An Offer From a Gentleman (Cinderella)

Chapter 1

Prologue

Everyone knew that Sophie Beckett was a bastard.

The servants all knew it. But they loved little Sophie, had loved her since she’d arrived at Penwood

Park at the age of three, a small bundle wrapped in a too-big coat, left on the doorstep on a rainy July

night. And because they loved her, they pretended that she was exactly what the sixth Earl of Penwood

said she was—the orphaned daughter of an old friend. Never mind that Sophie’s moss green eyes and

dark blond hair matched the earl’s precisely. Never mind that the shape of her face looked remarkably

like that of the earl’s recently deceased mother, or that her smile was an exact replica of the earl’s

sister’s. No one wanted to hurt Sophie’s feelings—or risk their livelihoods—by pointing that out.

The earl, one Richard Gunningworth, never discussed Sophie or her origins, but he must have known

she was his bastard. No one knew what had been in the letter the housekeeper had fished from

Sophie’s pocket when she’d been discovered that rainy midnight; the earl had burned the missive mere

seconds after reading it. He’d watched the paper shrivel and curl in the flames, then ordered a room

made up for Sophie near the nursery. She’d remained there ever since. He called her Sophia, and she

called him “my lord,” and they saw each other a few times a year, whenever the earl returned home

from London, which wasn’t very often.

But perhaps most importantly, Sophie knew she was a bastard. She wasn’t entirely certain how she

knew it, just that she did, and probably had her entire life. She had few memories of her life before her

arrival at Penwood Park, but she could remember a long coach journey across England, and she could

remember her grandmother, coughing and wheezing and looking terribly thin, telling her she was going

to live with her father. And most of all, she could remember standing on the doorstep in the rain,

knowing that her grandmother was hiding in the bushes, waiting to see if Sophie was taken inside.

The earl had touched his fingers to the little girl’s chin, tipped her face up to the light, and in that

moment they both knew the truth.

Everyone knew Sophie was a bastard, and no one talked about it, and they were all quite happy with

this arrangement.

Until the earl decided to marry.

Sophie had been quite pleased when she’d heard the news. The housekeeper had said that the butler

had said that the earl’s secretary had said that the earl planned to spend more time at Penwood Park

now that he would be a family man. And while Sophie didn’t exactly miss the earl when he was gone—

it was hard to miss someone who didn’t pay her much attention even when he was there—she rather

thought she might miss him if she got to know him better, and if she got to know him better, maybe he

wouldn’t go away so often. Plus, the upstairs maid had said that the housekeeper had said that the

neighbors’ butler had said that the earl’s intended wife already had two daughters, and they were near

in age to Sophie.

After seven years alone in the nursery, Sophie was delighted. Unlike the other children in the district,

she was never invited to local parties and events. No one actually came out and called her a bastard—

to do so was tantamount to calling the earl, who had made one declaration that Sophie was his ward

and then never revisited the subject, a liar. But at the same time, the earl never made any great attempt

to force Sophie’s acceptance. And so at the age of ten, Sophie’s best friends were maids and footmen,

and her parents might as well have been the housekeeper and butler.

But now she was getting sisters for real.

Oh, she knew she could not call them her sisters. She knew that she would be introduced as Sophia

Maria Beckett, the earl’s ward, but they would feel like sisters. And that was what really mattered.

And so, one February afternoon, Sophie found herself waiting in the great hall along with the

assembled servants, watching out the window for the earl’s carriage to pull up the drive, carrying in it

the new countess and her two daughters. And, of course, the earl.

“Do you think she’ll like me?” Sophie whispered to Mrs. Gibbons, the housekeeper. “The earl’s wife, I

mean.”

“Of course she’ll like you, dearling,” Mrs. Gibbons whispered back. But her eyes hadn’t been as certain

as her tone. The new countess might not take kindly to the presence of her husband’s by-blow.

“And I’ll take lessons with her daughters?”

“No point in having you take your lessons separately.” Sophie nodded thoughtfully, then started to

squirm when she saw the carriage rolling up the drive. “They’re here!” she whispered.

Mrs. Gibbons reached out to pat her on the head, but Sophie had already dashed off to the window,

practically pressing her face up to the glass.

The earl stepped down first, then reached in and helped down two young girls. They were dressed in

matching black coats. One wore a pink ribbon in her hair; the other yellow. Then, as the two girls

stepped aside, the earl reached up to help one last person from the carriage.

Sophie’s breath caught in her throat as she waited for the new countess to emerge. Her little fingers

crossed and a single, “Please,” whispered over her lips.

Please let her love me.

