An Offer From a Gentleman (Cinderella)

Chapter 8

“You must enjoy walking in the park, then,” he said.

“Yes,” Sophie lied. She never had time to go to the park. Araminta didn’t even give her a day off like the

other servants received.

“We shall have to take a stroll together,” Benedict said.

Sophie avoided a reply by reminding him, “You never did tell me why your favorite color is blue.”

His head cocked slightly to the side, and his eyes narrowed just enough so that Sophie knew that he

had noticed her evasion. But he simply said, “I don’t know. Perhaps, like you, I’m reminded of

something I miss. There is a lake at Aubrey Hall—that is where I grew up, in Kent—but the water

always seemed more gray than blue.”

“It probably reflects the sky,” Sophie commented.

“Which is, more often than not, more gray than blue,” Benedict said with a laugh. “Perhaps that is what

I miss—blue skies and sunshine.”

“If it weren’t raining,” Sophie said with a smile, “this wouldn’t be England.”

“I went to Italy once,” Benedict said. “The sun shone constantly.”

“It sounds like heaven.”

“You’d think,” he said. “But I found myself missing the rain.”

“I can’t believe it,” she said with a laugh. “I feel like I spend half my life staring out the window and

grumbling at the rain.”

“If it were gone, you’d miss it.”

Sophie grew pensive. Were there things in her life she’d miss if they were gone? She wouldn’t miss

Araminta, that was for certain, and she wouldn’t miss Rosamund. She’d probably miss Posy, and she’d

definitely miss the way the sun shone through the window in her attic room in the mornings. She’d miss

the way the servants laughed and joked and occasionally included her in their fun, even though they all

knew she was the late earl’s bastard.

But she wasn’t going to miss these things—she wouldn’t even have the opportunity to miss them—

because she wasn’t going anywhere. After this evening—this one amazing, wonderful, magical evening

—it would be back to life as usual.

She supposed that if she were stronger, braver, she’d have left Penwood House years ago. But would

that have really made much difference? She might not like living with Araminta, but she wasn’t likely to

improve her lot in life by leaving. She might have liked to have been a governess, and she was

certainly well qualified for the position, but jobs were scarce for those without references, and Araminta

certainly wasn’t going to give her one.

“You’re very quiet,” Benedict said softly.

“I was just thinking.”

“About?”

“About what I’d miss—and what I wouldn’t miss—should my life drastically change.”

His eyes grew intense. “And do you expect it to drastically change?”

She shook her head and tried to keep the sadness out of her voice when she answered, “No.”

His voice grew so quiet it was almost a whisper. “Do you want it to change?”

“Yes,” she sighed, before she could stop herself. “Oh, yes.”

He took her hands and brought them to his lips, gently kissing each one in turn. “Then we shall begin

right now,” he vowed. “And tomorrow you shall be transformed.”

“Tonight I am transformed,” she whispered. “Tomorrow I shall disappear.”

Benedict drew her close and dropped the softest, most fleeting of kisses onto her brow. “Then we must

pack a lifetime into this very night.”

This Author waits with bated breath to see what costumes the ton will choose for the Bridgerton

masquerade. It is rumored that Eloise Bridgerton plans to dress as Joan of Arc, and Penelope

Featherington, out for her third season and recently returned from a visit with Irish cousins, will don the

costume of a leprechaun. Miss Posy Reiling, stepdaughter to the late Earl of Penwood, plans a

costume of mermaid, which This Author personally cannot wait to behold, but her elder sister, Miss

Rosamund Reiling, has been very close-lipped about her own attire.

As for the men, if previous masquerade balls are any indication, the portly will dress as Henry VIII, the

more fit as Alexander the Great or perhaps the devil, and the bored (the eligible Bridgerton brothers

sure to be among these ranks) as themselves—basic black evening kit, with only a demi-mask as a

nod to the occasion.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 5 JUNE 1815

“Dance with me,” Sophie said impulsively.

His smile was amused, but his fingers twined tightly with hers as he murmured, “I thought you didn’t

know how.”

