An Offer From a Gentleman (Bridgertons 3)

“Do you have something you need to tell me?” he asked. His voice was controlled, but his hands were shaking.

She went still, so still that he would have sworn that he could see the heat rise from her body. Then she cleared her throat—an uncomfortable, awkward sort of sound—and went back to work on the knot. Her movements tightened her dress around her breasts, but Benedict felt not one speck of desire.

It was, he thought ironically, the first time he hadn’t felt desire for this woman, in either of her incarnations.

“Can you help me with this?” she asked. But her voice was hesitant.

Benedict didn’t move.

“Benedict?”

“It’s interesting to see you with a scarf tied around your head, Sophie,” he said softly.

Her hands dropped slowly to her sides.

“It’s almost like a demi-mask, wouldn’t you say?”

Her lips parted, and the soft rush of air that crossed them was the room’s only noise.

He walked toward her, slowly, inexorably, his footsteps just loud enough so that she had to know he was stalking her. “I haven’t been to a masquerade in many years,” he said.

She knew. He could see it in her face, the way she held her mouth, tight at the corners, and yet still slightly open. She knew that he knew.

He hoped she was terrified.

He took another two steps toward her, then abruptly turned to the right, his arm brushing past her sleeve. “Were you ever going to tell me that we’d met before?”

Her mouth moved, but she didn’t speak.

“Were you?” he asked, his voice low and controlled.

“No,” she said, her voice wavering.

“Really?”

She didn’t make a sound.

“Any particular reason?”

“It—it didn’t seem pertinent.”

He whirled around. “It didn’t seem pertinent?” he snapped. “I fell in love with you two years ago, and it didn’t seem pertinent?”

“Can I please remove the scarf?” she whispered.

“You can remain blind.”

“Benedict, I—”

“Like I was blind this past month,” he continued angrily. “Why don’t you see how you like it?”

“You didn’t fall in love with me two years ago,” she said, yanking at the too-tight scarf.

“How would you know? You disappeared.”

“I had to disappear,” she cried out. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“We always have choices,” he said condescendingly. “We call it free will.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” she snapped, tugging frantically at the blindfold. “You, who have everything! I had to—Oh!” With one wrenching movement, she somehow managed to yank down the scarves until they hung loosely around her neck.

Sophie blinked against the sudden onslaught of light. Then she caught sight of Benedict’s face and stumbled back a step.

His eyes were on fire, burning with a rage, and yes, a hurt that she could barely comprehend. “It’s good to see you, Sophie,” he said in a dangerously low voice. “If indeed that is your real name.”

She nodded.

“It occurs to me,” he said, a little too casually, “if you were at the masquerade, then you are not exactly of the servant class, are you?”

“I didn’t have an invitation,” she said hastily. “I was a fraud. A pretender. I had no right to be there.”

“You lied to me. Through everything, all this, you lied to me.”

“I had to,” she whispered.

“Oh, please. What could possibly be so terrible that you must conceal your identity from me?”

Sophie gulped. Here in the Bridgerton nursery, with him looming over her, she couldn’t quite remember why she’d decided not to tell him that she was the lady at the masquerade.

Maybe she’d feared that he would want her to become his mistress.

Which had happened anyway.

Or maybe she hadn’t said anything because by the time she’d realized that this wasn’t going to be a chance meeting, that he wasn’t about to let Sophie-the-housemaid out of his life, it was too late. She’d gone too long without telling him, and she feared his rage.

Which was exactly what had happened.

Proving her point. Of course, that was cold consolation as she stood across from him, watching his eyes go hot with anger and cold with disdain—all at the same time.

Maybe the truth—as unflattering as it might be—was that her pride had been stung. She’d been disappointed that he hadn’t recognized her himself. If the night of the masquerade had been as magical for him as it had been for her, shouldn’t he have known instantly who she was?

Two years she’d spent dreaming about him. Two years she’d seen his face every night in her mind. And yet when he’d seen hers, he’d seen a stranger.

