An Offer From a Gentleman (Cinderella) novel Chapter 33

Ah, a reaction. “I know.”

She went back to shoving her belongings into her satchel.

He waved an arm expansively. “Feel free to take a souvenir.”

She straightened, her hands planted angrily on her hips. “Does that include the silver tea service? Because I could live for several years on what that would fetch.”

“You may certainly take the tea service,” he replied genially, “as you will not be out of my company.”

“I will not be your mistress,” she hissed. “I told you, I won’t do it. I can’t do it.”

Something about her use of the word “can’t” struck him as significant. He mulled that over for a few moments while she gathered up the last of her belongings and cinched shut the drawstring to her satchel.

“That’s it,” he murmured.

She ignored him, instead marching toward the door and giving him a pointed look.

He knew she wanted him to get out of the way so she could depart. He didn’t move a muscle, save for one finger that thoughtfully stroked the side of his jaw. “You’re illegitimate,” he said.

The blood drained from her face.

“You are,” he said, more to himself than to her. Strangely, he felt rather relieved by the revelation. It explained her rejection of him, made it into something that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with her.

It took the sting out.

“I don’t care if you’re illegitimate,” he said, trying not to smile. It was a serious moment, but by God, he wanted to break out in a grin because now she’d come to London with him and be his mistress. There were no more obstacles, and—

“You don’t understand anything,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s not about whether I’m good enough to be your mistress.”

“I would care for any children we might have,” he said solemnly, pushing himself away from the doorframe.

Her stance grew even more rigid, if that were possible. “And what about your wife?”

“I don’t have a wife.”

“Ever?”

He froze. A vision of the masquerade lady danced through his mind. He’d pictured her many ways. Sometimes she wore her silver ballgown, sometimes nothing at all.

Sometimes she wore a wedding dress.

Sophie’s eyes narrowed as she watched his face, then she snorted derisively as she stalked past him.

He followed. “That’s not a fair question, Sophie,” he said, dogging her heels.

She moved down the hall, not even pausing when she reached the stairs. “I think it’s more than fair.”

He raced down the stairs until he was below her, halting her progress. “I have to marry someday.”

Sophie stopped. She had to; he was blocking her path. “Yes, you do,” she said. “But I don’t have to be anyone’s mistress.”

“Who was your father, Sophie?”

“I don’t know,” she lied.

“Who was your mother?”

“She died at my birth.”

“I thought you said she was a housekeeper.”

“Clearly I misrepresented the truth,” she said, past the point of caring that she’d been caught in a lie.

“Where did you grow up?”

“It’s of no interest,” she said, trying to squirm her way past him.

One of his hands wrapped itself around her upper arm, holding her firmly in place. “I find it very interesting.”

“Let me go!”

Her cry pierced the silence of the hall, loud enough so that the Crabtrees would certainly come running to save her. Except that Mrs. Crabtree had gone to the village, and Mr. Crabtree was outside, out of earshot. There was no one to help her, and she was at his mercy.

“I can’t let you go,” he whispered. “You’re not cut out for a life of servitude. It will kill you.”

“If it were going to kill me,” she returned, “it would have done so years ago.”

“But you don’t have to do this any longer,” he persisted.

“Don’t you dare try to make this about me,” she said, nearly shaking with emotion. “You’re not doing this out of concern for my welfare. You just don’t like being thwarted.”