“You said you would teach me.”

He stared at her for a long moment, his eyes boring into hers, then he tugged on her hand and said,

“Come with me.”

Pulling her along behind him, they slipped down a hallway, climbed a flight of stairs, and then rounded

a corner, emerging in front of a pair of French doors. Benedict jiggled the wrought-iron handles and

swung the doors open, revealing a small private terrace, adorned with potted plants and two chaise

lounges.

“Where are we?” Sophie asked, looking around.

“Right above the ballroom terrace.” He shut the doors behind them. “Can’t you hear the music?”

Mostly, what Sophie could hear was the low rumble of endless conversation, but if she strained her

ears, she could hear the faint lilt of the orchestra. “Handel,” she said with a delighted smile. “My

governess had a music box with this very tune.”

“You loved your governess very much,” he said quietly.

Her eyes had been closed as she hummed along with the music, but when she heard his words, she

opened them in a startled fashion. “How did you know?”

“The same way I knew you were happier in the country.” Benedict reached out and touched her cheek,

one gloved finger trailing slowly along her skin until it reached the line of her jaw. “I can see it in your

face.”

She held silent for a few moments, then pulled away, saying, “Yes, well, I spent more time with her than

with anyone else in the household.”

“It sounds a lonely upbringing,” he said quietly.

“Sometimes it was.” She walked over to the edge of the balcony and rested her hands on the

balustrade as she stared out into the inky night. “Sometimes it wasn’t.” Then she turned around quite

suddenly, her smile bright, and Benedict knew that she would not reveal anything more about her

childhood.

“Your upbringing must have been the complete opposite of lonely,” she said, “with so many brothers

and sisters about.”

“You know who I am,” he stated.

She nodded. “I didn’t at first.”

He walked over to the balustrade and leaned one hip against it, crossing his arms. “What gave me

away?”

“It was your brother, actually. You looked so alike—”

“Even with our masks?”

“Even with your masks,” she said with an indulgent smile. “Lady Whistledown writes about you quite

often, and she never passes up an opportunity to comment upon how alike you look.”

“And do you know which brother I am?” Copyright Nôv/el/Dra/ma.Org.

“Benedict,” she replied. “If indeed Lady Whistledown is correct when she says that you are tallest

among your brothers.”

“You’re quite the detective.”

She looked slightly embarrassed. “I merely read a gossip sheet. It makes me no different from the rest

of the people here.”

Benedict watched her for a moment, wondering if she realized that she’d revealed another clue to the

puzzle of her identity. If she’d recognized him only from Whistledown, then she’d not been out in

society for long, or perhaps not at all. Either way, she was not one of the many young ladies to whom

his mother had introduced him.

“What else do you know about me from Whistledown?” he asked, his smile slow and lazy.

“Are you fishing for compliments?” she asked, returning the half smile with the vaguest tilt of her lips.

“For you must know that the Bridgertons are almost always spared her rapier quill. Lad

y Whistledown is nearly always complimentary when writing about your family.”

“It’s led to quite a bit of speculation about her identity,” he admitted. “Some think she must be a

Bridgerton.”

“Is she?”

He shrugged. “Not that I’m aware of. And you didn’t answer my question.”

“Which question was that?”

“What you know of me from Whistledown.”

She looked surprised. “Are you truly interested?”

“If I cannot know anything about you, at least I might know what you know about me.”

She smiled, and touched the tip of her index finger to her lower lip in an endearingly absentminded

gesture. “Well, let’s see. Last month you won some silly horse race in Hyde Park.”

“It wasn’t the least bit silly,” he said with a grin, “and I’m a hundred quid richer for it.”

She shot him an arch look. “Horse races are almost always silly.”

“Spoken just like a woman,” he muttered.

“Well—”

“Don’t point out the obvious,” he interrupted.

That made her smile.

“What else do you know?” he asked.

“From Whistledown?” She tapped her finger against her cheek. “You once lopped the head off your

sister’s doll.”

“And I’m still trying to figure out how she knew about that,” Benedict muttered.

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