Or maybe, just maybe, it hadn’t been any of those things. Maybe it was simpler than that. Maybe she’d just wanted to protect her heart. She didn’t know why, but she’d felt a little safer, a little less exposed as an anonymous housemaid. If Benedict had known who she was—or at least known that she’d been the woman at the masquerade—then he would have pursued her. Relentlessly.

Oh, he had certainly pursued her when he’d thought she’d been a maid. But it would have been different if he’d known the truth. Sophie was sure of it. He wouldn’t have perceived the class differences as being quite so great, and Sophie would have lost an important barrier between them. Her social status, or lack thereof, had been a protective wall around her heart. She couldn’t get too close because, quite honestly, she couldn’t get too close. A man such as Benedict—son of and brother to viscounts—would never marry a servant.

But an earl’s by-blow—now that was a much trickier situation. Unlike a servant, an aristocratic bastard could dream.

But like those of a servant, the dreams weren’t likely to come true. Making the dreaming all that much more painful. And she’d known—every time it had been on the tip of her tongue to blurt out her secret she had known—that telling him the truth would lead straight to a broken heart.

It almost made Sophie want to laugh. Her heart couldn’t possibly feel worse than it did now.

“I searched for you,” he said, his low, intense voice cutting into her thoughts.

Her eyes widened, grew wet. “You did?” she whispered.

“For six bloody months,” he cursed. “It was as if you fell right off the face of the earth.”

“I had nowhere to go,” she said, not sure why she was telling him that.

“You had me.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and dark. Finally, Sophie, propelled by some perverse sense of belated honesty, said, “I didn’t know you searched for me. But—but—” She choked on the word, closing her eyes tightly against the pain of the moment.

“But what?”

She swallowed convulsively, and when she did open her eyes, she did not look at his face. “Even if I’d known you were looking,” she said, hugging her arms to her body, “I wouldn’t have let you find me.”

“Was I that repulsive to you?”

“No!” she cried out, her eyes flying to his face. There was hurt there. He hid it well, but she knew him well. There was hurt in his eyes.

“No,” she said, trying to make her voice calm and even. “It wasn’t that. It could never be that.”

“Then what?”

“We’re from different worlds, Benedict. Even then I knew that there could be no future for us. And it would have been torture. To tease myself with a dream that couldn’t come true? I couldn’t do that.”

“Who are you?” he asked suddenly.

She just stared at him, frozen into inaction.

“Tell me,” he bit off. “Tell me who you are. Because you’re no damned lady’s maid, that’s for certain.”

“I’m exactly who I said I was,” she said, then, at his murderous glare, hastily added, “Almost.”

He advanced on her. “Who are you?”

She backed up another step. “Sophia Beckett.”

“Who are you?”

“I’ve been a servant since I was fourteen.”

“And who were you before that?”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “A bastard.”

“Whose bastard?”

“Does it matter?”

His stance grew more belligerent. “It matters to me.”

Sophie felt herself deflate. She hadn’t expected him to ignore the duties of his birth and actually marry someone like her, but she’d hoped he wouldn’t care quite that much.

“Who were your parents?” Benedict persisted.

“No one you know.”

“Who were your parents?” he roared.

“The Earl of Penwood,” she cried out.

He stood utterly still, not a muscle moving. He didn’t even blink.

“I am a nobleman’s bastard,” she said harshly, years of anger and resentment pouring forth. “My father was the Earl of Penwood and my mother was a maid. Yes,” she spat out when she saw his face grow pale, “my mother was a lady’s maid. Just as I am a lady’s maid.”

A heavy pause filled the air, and then Sophie said in a low voice, “I won’t be like my mother.”

“And yet, if she’d behaved otherwise,” he said, “you wouldn’t be here to tell me about it.”

“That’s not the point.”

Benedict’s hands, which had been fisted at his sides, began to twitch. “You lied to me,” he said in a low voice.