by Julia Quinn
But there was something about her that held him mesmerized. It was her smile, the shape of her eyes, the way she held herself and looked about the ballroom as if she’d never seen a more glorious sight than the silly members of the ton all dressed up in ridiculous costumes.
Her beauty came from within.
She shimmered. She glowed.
She was utterly radiant, and Benedict suddenly realized that it was because she looked so damned happy. Happy to be where she was, happy to be who she was.
Happy in a way Benedict could barely remember. His was a good life, it was true, maybe even a great life. He had seven wonderful siblings, a loving mother, and scores of friends. But this woman—
This woman knew joy.
And Benedict had to know her.
Penelope forgotten, he pushed his way through the crowd until he was but a few steps from her side. Three other gentlemen had beaten him to his destination and were presently showering her with flattery and praise. Benedict watched her with interest; she did not react as any woman of his acquaintance might.
She did not act coy. Nor did she act as if she expected their compliments as her due. Nor was she shy, or tittering, or arch, or ironic, or any of those things one might expect from a woman.
She just smiled. Beamed, actually. Benedict supposed that compliments were meant to bring a measure of happiness to the receiver, but never had he seen a woman react with such pure, unadulterated joy.
He stepped forward. He wanted that joy for himself.
“Excuse me, gentlemen, but the lady has already promised this dance to me,” he lied.
Her mask’s eye-holes were cut a bit large, and he could see that her eyes widened considerably, then crinkled with amusement. He held out his hand to her, silently daring her to call his bluff.
But she just smiled at him, a wide, radiant grin that pierced his skin and traveled straight to his soul. She put her hand in his, and it was only then that Benedict realized he’d been holding his breath.
“Have you permission to dance the waltz?” he murmured once they reached the dance floor.
She shook her head. “I do not dance.”
“You jest.”
“I’m afraid I do not. The truth is—” She leaned forward and with a glimmer of a smile said, “I don’t know how.”
He looked at her with surprise. She moved with an inborn grace, and furthermore, what gently bred lady could reach her age without learning how to dance? “There is only one thing to do, then,” he murmured. “I shall teach you.”
Her eyes widened, then her lips parted, and a surprised laugh burst forth.
“What,” he asked, trying to sound serious, “is so funny?”
She grinned at him—the sort of grin one expects from an old school chum, not a debutante at a ball. Still smiling, she said, “Even I know that one does not conduct dancing lessons at a ball.”
“What does that mean, I wonder,” he murmured, “even you?”
She said nothing.
“I shall have to take the upper hand, then,” he said, “and force you to do my bidding.”
“Force me?”
But she was smiling as she said it, so he knew she took no offense, and he said, “It would be ungentlemanly of me to allow this sorrowful state of affairs to continue.”
“Sorrowful, you say?”
He shrugged. “A beautiful lady who cannot dance. It seems a crime against nature.”
“If I allow you to teach me . . .”
“When you allow me to teach you.”
“If I allow you to teach me, where shall you conduct the lesson?”
Benedict lifted his chin and scanned the room. It wasn’t difficult to see over the heads of most of the partygoers; at an inch above six feet, he was one of the tallest men in the room. “We shall have to retire to the terrace,” he said finally.
“The terrace?” she echoed. “Won’t it be terribly crowded? It’s a warm night, after all.”
He leaned forward. “Not the private terrace.”
“The private terrace, you say?” she asked, amusement in her voice. “And how, pray tell, would you know of a private terrace?”
Benedict stared at her in shock. Could she possibly not know who he was? It wasn’t that he held such a high opinion of himself that he expected all of London to be aware of his identity. It was just that he was a Bridgerton, and if a person met one Bridgerton, that generally meant he could recognize another. And as there was no one in London who had not crossed paths with one Bridgerton or another, Benedict was generally recognized everywhere. Even, he thought ruefully, when that recognition was simply as “Number Two.”
“You did not answer my question,” his mystery lady reminded him.
“About the private terrace?” Benedict raised her hand to his lips and kissed the fine silk of her glove. “Let us just say that I have my ways.”
She appeared undecided, and so he tugged at her fingers, pulling her closer—only by an inch, but somehow it seemed she was only a kiss away. “Come,” he said. “Dance with me.”
She took a step forward, and he knew his life had been changed forever.
Sophie hadn’t seen him when she’d first walked into the room, but she’d felt magic in the air, and when he’d appeared before her, like some charming prince from a children’s tale, she somehow knew that he was the reason she’d stolen into the ball.
He was tall, and what she could see of his face was very handsome, with lips that hinted of irony and smiles, and skin that was just barely touched by the beginnings of a beard. His hair was a dark, rich brown, and the flickering candlelight lent it a faint reddish cast.
People seemed to know who he was, as well. Sophie noticed that when he moved, the other partygoers stepped out of his path. And when he’d lied so brazenly and claimed her for a dance, the other men had deferred and stepped away.
He was handsome and he was strong, and for this one night, he was hers.
When the clock struck midnight, she’d be back to her life of drudgery, of mending and washing, and attending to Araminta’s every wish. Was she so wrong to want this one heady night of magic and love?