Maybe if the countess loved her, then the earl would love her as well, and maybe, even if he didn’t

actually call her daughter, he’d treat her as one, and they’d be a family truly.

As Sophie watched through the window, the new countess stepped down from the carriage, her every

movement so graceful and pure that Sophie was reminded of the delicate lark that occasionally came

to splash in the birdbath in the gard

en. Even the countess’s hat was adorned by a long feather, its turquoise plume glittering in the hard

winter sun.

“She’s beautiful,” Sophie whispered. She darted a quick look back at Mrs. Gibbons to gauge her

reaction, but the housekeeper was standing at strict attention, eyes straight ahead, waiting for the earl

to bring his new family inside for introductions.

Sophie gulped, not exactly certain where she was meant to stand. Everyone else seemed to have a

designated place. The servants were lined up according to rank, from the butler right down to the

lowliest scullery maid. Even the dogs were sitting dutifully in the corner, their leads held tight by the

Keeper of the Hounds.

But Sophie was rootless. If she were truly the daughter of the house, she’d be standing with her

governess, awaiting the new countess. If she were truly the earl’s ward, she’d be in much the same

place. But Miss Timmons had caught a head cold and refused to leave the nursery and come

downstairs. None of the servants believed for a second that the governess was truly ill. She’d been fine

the night before, but no one blamed her for the deception. Sophie was, after all, the earl’s bastard, and

no one wanted to be the one to offer potential insult to the new countess by introducing her to her

husband’s by-blow.

And the countess would have to be blind, stupid, or both not to realize in an instant that Sophie was

something more than the earl’s ward.

Suddenly overcome with shyness, Sophie shrank into a corner as two footmen threw open the front

doors with a flourish. The two girls entered first, then stepped to the side as the earl led the countess

in. The earl introduced the countess and her daughters to the butler, and the butler introduced them to

the servants.

And Sophie waited.

The butler presented the footmen, the chef, the housekeeper, the grooms.

And Sophie waited.

He presented the kitchen maids, the upstairs maids, the scullery maids.

And Sophie waited.

And then finally the butler—Rumsey was his name—presented the lowliest of the lowest of maids, a

scullery girl named Dulcie who had been hired a mere week earlier. The earl nodded and murmured his

thanks, and Sophie was still waiting, completely unsure of what to do.

So she cleared her throat and stepped forward, a nervous smile on her face. She didn’t spend much

time with the earl, but she was trotted out before him whenever he visited Penwood Park, and he

always gave her a few minutes of his time, asking about her lessons before shooing her back up to the

nursery.

Surely he’d still want to know how her studies were progressing, even now that he’d married. Surely

he’d want to know that she’d mastered the science of multiplying fractions, and that Miss Timmons had

recently declared her French accent, “perfection.”

But he was busy saying something to the countess’s daughters, and he didn’t hear her. Sophie cleared

her throat again, this time more loudly, and said, “My lord?” in a voice that came out a bit more squeaky

than she’d intended.

The earl turned around. “Ah, Sophia,” he murmured, “I didn’t realize you were in the hall.”

Sophie beamed. He hadn’t been ignoring her, after all.

“And who might this be?” the countess asked, stepping forward to get a better look.

“My ward,” the earl replied. “Miss Sophia Beckett.”

The countess speared Sophie with an assessing look, then her eyes narrowed.

And narrowed.

And narrowed some more.

“I see,” she said.

And everyone in the room knew instantly that she did see.

“Rosamund,” the countess said, turning to her two girls, “Posy, come with me.”

The girls moved immediately to their mother’s side. Sophie hazarded a smile in their direction. The

smaller one smiled back, but the older one, whose hair was the color of spun gold, took her cue from

her mother, pointed her nose in the air, and looked firmly away.

Sophie gulped and smiled again at the friendly girl, but this time the little girl chewed on her lower lip in

indecision, then cast her eyes toward the floor.

The countess turned her back on Sophie and said to the earl, “I assume you have had rooms prepared

for Rosamund and Posy.”

He nodded. “Near the nursery. Right next to Sophie.”

There was a long silence, and then the countess must have decided that certain battles should not be

conducted before the servants, because all she said was, “I would like to go upstairs now.”

And she left, taking the earl and her daughters along with her.

Sophie watched the new family walk up the stairs, and then, as they disappeared onto the landing, she

turned to Mrs. Gibbons and asked, “Do you think I should go up to help? I could show the girls the

nursery.”

Mrs. Gibbons shook her head. “They looked tired,” she lied. “I’m sure they’ll be needing a nap.”

Sophie frowned. She’d been told that Rosamund was eleven and Posy was ten. Surely that was a bit

old for taking naps.

