Free An Offer from a Gentleman with 2nd Epilogue by Julia Quinn Page A

then by God he ought to know the color of her eyes.
    It wasn’t going to be easy to find her. It was never easy to find someone who didn’t want to be found, and she’d made it more than clear that her identity was a secret.
    His clues were paltry at best. A few dropped comments concerning Lady Whistledown’s column and . . .
    Benedict looked down at the single glove still clutched in his right hand. He’d quite forgotten that he’d been holding it as he’d dashed through the ballroom. He brought it to his face and inhaled its scent, but much to his surprise, it didn’tsmell of rosewater and soap, as had his mystery lady. Rather, its scent was a bit musty, as if it had been packed away in an attic trunk for many years.
    Odd, that. Why would she be wearing an ancient glove?
    He turned it over in his hand, as if the motion would somehow bring her back, and that was when he noticed a tiny bit of stitching at the hem.
    SLG. Someone’s initials.
    Were they hers?
    And a family crest. One he did not recognize.
    But his mother would. His mother always knew that sort of thing. And chances were, if she knew the crest, she’d know who the initials SLG belonged to.
    Benedict felt his first glimmer of hope. He would find her.
    He would find her, and he would make her his. It was as simple as that.
    I t took a mere half hour to return Sophie to her regular, drab state. Gone were the dress, the glittering earbobs, and the fancy coiffure. The jeweled slippers were tucked neatly back in Araminta’s closet, and the rouge the maid had used for her lips was resting in its place on Rosamund’s dressing table. She’d even taken five minutes to massage the skin on her face, to remove the indentations left by the mask.
    Sophie looked as she always looked before bed—plain, simple, and unassuming, her hair pulled into a loose braid, her feet tucked into warm stockings to keep out the chill night air.
    She was back to looking what she was in truth—nothing more than a housemaid. Gone were all traces of the fairy princess she’d been for one short evening.
    And saddest of all, gone was her fairy prince.
    Benedict Bridgerton had been everything she’d read in Whistledown . Handsome, strong, debonair. He was the stuff of a young girl’s dreams, but not, she thought glumly, of her dreams. A man like that didn’t marry an earl’s by-blow. And he certainly didn’t marry a housemaid.
    But for one night he’d been hers, and she supposed that would have to be enough.
    She picked up a little stuffed dog she’d had since she’d been a small girl. She’d kept it all these years as a reminder of happier times. It usually sat on her dresser, but for some reason she wanted it closer right now. She crawled into bed, the little dog tucked under her arm, and curled up under the covers.
    Then she squeezed her eyes shut, biting her lip as silent tears trickled onto her pillow.
    It was a long, long night.
    â€œD o you recognize this?”
    Benedict Bridgerton was sitting next to his mother in her very feminine rose-and-cream drawing room, holding out his only link to the woman in silver. Violet Bridgerton took the glove and examined the crest. She needed only a second before she announced, “Penwood.”
    â€œAs in ‘Earl of’?”
    Violet nodded. “And the G would be for Gunningworth. The title recently passed out of their family, if I recall correctly. The earl died without issue . . . oh, it must have been six or seven years ago. The title went to a distant cousin. And,” she added with a disapproving nod of her head, “you forgot to dance with Penelope Featherington last night. You’re lucky your brother was there to dance in your stead.”
    Benedict fought a groan and tried to ignore her scolding. “Who, then, is SLG?”
    Violet’s blue eyes narrowed. “Why are you interested?”
    â€œI don’t