An Offer From a Gentleman (Cinderella)

Chapter 51

“Edge—Oh, never mind. I can see that I cannot compete with whatever is plaguing you just now.”

“Mother,” Benedict said abruptly.

She cocked her head slightly to the side, her eyes intrigued and perhaps a bit surprised. “Yes?”

“When you met Father—”

“It happened in an instant,” she said softly, somehow knowing what he’d meant to ask.

“So you knew that he was the one?”

She smiled, and her eyes took on a faraway, misty look. “Oh, I wouldn’t have admitted it,” she said. “At Content protected by Nôv/el(D)rama.Org.

least not right away. I fancied myself a practical sort. I’d always scoffed at the notion of love at first

sight.” She paused for a moment, and Benedict knew she was no longer in the room with him, but at

some long-ago ball, meeting his father for the first time. Finally, just when he thought she’d completely

forgotten the conversation, she looked back up and said, “But I knew.”

“From the first moment you saw him?”

“Well, from the first time we spoke, at least.” She took his offered handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes,

smiling sheepishly, as if embarrassed by her tears.

Benedict felt a lump forming in his throat, and he looked away, not wanting her to see the moisture

forming in his own eyes. Would anyone cry for him more than a decade after he died? It was a

humbling thing to be in the presence of true love, and Benedict suddenly felt so damned jealous—of his

own parents.

They’d found love and had the good sense to recognize and cherish it. Few people were so fortunate.

“There was something about his voice that was so soothing, so warm,” Violet continued. “When he

spoke, you felt like you were the only person in the room.”

“I remember,” Benedict said with a warm, nostalgic smile. “It was quite a feat, to be able to do that with

eight children.”

His mother swallowed convulsively, then said, her voice once again brisk, “Yes, well, he never knew

Hyacinth, so I suppose it was only seven.”

“Still . . .”

She nodded. “Still.”

Benedict reached out and patted her on the hand. He didn’t know why; he hadn’t planned to. But

somehow it seemed the right thing to do.

“Yes, well,” she said, giving his hand a little squeeze before returning hers to her lap. “Was there any

particular reason you asked about your father?”

“No,” he lied. “At least not . . . Well . . .”

She waited patiently, with that mildly expectant expression that made it impossible to keep one’s

feelings to oneself.

“What happens,” he asked, as surprised by the words tumbling forth as she undoubtedly was, “when

one falls in love with someone unsuitable?”

“Someone unsuitable,” she repeated.

Benedict nodded painfully, immediately regretting his words. He should never have said anything to his

mother, and yet . . .

He sighed. His mother had always been a remarkably good listener. And truly, for all her annoying

matchmaking ways, she was more qualified to give advice on matters of the heart than anyone he

knew.

When she spoke, she appeared to be choosing her words carefully. “What do you mean by

unsuitable?”

“Someone . . .” He stopped, paused. “Someone someone like me probably shouldn’t marry.”

“Someone perhaps who is not of our social class?”

He glanced at a painting on the wall. “Someone like that.”

“I see. Well . . .” Violet’s brow scrunched a bit, then she said, “I suppose it would depend on how far out

of our social class this person is.”

“Far.”

“A little bit far or quite a lot far?”

Benedict was convinced that no man of his age and reputation had ever had such a conversation with

his mother, but he nonetheless answered, “Quite a lot.”

“I see. Well, I would have to say . . .” She chewed on her lower lip for a moment before continuing. “I

would have to say,” she said, slightly more forcefully (although not, if one was judging in absolute

terms, forceful at all).

“I would have to say,” she said for a third time, “that I love you very much and will support you in all

things.” She cleared her throat. “If indeed we are talking about you.”

It seemed useless to deny it, so Benedict just nodded.

“But,” Violet added, “I would caution you to consider what you are doing. Love is, of course, the most

important element in any union, but outside influences can put a strain on a marriage. And if you marry

someone of, say”—she cleared her throat—“the servant class, then you will find yourself the subject of

a great deal of gossip and no small amount of ostracism. And that will be difficult for one such as you to

bear.”

