An Offer from a Gentleman with 2nd Epilogue (32 page)

She gave him a playful swat on the shoulder.

“Actually,” he said thoughtfully, “you've already been in
Whistledown
.”

“I have? When?”

“After the masquerade. Lady Whistledown remarked that I'd been rather taken with a mystery woman in silver. Try as she might, she couldn't deduce your identity.” He grinned. “It very well may be the only secret in London she
hasn't
uncovered.”

Sophie's face went instantly serious and she scooted a foot or so away from him on the bed. “Oh, Benedict. I have to . . . I want to . . . That is to say . . .” She stopped, looking away for a few seconds before turning back. “I'm sorry.”

He considered yanking her back into his arms, but she looked so damned earnest he had no choice but to take her seriously. “What for?”

“For not telling you who I was. It was wrong of me.” She bit her lip. “Well, not
wrong
precisely.”

He drew back slightly. “If it wasn't wrong, then what was it?”

“I don't know. I can't explain exactly why I did what I did, but it just . . .” She chewed on her lips some more. He started to think that she might do herself permanent harm.

She sighed. “I didn't tell you right away because it didn't seem to make any sense to do so. I was so sure we'd part ways just as soon as we left the Cavenders. But then you
grew ill, and I had to care for you, and you didn't recognize me, and . . .”

He lifted a finger to her lips. “It doesn't matter.”

Her brows rose. “It seemed to matter a great deal the other night.”

He didn't know why, but he just didn't want to get into a serious discussion at that moment. “A lot has changed since then.”

“Don't you want to know why I didn't tell you who I was?”

He touched her cheeks. “I know who you are.”

She chewed on her lip.

“And do you want to hear the funniest part?” he continued. “Do you know one of the reasons I was so hesitant to give my heart completely to you? I'd been saving a piece of it for the lady from the masquerade, always hoping that one day I'd find her.”

“Oh, Benedict,” she sighed, thrilled by his words, and at the same time miserable that she had hurt him so.

“Deciding to marry you meant I had to abandon my dream of marrying
her
,” he said quietly. “Ironic, isn't it?”

“I'm sorry I hurt you by not revealing my identity,” she said, not quite looking at his face, “but I'm not sure that I'm sorry I did it. Does that make any sense?”

He didn't say anything.

“I think I would do the same thing again.”

He still didn't say anything. Sophie started to feel very uneasy inside.

“It just seemed like the right thing to do at the time,” she persisted. “Telling you that I'd been at the masquerade would have served no purpose.”

“I would have known the truth,” he said softly.

“Yes, and what would you have done with that truth?” She sat up, pulling the covers until they were tucked under her arms. “You would have wanted your mystery woman to
be your mistress, just as you wanted the housemaid to be your mistress.”

He said nothing, just stared at her face.

“I guess what I'm saying,” Sophie said quickly, “is that if I'd known at the beginning what I know now, I would have said something. But I didn't know, and I thought I'd just be positioning myself for heartbreak, and—” She choked on her final words, frantically searching his face for some kind of clue to his feelings. “
Please
say something.”

“I love you,” he said.

It was all she needed.

Sunday's bash at Bridgerton House is sure to be the event of the season. The entire family will gather, along with a hundred or so of their closest friends, to celebrate the dowager vis countess's birthday.

It is considered crass to mention a lady's age, and so This Author will not reveal which birthday Lady Bridgerton is celebrating.

But have no fear . . . This Author knows!

L
ADY
W
HISTLEDOWN'S
S
OCIETY
P
APERS
, 9 A
PRIL
1824

“S
top! Stop!”

Sophie shrieked with laughter as she ran down the stone steps that led to the garden behind Bridgerton House. After three children and seven years of marriage, Benedict could still make her smile, still make her laugh . . . and he still chased her around the house any chance he could get.

“Where are the children?” she gasped, once he'd caught her at the base of the steps.

“Francesca is watching them.”

“And your mother?”

