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

heart far kinder, and—”
    One minute Sophie was on her feet, screaming at Araminta, and the next she was on the floor, clutching her cheek, made red by Araminta’s palm.
    â€œDon’t you ever compare yourself to me,” Araminta warned.
    Sophie remained on the floor. How could her father have done this to her, leaving her in the care of a woman who so obviously detested her? Had he cared so little? Or had he simply been blind?
    â€œYou will be gone by morning,” Araminta said in a low voice. “I don’t ever want to see your face again.”
    Sophie started to make her way to the door.
    â€œBut not,” Araminta said, planting the heel of her hand against Sophie’s shoulder, “until you finish the job I have assigned you.”
    â€œIt will take me until morning just to finish,” Sophie protested.
    â€œThat is your problem, not mine.” And with that, Araminta slammed the door shut, turning the lock with a very loud click.
    Sophie stared down at the flickering candle she’d brought in to help illuminate the long, dark closet. There was no way the wick would last until morning.
    And there was no way—absolutely no way in hell—that she was going to polish the rest of Araminta’s shoes.
    Sophie sat down on the floor, arms crossed and legs crossed, and stared at the candle flame until her eyes crossed, too. When the sun rose tomorrow, her life would be forever altered. Penwood House might not have been terribly welcoming, but at least it was safe.
    She had almost no money. She hadn’t received so much as a farthing from Araminta in the past seven years. Luckily, she still had a bit of the pin money she’d received when her father had been alive and she’d been treated as his ward, not his wife’s slave. There had been many opportunities to spend it, but Sophie had always known that this day might come, and it had seemed prudent to hold on to what little funds she possessed.
    But her paltry few pounds wasn’t going to get her very far. She needed a ticket out of London, and that cost money. Probably well over half what she had saved. She supposed she could stay in town for a bit, but the London slums were dirty and dangerous, and Sophie knew that her budget would not place her in any of the better neighborhoods. Besides, if she were going to be on her own, she might as well return to the countryside she loved.
    Not to mention that Benedict Bridgerton was here. London was a large city, and Sophie had no doubt that she could successfully avoid him for years, but she was desperately afraid that she wouldn’t want to avoid him, that she’d find herself gazing at his house, hoping for the merest of glimpses as he came through the front door.
    And if he saw her . . . Well, Sophie didn’t know what would happen. He might be furious at her deception. He might want to make her his mistress. He might not recognize her at all.
    The only thing she was certain he would not do was to throw himself at her feet, declare his undying devotion, and demand her hand in marriage.
    Sons of viscounts did not marry baseborn nobodies. Not even in romantic novels.
    No, she’d have to leave London. Keep herself far from temptation. But she’d need more money, enough to keep her going until she found employment. Enough to—
    Sophie’s eyes fell on something sparkly—a pair of shoestucked away in the corner. Except she’d cleaned those shoes just an hour earlier, and she knew that those sparklies weren’t the shoes but a pair of jeweled shoe clips, easily detachable and small enough to fit in her pocket.
    Did she dare?
    She thought about all the money that Araminta had received for her upkeep, money Araminta had never seen fit to share.
    She thought about all those years she’d toiled as a lady’s maid, without drawing a single wage.
    She thought about her conscience, then quickly squelched it. In times like these, she