An Offer From a Gentleman (Cinderella)

Chapter 32

His eyes flashed furiously. “I don’t believe you. No one would make that choice.”

“I did.”

“You’re a fool.” Contentt bel0ngs to N0ve/lDrâ/ma.O(r)g!

She said nothing.

“Do you understand what you’re giving up?” he persisted, his arm waving wildly as he spoke. She’d

hurt him, she realized. She’d hurt him and insulted his pride, and he was lashing out like a wounded

bear.

Sophie nodded, even though he wasn’t looking at her face.

“I could give you whatever you wanted,” he bit off. “Clothes, jewels—Hell, forget about the clothes and

jewels, I could give you a bloody roof over your head, which is more than you have now.”

“That is true,” she said quietly.

He leaned forward, his eyes burning hot into hers. “I could give you everything.”

Somehow she managed to stand up straight, and somehow she managed not to cry. And somehow

she even managed to keep her voice even as she said, “If you think that’s everything, then you

probably wouldn’t understand why I must refuse.”

She took a step back, intending to head to His Cottage and pack her meager bag, but he obviously

wasn’t through with her yet, because he stopped her with a strident, “Where are you going?”

“Back to the cottage,” she said. “To pack my bag.”

“And where do you think you’re going to go with that bag?”

Her mouth fell open. Surely he didn’t expect her to stay.

“Do you have a job?” he demanded. “A place to go?”

“No,” she replied, “but—”

He planted his hands on his hips and glared at her. “And you think I’m going to just let you leave here,

with no money or prospects?”

Sophie was so surprised she started to blink uncontrollably. “W-well,” she stammered, “I didn’t think—”

“No, you didn’t think,” he snapped.

She just stared at him, eyes wide and lips parted, unable to believe what she was hearing.

“You bloody fool,” he swore. “Do you have any idea how dangerous it is in the world for a woman

alone?”

“Er, yes,” she managed. “Actually, I do.”

If he heard her, he gave no indication, just went on about “men who take advantage” and “helpless

women” and “fates worse than death.” Sophie wasn’t positive, but she thought she even heard the

phrase, “roast beef and pudding.” About halfway through his tirade, she lost all ability to focus on his

words. She just kept watching his mouth and hearing the tone of his voice, all the while trying to

comprehend the fact that he seemed remarkably concerned for her welfare, considering that she’d just

summarily rejected him.

“Are you even listening to a word I’m saying?” Benedict demanded.

Sophie didn’t nod or shake her head, instead doing an odd combination of both.

Benedict swore under his breath. “That’s it,” he announced. “You’re coming back to London with me.”

That seemed to wake her up. “I just said I’m not!”

“You don’t have to be my damned mistress,” he bit off. “But I’m not leaving you to fend for yourself.”

“I was fending for myself quite adequately before I met you.”

“Adequately?” he sputtered. “At the Cavenders’? You call that adequate?”

“You’re not being fair!”

“And you’re not being intelligent.”

Benedict thought that his argument was most reasonable, if a little overbearing, but Sophie obviously

did not agree, because, much to his surprise, he found himself lying faceup on the ground, having been

felled by a remarkably quick right hook.

“Don’t you ever call me stupid,” she hissed.

Benedict blinked, trying to get his eyesight back to the point where he only saw one of her. “I wasn’t—”

“Yes, you were,” she replied in a low, angry voice. Then she turned on her heel, and in the split second

before she stalked away, he realized he had only one way to stop her. He certainly wasn’t going to

make it to his feet with anything resembling speed in his current befuddled state, so he reached out

and grabbed one of her ankles with both of his hands, sending her sprawling onto the ground right next

to him.

It wasn’t a particularly gentlemanly maneuver, but beggars really couldn’t be choosers, and besides,

she had thrown the first punch.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he growled.

Sophie slowly lifted her head, spitting out dirt as she glared at him. “I cannot believe,” she said

scathingly, “that you just did that.”

Benedict let go of her foot and hauled himself to a crouching position. “Believe it.”

“You—”

He held up a hand. “Don’t say anything now. I beg you.”

