An Offer From a Gentleman (Cinderella)

Chapter 54

“There was no need to tell you the truth.”

“Who the hell are you to decide?” he exploded. “Poor little Benedict, he can’t handle the truth. He can’t

make up his own mind. He—”

He broke off, disgusted by the whiny edge to his voice. She was turning him into someone he didn’t

know, someone he didn’t like.

He had to get out of there. He had to—

“Benedict?” She was looking at him oddly. Her eyes were concerned.

“I have to go,” he muttered. “I can’t see you right now.”

“Why?” she asked, and he could see from her face that she instantly regretted the question.

“I am so angry right now,” he said, each word a slow, staccato beat in the sentence, “that I don’t know

myself. I—” He looked down at his hands. They were shaking. He wanted to hurt her, he realized. No,

he didn’t want to hurt her. He would never want to hurt her. And yet . . .

And yet . . .

It was the first time in his life he’d felt so out of control. It scared him.

“I have to go,” he said again, and he brushed roughly past her as he strode out the door.

While we are on the topic, Miss Reiling’s mother, the Countess of Penwood, has also been acting very NôvelDrama.Org: owner of this content.

strange of late. According to servants’ gossip (which we all know is always the most reliable sort), the

countess threw quite the tantrum last night, hurling no fewer than seventeen shoes at her servants.

One footman sports a bruised eye, but other than that, all remain in good health.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 11 JUNE 1817

Within an hour, Sophie had her bag packed. She didn’t know what else to do. She was gripped—

painfully gripped—by nervous energy, and she could not sit still. Her feet kept moving and her hands

were shaking, and every few minutes, she found herself taking a big spontaneous gulp of air, as if the

extra breath could somehow calm her inside.

She could not imagine that she would be allowed to remain here in Lady Bridgerton’s household after

such a horrible falling-out with Benedict. Lady Bridgerton was fond of Sophie, it was true, but Benedict

was her son. Blood really was thicker than just about anything else, especially when it was Bridgerton

blood.

It was sad, really, she thought as she sat down on her bed, her hands still torturing a hopelessly

mangled handkerchief. For all her inner turmoil over Benedict, she’d liked living in the Bridgerton

household. Sophie had never before had the honor of living amongst a group of people who truly

understood the meaning of the word family.

She would miss them.

She would miss Benedict.

And she would mourn the life she could not have.

Unable to sit still, she jumped back to her feet and walked to the window. “Damn you, Papa,” she said,

looking up at the skies. “There. I’ve called you Papa. You never let me do that. You never wanted to be

that.” She gasped convulsively, using the back of her hand to wipe at her nose. “I’ve called you Papa.

How does it feel?”

But there was no sudden clap of thunder, no gray cloud appearing out of nowhere to cover up the sun.

Her father would never know how angry she was with him for leaving her penniless, leaving her with

Araminta. Most likely, he wouldn’t have cared.

She felt rather weary, and she leaned against the window frame, rubbing her eyes with her hand. “You

gave me a taste of another life,” she whispered, “and then left me in the wind. It would have been so

much easier if I’d been raised a servant.

“I wouldn’t have wanted so much. It would have been easier.”

She turned back around, her eyes falling upon her single, meager bag. She hadn’t wanted to take any

of the dresses that Lady Bridgerton and her daughters had given her, but she’d had little choice in the

matter, as her old dresses had already been relegated to the rag bin. So she’d chosen only two, the

same number with which she’d arrived—the one she happened to be wearing when Benedict had

discovered her identity, and a spare, which she’d tucked in the bag. The rest had been left hanging,

neatly pressed, in the wardrobe.

Sophie sighed, closing her eyes for a moment. It was time to go. Where, she didn’t know, but she

couldn’t stay here.

She leaned down and picked up the bag. She had a little money saved. Not much, but if she worked

and was frugal, she’d have enough funds for passage to America within a year. She’d heard that things

were easier there for those of less-than-respectable birth, that the boundaries of class weren’t quite as

strict as they were here in England.

She poked her head out into the hall, which was blessedly vacant. She knew she was a coward, but

she didn’t want to have to say good-bye to the Bridgerton daughters. She might do something really

stupid, like cry, and then she’d feel even worse. Never in her life had she had the chance to spend time

with women of her own age who treated her with respect and affection. She’d once hoped that

Rosamund and Posy would be her sisters, but that had never come to pass. Posy might have tried, but

Araminta wouldn’t allow it, and Posy, for all her sweetness, had never been strong enough to stand up

to her mother.

