An Offer from a Gentleman with 2nd Epilogue Read Free Page A

pertinent to this particular column, which concerns, as This Author’s columns often do, that most sacred of sports: husband-hunting.)
    Although the Misters Bridgerton are just that—merely Misters—they are still considered two of the prime catches of the season. It is a well-known fact that both are possessed of respectable fortunes, and it does not require perfect sight to know that they also possess, as do all eight of the Bridgerton offspring, the Bridgerton good looks.
    Will some fortunate young lady use the mystery of a masquerade night to snare one of the eligible bachelors?
    This Author isn’t even going to attempt to speculate.
    L ADY W HISTLEDOWN’S S OCIETY P APERS , 31 M AY 1815
    â€œS ophie! Sophieeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”
    As screeches went, it was enough to shatter glass. Or at least an eardrum.
    â€œComing, Rosamund! I’m coming!” Sophie hitched up the hem of her coarse woolen skirts and hurried up the stairs, slipping on the fourth step and only just barely managing to grab the bannister before landing on her bottom. She should have remembered that the stairs would be slick; she’d helped the downstairs maid wax them just that morning.
    Skidding to a halt in the doorway to Rosamund’s bedroom and still catching her breath, Sophie said, “Yes?”
    â€œMy tea is cold.”
    What Sophie wanted to say was, “It was warm when I brought it an hour ago, you lazy fiend.”
    What she did say was, “I’ll get you another pot.”
    Rosamund sniffed. “See that you do.”
    Sophie stretched her lips into what the nearly blind might call a smile and picked up the tea service. “Shall I leave the biscuits?” she asked.
    Rosamund gave her pretty head a shake. “I want fresh ones.”
    Shoulders slightly stooped from the weight of the overloaded tea service, Sophie exited the room, careful not to start grumbling until she’d safely reached the hall. Rosamund was forever ordering tea, then not bothering to drink it until an hour passed. By then, of course, it was cold, so she had to order a fresh pot.
    Which meant Sophie was forever running up and down the stairs, up and down, up and down. Sometimes it seemed that was all she did with her life.
    Up and down, up and down.
    And of course the mending, the pressing, the hairdressing, the shoe polishing, the darning, the bedmaking . . .
    â€œSophie!”
    Sophie turned around to see Posy heading toward her.
    â€œSophie, I’ve been meaning to ask you, do you think this color is becoming on me?”
    Sophie assessed Posy’s mermaid costume. The cut wasn’t quite right for Posy, who had never lost all of her baby fat, but the color did indeed bring out the best in her complexion. “It is a lovely shade of green,” Sophie replied quite honestly. “It makes your cheeks very rosy.”
    â€œOh, good. I’m so glad you like it. You do have such a knack for picking out my clothing.” Posy smiled as she reached out and plucked a sugared biscuit from the tray. “Mother has been an absolute bear all week about the masquerade ball, and I know I shall never hear the end of it if I do not look my best. Or”—Posy’s face twisted into a grimace—“if she thinks I do not look my best. She is determined that one of us snare one of the remaining Bridgerton brothers, you know.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œAnd to make matters worse, that Whistledown woman has been writing about them again. It only”—Posy finished chewing and paused while she swallowed—“whets her appetite.”
    â€œWas the column very good this morning?” Sophie asked, shifting the tray to rest on her hip. “I haven’t had a chance to read it yet.”
    â€œOh, the usual stuff,” Posy said with a wave of her hand. “Really, it can be quite humdrum, you know.”
    Sophie tried to smile and failed. She’d like nothing more than to