An Offer From a Gentleman (Cinderella)

Chapter 2

Posy showed her the occasional kindness, although more often than not she just sighed, and said, “My

mummy says I’m not to be nice to you.”

As for the earl, he never intervened.

Sophie’s life continued in this vein for four years, until the earl surprised everyone by clutching his hand

to his chest while taking tea in the rose garden, letting out one ragged gasp, and falling facefirst to the

stone cobbles.

He never regained consciousness.

Everyone was quite shocked. The earl was only forty years old. Who could have known that his heart

would give out at such a young age? No one was more stunned than Araminta, who had been trying

quite desperately since her wedding night to conceive the all-important heir.

“I might be with child!” she hastened to tell the earl’s solicitors. “You can’t give the title over to some

distant cousin. I could very well be with child.”

But she wasn’t with child, and when the earl’s will was read one month later (the solicitors had wanted

to be sure to give the countess enough time to know for sure if she was pregnant) Araminta was forced

to sit next to the new earl, a rather dissolute young man who was more often drunk than not.

Most of the earl’s wishes were standard fare. He left bequests to loyal servants. He settled funds on

Rosamund, Posy, and even Sophie, ensuring that all three girls would have respectable dowries.

And then the solicitor reached Araminta’s name.

To my wife, Araminta Gunningworth, Countess of Penwood, I leave a yearly income of two thousand

pounds—

“That’s all?” Araminta cried out.

—unless she agrees to shelter and care for my ward, Miss Sophia Maria Beckett, until the latter

reaches the age of twenty, in which case her yearly income shall be trebled to six thousand pounds.

“I don’t want her,” Araminta whispered.

“You don’t have to take her,” the solicitor reminded her. “You can—”

“Live on a measly two thousand a year?” she snapped. “I don’t think so.”

The solicitor, who lived on considerably less than two thousand a year, said nothing.

The new earl, who’d been drinking steadily throughout the meeting, just shrugged.

Araminta stood.

“What is your decision?” the solicitor asked.

“I’ll take her,” she said in a low voice.

“Shall I find the girl and tell her?”

Araminta shook her head. “I’ll tell her myself.”

But when Araminta found Sophie, she left out a few important facts . . .

Part One

This year’s most sought-after invitation must surely be that of the Bridgerton masquerade ball, to be

held Monday next. Indeed, one cannot take two steps without being forced to listen to some society

mama speculating on who will attend, and perhaps more importantly, who will wear what.

Neither of the aforementioned topics, however, are nearly as interesting as that of the two unmarried

Bridgerton brothers, Benedict and Colin. (Before anyone points out that there is a third unmarried

Bridgerton brother, let This Author assure you that she is fully aware of the existence of Gregory

Bridgerton. He is, however, fourteen years of age, and therefore not pertinent to this particular column,

which concerns, as This Author’s columns often do, that most sacred of sports: husband-hunting.)

Although the Misters Bridgerton are just that—merely Misters—they are still considered two of the

prime catches of the season. It is a well-known fact that both are possessed of respectable fortunes,

and it does not require perfect sight to know that they also possess, as do all eight of the Bridgerton

offspring, the Bridgerton good looks.

Will some fortunate young lady use the mystery of a masquerade night to snare one of the eligible

bachelors?

This Author isn’t even going to attempt to speculate.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 31 MAY 1815

“Sophie! Sophieeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”

As screeches went, it was enough to shatter glass. Or at least an eardrum.

“Coming, Rosamund! I’m coming!” Sophie hitched up the hem of her coarse woolen skirts and hurried

up the stairs, slipping on the fourth step and only just barely managing to grab the bannister before

landing on her bottom. She should have remembered that the stairs would be slick; she’d helped the

downstairs maid wax them just that morning.

Skidding to a halt in the doorway to Rosamund’s bedroom and still catching her breath, Sophie said,

“Yes?”

“My tea is cold.”

What Sophie wanted to say was, “It was warm when I brought it an hour ago, you lazy fiend.”

What she did say was, “I’ll get you another pot.”

Rosamund sniffed. “See that you do.”

Sophie stretched her lips into what the nearly blind might call a smile and picked up the tea service.

“Shall I leave the biscuits?” she asked.

Rosamund gave her pretty head a shake. “I want fresh ones.”

