An Offer From a Gentleman (Bridgertons, #3)

by Julia Quinn

“A Bridgerton!” she trilled. “I’d recognize that chestnut hair anywhere. Which are you? No, don’t say. Let me guess. You’re not the viscount, because I just saw him. You must be Number Two or Number Three.” Benedict eyed her coolly. “Which one? Number Two or Number Three?” “Two,” he bit off. She clapped her hands together. “That’s what I thought! Oh, I must find Portia. I told her you were Number Two—” Benedict, he nearly growled. “—but she said, no, he’s the younger one, but I—”

“That’ll do,” his mother said with a satisfied nod, leaving Benedict with the sinking sensation that she’d wanted him to dance with Penelope all along.

“Miss Featherington!” he called out, trying not to shudder when three Miss Featheringtons turned around. With what he knew could not possibly be anything but the weakest of smiles, he added, “Er, Penelope, that is.” From about ten feet away, Penelope beamed at him, and Benedict was reminded that he actually liked Penelope Featherington. Truly, she wouldn’t be considered so antidotal if she weren’t always lumped together with her unfortunate sisters, who could easily make a grown man wish himself aboard a ship to Australia.

This woman knew joy. And Benedict had to know her. Penelope forgotten, he pushed his way through the crowd until he was but a few steps from her side.

“My favorite kind of night,” Colin said in a jaunty voice. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Benedict asked. Colin shook his head. “I’m sure Mother would prefer that I be in the ballroom, but it’s not exactly a requirement.” “I require it,” Benedict returned. Sophie felt a giggle bubbling in her throat. “Very well,” Colin sighed. “I shall take myself off.” “Excellent,” Benedict said. “All alone, to face the ravenous wolves . . .” “Wolves?” Sophie queried. “Eligible young ladies,” Colin clarified. “A pack of ravenous wolves, the lot of them. Present company excluded, of course.” Sophie thought it best not to point out that she was not an “eligible young lady” at all. “My mother—” Colin began. Benedict groaned. “—would like nothing better than to see my dear elder brother

“How much have you had to drink?” Benedict grumbled. “Me?” Sophie queried. “Him.” “Nothing at all,” Colin said jovially, “but I’m thinking quite seriously of remedying that. In fact, it might be the only thing that will make this eve bearable.”

“If the procurement of drink removes you from my presence,” Benedict said, “then it will certainly be the only thing that will make my night bearable as well.” Colin grinned, gave a jaunty salute, and was gone.

Sophie stumbled, but she never took her eyes off his. “My soul,” she whispered. “I see my very soul.”

“I would allow my children to marry paupers if it would bring them happiness.”

His name was Benedict Bridgerton, he had seven brothers and sisters, was rather skilled with both a sword and a sketching crayon, and he always kept his eyes open for the one woman who had touched his soul.

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.

“Between him and his brother, I don’t know which one of them will kill me first,” Lady Bridgerton muttered. “Which brother?” Sophie asked. “Either. Both. All three. Scoundrels, the lot of them.”

She’d wounded him in a way he hadn’t even known was possible, with a power he’d never dreamed she possessed. She’d chosen a life of drudgery over a life with him, and now he was doomed to see her almost every day, to see her and taste her and smell her just enough to keep his desire sharp and strong.

He needed to know what she thought of him, that he was important to her. This man, so self-assured and so confident, needed her approval. Maybe he needed her.

But deep within you, in your heart, in your very soul, is the man you were born to be. You, not someone’s son, not someone’s brother. Just you.”

“Deep inside,” she murmured, “you’ve the soul of an artist.”

“Of course,” Sophie said, eager for an excuse to turn away from Penelope, who was still studying her as if she were a human puzzle.

Benedict stared at him. Anthony stared at him. “Oh, very well,” Colin said with a scowl. “I needed to get away. Mother has started in on me with this bloody marriage thing.”

“At any rate,” Colin was still grumbling, “I am not going to marry soon, and I am certainly not going to marry Penelope Featherington!”

she would brush by them all and flee down the street, she looked straight at Colin and said, “I never asked you to marry me.” Colin’s cheeks turned a deeper red than Benedict would have thought humanly possible. Colin opened his mouth, but no sound came out. It was the first—and quite possibly would be the only—moment of Benedict’s recollection for which his younger brother was at a complete loss for words. “And I never—” Penelope added, swallowing convulsively when the words came out a bit tortured and broken. “I never said to anyone that I wanted you to ask me.” “Penelope,” Colin finally managed, “I’m so sorry.” “You have nothing to apologize for,” she said. “No,” Colin insisted, “I do. I hurt your feelings, and—” “You didn’t know I was there.” “But nevertheless—” “You are not going to marry me,” she said hollowly. “There is nothing wrong with that. I am not going to marry your brother Benedict.” Benedict had been trying not to look, but he snapped to attention at that. “It doesn’t hurt his feelings when I announce that I am not going to marry him.” She turned to Benedict, her brown eyes focusing on his. “Does it, Mr. Bridgerton?” “Of course not,” Benedict answered quickly. “It’s settled, then,” she said tightly. “No feelings were hurt. Now then, if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I should like to go home.” Benedict, Anthony, and Colin parted as if drops in the Red Sea as she made her way down the steps. “Don’t you have a maid?” Colin asked. She shook her head. “I live ju...

“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.”

La, but such excitement yesterday on the front steps of Lady Bridgerton’s residence on Bruton Street! First, Penelope Featherington was seen in the company of not one, not two, but Three Bridgerton brothers, surely a heretofore impossible feat for the poor girl, who is rather infamous for her wallflower ways. Sadly (but perhaps predictably) for Miss Featherington, when she finally departed, it was on the arm of the viscount, the only married man in the bunch. If Miss Featherington were to somehow manage to drag a Bridgerton brother to the altar, it would surely mean the end of the world as we know it, and This Author, who freely admits she would not know heads from tails in such a world, would be forced to resign her post on the spot.