An Offer from a Gentleman with 2nd Epilogue (30 page)

Which had felt worse than a deliberate snub would have done.

“He left me a dowry,” she said dazedly. Then to Benedict, “I have a dowry.”

“I don't care if you have a dowry,” Benedict replied. “I don't need it.”

“I care,” Sophie said. “I thought he'd forgotten me. All these years I'd thought he'd written up his will and simply forgotten about me. I know he couldn't really leave money to his bastard daughter, but he'd told all the world I was his ward. There was no reason he couldn't provide for his ward.” For some reason she looked to Lady Bridgerton. “He could have provided for a ward. People do that all the time.”

The magistrate cleared his throat and turned on Araminta, “And what has happened to her dowry?”

Araminta said nothing.

Lady Bridgerton cleared her throat. “I don't think it's terribly legal,” she said, “to embezzle a young woman's dowry.” She smiled—a slow, satisfied sort of smile. “Eh, Araminta?”

Lady Penwood appears to have left town. So does Lady Bridgerton. Interesting . . .

L
ADY
W
HISTLEDOWN'S
S
OCIETY
P
APERS
, 18 J
UNE
1817

B
enedict decided he had never loved his mother more than he did at that very minute. He was trying not to grin, but it was exceedingly difficult with Lady Penwood gasping like a fish on land.

The magistrate's eyes bugged out. “You're not suggesting I arrest the
countess
?”

“No, of course not,” Violet demurred. “She'd likely go free. The aristocracy rarely pays for its crimes. But,” she added, tilting her head slightly to the side as she gave Lady Penwood a very pointed glance, “if you
were
to arrest her, it would be terribly embarrassing while she defended the charges.”

“What are you trying to say?” Lady Penwood asked through decidedly clenched teeth.

Violet turned to the magistrate. “Might I have a few moments alone with Lady Penwood?”

“Of course, my lady.” He gave her a gruff nod, then barked, “Everyone! Out!”

“No, no,” Violet said with a sweet smile as she pressed something that looked suspiciously like a pound note into his palm. “My family may stay.”

The magistrate blushed slightly, then grabbed the warden's arm and yanked him out of the room.

“There now,” Violet murmured. “Where were we?”

Benedict beamed with pride as he watched his mother march right up to Lady Penwood and stare her down. He stole a glance at Sophie. Her mouth was hanging open.

“My son is going to marry Sophie,” Violet said, “and you are going to tell anyone who will listen that she was the ward of your late husband.”

“I will never lie for her,” Lady Penwood shot back.

Violet shrugged. “Fine. Then you can expect my solicitors to begin looking for Sophie's dowry immediately. After all, Benedict will be entitled to it once he marries her.”

Benedict slipped his arm around Sophie's waist and gave her a light squeeze.

“If someone asks me,” Lady Penwood ground out, “I will confirm whatever story you bandy about. But do not expect me to go out of my way to help her.”

Violet pretended to mull that over, then said, “Excellent. I do believe that will do nicely.” She turned to her son. “Benedict?”

He gave her a sharp nod.

His mother turned back to Lady Penwood. “Sophie's father was named Charles Beckett and he was a distant cousin of the earl's, no?”

Lady Penwood looked as if she'd swallowed a bad clam, but she nodded nonetheless.

Violet pointedly turned her back on the countess, and said, “I'm sure some members of the
ton
will consider her a bit shabby, since obviously nobody will be familiar with her family, but at least she will be respectable. After all”—she turned back around and flashed a wide smile at Araminta—“there is that connection with the Penwoods.”

Araminta let out a strange, growling sound. It was all Benedict could do not to laugh.

“Oh, magistrate!” Violet called out, and when he bustled back into the room, she smiled gamely at him and said, “I believe my work here is done.”

He let out a sigh of relief, saying, “Then I don't have to arrest anyone?”

“It seems not.”

He practically sagged against the wall.

“Well, I am leaving!” Lady Penwood announced, as if anyone might possibly miss her. She turned to her daughter with furious eyes. “Come along, Posy.”

Benedict watched as the blood quite literally drained from Posy's face. But before he could intervene, Sophie jumped forward, blurting out, “Lady Bridgerton!” just as Araminta roared,
“Now!”

“Yes, dear?”

Sophie grabbed Violet's arm and pulled her close enough to whisper something in her ear.

“Quite right,” Violet said. She turned to Posy. “Miss Gunningworth?”

“Actually, it's Miss Reiling,” Posy corrected. “The earl never adopted me.”

“Of course. Miss Reiling. How old are you?”

“One-and-twenty, my lady.”

“Well, that's certainly old enough to make your own decisions. Would you like to come to my home for a visit?”

“Oh,
yes
!”

“Posy, you may
not
go live with the Bridgertons!” Araminta ordered.

Violet ignored her completely as she said to Posy, “I believe I will quit London early this season. Would you care to join us for an extended stay in Kent?”

Posy nodded quickly. “I would be much obliged.”

“That settles it, then.”

“That does not settle it,” Araminta snapped. “She is my daughter, and—”

“Benedict,” Lady Bridgerton said in a rather bored voice, “what was the name of my solicitor?”

“Go!” Araminta spat at Posy. “And don't ever darken my door again.”

For the first time that afternoon, Posy began to look a little scared. It didn't help when her mother stalked right up to her and hissed straight in her face, “If you go with them now, you are dead to me. Do you understand?
Dead!
”

Posy threw a panicked look at Violet, who immediately stepped forward and linked their arms together.

“It's all right, Posy,” Violet said softly. “You may stay with us as long as you wish.”

Sophie stepped forward and slid her arm through Posy's free one. “Now we will be sisters truly,” she said, leaning forward and giving her a kiss on the cheek.

“Oh, Sophie,” Posy cried out, a well of tears bursting forth. “I'm so sorry! I never stood up for you. I should have said something. I should have done something, but—”

Sophie shook her head. “You were young. I was young. And I know better than anyone how difficult it is to defy
her
.” She threw a scathing glare at Araminta.

“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.”

O
ne 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 he 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.