“You must enjoy walking in the park, then,” he said.
“Yes,” Sophie lied. She never had time to go to the park. Araminta didn’t even give her a day off like the other servants received.
“We shall have to take a stroll together,” Benedict said.
Sophie avoided a reply by reminding him, “You never did tell me why your favorite color is blue.”
His head cocked slightly to the side, and his eyes narrowed just enough so that Sophie knew that he had noticed her evasion. But he simply said, “I don’t know. Perhaps, like you, I’m reminded of something I miss. There is a lake at Aubrey Hall—that is where I grew up, in Kent—but the water always seemed more gray than blue.”
“It probably reflects the sky,” Sophie commented.
“Which is, more often than not, more gray than blue,” Benedict said with a laugh. “Perhaps that is what I miss—blue skies and sunshine.”
“If it weren’t raining,” Sophie said with a smile, “this wouldn’t be England.”
“I went to Italy once,” Benedict said. “The sun shone constantly.”
“It sounds like heaven.”
“You’d think,” he said. “But I found myself missing the rain.”
“I can’t believe it,” she said with a laugh. “I feel like I spend half my life staring out the window and grumbling at the rain.”
“If it were gone, you’d miss it.”
Sophie grew pensive. Were there things in her life she’d miss if they were gone? She wouldn’t miss Araminta, that was for certain, and she wouldn’t miss Rosamund. She’d probably miss Posy, and she’d definitely miss the way the sun shone through the window in her attic room in the mornings. She’d miss the way the servants laughed and joked and occasionally included her in their fun, even though they all knew she was the late earl’s bastard.
But she wasn’t going to miss these things—she wouldn’t even have the opportunity to miss them—because she wasn’t going anywhere. After this evening—this one amazing, wonderful, magical evening—it would be back to life as usual.
She supposed that if she were stronger, braver, she’d have left Penwood House years ago. But would that have really made much difference? She might not like living with Araminta, but she wasn’t likely to improve her lot in life by leaving. She might have liked to have been a governess, and she was certainly well qualified for the position, but jobs were scarce for those without references, and Araminta certainly wasn’t going to give her one.
“You’re very quiet,” Benedict said softly.
“I was just thinking.”
“About?”
“About what I’d miss—and what I wouldn’t miss—should my life drastically change.”
His eyes grew intense. “And do you expect it to drastically change?”
She shook her head and tried to keep the sadness out of her voice when she answered, “No.”
His voice grew so quiet it was almost a whisper. “Do you want it to change?”
“Yes,” she sighed, before she could stop herself. “Oh, yes.”
He took her hands and brought them to his lips, gently kissing each one in turn. “Then we shall begin right now,” he vowed. “And tomorrow you shall be transformed.”
“Tonight I am transformed,” she whispered. “Tomorrow I shall disappear.”
Benedict drew her close and dropped the softest, most fleeting of kisses onto her brow. “Then we must pack a lifetime into this very night.”
Chapter 3
This Author waits with bated breath to see what costumes the ton will choose for the Bridgerton masquerade. It is rumored that Eloise Bridgerton plans to dress as Joan of Arc, and Penelope Featherington, out for her third season and recently returned from a visit with Irish cousins, will don the costume of a leprechaun. Miss Posy Reiling, stepdaughter to the late Earl of Penwood, plans a costume of mermaid, which This Author personally cannot wait to behold, but her elder sister, Miss Rosamund Reiling, has been very close-lipped about her own attire.
As for the men, if previous masquerade balls are any indication, the portly will dress as Henry VIII, the more fit as Alexander the Great or perhaps the devil, and the bored (the eligible Bridgerton brothers sure to be among these ranks) as themselves—basic black evening kit, with only a demi-mask as a nod to the occasion.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 5 JUNE 1815
“Dance with me,” Sophie said impulsively.
His smile was amused, but his fingers twined tightly with hers as he murmured, “I thought you didn’t know how.”
“You said you would teach me.”
He stared at her for a long moment, his eyes boring into hers, then he tugged on her hand and said, “Come with me.”
Pulling her along behind him, they slipped down a hallway, climbed a flight of stairs, and then rounded a corner, emerging in front of a pair of French doors. Benedict jiggled the wrought-iron handles and swung the doors open, revealing a small private terrace, adorned with potted plants and two chaise lounges.
“Where are we?” Sophie asked, looking around.
“Right above the ballroom terrace.” He shut the doors behind them. “Can’t you hear the music?”
Mostly, what Sophie could hear was the low rumble of endless conversation, but if she strained her ears, she could hear the faint lilt of the orchestra. “Handel,” she said with a delighted smile. “My governess had a music box with this very tune.”
“You loved your governess very much,” he said quietly.
Her eyes had been closed as she hummed along with the music, but when she heard his words, she opened them in a startled fashion. “How did you know?”
“The same way I knew you were happier in the country.” Benedict reached out and touched her cheek, one gloved finger trailing slowly along her skin until it reached the line of her jaw. “I can see it in your face.”