He grinned. “I daresay Francesca is watching her, too.”

“Anyone could stumble upon us out here,” she said, looking this way and that.

His smile turned wicked. “Maybe,” he said, catching hold of her green-velvet skirt and reeling her in, “we should adjourn to the
private
terrace.”

The words were oh-so-familiar, and it was only a second before she was transported back nine years to the masquerade ball. “The private terrace, you say?” she asked, amusement dancing in her eyes. “And how, pray tell, would you know of a
private
terrace?”

His lips brushed against hers. “I have my ways,” he murmured.

“And I,” she returned, smiling slyly, “have my secrets.”

He drew back. “Oh? And will you share?”

“We five,” she said with a nod, “are about to be six.”

He looked at her face, then looked at her belly. “Are you sure?”

“As sure as I was last time.”

He took her hand and raised it to lips. “This one will be a girl.”

“That's what you said last time.”

“I know, but—”

“And the time before.”

“All the more reason for the odds to favor me
this
time.”

She shook her head. “I'm glad you're not a gambler.”

He smiled at that. “Let's not tell anyone yet.”

“I think a few people already suspect,” Sophie admitted.

“I want to see how long it takes that Whistledown woman to figure it out,” Benedict said.

“Are you serious?”

“The blasted woman knew about Charles, and she knew about Alexander, and she knew about William.”

Sophie smiled as she let him pull her into the shadows. “Do you realize that I have been mentioned in Whistledown
two hundred
and thirty-two times?”

That stopped him cold. “You've been counting?”

“Two hundred and thirty-three if you include the time after the masquerade.”

“I can't believe you've been counting.”

She gave him a nonchalant shrug. “It's exciting to be mentioned.”

Benedict thought it was a bloody nuisance to be mentioned, but he wasn't about to spoil her delight, so instead he just said, “At least she always writes nice things about you. If she didn't, I might have to hunt her down and run her out of the country.”

Sophie couldn't help but smile. “Oh,
please
. I hardly think you could discover her identity when no one else in the
ton
has managed it.”

He raised one arrogant brow. “That doesn't sound like wifely devotion and confidence to me.”

She pretended to examine her glove. “You needn't expend the energy. She's obviously very good at what she does.”

“Well, she won't know about Violet,” Benedict vowed. “At least not until it's obvious to the world.”

“Violet?” Sophie asked softly.

“It's time my mother had a grandchild named after her, don't you think?”

Sophie leaned against him, letting her cheek rest against the crisp linen of his shirt. “I think Violet is a lovely name,” she murmured, nestling deeper into the shelter of his arms. “I just hope it's a girl. Because if it's a boy, he's never going to forgive us . . .”

L
ater that night, in a town house in the very best part of London, a woman picked up her quill and wrote:

Lady Whistledown's Society Papers

12 April 1824

        
Ah, Gentle Reader, This Author has learned that the Bridgerton grandchildren will soon number eleven . . .

But when she tried to write more, all she could do was close her eyes and sigh. She'd been doing this for so very long now. Could it have possibly been eleven years already?

Maybe it was time to move on. She was tired of writing about everyone else. It was time to live her own life.

And so Lady Whistledown set down her quill and walked to her window, pushing aside her sage green curtains and looking out into the inky night.

“Time for something new,” she whispered. “Time to finally be me.”

 

 
Dear Reader,

Have you ever wondered what happened to your favorite characters after you closed the final page? Wanted just a little bit more of a favorite novel? I have, and if the questions from my readers are any indication, I'm not the only one. So after countless requests from Bridgerton fans, I decided to try something a little different, and I wrote a “2nd Epilogue” for each of the novels. These are the stories that come
after
the stories.

At first, the Bridgerton 2nd Epilogues were available exclusively online; later they were published (along with a novella about Violet Bridgerton) in a collection called
The Bridgertons: Happily Ever After.
Now, for the first time, each 2nd Epilogue is being included with the novel it follows. I hope you enjoy Benedict and Sophie as they continue their journey.