Mrs. Gibbons patted her on the back. “Why don’t you come with me? I could use a bit of company, and

Cook told me that she just made a fresh batch of shortbread. I think it’s still warm.”

Sophie nodded and followed her out of the hall. She’d have plenty of time that evening to get to know

the two girls. She’d show them the nursery, and then they’d become friends, and before long they’d be

as sisters.

Sophie smiled. It would be glorious to have sisters.

As it happened, Sophie did not encounter Rosamund and Posy—or the earl and countess, for that

matter—until the next day. When Sophie entered the nursery to take her supper, she noticed that the

table had been set for two, not four, and Miss Timmons (who had miraculously recovered from her

ailment) said that the new countess had told her that Rosamund and Posy were too tired from their

travels to eat that evening.

But the girls had to have their lessons, and so the next morning they arrived in the nursery, trailing the

countess by one step each. Sophie had been working at her lessons for an hour already, and she

looked up from her arithmetic with great interest. She didn’t smile at the girls this time. Somehow it

seemed best not to.

“Miss Timmons,” the countess said.

Miss Timmons bobbed a curtsy, murmuring, “My lady.”

“The earl tells me you will teach my daughters.”

“I will do my best, my lady.”

The countess motioned to the older girl, the one with golden hair and cornflower eyes. She looked,

Sophie thought, as pretty as the porcelain doll the earl had sent up from London for her seventh

birthday.

“This,” the countess said, “is Rosamund. She is eleven. And this”—she then motioned to the other girl,

who had not taken her eyes off of her shoes—“is Posy. She is ten.”

Sophie looked at Posy with great interest. Unlike her mother and sister, her hair and eyes were quite

dark, and her cheeks were a bit pudgy.

“Sophie is also ten,” Miss Timmons replied.

The countess’s lips thinned. “I would like you to show the girls around the house and garden.”

Miss Timmons nodded. “Very well. Sophie, put your slate down. We can return to arithmetic—”

“Just my girls,” the countess interrupted, her voice somehow hot and cold at the same time. “I will

speak with Sophie alone.”

Sophie gulped and tried to bring her eyes to the countess’s, but she only made it as far as her chin. As

Miss Timmons ushered Rosamund and Posy out of the room she stood up, awaiting further direction

from her father’s new wife.

“I know who you are,” the countess said the moment the door clicked shut.

“M-my lady?”

“You’re his bastard, and don’t try to deny it.”

Sophie said nothing. It was the truth, of course, but no one had ever said it aloud. At least not to her

face.

The countess grabbed her chin and squeezed and pulled until Sophie was forced to look her in the eye.

“You listen to me,” she said in a menacing voice. “You might liv

e here at Penwood Park, and you might share lessons with my daughters, but you are nothing but a

bastard, and that is all you will ever be. Don’t you ever, ever make the mistake of thinking you are as

good as the rest of us.”

Sophie let out a little moan. The countess’s fingernails were biting into the underside of her chin.

“My husband,” the countess continued, “feels some sort of misguided duty to you. It’s admirable of him

to see to his mistakes, but it is an insult to me to have you in my home—fed, clothed, and educated as

if you were his real daughter.”

But she was his real daughter. And it had been her home much longer than the countess’s.

Abruptly, the countess let go of her chin. “I don’t want to see you,” she hissed. “You are never to speak

to me, and you shall endeavor never to be in my company. Furthermore, you are not to speak to

Rosamund and Posy except during lessons. They are the daughters of the house now, and should not

have to associate with the likes of you. Do you have any questions?”

Sophie shook her head. All rights © NôvelDrama.Org.

“Good.”

And with that, she swept out of the room, leaving Sophie with wobbly legs and a quivering lip.

And an awful lot of tears.

In time, Sophie learned a bit more about her precarious position in the house. The servants always

knew everything, and it all reached Sophie’s ears eventually.

The countess, whose given name was Araminta, had insisted that very first day that Sophie be

removed from the house. The earl had refused. Araminta didn’t have to love Sophie, he’d said coolly.

She didn’t even have to like her. But she had to put up with her. He had owned up to his responsibility

to the girl for seven years, and he wasn’t going to stop now.

Rosamund and Posy took their cues from Araminta and treated Sophie with hostility and disdain,

although Posy’s heart clearly wasn’t into torture and cruelty in the way Rosamund’s was. Rosamund

liked nothing better than to pinch and twist the skin on the back of Sophie’s hand when Miss Timmons

wasn’t looking. Sophie never said anything; she rather doubted that Miss Timmons would have the

courage to reprimand Rosamund (who would surely run to Araminta with a false tale), and if anyone

noticed that Sophie’s hands were perpetually black-and-blue, no one ever said so.

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