An Offer From a Gentleman (Cinderella)

Chapter 22

“Mr. Bridgerton?” she whispered. “Mr. Bridgerton?”

No response.

She crept closer, leaning over the edge of the bed. “Mr. Bridgerton?”

His hand shot out and grabbed her shoulder, pulling her off-balance until she fell onto the bed.

“Mr. Bridgerton!” Sophie squealed. “Let go!”

But he’d started to thrash and moan, and there was enough heat coming off his body that Sophie knew

he was in the grips of a fever.

She somehow managed to wrench herself free, and she went tumbling off the bed while he continued

to toss and turn, mumbling streams of words that made no sense.

Sophie waited for a quiet moment, then darted her hand out to touch his forehead. It was on fire.

She chewed on her lower lip as she tried to decide what to do. She had no experience nursing the

feverish, but it seemed to her that the logical thing would be to cool him off. On the other hand,

sickrooms always seemed to be kept closed, stuffy, and warm, so maybe . . .

Benedict started to thrash again, and then, out of nowhere, he murmured, “Kiss me.”

Sophie lost hold of her breeches; they fell to the floor. She let out a little yelp of surprise as she quickly

bent to retrieve them. Clutching the waistband securely with her right hand, she reached out to pat his

hand with her left, then thought the better of it. “You’re just dreaming, Mr. Bridgerton,” she told him.

“Kiss me,” he repeated. But he did not open his eyes.

Sophie leaned in closer. Even by the light of one solitary candle she could see his eyeballs moving

quickly under his lids. It was bizarre, she thought, to see another person dream.

“God damn it!” he suddenly yelled. “Kiss me!”

Sophie lurched back in surprise, setting her candle hastily on the bedside table. “Mr. Bridgerton, I—” Exclusive © content by N(ô)ve/l/Drama.Org.

she began, fully intending to explain why she could not even begin to think about kissing him, but then

she thought—Why not?

Her heart fluttering wildly, she leaned down and brushed the barest, lightest, most gentle of kisses on

his lips.

“I love you,” she whispered. “I’ve always loved you.”

To Sophie’s everlasting relief, he didn’t move. It wasn’t the sort of moment she wanted him to

remember in the morning. But then, just when she was convinced that he’d settled back into a deep

sleep, his head began to toss from side to side, leaving deep indentations in his feather pillow.

“Where’d you go?” he grunted hoarsely. “Where’d you go?”

“I’m right here,” Sophie replied.

He opened his eyes, and for the barest of seconds appeared completely lucid, as he said, “Not you.”

Then his eyes rolled back and his head started tossing from side to side again.

“Well, I’m all you’ve got,” Sophie muttered. “Don’t go anywhere,” she said with a nervous laugh. “I’ll be

right back.”

And then, her heart pounding with fear and nerves, she ran out of the room.

If there was one thing Sophie had learned in her days as a housemaid, it was that most households

were run in essentially the same way. It was for that reason that she had no trouble at all finding spare

linens to replace Benedict’s sweat-soaked sheets. She also scavenged a pitcher full of cool water and

a few small towels for dampening his brow.

Upon her return to his bedroom, she found him lying still again, but his breathing was shallow and

rapid. Sophie reached out and touched his brow again. She couldn’t be certain, but it seemed to her

that it was growing warmer.

Oh, dear. This was not good, and she was singularly unqualified to care for a feverish patient.

Araminta, Rosamund, and Posy had never had a sick day in their lives, and the Cavenders had all

been uncommonly healthy as well. The closest she’d ever come to nursing had been helping Mrs.

Cavender’s mother, who’d been unable to walk. But she’d never taken care of someone with a fever.

She dunked a cloth in the pitcher of water, then wrung it out until it was no longer dripping from the

corners. “This ought to make you feel a little better,” she whispered, placing it gingerly on his brow.

Then she added, in a rather unconfident voice, “At least I hope it will.”

He didn’t flinch when she touched him with the cloth. Sophie took that as an excellent sign, and she

prepared another cool towel. She had no idea where to put it, though. His chest somehow didn’t seem

right, and she certainly wasn’t going to allow the bedsheet to drift any lower than his waist unless the

poor man was at death’s door (and even then, she wasn’t certain what she could possibly do down

there that would resurrect him.) So she finally just dabbed with it behind his ears, and a little on the

sides of his neck.

“Does that feel better?” she asked, not expecting any sort of an answer but feeling nonetheless that

she ought to continue with her one-sided conversation. “I really don’t know very much about caring for

the ill, but it just seems to me like you’d want something cool on your brow. I know if I were sick, that’s

how I’d feel.”

He shifted restlessly, mumbling something utterly incoherent.

“Really?” Sophie replied, trying to smile but failing miserably. “I’m glad you feel that way.”

He mumbled something else.

“No,” she said, dabbing the cool cloth on his ear, “I’d have to agree with what you said the first time.”

He went still again.

“I’d be happy to reconsider,” she said worriedly. “Please don’t take offense.”