Warmly,
Julia Quinn

A
t five and twenty, Miss Posy Reiling was considered
nearly
a spinster. There were those who might have considered her past the cutoff from young miss to hopeless ape leader; three and twenty was often cited as the unkind chronological border. But Posy was, as Lady Bridgerton (her unofficial guardian) often remarked, a unique case.

In debutante years, Lady Bridgerton insisted, Posy was only twenty,
maybe
twenty-one.

Eloise Bridgerton, the eldest unmarried daughter of the house, put it a little more bluntly: Posy's first few years out in society had been worthless and should not be counted against her.

Eloise's youngest sister, Hyacinth, never one to be verbally outdone, simply stated that Posy's years between the ages of seventeen and twenty-two had been “utter rot.”

It was at this point that Lady Bridgerton had sighed, poured herself a stiff drink, and sunk into a chair. Eloise, whose mouth was as sharp as Hyacinth's (though thankfully tempered by some discretion), had remarked that they had best get Hyacinth married off quickly or their mother was going to become an alcoholic. Lady Bridgerton
had not appreciated the comment, although she privately thought it might be true.

Hyacinth was like that.

But this is a story about Posy. And as Hyacinth has a tendency to take over anything in which she is involved . . . please do forget about her for the remainder of the tale.

The truth was, Posy's first few years on the Marriage Mart
had
been utter rot. It was true that she'd made her debut at a proper age of seventeen. And, indeed, she was the stepdaughter of the late Earl of Penwood, who had so prudently made arrangements for her dowry before his untimely death several years prior.

She was perfectly pleasant to look at, if perhaps a little plump, she had all of her teeth, and it had been remarked upon more than once that she had uncommonly kind eyes.

Anyone assessing her on paper would not understand why she'd gone so long without even a single proposal.

But anyone assessing her on paper might not have known about Posy's mother, Araminta Gunningworth, the dowager Countess of Penwood.

Araminta was splendidly beautiful, even more so than Posy's elder sister, Rosamund, who had been blessed with fair hair, a rosebud mouth, and eyes of cerulean blue.

Araminta was ambitious, too, and enormously proud of her ascension from the gentry to the aristocracy. She'd gone from Miss Wincheslea to Mrs. Reiling to Lady Penwood, although to hear her speak of it, her mouth had been dripping silver spoons since the day of her birth.

But Araminta had failed in one regard; she had not been able to provide the earl with an heir. Which meant that despite the
Lady
before her name, she did not wield a terribly large amount of power. Nor did she have access to the type of fortune she felt was her due.

And so she pinned her hopes on Rosamund. Rosamund, she was sure, would make a splendid match. Rosamund was achingly beautiful. Rosamund could sing and play the pianoforte, and if she wasn't talented with a needle, then she knew exactly how to poke Posy, who was. And since Posy did not enjoy repeated needle-sized skin punctures, it was Rosamund's embroidery that always looked exquisite.

Posy's, on the other hand, generally went unfinished.

And since money was not as plentiful as Araminta would have her peers believe, she lavished what they had on Rosamund's wardrobe, and Rosamund's lessons, and Rosamund's
everything
.

She wasn't about to let Posy look embarrassingly shabby, but really, there was no point in spending more than she had to on her. You couldn't turn a sow's ear into a silk purse, and you certainly couldn't turn a Posy into a Rosamund.

But.

(And this is a rather large but.)

Things didn't turn out so well for Araminta. It's a terribly long story, and one probably deserving of a book of its own, but suffice it to say that Araminta cheated another young girl of her inheritance, one Sophia Beckett, who happened to be the earl's illegitimate daughter. She would have
got away with it completely, because who cares about a bastard, except that Sophie had had the temerity to fall in love with Benedict Bridgerton, second son in the aforementioned (and extremely well-connected) Bridgerton family.