She felt like a princess—a reckless princess—and so when he asked her to dance, she put her hand in his. And even though she knew that this entire evening was a lie, that she was a nobleman’s bastard and a countess’s maid, that her dress was borrowed and her shoes practically stolen—none of that seemed to matter as their fingers twined.
For a few hours, at least, Sophie could pretend that this gentleman could be her gentleman, and that from this moment on, her life would be changed forever.
It was nothing but a dream, but it had been so terribly long since she’d let herself dream.
Banishing all caution, she allowed him to lead her out of the ballroom. He walked quickly, even as he wove through the pulsing crowd, and she found herself laughing as she tripped along after him.
“Why is it,” he said, halting for a moment when they reached the hall outside the ballroom, “that you always seem to be laughing at me?”
She laughed again; she couldn’t help it. “I’m happy,” she said with a helpless shrug. “I’m just so happy to be here.”
“And why is that? A ball such as this must be routine for one such as yourself.”
Sophie grinned. If he thought she was a member of the ton, an alumna of dozens of balls and parties, then she must be playing her role to perfection.
He touched the corner of her mouth. “You keep smiling,” he murmured.
“I like to smile.”
His hand found her waist, and he pulled her toward him. The distance between their bodies remained respectable, but the increasing nearness robbed her of breath.
“I like to watch you smile,” he said. His words were low and seductive, but there was something oddly hoarse about his voice, and Sophie could almost let herself believe that he really meant it, that she wasn’t merely that evening’s conquest.
But before she
could respond, an accusing voice from down the hall suddenly called out, “There you are!”
Sophie’s stomach lurched well into her throat. She’d been found out. She’d be thrown into the street, and tomorrow probably into jail for stealing Araminta’s shoes, and—
And the man who’d called out had reached her side and was saying to her mysterious gentleman, “Mother has been looking all over for you. You weaseled out of your dance with Penelope, and I had to take your place.”
“So sorry,” her gentleman murmured.
That didn’t seem to be enough of an apology for the newcomer, because he scowled mightily as he said, “If you flee the party and leave me to that pack of she-devil debutantes, I swear I shall exact revenge to my dying day.”
“A chance I’m willing to take,” her gentleman said.
“Well, I covered up for you with Penelope,” the other man grumbled. “You’re just lucky that I happened to be standing by. The poor girl’s heart looked broken when you turned away.”
Sophie’s gentleman had the grace to blush. “Some things are unavoidable, I’m afraid.”
Sophie looked from one man to the other. Even under their demi-masks, it was more than obvious that they were brothers, and she realized in a blinding flash that they must be the Bridgerton brothers, and this must be their house, and—
Oh, good Lord, had she made a total and utter fool of herself by asking him how he knew of a private terrace?
But which brother was he? Benedict. He had to be Benedict. Sophie sent a silent thank-you to Lady Whistledown, who’d once written a column completely devoted to the task of telling the Bridgerton siblings apart. Benedict, she recalled, had been singled out as the tallest.
The man who made her heart flip in triple time stood a good inch above his brother—
—who Sophie suddenly realized was looking at her quite intently.
“I see why you departed,” Colin said (for he must be Colin; he certainly wasn’t Gregory, who was only fourteen, and Anthony was married, so he wouldn’t care if Benedict fled the party and left him to fend off the debutantes by himself.) He looked at Benedict with a sly expression. “Might I request an introduction?”
Benedict raised a brow. “You can try your best, but I doubt you’ll meet with success. I haven’t learned her name yet myself.”
“You haven’t asked,” Sophie could not help pointing out.
“And would you tell me if I did?”
“I’d tell you something,” she returned.
“But not the truth.”
She shook her head. “This isn’t a night for truth.”
“My favorite kind of night,” Colin said in a jaunty voice.
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Benedict asked.
Colin shook his head. “I’m sure Mother would prefer that I be in the ballroom, but it’s not exactly a requirement.”
“I require it,” Benedict returned.
Sophie felt a giggle bubbling in her throat.
“Very well,” Colin sighed. “I shall take myself off.”
“Excellent,” Benedict said.
“All alone, to face the ravenous wolves . . .”
“Wolves?” Sophie queried.
“Eligible young ladies,” Colin clarified. “A pack of ravenous wolves, the lot of them. Present company excluded, of course.”
Sophie thought it best not to point out that she was not an “eligible young lady” at all.
“My mother—” Colin began.
Benedict groaned.
“—would like nothing better than to see my dear elder brother married off.” He paused and pondered his words. “Except, perhaps, to see me married off.”
“If only to get you out of the house,” Benedict said dryly.
This time Sophie did giggle.
“But then again, he’s considerably more ancient,” Colin continued, “so perhaps we should send him to the gallows—er, altar first.”
“Do you have a point?” Benedict growled.
“None whatsoever,” Colin admitted. “But then again, I rarely do.”
Benedict turned to Sophie. “He speaks the truth.”
“So then,” Colin said to Sophie with a grand flourish of his arm, “will you take pity on my poor, long-suffering mother and chase my dear brother up the aisle?”
