An Offer From a Gentleman (Cinderella)

Chapter 50

“Frocks?” Anthony supplied helpfully.

“Petticoats?” was Benedict’s suggestion.

“The point is,” Colin said forcefully, “that I have known her forever, and I can assure you I am not likely

to fall in love with her.”

Anthony turned to Benedict and said, “They’ll be married within a year. Mark my words.”

Colin crossed his arms. “Anthony!”

“Maybe two,” Benedict said. “He’s young yet.”

“Unlike you,” Colin retorted. “Why am I besieged by Mother, I wonder? Good God, you’re thirty-one—”

“Thirty,” Benedict snapped.

“Regardless, one would think you’d be getting the brunt of it.”

Benedict frowned. His mother had been uncharacteristically reserved these past few weeks when it

came to her opinions on Benedict and marriage and why the two ought to meet and soon. Of course,

Benedict had been avoiding his mother’s house like the plague, but even before that, she’d not

mentioned a word.

It was most odd.

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

marry Penelope Featherington!”

“Oh!”

It was a feminine “oh,” and without looking up, Benedict somehow knew that he was about to

experience one of life’s most awkward moments. Heart filled with dread, he lifted his head and turned

toward the front door. There, framed perfectly in the open doorway, was Penelope Featherington, her

lips parted with shock, her eyes filled with heartbreak.

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.

Colin cleared his throat. “Penelope,” he squeaked, his voice sounding as if he’d regressed ten years

and gone straight back to puberty, “uh . . . good to see you.” He looked to his brothers to leap in and

save him, but neither chose to intervene.

Benedict winced. It was one of those moments that simply could not be saved.

“I didn’t know you were there,” Colin said lamely.

“Obviously not,” Penelope said, but her words lacked an edge.

Colin swallowed painfully. “Were you visiting Eloise?”

She nodded. “I was invited.”

“I’m sure you were!” he said quickly. “Of course you were. You’re a great friend of the family.”

Silence. Horrible, awkward silence.

“As if you would come uninvited,” Colin mumbled.

Penelope said nothing. She tried to smile, but she obviously couldn’t quite manage it. Finally, just when

Benedict thought 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.” Exclusive © content by N(ô)ve/l/Drama.Org.

“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 feeling 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 just around the corner.”

“I know, but—”

“I’ll escort you,” Anthony said smoothly.

“That’s really not necessary, my lord.”

“Humor me,” he said.

She nodded, and the two of them took off down the street.

Benedict and Colin watched their retreating forms in silence for a full thirty seconds before Benedict

turned to his brother and said, “That was very well done of you.”

“I didn’t know she was there!”

“Obviously,” Benedict drawled.

“Don’t. I feel terrible enough already.”

“As well you should.”

“Oh, and you have never inadvertently hurt a woman’s feelings before?” Colin’s voice was defensive,

just defensive enough so that Benedict knew he felt like an utter heel inside.

Benedict was saved from having to reply by the arrival of his mother, standing at the top of the steps,

framed in the doorway much the same way Penelope had been just a few minutes earlier.

“Has your brother arrived yet?” Violet asked.

Benedict jerked his head toward the corner. “He is escorting Miss Featherington home.”

“Oh. Well, that’s very thoughtful of him. I—Where are you going, Colin?”

Colin paused briefly but didn’t even turn his head as he grunted, “I need a drink.”

“It’s a bit early for—” She stopped mid-sentence when Benedict laid his hand on her arm.

“Let him go,” he said.

She opened her mouth as if to protest, then changed her mind and merely nodded. “I’d hoped to gather

the family for an announcement,” she said with a sigh, “but I suppose that can wait. In the meantime,

why don’t you join me for tea?”

Benedict glanced at the clock in the hall. “Isn’t it a bit late for tea?”

“Skip the tea then,” she said with a shrug. “I was merely looking for an excuse to speak with you.”

Benedict managed a weak smile. He wasn’t in the mood to converse with his mother. To be frank, he

wasn’t in the mood to converse with any person, a fact to which anyone with whom he’d recently

crossed paths would surely attest.

“It’s nothing serious,” Violet said. “Heavens, you look as if you’re ready to go to the gallows.”

It probably would have been rude to point out that that was exactly how he felt, so instead he just

leaned down and kissed her on the cheek.

“Well, that’s a nice surprise,” she said, beaming up at him. “Now come with me,” she added, motioning

toward the downstairs sitting room. “I have someone I want to tell you about.”

“Mother!”

“Just hear me out. She’s a lovely girl . . .”

The gallows indeed.

Miss Posy Reiling (younger step-daughter to the late Earl of Penwood) isn’t a frequent subject of this

column (nor, This Author is sad to say, a frequent subject of attention at social functions) but one could

not help but notice that she was acting very strangely at her mother’s musicale on Tuesday eve. She

insisted upon sitting by the window, and she spent most of the performance staring at the streetscape,

as if looking for something . . . or perhaps someone?

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 11 JUNE 1817

Forty-five minutes later, Benedict was slouching in his chair, his eyes glazed. Every now and then he

had to stop and make sure his mouth wasn’t hanging open.

His mother’s conversation was that boring.

The young lady she had wanted to discuss with him had actually turned out to be seven young ladies,

each of which she assured him was better than the last.

Benedict

thought he might go mad. Right there in his mother’s sitting room he was going to go stark, raving mad.

He’d suddenly pop out of his chair, fall to the floor in a frenzy, his arms and legs waving, mouth frothing

—

“Benedict, are you even listening to me?”

He looked up and blinked. Damn. Now he would have to focus on his mother’s list of possible brides.

The prospect of losing his sanity had been infinitely more appealing.

“I was trying to tell you about Mary Edgeware,” Violet said, looking more amused than frustrated.

Benedict was instantly suspicious. When it came to her children dragging their feet to the altar, his

mother was never amused. “Mary who?”

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