An Offer From a Gentleman (Cinderella)

Chapter 47

Benedict’s lips parted with shock as he digested her words. “Sophie,” he said incredulously, “you know

I cannot marry you.”

“Of course I know that,” she snapped. “I’m a servant, not an idiot.”

Benedict tried for a moment to put himself in her shoes. He knew she wanted respectability, but she

had to know that he could not give it to her. “It would be hard for you as well,” he said softly, “even if I

were to marry you. You would not be accepted. The ton can be cruel.”

Sophie let out a loud, hollow laugh. “I know,” she said, her smile utterly humorless. “Believe me, I

know.”

“Then why—”

“Grant me a favor,” she interrupted, turning her face so that she was no longer looking at him. “Find

someone to marry. Find someone acceptable, who will make you happy. And then leave me alone.”

Her words struck a chord, and Benedict was suddenly reminded of the lady from the masquerade. She

had been of his world, his class. She would have been acceptable. And he realized, as he stood there,

staring down at Sophie, who was huddled on the sofa, trying not to look at him, that she was the one

he’d always pictured in his mind, whenever he thought to the future. Whenever he imagined himself

with a wife and children.

He’d spent the last two years with one eye on every door, always waiting for his lady in silver to enter

the room. He felt silly sometimes, even stupid, but he’d never been able to erase her from his thoughts.

Or purge the dream—the one in which he pledged his troth to her, and they lived happily ever after.

It was a silly fantasy for a man of his reputation, sickly sweet and sentimental, but he hadn’t been able

to help himself. That’s what came from growing up in a large and loving family—one tended to want the

same for oneself.

But the woman from the masquerade had become barely more than a mirage. Hell, he didn’t even

know her name. And Sophie was here.

He couldn’t marry her, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t be together. It would mean compromise,

mostly on her part, he admitted. But they could do it. And they’d certainly be happier than if they

remained apart.

“Sophie,” he began, “I know the situation is not ideal—”

“Don’t,” she interrupted, her voice low, barely audible.

“If you’d only listen—” Property belongs to Nôvel(D)r/ama.Org.

“Please. Don’t.”

“But you’re not—”

“Stop!” she said, her voice rising perilously in volume. She was holding her shoulders so tightly they

were practically at her ears, but Benedict forged on, anyway. He loved her. He needed her. He had to

make her see reason. “Sophie, I know you’ll agree if—”

“I won’t have an illegitimate child!” she finally yelled, struggling to keep the blanket around her as she

rose to her feet. “I won’t do it! I love you, but not that much. I don’t love anyone that much.”

His eyes fell to her midsection. “It may very well be too late for that, Sophie.”

“I know,” she said quietly, “and it’s already eating me up inside.”

“Regrets have a way of doing that.”

She looked away. “I don’t regret what we did. I wish I could. I know I should. But I can’t.”

Benedict just stared at her. He wanted to understand her, but he just couldn’t grasp how she could be

so adamant about not wanting to be his mistress and have his children and at the same time not regret

their lovemaking.

How could she say she loved him? It made the pain that much more intense.

“If we don’t have a child,” she said quietly, “then I shall consider myself very lucky. And I won’t tempt

the fates again.”

“No, you’ll merely tempt me,” he said, hearing the sneer in his voice and hating it.

She ignored him, drawing the blanket closer around her as she stared sightlessly at a painting on the

wall. “I’ll have a memory I will forever cherish. And that, I suppose, is why I can’t regret what we did.”

“It won’t keep you warm at night.”

“No,” she agreed sadly, “but it will keep my dreams full.”

“You’re a coward,” he accused. “A coward for not chasing after those dreams.”

She turned around. “No,” she said, her voice remarkably even considering the way he was glaring at

her. “What I am is a bastard. And before you say you don’t care, let me assure you that I do. And so

does everyone else. Not a day has gone by that I am not in some way reminded of the baseness of my

birth.”

“Sophie . . .”

“If I have a child,” she said, her voice starting to crack, “do you know how much I would love it? More

than life, more than breath, more than anything. How could I hurt my own child the way I’ve been hurt?

How could I subject her to the same kind of pain?”

“Would you reject your child?”

“Of course not!”

“Then she wouldn’t feel the same sort of pain,” Benedict said with a shrug. “Because I wouldn’t reject

her either.”

