An Offer from a Gentleman with 2nd Epilogue (23 page)

Sophie had reached out and helped her up, and had just managed to say something like, “There you are,” when several more gentlemen had rushed in, separating the two women.

Then Benedict had arrived, and Sophie had had eyes for no one but him. Penelope—and the abominable way she had been treated by the young gentlemen at the masquerade—had been forgotten until this very moment.

And clearly the event had remained buried at the back of Penelope's mind as well.

“I'm sure I must be mistaken,” Penelope said as she accepted a cup of tea from Francesca. “It's not your looks, precisely, but rather the way you hold yourself, if that makes any sense.”

Sophie decided that a smooth intervention was necessary and so she pasted on her best conversational smile, and said, “I shall take that as a compliment, since I am sure that the ladies of your acquaintance are gracious and kind indeed.”

The minute she shut her mouth, however, she realized that that had been overkill. Francesca was looking at her as if she'd sprouted horns, and the corners of Lady Bridgerton's mouth were twitching as she said, “Why, Sophie, I vow that is the longest sentence you have uttered in a fortnight.”

Sophie lifted her teacup to her face and mumbled, “I haven't been feeling well.”

“Oh!” Hyacinth suddenly blurted out. “I hope you are not feeling too sickly, because I was hoping you could help me this evening.”

“Of course,” Sophie said, eager for an excuse to turn away from Penelope, who was still studying her as if she were a human puzzle. “What is it you need?”

“I have promised to entertain my cousins this eve.”

“Oh, that's right,” Lady Bridgerton said, setting her saucer down on the table. “I'd nearly forgotten.”

Hyacinth nodded. “Could you help? There are four of them, and I'm sure to be overrun.”

“Of course,” Sophie said. “How old are they?”

Hyacinth shrugged.

“Between the ages of six and ten,” Lady Bridgerton said with a dissaproving expression. “You should know that, Hyacinth.”

Sophie said to Hyacinth, “Fetch me when they arrive. I love children and would be happy to help.”

“Excellent,” Hyacinth said, clasping her hands together. “They are so young and active. They would have worn me out.”

“Hyacinth,” Francesca said, “you're hardly old and decrepit.”

“When was the last time you spent two hours with four children under the age of ten?”

“Stop,” Sophie said, laughing for the first time in two weeks. “I'll help. No one will be worn-out. And you should come, too, Francesca. We'll have a lovely time, I'm sure.”

“Are you—” Penelope started to say something, then cut herself off. “Never mind.”

But when Sophie looked over at her, she was still staring at her face with a most perplexed expression. Penelope opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again, saying, “I
know
I know you.”

“I'm sure she's right,” Eloise said with a jaunty grin. “Penelope never forgets a face.”

Sophie blanched.

“Are you quite all right?” Lady Bridgerton asked, leaning forward. “You don't look well.”

“I think something didn't agree with me,” Sophie hastily
lied, clutching her stomach for effect. “Perhaps the milk was off.”

“Oh, dear,” Daphne said with a concerned frown as she looked down at her baby. “I gave some to Caroline.”

“It tasted fine to me,” Hyacinth said.

“It might have been something from this morning,” Sophie said, not wanting Daphne to worry. “But all the same, I think I had better lie down.” She stood and took a step toward the door. “If that is agreeable to you, Lady Bridgerton.”

“Of course,” she replied. “I hope you feel better soon.”

“I'm sure I will,” Sophie said, quite truthfully. She'd feel better just as soon as she left Penelope Featherington's line of vision.

“I'll come get you when my cousins arrive,” Hyacinth called out.

“If you're feeling better,” Lady Bridgerton added.

Sophie nodded and hurried out of the room, but as she left, she caught sight of Penelope Featherington watching her with a most intent expression, leaving Sophie filled with a horrible sense of dread.

