiding tea because it was just so hard to be in the same room with all those Bridgertons at once and not to think of Benedict. They all looked so alike, and whenever they were together they were such a family.

It forced Sophie to remember everything that she didn’t have, reminded her of what she’d never have: a family of her own.

Someone to love. Someone who’d love her. All within the bounds of respectability and marriage.

She supposed there were women who could throw over respectability for passion and love. A very large part of her wished she were one of those women. But she was not. Love could not conquer all. At least not for her.

“I’ve been very busy,” she finally said to Lady Bridgerton.

Lady Bridgerton just smiled at her—a small, vaguely inquisitive smile, imposing a silence that forced Sophie to say more.

“With the mending,” she added.

“How terrible for you. I wasn’t aware that we’d poked holes in quite so many stockings.”

“Oh, you haven’t!” Sophie replied, biting her tongue the minute she said it. There went her excuse. “I have some mending of my own,” she improvised, gulping as she realized how bad that sounded. Lady Bridgerton well knew that Sophie had no clothes other than the ones she had given her, which were all, needless to say, in perfect condition. And besides, it was very bad form for Sophie to be doing her own mending during the day, when she was meant to be waiting on the girls. Lady Bridgerton was an understanding employer; she probably wouldn’t have minded, but it went against Sophie’s own code of ethics. She’d been given a job—a good one, even if it did involve getting her heart broken on a day to day basis—and she took pride in her work.

“I see,” Lady Bridgerton said, that enigmatic smile still in place on her face. “You may, of course, bring your own mending to tea.”

“Oh, but I could not dream of it.”

“But I am telling you that you can.”

And Sophie could tell by the tone of her voice that what she was really saying was that she must.

“Of course,” Sophie murmured, and followed her into the upstairs sitting room.

The girls were all there, in their usual places, bickering and smiling and tossing jokes (although thankfully no scones.) The eldest Bridgerton daughter, Daphne—now the Duchess of Hastings—was there as well, with her youngest daughter, Caroline, in her arms.

“Sophie!” Hyacinth said with a beam. “I thought you must have been ill.”

“But you just saw me this morning,” Sophie reminded her, “when I dressed your hair.”

“Yes, but you didn’t seem quite yourself.”

Sophie had no suitable reply, since she really hadn’t been quite herself. She couldn’t very well contradict the truth. So she just sat in a chair and nodded when Francesca inquired if she wanted some tea.

“Penelope Featherington said she would drop by today,” Eloise said to her mother just as Sophie was taking her first sip. Sophie had never met Penelope, but she was frequently written about in Whistledown, and she knew that she and Eloise were fast friends.

“Has anyone noticed that Benedict hasn’t visited in some time?” Hyacinth asked.

Sophie jabbed her finger but thankfully managed to keep from yelping with pain.

“He hasn’t been by to see Simon and me, either,” Daphne said.

“Well, he told me he would help me with my arithmetic,” Hyacinth grumbled, “and he has most certainly reneged on his word.”

“I’m sure it has merely slipped his mind,” Lady Bridgerton said diplomatically. “Perhaps if you sent him a note.”

“Or simply banged on his door,” Francesca said, giving her eyes a slight roll. “It’s not as if he lives very far away.”

“I am an unmarried female,” Hyacinth said with a huff. “I cannot visit bachelor lodgings.”

Sophie coughed.

“You’re fourteen,” Francesca said disdainfully.

“Nevertheless!”

“You should ask Simon for help, anyway,” Daphne said. “He’s much better with numbers than Benedict.”

“You know, she’s right,” Hyacinth said, looking at her mother after shooting one last glare at Francesca. “Pity for Benedict. He’s completely without use to me now.”

They all giggled, because they knew she was joking. Except for Sophie, who didn’t think she knew how to giggle anymore.

“But in all seriousness,” Hyacinth continued, “what is he good at? Simon’s better at numbers, and Anthony knows more of history. Colin’s funnier, of course, and—”

“Art,” Sophie interrupted in a sharp voice, a little irritated that Benedict’s own family didn’t see his individuality and strengths.

Hyacinth looked at her in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

“He’s good at art,” Sophie repeated. “Quite a bit better than any of you, I imagine.”

That got everyone’s attention, because while Sophie had let them see her naturally dry wit, she was generally soft-spoken, and she certainly had never said a sharp word to any of them.

“I didn’t even know he drew,” Daphne said with quiet interest. “Or does he paint?”

Sophie glanced at her. Of the Bridgerton women, she knew Daphne the least, but it would have been impossible to miss the look of sharp intelligence in her eyes. Daphne was curious about her brother’s hidden talent, she wanted to know why she didn’t know about it, and most of all, she wanted to know why Sophie did.

In less than a second Sophie was able to see all of that in the young duchess’s eyes. And in less than a second she decided that she’d made a mistake. If Benedict hadn’t told his family about his art, then it wasn’t her place to do so.

“He draws,” she finally said, in a voice that she hoped was curt enough to prevent further questions.

It was. No one said a word, although five pairs of eyes remained focused quite intently on her face.

“He sketches,” Sophie muttered.

She looked from face to face. Eloise’s eyes were blinking rapidly. Lady Bridgerton wasn’t blinking at all. “He’s quite good,” Sophie muttered, mentally kicking herself even as she said it. There was something about silence among the Bridgertons that compelled her to fill the void.

Finally, after the longest moment of silence ever to fill the space of a second, Lady Bridgerton cleared her throat and said, “I should like to see one of his sketches.” She dabbed a napkin to her lips even though she hadn’t taken a sip of her tea. “Provided, of course, that he cares to share it with me.”

Sophie stood up. “I think I should go.”

Lady Bridgerton speared her with her eyes. “Please,” she said, in a voice that was velvet over steel, “sta

y.”

Sophie sat back down.

Eloise jumped to her feet. “I think I hear Penelope.”

“You do not,” Hyacinth said.

“Why would I lie?”

“I certainly don’t know, but—”

The butler appeared in the doorway. “Miss Penelope Featherington,” he intoned.

“See,” Eloise shot at Hyacinth.

“Is this a bad time?” Penelope asked.

“No,” Daphne replied with a small, vaguely amused smile, “just an odd one.”