An Offer From a Gentleman (Bridgertons 3)

“Oh, shall we?”

“I would be delighted.”

“Please, allow me to—”

“Take my arm.”

“I would—”

“You must—”

By the time Posy and Mr. Woodson were at the door, Sophie could hardly tell who was saying what. And not a drop of tea had entered Mr. Woodson’s cup.

Sophie waited for a full minute, and then burst out laughing, clapping her hand over her mouth to stifle the sound, although she wasn’t sure why she needed to. It was a laugh of pure delight. Pride, too, at having orchestrated the whole thing.

“What are you laughing about?” It was Benedict, wandering into the room, his fingers stained with paint. “Ah, biscuits. Excellent. I’m famished. Forgot to eat this morning.” He took the last one and frowned. “You might have left more for me.”

“It’s Posy,” Sophie said, grinning. “And Mr. Woodson. I predict a very short engagement.”

Benedict’s eyes widened. He turned to the door, then to the window. “Where are they?”

“In the back. We can’t see them from here.”

He chewed thoughtfully. “But we could from my studio.”

For about two seconds neither moved. But only two seconds.

They ran for the door, pushing and shoving their way down the hall to Benedict’s studio, which jutted out of the back of the house, giving it light from three directions. Sophie got there first, although not by entirely fair means, and let out a shocked gasp.

“What is it?” Benedict said from the doorway.

“They’re kissing!”

He strode forward. “They are not.”

“Oh, they are.”

He drew up beside her, and his mouth fell open. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

And Sophie, who never cursed, responded, “I know. I know.”

“And they only just met? Really?”

“You kissed me the first night we met,” she pointed out.

“That was different.”

Sophie managed to pull her attention from the kissing couple on the lawn for just long enough to demand, “How?”

He thought about that for a moment, then answered, “It was a masquerade.”

“Oh, so it’s all right to kiss someone if you don’t know who they are?”

“Not fair, Sophie,” he said, clucking as he shook his head. “I asked you, and you wouldn’t tell me.”

That was true enough to put an end to that particular branch of the conversation, and they stood there for another moment, shamelessly watching Posy and the vicar. They’d stopped kissing and were now talking—from the looks of it, a mile a minute. Posy would speak, and then Mr. Woodson would nod vigorously and interrupt her, and then she would interrupt him, and then he looked like he was giggling, of all things, and then Posy began to speak with such animation that her arms waved all about her head.

“What on earth could they be saying?” Sophie wondered.

“Probably everything they should have said before he kissed her.” Benedict frowned, crossing his arms. “How long have they been at this, anyway?”

“You’ve been watching just as long as I have.”

“No, I meant, when did he arrive? Did they even speak before . . .” He waved his hand toward the window, gesturing to the couple, who looked about ready to kiss again.

“Yes, of course, but . . .” Sophie paused, thinking. Both Posy and Mr. Woodson had been rather tongue-tied at their meeting. In fact, she couldn’t recall a single substantive word that was spoken. “Well, not very much, I’m afraid.”

Benedict nodded slowly. “Do you think I should go out there?”

Sophie looked at him, then at the window, and then back. “Are you mad?”

He shrugged. “She is my sister now, and it is my house . . .”

“Don’t you dare!”

“So I’m not supposed to protect her honor?”

“It’s her first kiss!”

He quirked a brow. “And here we are, spying on it.”

“It’s my right,” Sophie said indignantly. “I arranged the whole thing.”

“Oh you did, did you? I seem to recall that I was the one to suggest Mr. Woodson.”

“But you didn’t do anything about it.”

“That’s your job, darling.”

Sophie considered a retort, because his tone was rather annoying, but he did have a point. She did rather enjoy trying to find a match for Posy, and she was definitely enjoying her obvious success.

“You know,” Benedict said thoughtfully, “we might have a daughter someday.”

Sophie turned to him. He wasn’t normally one for such non sequiturs. “I beg your pardon?”

He gestured to the lovebirds on the lawn. “Just that this could be excellent practice for me. I’m quite certain I wish to be an overbearingly protective father. I could storm out and tear him apart from limb to limb.”

Sophie winced. Poor Mr. Woodson wouldn’t stand a chance.

“Challenge him to a duel?”

She shook her head.

“Very well, but if he lowers her to the ground, I am interceding.”

“He won’t— Oh dear heavens!” Sophie leaned forward, her face nearly to the glass. “Oh my God.”

And she didn’t even cover her mouth in horror at having blasphemed.

Benedict sighed, then flexed his fingers. “I really don’t want to injure my hands. I’m halfway through your portrait, and it’s going so well.”

Sophie had one hand on his arm, holding him back even though he wasn’t really moving anywhere. “No,” she said, “don’t—” She gasped. “Oh, my. Maybe we should do something.”

“They’re not on the ground yet.”

“Benedict!”

“Normally I’d say to call the priest,” he remarked, “except that seems to be what got us into this mess in the first place.”

Sophie swallowed. “Perhaps you can

procure a special license for them? As a wedding gift?”

He grinned. “Consider it done.”

It was a splendid wedding. And that kiss at the end . . .

No one was surprised when Posy produced a baby nine months later, and then at yearly intervals after that. She took great care in the naming of her brood, and Mr. Woodson, who was as beloved a vicar as he’d been in every other stage of his life, adored her too much to argue with any of her choices.

First there was Sophia, for obvious reasons, and then Benedict. The next would have been Violet, except that Sophie begged her not to. She’d always wanted the name for her daughter, and it would be far too confusing with the families living so close. So Posy went with Georgette, after Hugh’s mother, whom she thought had just the nicest smile.

After that was John, after Hugh’s father. For quite some time it appeared that he would remain the baby of the family. After giving birth every June for four years in a row, Posy stopped getting pregnant. She wasn’t doing anything differently, she confided in Sophie; she and Hugh were still very much in love. It just seemed that her body had decided it was through with childbearing.

Which was just as well. With two girls and two boys, all in the single digits, she had her hands full.

But then, when John was five, Posy rose from bed one morning and threw up on the floor. It could only mean one thing, and the following autumn, she delivered a girl.

Sophie was present at the birth, as she always was. “What shall you name her?” she asked.

Posy looked down at the perfect little creature in her arms. It was sleeping quite soundly, and even though she knew that newborns did not smile, the baby really did look as if it were rather pleased about something.

Maybe about being born. Maybe this one was going to attack life with a smile. Good humor would be her weapon of choice.

What a splendid human being she would be.

“Araminta,” Posy said suddenly.

Sophie nearly fell over from the shock of it. “What?”

“I want to name her Araminta. I’m quite certain.” Posy stroked the baby’s cheek, then touched her gently under the chin.

Sophie could not seem to stop shaking her head. “But your mother . . . I can’t believe you would—”

“I’m not naming her for my mother,” Posy cut in gently. “I’m naming her because of my mother. It’s different.”