This would not have been enough to seal Araminta's fate, except that Benedict decided he loved Sophie back. Quite madly. And while he might have overlooked embezzlement, he certainly could not do the same for having Sophie hauled off to jail (on mostly fraudulent charges).

Things were looking grim for dear Sophie, even with intervention on the part of Benedict and his mother, the also aforementioned Lady Bridgerton. But then who should show up to save the day but Posy?

Posy, who had been ignored for most of her life.

Posy, who had spent years feeling guilty for not standing up to her mother.

Posy, who was still a little bit plump and never would be as beautiful as her sister, but who would always have the
kindest
eyes.

Araminta had disowned her on the spot, but before Posy had even a moment to wonder if this constituted good or bad fortune, Lady Bridgerton had invited her to live in her home, for as long as she wished.

Posy might have spent twenty-two years being poked and pricked by her sister, but she was no fool. She accepted gladly, and did not even bother to return home to collect her belongings.

As for Araminta, well, she'd quickly ascertained that it was in her best interest not to make any public comment about the soon-to-be Sophia
Bridgerton unless it was to declare her an absolute joy and delight.

Which she didn't do. But she didn't go around calling her a bastard, either, which was all anyone could have expected.

All of this explains (in an admittedly roundabout way) why Lady Bridgerton was Posy's unofficial guardian, and why she considered her a unique case. To her mind, Posy had not truly debuted until she came to live with her. Penwood dowry or no, who on earth would have looked twice at a girl in ill-fitting clothes, always stuck off in the corner, trying her best not to be noticed by her own mother?

And if she was still unmarried at twenty-five, why, that was certainly equal to a mere twenty for anyone else. Or so Lady Bridgerton said.

And no one really wanted to contradict her.

As for
Posy
, she often said that her life had not really begun until she went to jail.

This tended to require some explaining, but most of Posy's statements did.

Posy didn't mind. The Bridgertons actually
liked
her explanations. They liked
her
.

Even better, she rather liked herself.

Which was more important than she'd ever realized.

S
ophie Bridgerton considered her life to be almost perfect. She adored her husband, loved her cozy home, and was quite certain that her two little boys were the most handsome, brilliant creatures
ever to be born anywhere, anytime, any . . . well, any
any
one could come up with.

It was true that they
had
to live in the country because even with the sizable influence of the Bridgerton family, Sophie was, on account of her birth, not likely to be accepted by some of the more particular London hostesses.

(Sophie called them particular. Benedict called them something else entirely.)

But that didn't matter. Not really. She and Benedict preferred life in the country, so it was no great loss. And even though it would always be whispered that Sophie's birth was not what it should be, the official story was that she was a distant—and completely legitimate—relative of the late Earl of Penwood. And even though no one
really
believed Araminta when she'd confirmed the story, confirmed it she had.

Sophie knew that by the time her children were grown, the rumors would be old enough so that no doors would be closed to them, should they wish to take their spots in London society.

All was well. All was perfect.

Almost. Really, all she needed to do was find a husband for Posy. Not just any husband, of course. Posy deserved the best.

“She is not for everyone,” Sophie had admitted to Benedict the previous day, “but that does not mean she is not a brilliant catch.”

“Of course not,” he murmured. He was trying to read the newspaper. It was three days old, but to his mind it was all still news to him.

She looked at him sharply.

“I mean, of course,” he said quickly. And
then, when she did not immediately carry on, he amended, “I mean whichever one means that she will make someone a splendid wife.”

Sophie let out a sigh. “The problem is that most people don't seem to realize how lovely she is.”

Benedict gave a dutiful nod. He understood his role in this particular tableau. It was the sort of conversation that wasn't really a conversation. Sophie was thinking aloud, and he was there to provide the occasional verbal prompt or gesture.

“Or at least that's what your mother reports,” Sophie continued.

“Mmm-hmm.”

“She doesn't get asked to dance nearly as often as she ought.”

“Men are beasts,” Benedict agreed, flipping to the next page.