But she did have to bid farewell to Lady Bridgerton. There was no getting around that. Lady Bridgerton

had been kind to her far beyond any expectations, and Sophie would not thank her by sneaking out

and disappearing like some criminal. If she was lucky, Lady Bridgerton would not yet have heard of her

altercation with Benedict. Sophie could give her notice, bid her farewell, and be off.

It was late afternoon, well past tea time, so Sophie decided to take a chance and see if Lady Bridgerton

was in the small office she kept off of her bedchamber. It was a warm and cozy little room, with a

writing desk and several bookshelves—a place where Lady Bridgerton penned her correspondence

and settled the household accounts.

The door was ajar, so Sophie knocked softly, allowing the door to swing open a few inches as her

knuckles connected with the wood.

“Enter!” came Lady Bridgerton’s bidding.

Sophie pushed the door open and poked her head in. “Am I interrupting?” she asked quietly.

Lady Bridgerton set down her quill. “Yes, but it’s a welcome interruption. I’ve never enjoyed balancing

the household accounts.”

“I would—” Sophie bit her tongue. She had been about to say that she would have been happy to take

over the task; she’d always been good with numbers.

“You were saying?” Lady Bridgerton asked, her eyes warm.

Sophie gave her head a little shake. “Nothing.”

The room lapsed into silence until Lady Bridgerton gave Sophie a slightly amused smile, and asked,

“Was there a specific reason you knocked on my door?”

Sophie took a deep breath that was meant to settle her nerves (but didn’t) and said, “Yes.”

Lady Bridgerton looked at her expectantly but didn’t say anything.

“I’m afraid I must resign my position here,” Sophie said.

Lady Bridgerton actually rose out of her seat. “But why? Aren’t you happy? Have any of the girls been

mistreating you?”

“No, no,” Sophie hastened to assure her. “That could not be further from the truth. Your daughters are

so lovely—in heart as well as in appearance. I’ve never— That is to say, no one has ever—”

“What is it, Sophie?”

Sophie clutched at the doorframe, desperately trying to find her balance. Her legs felt unsteady, her

heart felt unsteady. Any moment now she was going to burst into tears, and why? Because the man

she loved would never marry her? Because he hated her for lying to him? Because he’d broken her

heart twice—once by asking her to be his mistress, and once by making her love his family and then

forcing her to leave?

He might not have demanded that she go, but it couldn’t have been more obvious that she could not

stay.

“It’s Benedict, isn’t it?”

Sophie’s head snapped up.

Lady Bridgerton smiled sadly. “It’s obvious that there is some feeling between you,” she said gently,

answering the questio

n that Sophie knew must show in her eyes.

“Why didn’t you fire me?” Sophie whispered. She didn’t think that Lady Bridgerton knew that Sophie

and Benedict had been intimate, but no one of Lady Bridgerton’s position would want her son pining for

a housemaid.

“I don’t know,” Lady Bridgerton replied, looking more conflicted than Sophie could ever have imagined.

“I probably should have done.” She shrugged, her eyes strangely helpless. “But I like you.”

The tears Sophie had been working so hard to keep in check began to roll down her face, but beyond

that, she somehow managed to keep her composure. She didn’t shake, and she didn’t make a sound.

She just stood there, utterly still, as the tears came forth.

When Lady Bridgerton spoke again, her words held a very careful and measured quality, as if she were

choosing them with great care, searching for a specific reply. “You are,” she said, her eyes never

leaving Sophie’s face, “the sort of woman I would like for my son. Our acquaintance has not been a

long one, but I know your character and I know your heart. And I wish—”

A small, choked sob burst forth from Sophie’s mouth, but she swallowed it down as quickly as she

could.

“I wish that you were of a different background,” Lady Bridgerton continued, acknowledging Sophie’s

cry with a sympathetic tilt of her head and a sad, slow blink of her eyes. “Not that I hold such a thing

against you, or think the less of you, but it makes things very difficult.”

“Impossible,” Sophie whispered.

Lady Bridgerton didn’t say anything, and Sophie knew that in her heart she agreed—if not completely,

then ninety-eight percent—with her assessment.

“Is it possible,” Lady Bridgerton asked, her words even more measured and careful than before, “that

your background is not quite what it seems?”

Sophie said nothing.

“There are things about you that don’t add up, Sophie.” Sophie knew that she expected her to ask

what, but she had a fair idea what Lady Bridgerton meant.

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