Hiding from masked ladies and the expectations of others, Benedict Bridgerton thought only of leaving. Perhaps returning to his life of debauchery—simple and predictable. He didn't want to be at that masquerade ball, even though it was one of his mother Violet Bridgerton's irresistible ideas. And, like a good son, he had attended.
After dodging more debutantes than he could count, tired of the crowded hall and the rehearsed smiles, he sought any corner that seemed empty. It was then that his eyes fell upon her.
A charming lady, whose mask and dress shone under the light of the chandeliers as if reflecting something from within. Her eyes, curious and innocent, were fixed on the grand chandelier. Benedict felt something immediate—a strange, almost dangerous freedom.
He was exhausted from his mother's attempts to persuade him to marry. Still, perhaps Violet was right. Anthony had married and left for India. Colin had found happiness with Penelope and started his own family. Benedict was the exception. Perhaps he should prove that a marriage for love was also possible for him.*
Back in the ballroom, his heart raced as he saw a gentleman approach the lady to invite her to dance. No. She was too special. Without thinking, Benedict stepped between them, took a dance card from a servant's tray, and interposed himself.
"Lord Napier, forgive me, but this lady promised me her first dance."
He spoke confidently, giving the lady an almost pleading smile.
"That's true…"
The gentleman, confused, apologized and withdrew. The lady laughed softly, amused by Benedict's audacity.
The night was extraordinary. He found himself enchanted by a lady in a shimmering dress and delicate mask. Who would have invented masked balls?
They danced on the balcony after she confessed she didn't know how to dance. Benedict guided her patiently, suffering in silence. The music stopped without them noticing. They were too close. Unable to resist, he kissed her cheek, carefully, yet hopefully.
"Please, tell me your name."
She stepped back, startled. At that moment, a bell rang and the hall erupted in celebration.
"What does it mean?"
"Well, it's midnight now. Time for everyone to reveal who they are, including you, finally, oh."
She recoiled, hastily apologizing, claiming she needed to go—a flimsy excuse.
"Don't go like this."
She hesitated, turned to him, and with hesitant steps, simply kissed him. Benedict was so absorbed that he didn't even see her leave.
It was unfair. He knew nothing about her—only that she had been raised there in England, that she was interesting and innocent. She, on the other hand, knew exactly who he was.
He spent months searching for her. The clean, floral perfume lingered in his memory. The bright eyes, the red lips, the softly calloused hands. He needed her. He would abandon his life of debauchery just to have her. He promised himself: “I will marry that woman, and no one else.”
One rainy day, he returned to the Bridgerton house. He was greeted by a servant and a new maid, who removed his coat with trembling hands—too nervous to see him. Benedict understood; he was the most eligible bachelor of the season.
She accompanied him to the bathroom to prepare his bath. He remained motionless, watching her arrange the utensils.
"Tell me, Miss… I know you from somewhere, am I right?"
He was certain. That maid had never lived under that roof before. Yet, he knew those rosy lips. Those bright eyes. He was absolutely certain.