An Offer From a Gentleman (Cinderella)

“I’m afraid so.”

Sophie just shook her head as she walked to the door. Conversations with Benedict Bridgerton could be exhausting.

“Oh, Sophie!” he called out.

She turned around.

He smiled slyly. “I knew you wouldn’t throw the spoon.”

What happened next was surely not Sophie’s fault. She was, she was convinced, temporarily and fleetingly possessed by a demon. Because she absolutely did not recognize the hand that shot out to the small table next to her and picked up a stump of a candle. True, the hand appeared to be connected quite firmly to her arm, but it didn’t look the least bit familiar as it drew back and hurled the stump across the room.

Straight at Benedict Bridgerton’s head.

Sophie didn’t even wait to see if her aim had been true. But as she stalked out the door, she heard Benedict explode with laughter. Then she heard him shout out, “Well done, Miss Beckett!”

And she realized that for the first time in years, her smile was one of pure, unadulterated joy.

Chapter 10

Although he responded in the affirmative (or so says Lady Covington) Benedict Bridgerton did not make an appearance at the annual Covington Ball. Complaints were heard from young women (and their mamas) across the ballroom.

According to Lady Bridgerton (his mother, not his sister-in-law), Mr. Bridgerton left for the country last week and has not been heard from since. Those who might fear for Mr. Bridgerton’s health and well-being should not fret; Lady Bridgerton sounded more annoyed than worried. Last year no less than four couples met their future spouses at the Covington Ball; the previous year, three.

Much to Lady Bridgerton’s dismay, if any matches are made at this year’s Covington Ball, her son Benedict will not be among the grooms.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 5 MAY 1817

There were advantages, Benedict soon discovered, to a long, drawn-out recovery.

The most obvious was the quantity and variety of most excellent food brought forth from Mrs. Crabtree’s kitchen. He’d always been fed well at My Cottage, but Mrs. Crabtree truly rose to the occasion when she had someone tucked away in the sickroom.

And even better, Mr. Crabtree had managed to intercept all of Mrs. Crabtree’s tonics and replace them with Benedict’s best brandy. Benedict dutifully drank every drop, but the last time he looked out the window, it appeared that three of his rosebushes had died, presumably where Mr. Crabtree had dumped the tonic.

It was a sad sacrifice, but one Benedict was more than willing to make after his last experience with Mrs. Crabtree’s tonics.

quiet time. He read, sketched, and even closed his eyes and just daydreamed—all without feeling guilty for neglecting some other

perfectly

to bring him food, sometimes just to read to him. Benedict had a feeling that her industriousness was due to her desire to feel useful, and to thank him with deeds for saving

she came to

But Benedict had had none of that, and he’d purposefully engaged her in conversation, just so she couldn’t leave. Or he’d goad and needle her, simply to get a rise out of her, because he liked her far better when she was spitting fire than when she was meek and

same room with her. It didn’t seem to matter if they were talking or if she was just sitting in a chair, leafing through a book while

knock at the door broke him out of his thoughts, and

as they brushed against the edge of the door. “Mrs. Crabtree

tea

with her hip as she balanced the tray. “Oh, the latter,

And will you join

always did, but then she nodded, as she also always did. She’d long since learned that there was no arguing with Benedict when he

liked it that

cheeks,” she commented as she set the tray down on a nearby table. “And you don’t look nearly so tired. I should think you’ll be up and out of bed

I’m sure,”

looking healthier

gamely. “Do you

and paused before she poured. “Yes,” she said with an ironic smile. “I

grace, and she poured the tea as if she’d been to the manner born. Clearly the art of afternoon tea had been another one

have to ask how he liked his tea. She handed him his cup—milk, no sugar—and then placed a

said, biting into a biscuit, “and

a patient man, and his patience was rewarded with a soft

sat in the velvet-covered,

biscuits for you?”

“I had a few

best when they’re warm.” He polished off another biscuit, brushed a few crumbs off of his sleeve, and reached for another. “And how

I last saw you two hours

her a look that said he recognized her sarcasm but chose not

“She’s making a beef stew for supper and needed some potatoes peeled.

What did

“A novel.”

“Was it good?”