An Offer From a Gentleman (Cinderella)

Chapter 23

“Water,” he rasped.

“Right away.” Sophie had been dunking the cloths into the water in the pitcher, but she decided that

now was no time to be fussy, so she grabbed hold of the glass she’d brought up from the kitchen and

filled it. “Here you are,” she said, handing it to him.

His fingers were shaky, so she did not let go of the glass as he brought it to his lips. He took a couple of

sips, then sagged back against his pillows.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Sophie reached out and touched his brow. It was still quite warm, but he seemed lucid once again, and

she decided to take that as a sign that the fever had broken. “I think you’ll be better in the morning.”

He laughed. Not hard, and not with anything approaching vigor, but he actually laughed. “Not likely,” he

croaked.

“Well, not recovered,” she allowed, “but I think you’ll feel better than you do right now.”

“It would certainly be hard to feel worse.”

Sophie smiled at him. “Do you think you can scoot to one side of your bed so I can change your

sheets?”

He nodded and did as she asked, closing his weary eyes as she changed the bed around him. “That’s

a neat trick,” he said when she was done.

“Mrs. Cavender’s mother often came to visit,” Sophie explained. “She was bedridden, so I had to learn

how to change the sheets without her leaving the bed. It’s not terribly difficult.”

He nodded. “I’m going back to sleep now.”

Sophie gave his shoulder a reassuring pat. She just couldn’t help herself. “You’ll feel better in the

morning,” she whispered. “I promise.”

It has oft been said that physicians make the worst patients, but it is the opinion of This Author that any

man makes a terrible patient. One might say it takes patience to be a patient, and heaven knows, the

males of our species lack an abundance of patience. Belonging to NôvelDrama.Org.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 2 MAY 1817

The first thing Sophie did the following morning was scream.

She’d fallen asleep in the straight-backed chair next to Benedict’s bed, her limbs sprawled most

inelegantly and her head cocked to the side in a rather uncomfortable position. Her sleep had been

light at first, her ears perked to listen for any sign of distress from the sickbed. But after an hour or so of

complete, blessed silence, exhaustion claimed her, and she fell into a deeper slumber, the kind from

which one ought to awaken in peace, with a restful, easy smile on one’s face.

Which may have been why, when she opened her eyes and saw two strange people staring at her, she

had such a fright that it took a full five minutes for her heart to stop racing.

“Who are you?” The words tumbled out of Sophie’s mouth before she realized exactly who they must

be: Mr. and Mrs. Crabtree, the caretakers of My Cottage.

“Who are you?” the man demanded, not a little bit belligerently.

“Sophie Beckett,” she said with a gulp. “I . . .” She pointed desperately at Benedict. “He . . .”

“Spit it out, girl!”

“Don’t torture her,” came a croak from the bed.

Three heads swiveled in Benedict’s direction. “You’re awake!” Sophie exclaimed.

“Wish to God I weren’t,” he muttered. “My throat feels like it’s on fire.”

“Would you like me to fetch you some more water?” Sophie asked solicitously.

He shook his head. “Tea. Please.”

She shot to her feet. “I’ll go get it.”

“I’ll get it,” Mrs. Crabtree said firmly.

“Would you like help?” Sophie asked timidly. Something about this pair made her feel like she were ten

years old. They were both short and squat, but they positively exuded authority.

Mrs. Crabtree shook her head. “A fine housekeeper I am if I can’t prepare a pot of tea.”

Sophie gulped. She couldn’t tell whether Mrs. Crabtree was miffed or joking. “I never meant to imply—”

Mrs. Crabtree waved off her apology. “Shall I bring you a cup?”

“You shouldn’t fetch anything for me,” Sophie said. “I’m a ser—”

“Bring her a cup,” Benedict ordered.

“But—”

He jabbed his finger at her, grunting, “Be quiet,” before turning to Mrs. Crabtree and bestowing upon

her a smile that could have melted an ice cap. “Would you be so kind as to include a cup for Miss

Beckett on the tray?”

“Of course, Mr. Bridgerton,” she replied, “but may I say—”

“You can say anything you please once you return with the tea,” he promised.

She gave him a stern look. “I have a lot to say.”

“Of that I have no doubt.”

Benedict, Sophie, and Mr. Crabtree waited in silence while Mrs. Crabtree left the room, and then, when

she was safely out of earshot, Mr. Crabtree

positively chortled, and said, “You’re in for it now, Mr. Bridgerton!”

Benedict smiled weakly.

Mr. Crabtree turned to Sophie and explained, “When Mrs. Crabtree has a lot to say, she has a lot to

say.”

“Oh,” Sophie replied. She would have liked to have said something slightly more articulate, but “oh”

was truly the best she could come up with on such short notice.

“And when she has a lot to say,” Mr. Crabtree continued, his smile growing wide and sly, “she likes to

say it with great vigor.”

“Fortunately,” Benedict said in a dry voice, “we’ll have our tea to keep us occupied.”

Sophie’s stomach grumbled loudly.

“And,” Benedict continued, shooting her an amused glance, “a fair bit of breakfast, too, if I know Mrs.

Crabtree.”

Mr. Crabtree nodded. “Already prepared, Mr. Bridgerton. We saw your horses in the stables when we

returned from our daughter’s house this morning, and Mrs. Crabtree got to work on breakfast

straightaway. She knows how you love your eggs.”

Benedict turned to Sophie and gave her a conspiratorial sort of smile. “I do love eggs.”

Her stomach grumbled again.

“We didn’t know there’d be two of you, though,” Mr. Crabtree said.

Benedict chuckled, then winced at the pain. “I can’t imagine that Mrs. Crabtree didn’t make enough to

feed a small army.”

“Well, she didn’t have time to prepare a proper breakfast with beef pie and fish,” Mr. Crabtree said, “but

I believe she has bacon and ham and eggs and toast.”

Sophie’s stomach positively growled. She clapped a hand to her belly, just barely resisting the urge to

hiss, “Be quiet!”

“You should have told us you were coming,” Mr. Crabtree added, shaking a finger at Benedict. “We

never would have gone visiting if we’d known to expect you.”

“It was a spur-of-the-moment decision,” Benedict said, stretching his neck from side to side. “Went to a

bad party and decided to leave.”

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