“It's true,” Sophie said with some emotion. “Present company excluded, of course.”

“Oh, of course.”

“Most of the time,” she added, a little waspishly.

He gave her a wave. “Think nothing of it.”

“Are you listening to me?” she asked, her eyes narrowing.

“Every word,” he assured her, actually lowering the paper enough to see her above the top edge. He hadn't actually
seen
her eyes narrow, but he knew her well enough to hear it in her voice.

“We need to find a husband for Posy.”

He considered that. “Perhaps she doesn't want one.”

“Of course she wants one!”

“I have been told,” Benedict opined, “that every
woman wants a husband, but in my experience, this is not precisely true.”

Sophie just stared at him, which he did not find surprising. It was a fairly lengthy statement, coming from a man with a newspaper.

“Consider Eloise,” he said. He shook his head, which was his usual inclination while thinking of his sister. “How many men has she refused now?”

“At least three,” Sophie said, “but that's not the point.”

“What
is
the point, then?”

“
Posy
.”

“Right,” he said slowly.

Sophie leaned forward, her eyes taking on an odd mix of bewilderment and determination. “I don't know why the gentlemen don't see how wonderful she is.”

“She's an acquired taste,” Benedict said, momentarily forgetting that he wasn't supposed to offer a real opinion.

“
What?
”

“
You
said she's not for everyone.”

“But you're not supposed to—” She slumped a bit in her seat. “Never mind.”

“What were you going to say?”

“Nothing.”

“
Sophie
,” he prodded.

“Just that you weren't supposed to agree with me,” she muttered. “But even I can recognize how ridiculous that is.”

It was a splendid thing, Benedict had long since realized, to have a sensible wife.

Sophie didn't speak for some time, and Benedict would have resumed his perusal of the newspaper,
except that it was too interesting watching her face. She'd chew on her lip, then let out a weary sigh, then straighten a bit, as if she'd got a good thought, then frown.

Really, he could have watched her all afternoon.

“Can
you
think of anyone?” she suddenly asked.

“For Posy?”

She gave him a look. A whom-else-might-I-be-speaking-of look.

He let out a breath. He should have anticipated the question, but he'd begun to think of the painting he was working on his studio. It was a portrait of Sophie, the fourth he'd done in their three years of marriage. He was beginning to think that he'd not got her mouth quite right. It wasn't the lips so much as the corners of her mouth. A good portraitist needed to understand the muscles of the human body, even those on the face, and—

“Benedict!”

“What about Mr. Folsom?” he said quickly.

“The solicitor?”

He nodded.

“He looks shifty.”

She was right, he realized, now that he thought on it. “Sir Reginald?”

Sophie gave him another look, visibly disappointed with his selection. “He's
fat
.”

“So is—”

“She is
not
,” Sophie cut in. “She is pleasantly plump.”

“I was going to say that so is Mr. Folsom,” Benedict said, feeling the need to defend himself, “but that you had chosen to comment upon his shiftiness.”

“Oh.”

He allowed himself the smallest of smiles.

“Shiftiness is far worse than excess weight,” she mumbled.

“I could not agree more,” Benedict said. “What about Mr. Woodson?”

“Who?”

“The new vicar. The one you said—”

“—has a brilliant smile!” Sophie finished excitedly. “Oh, Benedict, that's perfect! Oh, I love you love you love you!” At that, she practically leapt across the low table between them and into his arms.

“Well, I love you, too,” he said, and he congratulated himself on having had the foresight to shut the door to the drawing room earlier.

The newspaper flew over his shoulder, and all was right with the world.

T
he season drew to a close a few weeks later, and so Posy decided to accept Sophie's invitation for an extended visit. London was hot and sticky and rather smelly in the summer, and a sojourn in the country seemed just the thing. Besides, she had not seen either of her godsons in several months, and she had been
aghast
when Sophie had written to say that Alexander had already begun to lose some of his baby fat.