B
enedict had been in a bad mood for two weeks. And, he thought as he trudged down the pavement toward his mother's house, his bad mood was about to get worse. He'd been avoiding coming here because he didn't want to see Sophie; he didn't want to see his mother, who was sure to sense his bad mood and question him about it; he didn't want to see Eloise, who was sure to sense his mother's interest and try to interrogate him; he didn't want to see—

Hell, he didn't want to see anyone. And considering the way he'd been snapping off the heads of his servants (verbally, to be sure, although occasionally quite literally in his dreams) the rest of the world would do well if they didn't care to see him, either.

But, as luck would have it, right as he placed his foot on
the first step, he heard someone call out his name, and when he turned around, both of his adult brothers were walking toward him along the pavement.

Benedict groaned. No one knew him better than Anthony and Colin, and they weren't likely to let a little thing like a broken heart go unnoticed or unmentioned.

“Haven't seen you in an age,” Anthony said. “Where have you been?”

“Here and there,” Benedict said evasively. “Mostly at home.” He turned to Colin. “Where have
you
been?”

“Wales.”

“Wales? Why?”

Colin shrugged. “I felt like it. Never been there before.”

“Most people require a slightly more compelling reason to take off in the middle of the season,” Benedict said.

“Not I.”

Benedict stared at him. Anthony stared at him.

“Oh, very well,” Colin said with a scowl. “I needed to get away. Mother has started in on me with this bloody marriage thing.”

“‘Bloody marriage thing'?” Anthony asked with an amused smile. “I assure you, the deflowering of one's wife is not quite so gory.”

Benedict kept his expression scrupulously impassive. He'd found a small spot of blood on his sofa after he'd made love to Sophie. He'd thrown a pillow over it, hoping that by the time any of the servants noticed, they'd have forgotten that he'd had a woman over. He liked to think that none of the staff had been listening at doors or gossiping, but Sophie herself had once told him that servants generally knew everything that went on in a household, and he tended to think that she was right.

But if he had indeed blushed—and his cheeks did feel a touch warm—neither of his brothers saw it, because they didn't say anything, and if there was anything in life as certain
as, say, the sun rising in the east, it was that a Bridgerton never passed up the opportunity to tease and torment another Bridgerton.

“She's been talking about Penelope Featherington nonstop,” Colin said with a scowl. “I tell you, I've known the girl since we were both in short pants. Er, since I was in short pants, at least. She was in . . .” He scowled some more, because both his brothers were laughing at him. “She was in whatever it is that young girls wear.”

“Frocks?” Anthony supplied helpfully.

“Petticoats?” was Benedict's suggestion.

“The point is,” Colin said forcefully, “that I have known her forever, and I can assure you I am not likely to fall in love with her.”

Anthony turned to Benedict and said, “They'll be married within a year. Mark my words.”

Colin crossed his arms. “Anthony!”

“Maybe two,” Benedict said. “He's young yet.”

“Unlike
you
,” Colin retorted. “Why am I besieged by Mother, I wonder? Good God, you're thirty-one—”

“Thirty,” Benedict snapped.

“Regardless, one would think you'd be getting the brunt of it.”

Benedict frowned. His mother had been uncharacteristically reserved these past few weeks when it came to her opinions on Benedict and marriage and why the two ought to meet and soon. Of course, Benedict had been avoiding his mother's house like the plague, but even before that, she'd not mentioned a word.

It was most odd.

“At any rate,” Colin was still grumbling, “I am not going to marry soon, and I am certainly not going to marry Penelope Featherington!”

“Oh!”

It was a feminine “oh,” and without looking up, Benedict
somehow knew that he was about to experience one of life's most awkward moments. Heart filled with dread, he lifted his head and turned toward the front door. There, framed perfectly in the open doorway, was Penelope Featherington, her lips parted with shock, her eyes filled with heartbreak.

And in that moment, Benedict realized what he'd probably been too stupid (and stupidly male) to notice: Penelope Featherington was in love with his brother.

Colin cleared his throat. “Penelope,” he squeaked, his voice sounding as if he'd regressed ten years and gone straight back to puberty, “uh . . . good to see you.” He looked to his brothers to leap in and save him, but neither chose to intervene.

