An Offer From a Gentleman (Cinderella)

Chapter 22

“Mr. Bridgerton?” she whispered. “Mr. Bridgerton?”

No response.

She crept closer, leaning over the edge of the bed. “Mr. Bridgerton?”

His hand shot out and grabbed her shoulder, pulling her off-balance until she fell onto the bed.

“Mr. Bridgerton!” Sophie squealed. “Let go!”

But he’d started to thrash and moan, and there was enough heat coming off his body that Sophie knew he was in the grips of a fever.

She somehow managed to wrench herself free, and she went tumbling off the bed while he continued to toss and turn, mumbling streams of words that made no sense.

Sophie waited for a quiet moment, then darted her hand out to touch his forehead. It was on fire.

She chewed on her lower lip as she tried to decide what to do. She had no experience nursing the feverish, but it seemed to her that the logical thing would be to cool him off. On the other hand, sickrooms always seemed to be kept closed, stuffy, and warm, so maybe . . .

Benedict started to thrash again, and then, out of nowhere, he murmured, “Kiss me.”

Sophie lost hold of her breeches; they fell to the floor. She let out a little yelp of surprise as she quickly bent to retrieve them. Clutching the waistband securely with her right hand, she reached out to pat his hand with her left, then thought the better of it. “You’re just dreaming, Mr. Bridgerton,” she told him.

“Kiss me,” he repeated. But he did not open his eyes.

Sophie leaned in closer. Even by the light of one solitary candle she could see his eyeballs moving quickly under his lids. It was bizarre, she thought, to see another person dream.

“God damn it!” he suddenly yelled. “Kiss me!”

Sophie lurched back in surprise, setting her candle hastily on the bedside table. “Mr. Bridgerton, I—” she began, fully intending to explain why she could not even begin to think about kissing him, but then she thought—Why not?

Her heart fluttering wildly, she leaned down and brushed the barest, lightest, most gentle of kisses on his lips.

“I love you,” she whispered. “I’ve always loved you.”

he didn’t move. It wasn’t the sort of moment she wanted him to remember in the morning. But then, just when she was convinced that he’d settled back into a deep sleep, his head began to

“Where’d you go?” he grunted hoarsely. “Where’d you go?”

“I’m right here,” Sophie replied.

completely lucid, as he said, “Not you.” Then his eyes rolled back and his head started tossing from side to side again.

“Well, I’m all you’ve got,” Sophie muttered. “Don’t go anywhere,”

And then, her heart pounding with fear and nerves, she ran out of the room.

If there was one thing Sophie had learned in her days as a housemaid, it was that most households were run in essentially the same way. It was for that reason that she had no trouble at all

Upon her return to his bedroom, she found him lying still again, but his breathing was shallow and rapid. Sophie reached out and touched his brow again. She couldn’t be certain, but it seemed to her that it was growing warmer.

Oh, dear. This was not good, and she was singularly unqualified to care for a feverish patient. Araminta, Rosamund, and Posy had never had a sick day in their lives, and the Cavenders had all been uncommonly healthy as well. The closest she’d ever come to nursing had been helping Mrs. Cavender’s mother, who’d been unable to walk. But she’d never taken care

of water, then wrung it out until it was no longer dripping from the corners. “This ought to make you feel a little better,” she whispered, placing it

and she prepared another cool towel. She had no idea where to put it, though. His chest somehow didn’t seem right, and she certainly wasn’t going to allow the bedsheet to drift any lower than his waist unless the poor man was at death’s door

an answer but feeling nonetheless that she ought to continue with her one-sided conversation. “I really don’t know very much about caring for the ill, but it just seems to me like you’d

He shifted restlessly, mumbling something utterly incoherent.

“Really?” Sophie replied, trying to smile but failing miserably. “I’m glad you

He mumbled something

“No,” she said, dabbing the cool cloth on his ear, “I’d have to agree with what

He went still

“I’d be happy to reconsider,”

He didn’t move.

Sophie sighed. One could only converse so long with an unconscious man before one started to feel extremely silly. She lifted up the cloth she’d placed on his forehead and touched his skin. It felt kind of clammy now. Clammy and still warm, which was a combination she wouldn’t have thought possible.

She decided to leave the cloth off for now, and she laid it over the top of the pitcher. There seemed little she could do for him at that very moment, so Sophie stretched her

The collection of miniatures was her first stop. There were nine on the writing desk; Sophie surmised that they were of Benedict’s parents and seven brothers and sisters. She started to put the siblings in order according to their ages, but then it occurred to her that the miniatures most likely hadn’t been painted all at the same time, so she could be looking at a likeness of his older brother at fifteen

elegant bone structure. She looked closely to try to compare eye color but found it impossible in the dim candlelight, and besides, eye

lightly over her palm. “Why are these so special to you, I wonder?” she whispered,

not open; it must have been one of those trick boxes she’d heard about that came from the Orient. And most intriguing, leaning against the side of the desk was a large sketchbook, filled with pencil drawings, mostly of landscapes but with a few portraits as well. Had Benedict drawn them? Sophie squinted at the bottom of each drawing. The small squiggles certainly looked like two Bs.

There had never even been a peep about it in Whistledown,

pages. She wanted to sit with the book and spend ten minutes perusing each sketch, but

She was probably just trying to justify her

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