“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 comer 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—