An Offer from a Gentleman with 2nd Epilogue (31 page)

He buried his face in her hair, inhaling her scent, smelling . . .

Smelling . . .

He drew back. “Would you care for a bath?”

Her face turned an instant scarlet. “Oh, no,” she moaned, the words muffled into the hand she'd clapped over her mouth. “It was so filthy in jail, and I was forced to sleep on the ground, and—”

“Don't tell me any more,” he said.

“But—”

“Please.”
If he heard more he might have to kill someone. As long as there had been no permanent damage, he didn't want to know the details.

“I think,” he said, the first hint of a smile tugging at the left corner of his mouth, “that you should take a bath.”

“Right.” She nodded as she rose to her feet. “I'll go straight to your mother's—”

“Here.”

“Here?”

The smile spread to the right corner of his mouth. “Here.”

“But we told your mother—”

“That you'd be home by nine.”

“I think she said seven.”

“Did she? Funny, I heard nine.”

“Benedict . . .”

He took her hand and pulled her toward the door. “Seven sounds an
awful
lot like nine.”

“Benedict . . .”

“Actually, it sounds even more like eleven.”

“Benedict!”

He deposited her right by the door. “Stay here.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Don't move a muscle,” he said, touching his fingertip to her nose.

Sophie watched helplessly as he slipped out into the hall, only to return two minutes later. “Where did you go?” she asked.

“To order a bath.”

“But—”

His eyes grew very, very wicked. “For two.”

She gulped.

He leaned forward. “They happened to have water heating already.”

“They did?”

He nodded. “It'll only take a few minutes to fill the tub.”

She glanced toward the front door. “It's nearly seven.”

“But I'm allowed to keep you until twelve.”

“Benedict!”

He pulled her close. “You want to stay.”

“I never said that.”

“You don't have to. If you really disagreed with me, you'd have something more to say than, ‘Benedict'!”

She had to smile; he did
that
good an imitation of her voice.

His mouth curved into a devilish grin. “Am I wrong?”

She looked away, but she knew her lips were twitching.

“I thought not,” he murmured. He motioned with his head toward the stairs. “Come with me.”

She went.

T
o Sophie's great surprise, Benedict vacated the room while she undressed for her bath. She held her breath as she pulled her dress over her head. He was right; she did smell rank.

The maid who had drawn the bath had scented it with oil and a sudsy soap that left bubbles floating on the surface.
Once Sophie had shed all of her clothing, she dipped her toe into the steaming water. The rest of her soon followed.

Heaven. It was hard to believe it had only been two days since she'd had a bath. One night in jail made it feel more like a year.

Sophie tried to clear her mind and enjoy the hedonism of the moment, but it was difficult to enjoy with the anticipation growing within her veins. She knew when she'd decided to stay that Benedict planned on joining her. She could have refused; for all his wheedling and cajoling, he would have taken her back home to his mother's.

But she had decided to stay. Somewhere between the sitting-room doorway and the base of the stairs she'd realized she
wanted
to stay. It had been such a long road to this moment, and she wasn't quite ready to relinquish him, even if it would only be until the following morning, when he was sure to come by his mother's for breakfast.

He would be here soon. And when he was . . .

She shivered. Even in the steaming hot tub, she shivered. And then, as she was sinking deeper into the water, allowing it to rise above her shoulders and neck, even right up to her nose, she heard the click of the door opening.

Benedict. He was wearing a dark green dressing gown, tied with a sash at his waist. His feet were bare, as were his legs from the knees down.

“I hope you don't mind if I have this destroyed,” he said, glancing down at her dress.

She smiled at him and shook her head. It wasn't what she'd been expecting him to say, and she knew that he'd done it to set her at ease.

“I'll send someone to fetch you another,” he said.

“Thank you.” She shifted slightly in the water to make room for him, but he surprised her by walking to her end of the tub.

“Lean forward,” he murmured.

She did, and sighed with pleasure as he began to wash her back.

“I've dreamed of doing this for years.”

“Years?” she asked, amused.

“Mmm-hmm. I had
many
dreams about you after the masquerade.”

Sophie was glad she was leaning forward, her forehead resting on her bent knees, because she blushed.

“Dunk your head so I can wash your hair,” he ordered.

She slid under the water, then quickly came back up.

Benedict rubbed the bar of soap in his hands and then began to work the lather through her hair. “It was longer before,” he commented.

“I had to cut it,” she said. “I sold it to a wigmaker.”

She wasn't sure, but she thought she might have heard him growl.

“It used to be much shorter,” she added.

“Ready to rinse.”

She dunked back in the tub, swishing her head this way and that under the water before coming back up for air.

Benedict cupped his hands and filled them with water. “You've still got some in the back,” he said, letting the water pour over her hair.

Sophie let him repeat that process a few times, then finally asked, “Aren't you coming in?” It was dreadfully brazen of her, and she knew she must be blushing like a raspberry, but she simply had to know.

He shook his head. “I'd planned to, but this is too much fun.”

“Washing me?” she asked doubtfully.

One corner of his mouth quirked into the faintest of half smiles. “I'm rather looking forward to drying you off as well.” He reached down and picked up a large white towel. “Up you go.”

Sophie chewed on her lower lip in indecision. She had, of
course, already been as close to him as two people could be, but she wasn't so sophisticated that she could rise naked from the tub without a large degree of embarrassment.

Benedict smiled faintly as he stood and unfolded the towel. Holding it wide, he averted his gaze and said, “I'll have you all wrapped up before I can see a thing.”

Sophie took a deep breath and stood, somehow feeling that that one action might mark the beginning of the rest of her life.

