An Offer From a Gentleman (Cinderella)

Chapter 31

“No one,” she snapped. “No one will hire me. I have no references, and I look far too young.”

“And pretty,” he said grimly. He’d never given much thought to the hiring of governesses, but he knew

that the duty usually fell to the mother of the house. And common sense told him that no mother

wanted to bring such a pretty young thing into her household. Just look what Sophie had had to endure

at the hands of Phillip Cavender.

“You could be a lady’s maid,” he suggested. “At least then you wouldn’t be cleaning chamber pots.”

“You’d be surprised,” she muttered.

“A companion to an elderly lady?”

She sighed. It was a sad, weary sound, and it nearly broke his heart. “You’re very kind to try to help

me,” she said, “but I have already explored all of those avenues. Besides, I am not your responsibility.”

“You could be.”

She looked at him in surprise.

In that moment, Benedict knew that he had to have her. There was a connection between them, a

strange, inexplicable bond that he’d felt only one other time in his life, with the mystery lady from the

masquerade. And while she was gone, vanished into thin air, Sophie was very real. He was tired of

mirages. He wanted someone he could see, someone he could touch.

And she needed him. She might not realize it yet, but she needed him. Benedict took her hand and

tugged, catching her off-balance and wrapping her to him when she fell against his body.

“Mr. Bridgerton!” she yelped.

“Benedict,” he corrected, his lips at her ear.

“Let me—”

“Say my name,” he persisted. He could be very stubborn when it suited his interests, and he wasn’t

going to let her go until he heard his name cross her lips.

And maybe not even then.

“Benedict,” she finally relented. “I—”

“Hush.” He silenced her with his mouth, nibbling at the corner of her lips. When she went soft and

compliant in his arms, he drew back, just far enough so that he could focus on her eyes. They looked

impossibly green in the late-afternoon light, deep enough to drown in.

“I want you to come back to London with me,” he whispered, the words tumbling forth before he had a

chance to consider them. “Come back and live with me.”

She looked at him in surprise.

“Be mine,” he said, his voice thick and urgent. “Be mine right now. Be mine forever. I’ll give you

anything you want. All I want in return is you.”

Speculation continues to abound concerning the disappearance of Benedict Bridgerton. According to

Eloise Bridgerton, who as his sister ought to know, he was due back in town several days ago.

But as Eloise must be the first to admit, a man of Mr. Bridgerton’s age and stature need hardly report

his whereabouts to his younger sister.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 9 MAY 1817

“You want me to be your mistress,” she said flatly.

He gave her a confused look, although she couldn’t be sure whether that was because her statement

was so obvious or because he objected to her choice of words. “I want you to be with me,” he

persisted.

The moment was so staggeringly painful and yet she found herself almost smiling. “How is that

different from being your mistress?”

“Sophie—”

“How is it different?” she repeated, her voice growing strident.

“I don’t know, Sophie.” He sounded impatient. “Does it matter?”

“It does to me.”

“Fine,” he said in a short voice. “Fine. Be my mistress, and have this.”

Sophie had just enough time to gasp before his lips descended on hers with a ferocity that turned her

knees to water. It was like no kiss they’d ever shared, harsh with need, and laced with an odd, strange

anger.

His mouth devoured hers in a primitive dance of passion. His hands seemed to be everywhere, on her

breasts, around her waist, even under her skirt. He touched and squeezed, caressed and stroked.

And all the while, he had her pressed up so tightly against him she was certain she’d melt into his skin.

“I want you,” he said roughly, his lips finding the hollow at the base of her throat. “I want you right now. I

want you here.”

“Benedict—”

“I want you in my bed,” he growled. “I want you tomorrow. And I want you the next day.”

She was wicked, and she was weak, and she gave in to the moment, arching her neck to allow him

greater access. His lips felt so good against her skin, sending shivers and tingles to the very center of

her being. He made her long for him, long for all the things she couldn’t have, and curse the things she

could.

