With a sigh, Benedict started to make his way toward the lemonade table. He could practically taste that brandy, smooth and mellow in his mouth, but he supposed that a glass of lemonade would tide him over for a few minutes.
“Miss Featherington!” he called out, trying not to shudder when three Miss Featheringtons turned around. With what he knew could not possibly be anything but the weakest of smiles, he added, “Er, Penelope, that is.”
From about ten feet away, Penelope beamed at him, and Benedict was reminded that he actually liked Penelope Featherington. Truly, she wouldn’t be considered so antidotal if she weren’t always lumped together with her unfortunate sisters, who could easily make a grown man wish himself aboard a ship to Australia.
He’d nearly closed the gap between them when he heard a low rumble of whispers rippling across the ballroom behind him. He knew he ought to keep going and get this duty-dance over with, but God help him, his curiosity got the best of him and he turned around.
And found himself facing what had to be the most breathtaking woman he’d ever seen.
He couldn’t even tell if she was beautiful. Her hair was a rather ordinary dark blond, and with her mask tied securely around her head he couldn’t even see half of her face.
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?