An Offer From a Gentleman (Bridgertons 3)

“Don’t you speak to me that way,” Araminta seethed, raising her hand as if to strike.

“Ah ah ah!” Violet cut in. “The solicitors, Lady Penwood. Don’t forget the solicitors.”

Araminta dropped her hand, but she looked as if she might spontaneously burst into flame at any moment.

“Benedict?” Violet called out. “How quickly could we be at the solicitors’ office?”

Grinning inside, he gave his chin a thoughtful stroke. “They’re not too terribly far away. Twenty minutes? Thirty if the roads are full.”

Araminta shook with rage as she directed her words at Violet. “Take her then. She’s never been anything to me but a disappointment. And you can expect to be stuck with her until your dying day, as no one is likely to offer for her. I have to bribe men just to ask her to dance.”

And then the strangest thing occurred. Sophie began to shake. Her skin turned red, her teeth clenched, and the most amazing roar burst forth from her mouth. And before anyone could even think to intervene, she had planted her fist squarely into Araminta’s left eye and sent the older woman sprawling.

Benedict had thought that nothing could have surprised him more than his mother’s heretofore undetected Machiavellian streak.

He was wrong.

“That,” Sophie hissed, “is not for stealing my dowry. It’s not for all the times you tried to boot me out of my house before my father died. And it’s not even for turning me into your personal slave.”

“Er, Sophie,” Benedict said mildly, “what, then, is it for?”

Sophie’s eyes never wavered off of Araminta’s face as she said, “That was for not loving your daughters equally.”

Posy began to bawl.

“There’s a special place in hell for mothers like you,” Sophie said, her voice dangerously low.

“You know,” the magistrate squeaked, “we really do need to clear this cell out for the next occupant.”

“He’s right,” Violet said quickly, stepping in front of Sophie before she decided to start kicking Araminta. She turned to Posy. “Have you any belongings you wish to retrieve?”

Posy shook her head.

Violet’s eyes turned sad as she gave Posy’s hand a little squeeze. “We shall make new memories for you, my dear.”

Araminta rose to her feet, gave Posy one last horrific glare, then stalked away.

“Well,” Violet declared, planting her hands on her hips. “I thought she would never leave.”

Benedict disengaged his arm from Sophie’s waist with a murmur of, “Don’t move a muscle,” then walked quickly to his mother’s side.

“Have I told you lately,” he whispered in her ear, “how much I love you?”

“No,” she said with a jaunty smile, “but I know, anyway.”

“Have I mentioned that you’re the best of mothers?”

“No, but I know that, too.”

“Good.” He leaned down and dropped a kiss on her cheek. “Thank you. It’s a privilege to be your son.”

His mother, who had held her own throughout the day, and indeed proven herself the most hardheaded and quick-witted of them all, burst into tears.

“What did you say to her?” Sophie demanded.

“It’s all right,” Violet said, sniffling mightily. “It’s . . .” She threw her arms around Benedict. “I love you, too!”

Posy turned to Sophie and said, “This is a nice family.”

Sophie turned to Posy and said, “I know.”

One hour later Sophie was in Benedict’s sitting room, perched on the very same sofa on which she had lost her innocence just a few weeks earlier. Lady Bridgerton had questioned the wisdom (and propriety) of Sophie’s going to Benedict’s home by herself, but he had given her such a look that she had quickly backed down, saying only, “Just have her home by seven.”

Which gave them one hour together.

“I’m sorry,” Sophie blurted out, the instant her bottom touched the sofa. For some reason they hadn’t said anything during the carriage ride home. They’d held hands, and Benedict had brought her fingers to his lips, but they hadn’t said anything.

Sophie had been relieved. She hadn’t been ready for words. It had been easy at the jail, with all the commotion and so many people, but now that they were alone . . .

She didn’t know what to say.

Except, she supposed, “I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Benedict replied, sitting beside her and taking her hands in his.

“No, I’m—” She suddenly smiled. “This is very silly.”