And then somehow she was on the ground, and he was there with her, half-on and half-off of her body.

He seemed so large, so powerful, and in that moment, so perfectly hers. A very small part of Sophie’s

mind was still functioning, and she knew that she had to say no, had to put a stop to the madness, but

God help her, she couldn’t. Not yet.

She’d spent so long dreaming about him, trying desperately to remember the scent of his skin, the

sound of his voice. There had been many nights when the fantasy of him had been all that had kept her

company.

She had been living on dreams, and she wasn’t a woman for whom many had come true. She didn’t

want to lose this one just yet.

“Benedict,” she murmured, touching the crisp silkiness of his hair and pretending—pretending that he

hadn’t just asked her to be his mistress, that she was someone else—anyone else.

Anyone but the bastard daughter of a dead earl, with no means of support besides waiting on others.

Her murmurings seemed to embolden him, and his hand, which had been tickling her knee for so long,

started to inch upward, squeezing the soft skin of her thigh. Years of hard work had made her lean, not

fashionably curvy, but he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she could feel his heart begin to beat even more

rapidly, hear his breath coming in hoarser gasps.

“Sophie, Sophie, Sophie,” he groaned, his lips moving frantically along her face until they found her

mouth again. “I need you.” He pressed his hips hotly against hers. “Do you feel how I need you?”

“I need you, too,” she whispered. And she did. There was a fire burning within her that had been

simmering quietly for years. The sight of him had ignited it anew, and his touch was like kerosene,

sending her into a conflagration.

His fingers wrestled with the large, poorly made buttons on back of her dress. “I’m going to burn this,”

he grunted, his other hand relentlessly stroking the tender skin at the back of her knee. “I’ll dress you in

silks, in satins.” He moved to her ear, nipping at her lobe, then licking the tender skin where her ear met

her cheek. “I’ll dress you in nothing at all.”

Sophie stiffened in his arms. He’d managed to say the one thing that could remind her why she was

here, why he was kissing her. It wasn’t love, or any of those tender emotions s

he’d dreamed about, but lust. And he wanted to make her a kept woman.

Just as her mother had been.

Oh, God, it was so tempting. So impossibly tempting. He was offering her a life of ease and luxury, a

life with him.

At the price of her soul.

No, that wasn’t entirely true, or entirely a problem. She might be able to live as a man’s mistress. The

benefits—and how could she consider life with Benedict anything but a benefit—might outweigh the

drawbacks. But while she might be willing to make such decisions with her own life and reputation, she

would not do so for a child. And how could there not be a child? All mistresses eventually had children.

With a tortured cry, she gave him a shove and wrenched herself away, rolling to the side until she found

herself on her hands and knees, stopping to catch her breath before hauling herself to her feet.

“I can’t do this, Benedict,” she said, barely able to look at him.

“I don’t see why not,” he muttered.

“I can’t be your mistress.”

He rose to his feet. “And why is that?”

Something about him pricked at her. Maybe it was the arrogance of his tone, maybe it was the

insolence in his posture. “Because I don’t want to,” she snapped.

His eyes narrowed, not with suspicion, but with anger. “You wanted to just a few seconds ago.”

“You’re not being fair,” she said in a low voice. “I wasn’t thinking.”

His chin jutted out belligerently. “You’re not supposed to be thinking. That’s the point of it.”

She blushed as she redid her buttons. He’d done a very good job of making her not think. She’d almost

thrown away a lifetime of vows and morals, all at one wicked kiss. “Well, I won’t be your mistress,” she

said again. Maybe if she said it enough, she’d feel more confident that he wouldn’t be able to break

down her defenses.

“And what are you going to do instead?” he hissed. “Work as a housemaid?”

“If I have to.”

“You’d rather wait on people—polish their silver, scrub out their damned chamber pots—than come and

live with me.”

She said only one word, but it was low and true. “Yes.”

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