The Bridgerton household buzzes with excitement over the masquerade ball hosted by the Cavendish family—one of the most pompous, notoriously dull noble households in all of London. Daphne has already declared she refuses to attend in her usual way.

“It will be painfully predictable,” she says, pacing her room with her arms crossed. “Same gowns, same gossip, same men asking the same questions.”

“And so,” you lean against the doorframe, smirking, “your solution is…?”

She turns to you slowly, lips curling into a mischievous smile you rarely see from her.

“We go undercover.”

“You want to disguise ourselves,” you repeat, just to be sure, “to mock an entire event filled with the highest nobles of London.”

“I knew you would agree.”

Within the hour, the two of you are transforming yourselves in her room with the help of her lady’s maid—who Daphne swears to secrecy with a single raised eyebrow. You end up in an outfit completely unrecognizable from your usual attire: a cloak with a deep hood, a half-mask of gold swirls, boots instead of polished shoes. Daphne’s disguise is even more drastic: a dark emerald gown instead of her typical pastel tones, a feathered mask covering nearly her entire face, and her hair pinned wildly differently.

“You look nothing like yourself,” she gasps, stepping back to admire the work. “Goodness, my family will have no idea.”

“You look like you’re plotting a jewel heist.”

She beams. “Perfect.”

The two of you sneak into the Cavendish manor among a wave of guests, keeping your heads low. You lean toward her as you walk.

“Try not to speak too loudly—your voice will give you away.”

She bumps your shoulder. “I am capable of being subtle.”

The moment you enter the ballroom, you realize this plan was entirely worth it. No one recognizes either of you. Daphne links her arm through yours and whispers dramatically:

“Observe, my dear accomplice, as I mingle with the lords who usually trip over themselves to talk to me.”

She approaches a group of young noblemen, fans herself dramatically, and speaks in a completely fabricated French accent.

“Bonsoir, messieurs.”

You nearly choke trying not to laugh. They bow, enchanted, entirely clueless.

Daphne returns to you moments later, eyes shining with delight.

“One of them attempted to ask which region of France I hail from.”

“And what did you say?”

“I told him the most mysterious one.”

You both dissolve into quiet laughter, trying not to draw attention.

Later, you drag her onto the dance floor, still undercover. She spins with you, grace masked behind her disguise, her gloved hand fitting perfectly in yours. In the dim light of the chandeliers, she leans close and whispers:

“I have never felt so wonderfully… free.”

“You’re enjoying being a stranger?”

She nods. “I can simply be anyone. And no one expects anything from anyone in a mask.”

Your dance grows bolder, playful, two masked figures swirling among people who have no idea the diamond of the season is dancing right under their noses.

But then someone begins to stare.

Lady Cowper. Of course.

She squints at Daphne’s mask, suspicious.

“Uh-oh…” you murmur.

Daphne clears her throat, dropping back into her fake accent.

“You do not know me, madame.” She swishes her skirt dramatically. “I am but a humble… foreign admirer of London’s grand society.”