She held silent for a few moments, then pulled away, saying, “Yes, well, I spent more time with her than with anyone else in the household.”
“It sounds a lonely upbringing,” he said quietly.
“Sometimes it was.” She walked over to the edge of the balcony and rested her hands on the balustrade as she stared out into the inky night. “Sometimes it wasn’t.” Then she turned around quite suddenly, her smile bright, and Benedict knew that she would not reveal anything more about her childhood.
“Your upbringing must have been the complete opposite of lonely,” she said, “with so many brothers and sisters about.”
“You know who I am,” he stated.
She nodded. “I didn’t at first.”
He walked over to the balustrade and leaned one hip against it, crossing his arms. “What gave me away?”
“It was your brother, actually. You looked so alike—”
“Even with our masks?”
“Even with your masks,” she said with an indulgent smile. “Lady Whistledown writes about you quite often, and she never passes up an opportunity to comment upon how alike you look.”
“And do you know which brother I am?”
“Benedict,” she replied. “If indeed Lady Whistledown is correct when she says that you are tallest among your brothers.”
“You’re quite the detective.”
She looked slightly embarrassed. “I merely read a gossip sheet. It makes me no different from the rest of the people here.”
Benedict watched her for a moment, wondering if she realized that she’d revealed another clue to the puzzle of her identity. If she’d recognized him only from Whistledown, then she’d not been out in society for long, or perhaps not at all. Either way, she was not one of the many young ladies to whom his mother had introduced him.
“What else do you know about me from Whistledown?” he asked, his smile slow and lazy.
“Are you fishing for compliments?” she asked, returning the half smile with the vaguest tilt of her lips. “For you must know that the Bridgertons are almost always spared her rapier quill. Lad
y Whistledown is nearly always complimentary when writing about your family.”
“It’s led to quite a bit of speculation about her identity,” he admitted. “Some think she must be a Bridgerton.”
“Is she?”
He shrugged. “Not that I’m aware of. And you didn’t answer my question.”
“Which question was that?”
“What you know of me from Whistledown.”
She looked surprised. “Are you truly interested?”
“If I cannot know anything about you, at least I might know what you know about me.”
She smiled, and touched the tip of her index finger to her lower lip in an endearingly absentminded gesture. “Well, let’s see. Last month you won some silly horse race in Hyde Park.”
“It wasn’t the least bit silly,” he said with a grin, “and I’m a hundred quid richer for it.”
She shot him an arch look. “Horse races are almost always silly.”
“Spoken just like a woman,” he muttered.
“Well—”
“Don’t point out the obvious,” he interrupted.
That made her smile.
“What else do you know?” he asked.
“From Whistledown?” She tapped her finger against her cheek. “You once lopped the head off your sister’s doll.”
“And I’m still trying to figure out how she knew about that,” Benedict muttered.
“Maybe Lady Whistledown is a Bridgerton, after all.”
“Impossible. Not,” he added rather forcefully, “that we’re not smart enough to pull it off. Rather, the rest of the family would be too smart not to figure it out.”
She laughed out loud at that, and Benedict studied her, wondering if she was aware that she’d given away yet another tiny clue to her identity. Lady Whistledown had written of the doll’s unfortunate encounter with a guillotine two years earlier, in one of her very earliest columns. Many people now had the gossip sheet delivered all the way out in the country, but in the beginning, Whistledown had been strictly for Londoners.
Which meant that his mystery lady had been in London two years ago. And yet she hadn’t known who he was until she’d met Colin.
She’d been in London, but she’d not been out in society. Perhaps she was the youngest in her family, and had been reading Whistledown while her older sisters enjoyed their seasons.
It wasn’t enough to figure out who she was, but it was a start.
“What else do you know?” he asked, eager to see if she’d inadvertently reveal anything else.
She chuckled, clearly enjoying herself. “Your name has not been seriously linked with any young lady, and your mother despairs of ever seeing you married.”
“The pressure has lessened a bit now that my brother’s gone and got himself a wife.”
“The viscount?”
Benedict nodded.
“Lady Whistledown wrote about that as well.”
“In great detail. Although—” He leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “She didn’t get all the facts.”
“Really?” she asked with great interest. “What did she leave out?”
He tsked-tsked and shook his head at her. “I’m not about to reveal the secrets of my brother’s courtship if you won’t reveal even your name.”
She snorted at that. “Courtship might be too strong a word. Why, Lady Whistledown wrote—”
“Lady Whistledown,” he interrupted with a vaguely mocking half smile, “is not privy to all that goes on in London.”
“She certainly seems privy to most.”
“Do you think?” he mused. “I tend to disagree. For example, I suspect that if Lady Whistledown were here on the terrace, she would not know your identity.”
Her eyes widened under her mask. Benedict took some satisfaction in that.
He crossed his arms. “Is that true?”
She nodded. “But I am so well disguised that no one would recognize me right now.”
He raised a brow. “What if you removed your mask? Would she recognize you then?”
