An Offer From a Gentleman (Cinderella) novel Chapter 64

“Oh, Sophie,” he groaned, her name the only word he could manage to say. “Sophie, Sophie, Sophie.”

She smiled up at him, and he was struck by the most remarkable desire to laugh. He was happy, he realized. So damned happy.

And it felt good.

He positioned himself over her, ready to enter her, ready to make her his. This was different from the last time, when they’d both been swept away by emotion. This time they had been deliberate. They had chosen more than passion; they had chosen each other.

“You’re mine,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers as he slid inside. “You’re mine.”

And much later, when they were exhausted and spent, lying in each other’s arms, he brought his lips to her ear and whispered, “And I’m yours.”

Several hours later, Sophie yawned and blinked herself awake, wondering why she felt so lovely and warm, and—

“Benedict!” she gasped. “What time is it?”

He didn’t respond, so she clutched at his shoulder and shook hard. “Benedict! Benedict!”

He grunted as he rolled over. “I’m sleeping.”

“What time is it?”

He buried his face in the pillow. “Haven’t the foggiest.”

“I’m supposed to be at your mother’s by seven.”

“Eleven,” he mumbled.

“Seven!”

He opened one eye. It looked like it took a great deal of effort. “You knew you weren’t going to make it back by seven when you decided to take a bath.”

“I know, but I didn’t think I’d be much past nine.”

Benedict blinked a few times as he looked around the room. “I don’t think you’re going to make it—”

But she’d already caught sight of the mantel clock and was presently choking frantically.

“Are you all right?” he inquired.

“It’s three in the morning!”

He smiled. “You might as well spend the night, then.”

“Benedict!”

“You wouldn’t want to put out any of the servants, would you? They’re all quite asleep, I’m sure.”

“But I—”

“Have mercy, woman,” he finally declared. “I’m marrying you next week.”

That got her attention. “Next week?” she squeaked.

He tried to assume a serious mien. “It’s best to take care of these things quickly.”

“Why?”

“Why?” he echoed.

“Yes, why?”

“Er, ah, stemming gossip and all that.”

Her lips parted and her eyes grew round. “Do you think Lady Whistledown will write about me?”

“God, I hope not,” he muttered.

Her face fell.

“Well, I suppose she might. Why on earth would you want her to?”

“I’ve been reading her column for years. I always dreamed of seeing my name there.”

He shook his head. “You have very strange dreams.”

“Benedict!”

“Very well, yes, I imagine Lady Whistledown will report our marriage, if not before the ceremony, then certainly very quickly after the fact. She’s diabolical that way.”

“I wish I knew who she was.”

“You and half of London.”

“Me and all of London, I should think.” She sighed, then said, not very convincingly, “I really should go. Your mother is surely worried about me.”

He shrugged. “She knows where you are.”

“But she’ll think less of me.”

“I doubt it. She’ll give you a bit of latitude, I’m sure, considering we’re to be married in three days.”

“Three days?” she yelped. “I thought you said next week.”

“Three days is next week.”

Sophie frowned. “Oh. You’re right. Monday, then?”

He nodded, looking very satisfied.

“Imagine that,” she said. “I’ll be in Whistledown.”

He propped himself up on one elbow, eyeing her suspiciously. “Are you looking forward to marrying me,” he asked in an amused voice, “or is it merely the Whistledown mention that has you so excited?”

She gave him a playful swat on the shoulder.

“Actually,” he said thoughtfully, “you’ve already been in Whistledown.”

“I have? When?”

“After the masquerade. Lady Whistledown remarked that I’d been rather taken with a mystery woman in silver. Try as she might, she couldn’t deduce your identity.” He grinned. “It very well may be the only secret in London she hasn’t uncovered.”

Sophie’s face went instantly serious and she scooted a foot or so away from him on the bed. “Oh, Benedict. I have to . . . I want to . . . That is to say . . .” She stopped, looking away for a few seconds before turning back. “I’m sorry.”

He considered yanking her back into his arms, but she looked so damned earnest he had no choice but to take her seriously. “What for?”

“For not telling you who I was. It was wrong of me.” She bit her lip. “Well, not wrong precisely.”

He drew back slightly. “If it wasn’t wrong, then what was it?”

“I don’t know. I can’t explain exactly why I did what I did, but it just . . .” She chewed on her lips some more. He started to think that she might do herself permanent harm.

She sighed. “I didn’t tell you right away because it didn’t seem to make any sense to do so. I was so sure we’d part ways just as soon as we left the Cavenders. But then you grew ill, and I had to care for you, and you didn’t recognize me, and . . .”

He lifted a finger to her lips. “It doesn’t matter.”