Shoulders slightly stooped from the weight of the overloaded tea service, Sophie exited the room,

careful not to start grumbling until she’d safely reached the hall. Rosamund was forever ordering tea,

then not bothering to drink it until an hour passed. By then, of course, it was cold, so she had to order a

fresh pot.

Which meant Sophie was forever running up and down the stairs, up and down, up and down.

Sometimes it seemed that was all she did with her life.

Up and down, up and down.

And of course the mending, the pressing, the hairdressing, the shoe polishing, the darning, the

bedmaking . . .

“Sophie!”

Sophie turned around to see Posy heading toward her.

“Sophie, I’ve been meaning to ask you, do you think this color is becoming on me?”

Sophie assessed Posy’s mermaid costume. The cut wasn’t quite right for Posy, who had never lost all

of her baby fat, but the color did indeed bring out the best in her complexion. “It is a lovely shade of

green,” Sophie replied quite honestly. “It makes your cheeks very rosy.”

“Oh, good. I’m so glad you like it. You do have such a knack for picking out my clothing.” Posy smiled

as she reached out and plucked a sugared biscuit from the tray. “Mother has been an absolute bear all

week about the masquerade ball, and I know I shall never hear the end of it if I do not look my best.

Or”—Posy’s face twisted into a grimace—“if she thinks I do not look my best. She is determined that

one of us snare one of the remaining Bridgerton brothers, you know.”

“I know.”

“And to make matters worse, that Whistledown woman has been writing about them again. It only”—

Posy finished chewing and paused while she swallowed—“whets her appetite.”

“Was the column very good this morning?” Sophie asked, shifting the tray to rest on her hip. “I haven’t

had a chance to read it yet.”

“Oh, the usual stuff,” Posy said with a wave of her hand. “Really, it can be quite humdrum, you know.”

Sophie tried to smile and failed. She’d like nothing more than to live a day of Posy’s humdrum life. Well,

perhaps she wouldn’t want Araminta for a mother, but she wouldn’t mind a life of parties, routs, and

musicales.

“Let’s see,” Posy mused. “There was a review of Lady Worth’s recent ball, a bit about Viscount Guelph,

who seems rather smitten with some girl from Scotland, and then a longish piece on the upcoming

Bridgerton masquerade.”

Sophie sighed. She’d been reading about the upcoming masquerade for weeks, and even though she

was nothing but a lady’s maid (and occasionally a housemaid as well, whenever Araminta decided she

wasn’t working hard enough) she couldn’t help but wish that she could attend the ball.

“I for one will be thrilled if that Guelph viscount gets himself engaged,” Posy remarked, reaching for

another biscuit. “It will mean one fewer bachelor for Mother to go on and on about as a potential

husband. It’s not as if I have any hope of attracting his attention anyway.” She took a bite of the biscuit;

it crunched loudly in her mouth. “I do hope Lady Whistledown is right about him.”

“She probably is,” Sophie answered. She had been reading Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers since

it had debuted in 1813, and the gossip columnist was almost always correct when it came to matters of Material © NôvelDrama.Org.

the Marriage Mart.

Not, of course, that Sophie had ever had the chance to see the Marriage Mart for herself. But if one

read Whistledown often enough, one could almost feel a part of London Society without actually

attending any balls.

In fact, reading Whistledown was really Sophie’s one true enjoyable pastime. She’d already read all of

the novels in the library, and as neither Araminta, Rosamund, nor Posy was particularly enamored of

reading, Sophie couldn’t look forward to a new book entering the house.

But Whistledown was great fun. No one actually knew the columnist’s true identity. When the single-

sheet newspaper had debuted two years earlier, speculation had been rampant. Even now, whenever

Lady Whistledown reported a particularly juicy bit of gossip, people starting talking and guessing anew,

wondering who on earth was able to report with such speed and accuracy.

And for Sophie, Whistledown was a tantalizing glimpse into the world that might have been hers, had

her parents actually made their union legal. She would have been an earl’s daughter, not an earl’s

bastard; her name Gunningworth instead of Beckett.

Just once, she’d like to be the one stepping into the coach and attending the ball.

Instead, she was the one dressing others for their nights on the town, cinching Posy’s corset or

dressing Rosamund’s hair or polishing a pair of Araminta’s shoes.

But she could not—or at least should not—complain. She might have to serve as maid to Araminta and

her daughters, but at least she had a home. Which was more than most girls in her position had.

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