She pushed herself away from the railing and took a few steps toward the center of the terrace. “I’m not going to answer that.”
He followed her. “I didn’t think you would. But I wanted to ask, nonetheless.”
Sophie turned around, then caught her breath as she realized he was mere inches away. She’d heard him following her, but she hadn’t thought he was quite that close. She parted her lips to speak, but to her great surprise, she hadn’t a thing to say. All she could seem to do was stare up at him, at those dark, dark eyes peering at her from behind his mask.
Speech was impossible. Even breathing was difficult.
“You still haven’t danced with me,” he said.
She didn’t move, just stood there as his large hand came to rest at the small of her back. Her skin tingled where he touched her, and the air grew thick and hot.
This was desire, Sophie realized. This was what she’d heard the maids whispering about. This was what no gently bred lady was even supposed to know about.
But she was no gently bred lady, she thought defiantly. She was a bastard, a nobleman’s by-blow. She was not a member of the ton and never would be. Did she really have to abide by their rules?
She’d always sworn that she would never become a man’s mistress, that she’d never bring a child into this world to suffer her fate as a bastard. But she wasn’t planning anything quite so brazen. This was one dance, one evening, perhaps one kiss.
It was enough to ruin a reputation, but what sort of reputation did she have to begin with? She was outside society, beyond the pale. And she wanted one night of fantasy.
She looked up.
“You’re not going to run, then,” he murmured, his dark eyes flaring with something hot and exciting.
She shook her head, realizing that once again, he’d known what she was thinking. It should have scared her that he so effortlessly read her thoughts, but in the dark seduction of the night, with the wind tugging at the loose strands of her hair, and the music floating up from below, it was somehow thrilling instead. “Where do I put my hand?” she asked. “I want to dance.”
“Right here on my shoulder,” he instructed. “No, just a touch lower. There you are.”
“You must think me the veriest ninny,” she said, “not knowing how to dance.”
“I think you’re very brave, actually, for admitting it.” His free hand found hers and slowly lifted it into the air. “Most women of my acquaintance would have feigned an injury or disinterest.”
She looked up into his eyes even though she knew it would leave her breathless. “I haven’t the acting skills to feign disinterest,” she admitted.
The hand at the small of her back tightened.
“Listen to the music,” he instructed, his voice oddly hoarse. “Do you feel it rising and falling?”
She shook her head.
“Listen harder,” he whispered, his lips drawing closer to her ear. “One, two, three; one, two, three.”
Sophie closed her eyes and somehow filtered out the endless chatter of the guests below them until all she heard was the soft swell of the music. Her breathing slowed, and she found herself swaying in time with the orchestra, her head rocking back and forth with Benedict’s softly uttered numerical instructions.
“One, two, three; one two three.”
“I feel it,” she whispered.
He smiled. She wasn’t sure how she knew that; her eyes were still closed. But she felt the smile, heard it in the tenor of his breath.
“Good,” he said. “Now watch my feet and allow me to lead you.”
Sophie opened her eyes and looked down.
“One, two, three; one, two, three.”
Hesitantly, she stepped along with him—right onto his foot.
“Oh! I’m sorry!” she blurted out.
“My sisters have done far worse,” he assured her. “Don’t give up.”
She tried again, and suddenl
y her feet knew what to do. “Oh!” she breathed in surprise. “This is wonderful!”
“Look up,” he ordered gently.
“But I’ll stumble.”
“You won’t,” he promised. “I won’t let you. Look into my eyes.”
Sophie did as he asked, and the moment her eyes touched his, something inside her seemed to lock into place, and she could not look away. He twirled her in circles and spirals around the terrace, slowly at first, then picking up speed, until she was breathless and giddy.
And all the while, her eyes remained locked on his.
“What do you feel?” he asked.
“Everything!” she said, laughing.
“What do you hear?”
“The music.” Her eyes widened with excitement. “I hear the music as I’ve never heard it before.”
His hands tightened, and the space between them diminished by several inches. “What do you see?” he asked.
Sophie stumbled, but she never took her eyes off his. “My soul,” she whispered. “I see my very soul.”
He stopped dancing. “What did you say?” he whispered.
She held silent. The moment seemed too charged, too meaningful, and she was afraid she’d spoil it.
No, that wasn’t true. She was afraid she’d make it even better, and that would make it hurt all the more when she returned to reality at midnight.
How on earth was she going to go back to polishing Araminta’s shoes after this?
“I know what you said,” Benedict said hoarsely. “I heard you, and—”
“Don’t say anything,” Sophie cut in. She didn’t want him to tell her that he felt the same way, didn’t want to hear anything that would leave her pining for this man forever.
But it was probably already too late for that.
He stared at her for an agonizingly long moment, then murmured, “I won’t speak. I won’t say a word.” And then, before she even had a second to breathe, his lips were on hers, exquisitely gentle and achingly tender.
With deliberate slowness, he brushed his lips back and forth across hers, the bare hint of friction sending shivers and tingles spiraling through her body.