Benedict winced. It was one of those moments that simply could not be saved.

“I didn't know you were there,” Colin said lamely.

“Obviously not,” Penelope said, but her words lacked an edge.

Colin swallowed painfully. “Were you visiting Eloise?”

She nodded. “I was invited.”

“I'm sure you were!” he said quickly. “Of course you were. You're a great friend of the family.”

Silence. Horrible, awkward silence.

“As if you would come uninvited,” Colin mumbled.

Penelope said nothing. She tried to smile, but she obviously couldn't quite manage it. Finally, just when Benedict thought she would brush by them all and flee down the street, she looked straight at Colin and said, “I never asked you to marry me.”

Colin's cheeks turned a deeper red than Benedict would have thought humanly possible. Colin opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

It was the first—and quite possibly would be the only—moment of Benedict's recollection for which his younger brother was at a complete loss for words.

“And I never—” Penelope added, swallowing convulsively when the words came out a bit tortured and broken. “I never said to anyone that I wanted you to ask me.”

“Penelope,” Colin finally managed, “I'm so sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” she said.

“No,” Colin insisted, “I do. I hurt your feelings, and—”

“You didn't know I was there.”

“But nevertheless—”

“You are not going to marry me,” she said hollowly. “There is nothing wrong with that. I am not going to marry your brother Benedict.”

Benedict had been trying not to look, but he snapped to attention at that.

“It doesn't hurt his feeling when I announce that I am not going to marry him.” She turned to Benedict, her brown eyes focusing on his. “Does it, Mr. Bridgerton?”

“Of course not,” Benedict answered quickly.

“It's settled, then,” she said tightly. “No feelings were hurt. Now then, if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I should like to go home.”

Benedict, Anthony, and Colin parted as if drops in the Red Sea as she made her way down the steps.

“Don't you have a maid?” Colin asked.

She shook her head. “I live just around the corner.”

“I know, but—”

“I'll escort you,” Anthony said smoothly.

“That's really not necessary, my lord.”

“Humor me,” he said.

She nodded, and the two of them took off down the street.

Benedict and Colin watched their retreating forms in silence for a full thirty seconds before Benedict turned to his brother and said, “That was very well done of you.”

“I didn't know she was there!”

“Obviously,” Benedict drawled.

“Don't. I feel terrible enough already.”

“As well you should.”

“Oh, and you have never inadvertently hurt a woman's feelings before?” Colin's voice was defensive, just defensive enough so that Benedict knew he felt like an utter heel inside.

Benedict was saved from having to reply by the arrival of his mother, standing at the top of the steps, framed in the doorway much the same way Penelope had been just a few minutes earlier.

“Has your brother arrived yet?” Violet asked.

Benedict jerked his head toward the corner. “He is escorting Miss Featherington home.”

“Oh. Well, that's very thoughtful of him. I—Where are you going, Colin?”

Colin paused briefly but didn't even turn his head as he grunted, “I need a drink.”

“It's a bit early for—” She stopped mid-sentence when Benedict laid his hand on her arm.

“Let him go,” he said.

She opened her mouth as if to protest, then changed her mind and merely nodded. “I'd hoped to gather the family for an announcement,” she said with a sigh, “but I suppose that can wait. In the meantime, why don't you join me for tea?”

Benedict glanced at the clock in the hall. “Isn't it a bit late for tea?”

“Skip the tea then,” she said with a shrug. “I was merely looking for an excuse to speak with you.”

Benedict managed a weak smile. He wasn't in the mood to converse with his mother. To be frank, he wasn't in the mood to converse with any person, a fact to which anyone with whom he'd recently crossed paths would surely attest.

“It's nothing serious,” Violet said. “Heavens, you look as if you're ready to go to the gallows.”

It probably would have been rude to point out that that was exactly how he felt, so instead he just leaned down and kissed her on the cheek.

“Well, that's a nice surprise,” she said, beaming up at him.
“Now come with me,” she added, motioning toward the downstairs sitting room. “I have someone I want to tell you about.”