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.”