by Julia Quinn
“You’ve been watching just as long as I have.”
“No, I meant, when did he arrive? Did they even speak before…” He waved his hand toward the window, gesturing to the couple, who looked about ready to kiss again.
“Yes, of course, but…” Sophie paused, thinking. Both Posy and Mr. Woodson had been rather tongue-tied at their meeting. In fact, she couldn’t recall a single substantive word that was spoken. “Well, not very much, I’m afraid.”
Benedict nodded slowly. “Do you think I should go out there?”
Sophie looked at him, then at the window, then back. “Are you mad?”
He shrugged. “She is my sister now, and it is my house…”
“Don’t you dare!”
“So I’m not supposed to protect her honor?”
“It’s her first kiss!”
He quirked a brow. “And here we are, spying on it.”
“It’s my right,” Sophie said indignantly. “I arranged the whole thing.”
“Oh you did, did you? I seem to recall that I was the one to suggest Mr. Woodson.”
“But you didn’t do anything about it.”
“That’s your job, darling.”
Sophie considered a retort, because his tone was rather annoying, but he did have a point. She did rather enjoy trying to find a match for Posy, and she was definitely enjoying her obvious success.
“You know,” Benedict said thoughtfully, “we might have a daughter someday.”
Sophie turned to him. He wasn’t normally one for such non sequiturs. “I beg your pardon?”
He gestured to the lovebirds on the lawn. “Just that this could be excellent practice for me. I’m quite certain I wish to be an overbearingly protective father. I could storm out and tear him apart from limb to limb.”
Sophie winced. Poor Mr. Woodson wouldn’t stand a chance.
“Challenge him to a duel?”
She shook her head.
“Very well, but if he lowers her to the ground, I am interceding.”
“He won’t—Oh dear heavens!” Sophie leaned forward, her face nearly to the glass. “Oh my God.”
And she didn’t even cover her mouth in horror at having blasphemed.
Benedict sighed, then flexed his fingers. “I really don’t want to injure my hands. I’m halfway through your portrait, and it’s going so well.”
Sophie had one hand on his arm, holding him back even though he wasn’t really moving anywhere. “No,” she said, “don’t—” She gasped. “Oh, my. Maybe we should do something.”
“They’re not on the ground yet.”
“Benedict!”
“Normally I’d say to call the priest,” he remarked, “except that seems to be what got us into this mess in the first place.”
Sophie swallowed. “Perhaps you can procure a special license for them? As a wedding gift?”
He grinned. “Consider it done.”
It was a splendid wedding. And that kiss at the end…
No one was surprised when Posy produced a baby nine months later, then at yearly intervals after that. She took great care in the naming of her brood, and Mr. Woodson, who was as beloved a vicar as he’d been in every other stage of his life, adored her too much to argue with any of her choices.
First there was Sophia, for obvious reasons, then Benedict. The next would have been Violet, except that Sophie begged her not to. She’d always wanted the name for her daughter, and it would be far too confusing with the families living so close. So Posy went with Georgette, after Hugh’s mother, who she thought had just the nicest smile.
After that was John, after Hugh’s father. For quite some time it appeared that he would remain the baby of the family. After giving birth every June for four years in a row, Posy stopped getting pregnant. She wasn’t doing anything differently, she confided in Sophie; she and Hugh were still very much in love. It just seemed that her body had decided it was through with childbearing.
Which was just as well. With two girls and two boys, all in the single digits, she had her hands full.
But then, when John was five, Posy rose from bed one morning and threw up on the floor. It could only mean one thing, and the following autumn, she delivered a girl.
Sophie was present at the birth, as she always was. “What shall you name her?” she asked.
Posy looked down at the perfect little creature in her arms. It was sleeping quite soundly, and even though she knew that newborns did not smile, the baby really did look as if it were rather pleased about something.
Maybe about being born. Maybe this one was going to attack life with a smile. Good humor would be her weapon of choice.
What a splendid human being she would be.
“Araminta,” Posy said suddenly.
Sophie nearly fell over from the shock of it. “What?”
“I want to name her Araminta. I’m quite certain.” Posy stroked the baby’s cheek, then touched her gently under the chin.
Sophie could not seem to stop shaking her head. “But your mother…I can’t believe you would—”
“I’m not naming her for my mother,” Posy cut in gently. “I’m naming her because of my mother. It’s different.”
Sophie looked dubious, but she leaned over to get a closer peek at the baby. “She’s really quite sweet,” she murmured.
Posy smiled, never once taking her eyes off the baby’s face. “I know.”
“I suppose I could grow accustomed to it,” Sophie said, her head bobbing from side to side in acquiescence. She wiggled her finger between the baby’s hand and body, giving the palm a little tickle until the tiny fingers wrapped instinctively around her own. “Good evening, Araminta,” she said. “Very nice to meet you.”
“Minty,” Posy said.
Sophie looked up. “What?”
“I’m calling her Minty. Araminta will do well in the family Bible, but I do believe she’s a Minty.”
Sophie pressed her lips together in an effort not to smile. “Your mother would hate that.”
“Yes,” Posy murmured, “she would, wouldn’t she?”
“Minty,” Sophie said, testing the sound on her tongue. “I like it. No, I think I love it. It suits her.”
Posy kissed the top of Minty’s head. “What kind of girl will you be?” she whispered. “Sweet and docile?”
Sophie chuckled at that. She had been present at twelve birthings—four of her own, five of Posy’s, and three of Benedict’s sister Eloise. Never had she heard a baby enter this world with as loud a cry as little Minty. “This one,” she said firmly, “is going to lead you a merry chase.”
And she did. But that, dear reader, is another story…
About the Author
JULIA QUINN started writing her first book one month after finishing college and has been tapping away at her keyboard ever since. The New York Times bestselling author of nineteen novels for Avon Books, she is a graduate of Harvard and Radcliffe Colleges and lives with her family in the Pacific Northwest. Please visit her on the web at www.juliaquinn.com.
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Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
AN OFFER FROM A GENTLEMAN: THE SECOND EPILOGUE. Copyright © 2009 by Julie Cotler Pottinger. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-bo
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Adobe Digital Edition August 2009 ISBN 978-0-06-196556-2
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