“Well, he hasn’t asked,” Sophie said, trying to join the humor of the moment.
“How much have you had to drink?” Benedict grumbled.
“Me?” Sophie queried.
“Him.”
“Nothing at all,” Colin said jovially, “but I’m thinking quite seriously of remedying that. In fact, it might be the only thing that will make this eve bearable.”
“If the procurement of drink removes you from my presence,” Benedict said, “then it will certainly be the only thing that will make my night bearable as well.”
Colin grinned, gave a jaunty salute, and was gone.
“It’s nice to see two siblings who love each other so well,” Sophie murmured.
Benedict, who had been staring somewhat menacingly at the doorway through which his brother had just disappeared, snapped his attention back to her. “You call that love?”
Sophie thought of Rosamund and Posy, who were forever sniping at each other, and not in jest. “I do,” she said firmly. “It’s obvious you would lay your life down for him. And vice versa.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Benedict let out a beleaguered sigh, then ruined the effect by smiling. “Much as it pains me to admit it.” He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms and looking terribly sophisticated and urbane. “So tell me,” he said, “have you any siblings?”
Sophie pondered that question for a moment, then gave a decisive, “No.”
One of his brows rose into a curiously arrogant arch. He cocked his head very slightly to the side as he said, “I find myself rather curious as to why it took you so long to determine the answer to that question. One would think the answer would be an easy one to reach.”
Sophie looked away for a moment, not wanting him to see the pain that she knew must show in her eyes. She had always wanted a family. In fact, there was nothing in life she had ever wanted more. Her father had never recognized her as his daughter, even in private, and her mother had died at her birth. Araminta treated her like the plague, and Rosamund and Posy had certainly never been sisters to her. Posy had occasionally been a friend, but even she spent most of the day asking Sophie to mend her dress, or style her hair, or polish her shoes . . .
And in all truth, even though Posy asked rather than ordered, as her sister and mother did, Sophie didn’t exactly have the option of saying no.
“I am an only child,” Sophie finally said.
“And that is all you’re going to say on the subject,” Benedict murmured.
“And that is all I’m going to say on the subject,” she agreed.
“Very well.” He smiled, a lazy masculine sort of smile. “What, then, am I permitted to ask you?”
“Nothing, really.”
“Nothing at all?”
“I suppose I might be induced to tell you that my favorite color is green, but beyond that I shall leave you with no clues to my identity.”
“Why so many secrets?”
“If I answered that,” Sophie said with an enigmatic smile, truly warming to her role as a mysterious stranger, “then that would be the end of my secrets, wouldn’t it?”
He leaned forward ever so slightly. “You could always develop new secrets.”
Sophie backed up a step. His gaze had grown hot, and she had heard enough talk in the servants’ quarters to know what that meant. Thrilling as that was, she was not quite as daring as she pretended to be. “This entire night,” she said, “is secret enough.”
“Then ask me a question,” he said. “I have no secrets.”
Her eyes widened. “None? Truly? Doesn’t everyone have secrets?”
“Not I. My life is hopelessly banal.”
<
br /> “That I find difficult to believe.”
“It’s true,” he said with a shrug. “I’ve never seduced an innocent, or even a married lady, I have no gambling debts, and my parents were completely faithful to one another.”
Meaning he wasn’t a bastard. Somehow the thought brought an ache to Sophie’s throat. Not, of course, because he was legitimate, but rather because she knew he would never pursue her—at least not in an honorable fashion—if he knew that she wasn’t.
“You haven’t asked me a question,” he reminded her.
Sophie blinked in surprise. She hadn’t thought he’d been serious. “A-all right,” she half stammered, caught off guard. “What, then, is your favorite color?”
He grinned. “You’re going to waste your question on that?”
“I only get one question?”
“More than fair, considering you’re granting me none.” Benedict leaned forward, his dark eyes glinting. “And the answer is blue.”
“Why?”
“Why?” he echoed.
“Yes, why? Is it because of the ocean? Or the sky? Or perhaps just because you like it?”
Benedict eyed her curiously. It seemed such an odd question—why his favorite color was blue. Everyone else would have taken blue for an answer and left it at that. But this woman—whose name he still didn’t even know—went deeper, beyond the whats and into the whys.
“Are you a painter?” he queried.
She shook her head. “Just curious.”
“Why is your favorite color green?”
She sighed, and her eyes grew nostalgic. “The grass, I suppose, and maybe the leaves. But mostly the grass. The way it feels when one runs barefoot in the summer. The smell of it after the gardeners have gone through with their scythes and trimmed it even.”
“What does the feel and smell of grass have to do with the color?”
“Nothing, I suppose. And maybe everything. I used to live in the country, you see . . .” She caught herself. She hadn’t meant to tell him even that much, but there didn’t seem to be harm in his knowing such an innocent fact.
“And you were happier there?” he asked quietly.
She nodded, a faint rush of awareness shivering across her skin. Lady Whistledown must never have had a conversation with Benedict Bridgerton beyond the superficial, because she’d never written that he was quite the most perceptive man in London. When he looked into her eyes, Sophie had the oddest sense that he could see straight into her soul.
