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

she could reach for another pair, the door to the closet burst open, slamming against the wall with such force that Sophie nearly screamed with surprise.
    â€œOh, goodness, you gave me a fright,” she said to Araminta. “I didn’t hear you coming, and—”
    â€œPack your things,” Araminta said in a low, cruel voice. “I want you out of this house by sunrise.”
    The rag Sophie had been using to polish the shoes fell from her hand. “What?” she gasped. “Why?”
    â€œDo I really need a reason? We both know I ceased receiving any funds for your care nearly a year ago. It’s enough that I don’t want you here any longer.”
    â€œBut where will I go?”
    Araminta’s eyes narrowed to nasty slits. “That’s not my concern, now, is it?”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œYou’re twenty years of age. Certainly old enough to make your way in the world. There will be no more coddling from me.”
    â€œYou never coddled me,” Sophie said in a low voice.
    â€œDon’t you dare talk back to me.”
    â€œWhy not?” Sophie returned, her voice growing shrill. “What have I to lose? You’re booting me out of the house, anyway.”
    â€œYou might treat me with a little respect,” Araminta hissed, planting her foot on Sophie’s skirt so that she was pinned in her kneeling position, “considering that I have clothed and sheltered you this past year out of the goodness of my heart.”
    â€œYou do nothing out of the goodness of your heart.” Sophie tugged at her skirt, but it was firmly trapped under Araminta’s heel. “Why did you really keep me here?”
    Araminta cackled. “You’re cheaper than a regular maid, and I do enjoy ordering you about.”
    Sophie hated being Araminta’s virtual slave, but at leastPenwood House was home. Mrs. Gibbons was her friend, and Posy was usually sympathetic, and the rest of the world was . . . well . . . rather scary. Where would she go? What would she do? How would she support herself?
    â€œWhy now?” Sophie asked.
    Araminta shrugged. “You’re no longer useful to me.”
    Sophie looked at the long row of shoes she’d just polished. “I’m not?”
    Araminta ground the pointy heel of her shoe into Sophie’s skirt, tearing the fabric. “You went to the ball last night, didn’t you?”
    Sophie felt the blood drain from her face, and she knew that Araminta saw the truth in her eyes. “N-no,” she lied. “How would I—”
    â€œI don’t know how you did it, but I know you were there.” Araminta kicked a pair of shoes in Sophie’s direction. “Put these on.”
    Sophie just stared at the shoes in dismay. They were white satin, stitched in silver. They were the shoes she’d worn the night before.
    â€œPut them on!” Araminta screamed. “I know that Rosamund’s and Posy’s feet are too large. You’re the only one who could have worn my shoes last night.”
    â€œAnd from that you think I went to the ball?” Sophie asked, her voice breathy with panic.
    â€œPut on the shoes, Sophie.”
    Sophie did as she was told. They were, of course, a perfect fit.
    â€œYou have overstepped your bounds,” Araminta said in a low voice. “I warned you years ago not to forget your place in this world. You are a bastard, a by-blow, the product of—”
    â€œI know what a bastard is,” Sophie snapped.
    Araminta raised one haughty brow, silently mocking Sophie’s outburst. “You are unfit to mingle with polite society,” she continued, “and yet you dared to pretend you are asgood as the rest of us by attending the masquerade.”
    â€œYes, I dared,” Sophie cried out, well past caring that Araminta had somehow discovered her secret. “I dared, and I’d dare again. My blood is just as blue as yours, and my