He didn’t move.

Sophie sighed. One could only converse so long with an unconscious man before one started to feel

extremely silly. She lifted up the cloth she’d placed on his forehead and touched his skin. It felt kind of

clammy now. Clammy and still warm, which was a combination she wouldn’t have thought possible.

She decided to leave the cloth off for now, and she laid it over the top of the pitcher. There seemed little

she could do for him at that very moment, so Sophie stretched her legs and walked slowly around his

room, shamelessly examining everything that wasn’t nailed down, and quite a bit that was.

The collection of miniatures was her first stop. There were nine on the writing desk; Sophie surmised

that they were of Benedict’s parents and seven brothers and sisters. She started to put the siblings in

order according to their ages, but then it occurred to her that the miniatures most likely hadn’t been

painted all at the same time, so she could be looking at a likeness of his older brother at fifteen and

younger brother at twenty.

She was struck by how alike they all were, with the same deep chestnut hair, wide mouths, and elegant

bone structure. She looked closely to try to compare eye color but found it impossible in the dim

candlelight, and besides, eye color often wasn’t easily discerned on a miniature, anyway.

Next to the miniatures was the bowl with Benedict’s rock collection. Sophie picked a few of them up in

turn, rolling them lightly over her palm. “Why are these so special to you, I wonder?” she whispered,

placing them carefully back in the bowl. They just looked like rocks to her, but she supposed that they

might appear more interesting and unique to Benedict if they represented special memories for him.

She found a small wooden box that she absolutely could not open; it must have been one of those trick

boxes she’d heard about that came from the Orient. And most intriguing, leaning against the side of the

desk was a large sketchbook, filled with pencil drawings, mostly of landscapes but with a few portraits

as well. Had Benedict drawn them? Sophie squinted at the bottom of each drawing. The small

squiggles certainly looked like two Bs.

Sophie sucked in her breath, an unbidden smile lighting her face. She’d never dreamed that Benedict

was an artist. There had never even been a peep about it in Whistledown, and it seemed like the sort of

thing the gossip columnist would have figured out over the years.

Sophie drew the sketchbook closer to her candle and flipped through the pages. She wanted to sit with

the book and spend ten minutes perusing each sketch, but it seemed too intrusive to examine his

drawings in such detail.

She was probably just trying to justify her nosiness, but somehow it didn’t seem as bad just to give

them a glance.

The landscapes were varied. Some were of My Cottage (or should she call it His Cottage?) and some

were of a larger house, which Sophie supposed was the country home of the Bridgerton family. Most of

the landscapes featured no architecture at all, just a babbling brook, or a windswept tree, or a rain-

dappled meadow. And the amazing thing about his drawings was that they seemed to capture the

whole and true moment. Sophie could swear that she could hear that brook babbling or the wind

ruffling the leaves on that tree.

The portraits were fewer in number, but Sophie found them infinitely more interesting. There were

several of what had to be his littlest sister, and a few of what she thought must be his mother. One of

Sophie’s favorites was of what appeared to be some kind of outdoor game. At least five Bridgerton

siblings were holding long mallets, and one of the girls was depicted at the forefront, her face screwed

up in determination as she tried to aim a ball through a wicket.

Something about the picture almost made Sophie laugh out loud. She could feel the merriment of the

day, and it made her long desperately for a family of her own.

She glanced back at Benedict, still sleeping quietly in his bed. Did he realize how lucky he was to have

been born into such a large and loving clan?

With a sigh, Sophie flipped through a few more pages until she reached the end of the book. The very

last sketch was different from the rest, if only because it appeared to be of a night scene, and the

woman in it was holding her skirts above her ankles as she ran across—

Good God! Sophie gasped, thunderstruck. It was her!

She brought the sketch closer to her face. He’d gotten the details of her dress—that wonderful, magical

silver concoction that had been hers for only a single evening—perfectly. He’d even remembered her

long, elbow-length gloves and the exact manner in which her hair had been styled. Her face was a little

less recognizable, but one would have to make allowances for that given that he’d never actually seen

it in its entirety.

Well, not until now.

Benedict suddenly groaned, and when Sophie glanced over she saw that he was shifting restlessly in

the bed. She closed up the sketchbook and put it back into its place before hurriedly making her way to

his side.

“Mr. Bridgerton?” she whispered. She wanted desperately to call him Benedict. That was how she

thought of him; that was what she’d called him in her dreams these long two years. But that would be

inexcusably familiar and certainly not in keeping with her position as a servant.

“Mr. Bridgerton?” she whispered again. “Are you all right?”

His eyelids fluttered open.

“Do you need anything?”

He blinked several times, and Sophie couldn’t be sure whether he’d heard her or not. He looked so

unfocused, she couldn’t even be sure whether he’d truly seen her.

“Mr. Bridgerton?”

He squinted. “Sophie,” he said hoarsely, his throat sounding terribly dry and scratchy. “The housemaid.”

She nodded. “I’m here. What do you need?”

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