Her eyes bugged out. “You’re begging me?”

“I hear your voice,” he informed her, “therefore you must be speaking.”

“But—”

“And as for begging you,” he said, effectively cutting her off again, “I assure you it was merely a figure

of speech.”

She opened her mouth to say something, then obviously thought the better of it, clamping her lips shut

with the petulant look of a three-year-old. Benedict let out a short breath, then offered her his hand.

She was, after all, still sitting in the dirt and not looking especially happy about it.

She stared at his hand with remarkable revulsion, then moved her gaze to his face and glared at him

with such ferocity that Benedict wondered if he had recently sprouted horns. Still not saying a word,

she ignored his offer of help and hefted herself to her feet.

“As you like,” he murmured.

“A poor choice of words,” she snapped, then started marching away.

As Benedict was on his feet this time, he felt no need to incapacitate her. Instead, he dogged her every

step, remaining a mere (and annoying, he was sure) two paces behind her. Finally, after about a

minute, she turned around and said, “Please leave me alone.”

“I’m afraid I can’t,” he said.

“Can’t or won’t?”

He thought about that for a moment. “Can’t.”

She scowled at him and kept walking.

“I find it as difficult to believe as you do,” Benedict called out, keeping pace with her.

She stopped and turned around. “That is impossible.”

“I can’t help it,” he said with a shrug. “I find myself completely unwilling to let you go.”

“‘Unwilling’ is a far cry from ‘can’t.’”

“I didn’t save you from Cavender just to let you squander your life away.”

“That isn’t your choice to make.”

She had a point there, but he wasn’t inclined to give it to her. “Perhaps,” he allowed, “but I’m going to

make it, anyway. You’re coming with me to London. We will discuss it no further.”

“You’re trying to punish me,” she said, “because I refused you.”

“No,” he said slowly, considering her words even as he answered. “No, I’m not. I’d like to punish you,

and in my current state of mind I’d even go so far as to say you deserve to be punished, but that’s not

why I’m doing it.”

“Then why are you?”

“It’s for your own good.”

“That’s the most condescending, patronizing—”

“I’m sure you’re right,” he allowed, “but nonetheless, in this particular case, at this particular moment, I

know what’s best for you, and you clearly don’t, so—don’t hit me again,” he warned.

Sophie looked down at her fist, which she hadn’t even realized was pulled back and ready to fly. He

was turning her into a monster. There was no other explanation. She didn’t think she’d ever hit anyone

in her life, and here she was ready to do it for the second time that day.

Eyes never leaving her hand, she slowly unclenched her fist, stretching her fingers out like a starfish

and holding them there for the count of three. “How,” she said in a very low voice, “do you intend to

stop me

from going my way?”

“Does it really matter?” he asked, shrugging nonchalantly. “I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

Her mouth fell open. “Are you saying you’d tie me up and—”

“I didn’t say anything of the sort,” he cut in with a wicked grin. “But the idea certainly has its charms.”

“You are despicable,” she spat.

“And you sound like the heroine of a very poorly written novel,” he replied. “What did you say you were

reading this morning?”

Sophie felt the muscles working frenetically in her cheek, felt her jaw clenching to the point where she

was certain her teeth would shatter. How Benedict managed to be the most wonderful and the most

awful man in the world at the very same time, she would never understand. Right now, though, the

awful side seemed to be winning, and she was quite certain—logic aside—that if she remained in his

company one more second, her head would explode.

“I’m leaving!” she said, with, in her opinion, great drama and resolve.

But he just answered her with a sly half smile, and said, “I’m following.”

And the bloody man remained two strides behind her the entire way home.

Benedict didn’t often go out of his way to annoy people (with the notable exception of his siblings), but

Sophie Beckett clearly brought out the devil in him. He stood in the doorway to her room as she

packed, casually lounging against the doorframe. His arms were crossed in a manner that he somehow

knew would vex her, and his right leg was slightly bent, the toe of his boot stubbed up against the floor.

“Don’t forget your dress,” he said helpfully.

She glared at him.

“The ugly one,” he added, as if clarification were necessary.

“They’re both ugly,” she spat out.

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