“You don’t understand,” she said, the words ending on a whimper.

He pretended he hadn’t heard her. “Am I correct in assuming that you were rejected by your parents?”

Her smile was tight and ironic. “Not precisely. Ignored would be a better description.”

“Sophie,” he said, rushing toward her and gathering her in his arms, “you don’t have to repeat the

mistakes of your parents.”

“I know,” she said sadly, not struggling in his embrace, but not returning it either. “And that’s why I

cannot be your mistress. I won’t relive my mother’s life.”

“You wouldn’t—”

“They say that a smart person learns from her mistakes,” she interrupted, her voice forcefully ending

his protest. “But a truly smart person learns from other people’s mistakes.” She pulled away, then

turned to face him. “I’d like to think I’m a truly smart person. Please don’t take that away from me.”

There was a desperate, almost palpable, pain in her eyes. It hit him in the chest, and he staggered

back a step.

“I’d like to get dressed,” she said, turning away. “I think you should leave.”

He stared at her back for several seconds before saying, “I could make you change your mind. I could

kiss you, and you would—”

“You wouldn’t,” she said, not moving a muscle. “It isn’t in you.”

“It is.”

“You would kiss me, and then you would hate yourself. And it would only take a second.”

He left without another word, letting the click of the door signal his departure.

Inside the room, Sophie’s quivering hands dropped the blanket, and she crumpled onto the sofa,

forever staining its delicate fabric with her tears.

Pickings have been slim this past fortnight for marriage-minded misses and their mamas. The crop of

bachelors is low to begin with this season, as two of 1816’s most eligible, the Duke of Ashbourne and

the Earl of Macclesfield, got themselves leg-shackled last year.

To make matters worse, the two unmarried Bridgerton brothers (discounting Gregory, who is only

sixteen and hardly in a position to aid any poor, young misses on the marriage mart) have made

themselves very scarce. Colin, This Author is told, is out of town, possibly in Wales or Scotland

(although no one seems to know why he would go to Wales or Scotland in the middle of the season).

Benedict’s story is more puzzling. He is apparently in London, but he eschews all polite social

gatherings in f

avor of less genteel milieus.

Although if truth be told, This Author should not give the impression that the aforementioned Mr.

Bridgerton has been spending his every waking hour in debauched abandon. If accounts are correct,

he has spent most of the past fortnight in his lodgings on Bruton Street.

As there have been no rumors that he is ill, This Author can only assume that he has finally come to

the conclusion that the London season is utterly dull and not worth his time.

Smart man, indeed.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 9 JUNE 1817

Sophie didn’t see Benedict for a full fortnight. She didn’t know whether to be pleased, surprised, or

disappointed. She didn’t know whether she was pleased, surprised, or disappointed.

She didn’t know anything these days. Half the time she felt like she didn’t even know herself.

She was certain that she had made the right decision in yet again refusing Benedict’s offer. She knew it

in her head, and even though she ached for the man she loved, she knew it in her heart. She had

suffered too much pain from her bastardy ever to risk imposing the same on a child, especially one of

her own.

No, that was not true. She had risked it once. And she couldn’t quite make herself regret it. The

memory was too precious. But that didn’t mean she should do it again.

But if she was so certain that she’d done the right thing, why did it hurt so much? It was as if her heart

were perpetually breaking. Every day, it tore some more, and every day, Sophie told herself that it

could not get worse, that surely her heart was finished breaking, that it was finally well and fully broken,

and yet every night she cried herself to sleep, aching for Benedict.

And every day she felt even worse.

Her tension was intensified by the fact that she was terrified to step outside the house. Posy would

surely be looking for her, and Sophie thought it best if Posy didn’t find her.

Not that she thought Posy was likely to reveal her presence here in London to Araminta; Sophie knew

Posy well enough to trust that Posy would never deliberately break a promise. And Posy’s nod when

Sophie had been frantically shaking her head could definitely be considered a promise.

But as true of heart as Posy was when it came to keeping promises, the same could not, unfortunately,

be said of her lips. And Sophie could easily imagine a scenario—many scenarios as a matter of fact—

in which Posy would accidentally blurt out that she’d seen Sophie. Which meant that Sophie’s one big

advantage was that Posy didn’t know where Sophie was staying. For all she knew, Sophie had just

been out for a stroll. Or maybe Sophie had come to spy on Araminta.

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