An Offer From a Gentleman (Cinderella)

Chapter 43

With long, easy strides, he made his way down the steps and out the front door. He doubted that

Sophie would still be near the house, but if she’d gone shopping, there was really only one direction in

which she would have headed. He turned right, intending to stroll until he reached the small row of

shops, but he’d only gone three steps before he saw Sophie, pressed up against the brick exterior of

his mother’s house, looking as if she could barely remember how to breathe.

“Sophie?” Benedict rushed toward her. “What happened? Are you all right?”

She started when she saw him, then nodded.

He didn’t believe her, of course, but there seemed little point in saying so. “You’re shaking,” he said,

looking at her hands. “Tell me what happened. Did someone bother you?”

“No,” she said, her voice uncharacteristically quavery. “I just . . . I, ah . . .” Her gaze fell on the stairs

next to them. “I tripped on my way down the stairs and it scared me.” She smiled weakly. “I’m sure you

know what I mean. When you feel as if your insides have flipped upside down.”

Benedict nodded, because of course he knew what she meant. But that didn’t mean that he believed

her. “Come with me,” he said.

She looked up, and something in the green depths of her eyes broke his heart. “Where?” she

whispered.

“Anywhere but here.”

“I—”

“I live just five houses down,” he said.

“You do?” Her eyes widened, then she murmured, “No one told me.”

“I promise that your virtue will be safe,” he interrupted. And then he added, because he couldn’t quite

help himself: “Unless you want it otherwise.”

He had a feeling she would have protested if she weren’t so dazed, but she allowed him to lead her

down the street. “We’ll just sit in my front room,” he said, “until you feel better.”

She nodded, and he led her up the steps and into his home, a modest town house just a bit south of his

mother’s.

Once they were comfortably ensconced, and Benedict had shut the door so that they wouldn’t be

bothered by any of his servants, he turned to her, prepared to say, “Now, why don’t you tell me what

really happened,” but at the very last minute something compelled him to hold his tongue. He could

ask, but he knew she wouldn’t answer. She’d be put on the defensive, and that wasn’t likely to help his

cause any.

So instead, he schooled his face into a neutral mask and asked, “How are you enjoying your work for

my family?”

“They are very nice,” she replied.

“Nice?” he echoed, sure that his disbelief showed clearly on his face. “Maddening, perhaps. Maybe

even exhausting, but nice?”

“I think they are very nice,” Sophie said firmly.

Benedict started to smile, because he loved his family dearly, and he loved that Sophie was growing to

love them, but then he realized that he was cutting off his nose to spite his face, because the more

attached Sophie became to his family, the less likely she was to potentially shame herself in their eyes

by agreeing to be his mistress.

Damn. He’d made a serious miscalculation last week. But he’d been so focused on getting her to come

to London, and a position in his mother’s household had seemed the only way to convince her to do it.

That, combined with a fair bit of coercion.

Damn. Damn. Damn. Why hadn’t he coerced her into something that would segue a little more easily

into his arms?

“You should thank your lucky stars that you have them,” Sophie said, her voice more forceful than it

had been all afternoon. “I’d give anything for—”

But she didn’t finish her sentence.

“You’d give anything for what?” Benedict asked, surprised by how much he wanted to hear her answer.

She gazed soulfully out the window as she replied, “To have a family like yours.”

“You have no one,” he said, his words a statement, not a question.

“I’ve never had anyone.”

“Not even your—” And then he remembered that she’d slipped and told him that her mother had died at

her birth. “Sometimes,” he said, keeping his voice purposefully light and gentle, “it’s not so easy being a

Bridgerton.”

Her head slowly turned around. “I can’t imagine anything nicer.”

“There isn’t anything nicer,” he replied, “but that doesn’t mean it’s always easy.”

“What do you mean?”

And Benedict found himself giving voice to feelings he’d never shared with any other living soul, not

even—no, especially not his family. “To most of the world,” he said, “I’m merely a Bridgerton. I’m not

Benedict or Ben or even a gentleman of means and hopefully a bit of intelligence. I’m merely”—he

smiled ruefully—“a Bridgerton. Specifically, Number Two.”

Her lips trembled, then they smiled. “You’re much more than that,” she said.

“I’d like to think so, but most of the world doesn’t see it that way.”

“Most of the world are fools.”

He laughed at that. There was nothing more fetching than Sophie with a scowl. “You will not find

disagreement here,” he said.

But then, just when he thought the conversation was over, she surprised him by saying, “You’re nothing

like the rest of your family.”

“How so?” he asked, not quite meeting her gaze. He didn’t want her to see just how important her reply

was to him.

“Well, your brother Anthony . . .” Her face scrunched in thought. “His whole life has been altered by the

fact that he’s the eldest. He quite obviously feels a responsibility to your family that you do not.”

“Now wait just one—”

“Don’t interrupt,” she said, placing a calming hand on his chest. “I didn’t say that you didn’t love your

family, or that you wouldn’t give your life for any one of them. But it’s different with your brother. He

feels responsible, and I truly believe he would consider himself a failure if any of his siblings were

unhappy.”

“How many times have you met Anthony?” he muttered.

“Just once.” The corners of her mouth tightened, as if she were suppressing a smile. “But that was all I

needed. As for your younger brother, Colin . . . well, I haven’t met him, but I’ve heard plenty—”

“From whom?”

“Everyone,” she said. “Not to mention that he is forever being mentioned in Whistledown, which I must

confess I’ve read for years.”

“Then you knew about me before you met me,” he said.

She nodded. “But I didn’t know you. You’re much more than Lady Whistledown realizes.”

“Tell me,” he said, placing his hand over hers. “What do you see?”

Sophie brought her eyes to his, gazed into those chocolatey depths, and saw something there she’d

never dreamed existed. A tiny spark of vulnerability, of need.

He needed to know what she thought of him, that he was important to her. This man, so self-assured

and so confident, needed her approval.

Maybe he needed her.

She curled her hand until their palms touched, then used her other index finger to trace circles and This belongs to NôvelDrama.Org - ©.

swirls on the fine kid of his glove. “You are . . .” she began, taking her time because she knew that

every word weighed heavier in such a powerful moment. “You are not quite the man you present to the

rest of the world. You’d like to be thought of as debonair and ironic and full of quick wit, and you are all

those things, but underneath, you’re so much more.

“You care,” she said, aware that her voice had grown raspy with emotion. “You care about your family,

and you even care about me, although God knows I don’t always deserve it.”

“Always,” he interrupted, raising her hand to his lips and kissing her palm with a fervency that sucked

her breath away. “Always.”

“And . . . and . . .” It was hard to continue when his eyes were on hers with such single-minded

emotion.

“And what?” he whispered.

“Much of who you are comes from your family,” she said, the words tumbling forth in a rush. “That

much is true. You can’t grow up with such love and loyalty and not become a better person because of

it. But deep within you, in your heart, in your very soul, is the man you were born to be. You, not

someone’s son, not someone’s brother. Just you.”

Benedict watched her intently. He opened his mouth to speak, but he discovered that he had no words.

There were no words for a moment like this.

“Deep inside,” she murmured, “you’ve the soul of an artist.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head.

“Yes,” she insisted. “I’ve seen your sketches. You’re brilliant. I don’t think I knew how much until I met

your family. You captured them all perfectly, from the sly look in Francesca’s smile to the mischief in the

very way Hyacinth holds her shoulders.”

“I’ve never shown anyone else my sketches,” he admitted.

Her head snapped up. “You can’t be serious.”

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