Benedict gently wrapped the towel around her, his hands bringing the corners to her face when he was done. He dabbed at her cheeks, where light droplets of water were still clinging to her skin, then leaned down and kissed her nose. “I'm glad you're here,” he murmured.

“I'm glad, too.”

He touched her chin. His eyes never left hers, and she almost felt as if he'd touched those as well. And then, with the softest, most tender caress imaginable, he kissed her. Sophie didn't just feel loved; she felt revered.

“I should wait until Monday,” he said, “but I don't want to.”

“I don't want you to wait,” she whispered.

He kissed her again, this time with a bit more urgency. “You're so beautiful,” he murmured. “Everything I ever dreamed of.”

His lips found her cheek, her chin, her neck, and every kiss, every nibble robbed her of balance and breath. She was sure her legs would give out, sure her strength would fail her under his tender onslaught, and just when she was convinced she'd crumple to the floor, he scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bed.

“In my heart,” he vowed, settling her against the quilts and pillows, “you are my wife.”

Sophie's breath caught.

“After our wedding it will be legal,” he said, stretching out alongside her, “blessed by God and country, but right
now—” His voice grew hoarse as he propped himself up on one elbow so that he could gaze into her eyes. “Right now it is
true
.”

Sophie reached up and touched his face. “I love you,” she whispered. “I have always loved you. I think I loved you before I even knew you.”

He leaned down to kiss her anew, but she stopped him with a breathy, “No, wait.”

He paused, mere inches from her lips.

“At the masquerade,” she said, her voice uncharacteristically shaky, “even before I saw you, I
felt
you. Anticipation. Magic. There was something in the air. And when I turned, and you were there, it was as if you'd been waiting for me, and I knew that you were the reason I'd stolen into the ball.”

Something wet hit her cheek. A single tear, fallen from his eye.

“You are the reason I exist,” she said softly, “the very reason I was born.”

He opened his mouth, and for a moment she was certain he would say something, but the only sound that emerged was a rough, halting noise, and she realized that he was overcome, that he could not speak.

She was undone.

Benedict kissed her again, trying to show in deeds what he could not say in words. He hadn't thought he could love her any more than he did just five seconds earlier, but when she'd said . . . when she'd told him . . .

His heart had grown, and he'd thought it might burst.

He loved her. Suddenly the world was a very simple place. He loved her, and that was all that mattered.

His robe and her towel melted away, and when they were skin to skin he worshipped her with his hands and lips. He wanted her to realize the extent of his need for her, and he wanted her to know the same desire.

“Oh, Sophie,” he groaned, her name the only word he could manage to say. “Sophie, Sophie, Sophie.”

She smiled up at him, and he was struck by the most remarkable desire to laugh. He was happy, he realized. So damned happy.

And it felt good.

He positioned himself over her, ready to enter her, ready to make her his. This was different from the last time, when they'd both been swept away by emotion. This time they had been deliberate. They had chosen more than passion; they had chosen each other.

“You're mine,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers as he slid inside. “You're mine.”

And much later, when they were exhausted and spent, lying in each other's arms, he brought his lips to her ear and whispered, “And I'm yours.”

S
everal hours later, Sophie yawned and blinked herself awake, wondering why she felt so lovely and warm, and—

“Benedict!” she gasped. “What time is it?”

He didn't respond, so she clutched at his shoulder and shook hard. “Benedict! Benedict!”

He grunted as he rolled over. “I'm sleeping.”

“What time is it?”

He buried his face in the pillow. “Haven't the foggiest.”

“I'm supposed to be at your mother's by seven.”

“Eleven,” he mumbled.

“Seven!”

He opened one eye. It looked like it took a great deal of effort. “You knew you weren't going to make it back by seven when you decided to take a bath.”

“I know, but I didn't think I'd be much past nine.”

Benedict blinked a few times as he looked around the room. “I don't think you're going to make it—”

But she'd already caught sight of the mantel clock and was presently choking frantically.

“Are you all right?” he inquired.

“It's three in the morning!”

He smiled. “You might as well spend the night, then.”

“Benedict!”

“You wouldn't want to put out any of the servants, would you? They're all quite asleep, I'm sure.”

“But I—”

“Have mercy, woman,” he finally declared. “I'm marrying you next week.”

That got her attention. “Next week?” she squeaked.

He tried to assume a serious mien. “It's best to take care of these things quickly.”

“Why?”

“Why?” he echoed.

“Yes, why?”

“Er, ah, stemming gossip and all that.”

Her lips parted and her eyes grew round. “Do you think Lady Whistledown will write about me?”

“God, I hope not,” he muttered.

Her face fell.

“Well, I suppose she
might
. Why on earth would you want her to?”

“I've been reading her column for years. I always dreamed of seeing my name there.”

He shook his head. “You have very strange dreams.”

“Benedict!”

“Very well, yes, I imagine Lady Whistledown will report our marriage, if not before the ceremony, then certainly very quickly after the fact. She's diabolical that way.”

“I wish I knew who she was.”

“You and half of London.”

“Me and
all
of London, I should think.” She sighed, then said, not very convincingly, “I really should go. Your mother is surely worried about me.”

He shrugged. “She knows where you are.”

“But she'll think less of me.”

“I doubt it. She'll give you a bit of latitude, I'm sure, considering we're to be married in three days.”

“Three days?” she yelped. “I thought you said next week.”

“Three days
is
next week.”

Sophie frowned. “Oh. You're right. Monday, then?”

He nodded, looking very satisfied.

“Imagine that,” she said. “I'll be in
Whistledown
.”

He propped himself up on one elbow, eyeing her suspiciously. “Are you looking forward to marrying me,” he asked in an amused voice, “or is it merely the
Whistledown
mention that has you so excited?”