An Offer From a Gentleman (Bridgertons, #3)

by Julia Quinn

He is, however, fourteen years of age, and therefore not pertinent to this particular column, which concerns, as This Author’s columns often do, that most sacred of sports: husband-hunting.)

“If you wish for things you can’t possibly hope for, you’re only going to be disappointed.”

This woman knew joy.

It was nothing but a dream, but it had been so terribly long since she’d let herself dream.

“I want—” His voice dropped to a whisper, and his eyes looked vaguely surprised, as if he couldn’t quite believe the truth of his own words. “I want your future. I want every little piece of you.”

It was Benedict Bridgerton. Her Prince Charming.

He’d never been particularly enamored of playing the hero, but he had far too many younger sisters—four, to be precise—to ignore any female in distress.

It had been a moment of perfection.

Sophie just stared at him, unable to believe he hadn’t recognized her.

He had no idea who she was.

“I hate bullies,” was all he said.

In her dreams he loved her. In her dreams he asked her to marry him. In reality, he might ask her to become his mistress, and that was something she’d sworn she would never do.

Only one night in her short life had she completely thrown caution to the wind. And that night had been the most thrilling, the most magical, the most stupendously wonderful night of her life.

She had a dreadfully wicked imagination, and there was no getting around it.

Benedict thought that his argument was most reasonable, if a little overbearing, but Sophie obviously did not agree, because, much to his surprise, he found himself lying faceup on the ground, having been felled by a remarkably quick right hook.

How Benedict managed to be the most wonderful and the most awful man in the world at the very same time, she would never understand.

Something about her use of the word “can’t” struck him as significant.

“Let me be your anchor.”

“I can live with you hating me,” he said to the closed door. “I just can’t live without you.”

When he left, he did not see his mother smiling broadly at his back.

She’d fallen in love with the wrong man. She could never have him on her terms, and she refused to go to him on his.

“That question,” she said, snapping the book shut but leaving her finger in to mark her place, “implies that I am actually reading, which I assure you I am unable to do while you are sitting here.”

“Most of the world are fools.”

He feels responsible, and I truly believe he would consider himself a failure if any of his siblings were unhappy.”

It was strange, to find a woman who could make him happy just with her mere presence. He didn’t even have to see her, or hear her voice, or even smell her scent. He just had to know that she was there. If that wasn’t love, he didn’t know what was.

“They say that a smart person learns from her mistakes,” she interrupted, her voice forcefully ending his protest. “But a truly smart person learns from other people’s mistakes.”

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

And in that moment, Benedict realized what he’d probably been too stupid (and stupidly male) to notice: Penelope Featherington was in love with his brother.

Benedict decided he had never loved his mother more than he did at that very minute.

“Have I told you lately,” he whispered in her ear, “how much I love you?”

“Thank you. It’s a privilege to be your son.”

It was unfair of me to ask, especially when we both knew that I would eventually be expected to marry. I would die before sharing you. How could I ask you to do the same?”

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

Oh now, this was too much. No man fell so blindingly into love that he no longer held a preference for his tea. This was England, for heaven’s sake. More to the point, this was tea.