“One such as me?” he asked, bristling at her choice of words.

“You must know I mean no insult. But you and your brothers do lead charmed lives. You’re handsome,

intelligent, personable. Everyone likes you. I cannot tell you how happy that makes me.” She smiled,

but it was a wistful, slightly sad smile. “It is not easy to be a wallflower.”

And suddenly Benedict understood why his mother was always forcing him to dance with the girls like

Penelope Featherington. The ones who stood at the fringes of the ballroom, the ones who always

pretended they didn’t actually want to dance.

She had been a wallflower herself.

It was difficult to imagine. His mother was hugely popular now, with an easy smile and piles of friends.

And if Benedict had heard the story correctly, his father had been considered the catch of the season.

“Only you will be able to make this decision,” Violet continued, bringing Benedict’s thoughts back to the

here and now, “and I’m afraid it won’t be an easy one.”

He stared out the window, his silence his agreement.

“But,” she added, “should you decide to join your life with someone not of our class, I will of course

support you in every possible manner.”

Benedict looked up sharply. There were few women of the ton who would say the same to their sons.

“You are my son,” she said simply. “I would give my life for you.”

He opened his mouth to speak but was surprised to find that he couldn’t make a sound.

“I certainly wouldn’t banish you for marrying someone unsuitable.”

“Thank you,” he said. It was all he could manage to say.

Violet sighed, loudly enough to regain his full attention. She looked tired, wistful. “I wish your father

were here,” she said.

“You don’t say that very often,” he said quietly.

“I always wish your father were here.” She closed her eyes for a brief moment. “Always.”

And then somehow it became clear. As he watched his mother’s face, finally realizing—no, finally

understanding—the depth of his parents’ love for one another, it all became clear.

Love. He loved Sophie. That was all that should have mattered.

He’d thought he’d loved the woman from the masquerade. He’d thought he’d wanted to marry her. But

he understood now that that had been nothing but a dream, a fleeting fantasy of a woman he barely

knew.

But Sophie was . . .

Sophie was Sophie. And that was everything he needed.

Sophie wasn’t a great believer in destiny or fate, but after one hour with Nicholas, Elizabeth, J

ohn, and Alice Wentworth, young cousins to the Bridgerton clan, she was beginning to think that maybe

there was a reason she had never managed to obtain a position as a governess.

She was exhausted.

No, no, she thought, with more than a touch of desperation. Exhaustion didn’t really provide an

adequate description for the current state of her existence. Exhaustion didn’t quite capture the slight

edge of insanity the foursome had brought to her mind.

“No, no, no, that’s my doll,” Elizabeth said to Alice.

“It’s mine,” Alice returned.

“It is not!”

“Is too!”

“I’ll settle this,” ten-year-old Nicholas said, swaggering over with his hands on his hips.

Sophie groaned. She had a feeling that it was not a terribly good idea to allow the dispute to be settled

by a ten-year-old boy who happened to think he was a pirate.

“Neither of you will want the doll,” he said, with a devious gleam in his eye, “if I simply lop off its—”

Sophie leapt to intervene. “You will not lop off its head, Nicholas Wentworth.”

“But then they’ll stop—”

“No,” Sophie said forcefully.

He looked at her, obviously assessing her commitment to that particular course of action, then

grumbled and walked away.

“I think we need a new game,” Hyacinth whispered to Sophie.

“I know we need a new game,” Sophie muttered.

“Let go of my soldier!” John screeched. “Let go let go let go!”

“I’m never having children,” Hyacinth announced. “In fact, I may never get married.”

Sophie forbore to point out that when Hyacinth married and had children, she would certainly have a

flotilla of nurses and nannies to aid her with their keeping and care.

Hyacinth winced as John pulled Alice’s hair, then swallowed uncomfortably as Alice slugged John in

the stomach. “The situation is growing desperate,” she whispered to Sophie.

“Blind man’s bluff!” Sophie suddenly exclaimed. “What do you think, everyone? How about a game of

blind man’s bluff?”

Alice and John nodded enthusiastically, and Elizabeth gave a reluctant, “All right,” after carefully

considering the issue.

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