“I love you,” he said.

Her lips parted.

“I want to marry you,” he said.

She stopped breathing.

“And I don’t care about your parents or my mother’s bargain with Lady Penwood to make you respectable.” He stared down at her, his dark eyes meltingly in love. “I would have married you no matter what.”

Sophie blinked. The tears in her eyes were growing fat and hot, and she had a sneaking suspicion that she was about to make a fool of herself by blubbering all over him. She managed to say his name, then found herself completely lost from there.

Benedict squeezed her hands. “We couldn’t have lived in London, I know, but we don’t need to live in London. When I thought about what it was in life I really needed—not what I wanted, but what I needed—the only thing that kept coming up was you.”

“I—”

“No, let me finish,” he said, his voice suspiciously hoarse. “I shouldn’t have asked you to be my mistress. It wasn’t right of me.”

“Benedict,” she said softly, “what else would you have done? You thought me a servant. In a perfect world we could have married, but this isn’t a perfect world. Men like you don’t marry—”

“Fine. I wasn’t wrong to ask, then.” He tried to smile. It came out lopsided. “I would have been a fool not to ask. I wanted you so badly, and I think I already loved you, and—”

“Benedict, you don’t have to—”

“Explain? Yes, I do. I should never have pressed the issue once you refused my offer. It was unfair of me to ask, especially when we both knew that I would eventually be expected to marry. I would die before sharing you. How could I ask you to do the same?”

She reached out and brushed something off of his cheek. Jesus, was he crying? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried. When his father had died, perhaps? Even then, his tears had fallen in private.

“There are so many reasons I love you,” he said, each word emerging with careful precision. He knew that he had won her. She wasn’t going to run away; she would be his wife. But he still wanted this to be perfect. A man only got one shot at declaring himself to his true love; he didn’t want to muck it up completely.

“But one of the things I love best,” he continued, “is the fact that you know yourself. You know who you are, and what you value. You have principles, Sophie, and you stick by them.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “That is so rare.”

Her eyes were filling with tears, and all he wanted to do was hold her, but he knew he had to finish. So many words had been welling up inside of him, and they all had to be said.

“And,” he said, his voice dropping in volume, “you took the time to see me. To know me. Benedict. Not Mr. Bridgerton, not ‘Number Two.’ Benedict.”

She touched his cheek. “You’re the finest person I know. I adore your family, but I love you.”

He crushed her to him. He couldn’t help it. He had to feel her in his arms, to reassure himself that she was there and that she would always be there. With him, by his side, until death did they part. It was strange, but he was driven by the oddest compulsion to hold her . . . just hold her.

He wanted her, of course. He always wanted her. But more than that, he wanted to hold her. To smell her, to feel her.

He was, he realized, comforted by her presence. They didn’t need to talk. They didn’t even need to touch (although h

e wasn’t about to let go just then). Simply put, he was a happier man—and quite possibly a better man—when she was near.

He buried his face in her hair, inhaling her scent, smelling . . .

Smelling . . .

He drew back. “Would you care for a bath?”

Her face turned an instant scarlet. “Oh, no,” she moaned, the words muffled into the hand she’d clapped over her mouth. “It was so filthy in jail, and I was forced to sleep on the ground, and—”

“Don’t tell me any more,” he said.

“But—”

“Please.” If he heard more he might have to kill someone. As long as there had been no permanent damage, he didn’t want to know the details.

“I think,” he said, the first hint of a smile tugging at the left corner of his mouth, “that you should take a bath.”

“Right.” She nodded as she rose to her feet. “I’ll go straight to your mother’s—”

“Here.”

“Here?”

The smile spread to the right corner of his mouth. “Here.”

“But we told your mother—”

“That you’d be home by nine.”

“I think she said seven.”

“Did she? Funny, I heard nine.”

“Benedict . . .”

He took her hand and pulled her toward the door. “Seven sounds an awful lot like nine.”

“Benedict . . .”

“Actually, it sounds even more like eleven.”