Benedict looked down at the single glove still clutched in his right hand. He'd quite forgotten that he'd been holding it as he'd dashed trough the ballroom. He brought it to his face and inhaled it's scent, but much to his surprise, it didn't smell of rosewater and soap, as had his mystery lady. Rather, its scent was a bit musty, as if it had been packed away in an attic trunk for many years. Odd, that. Why would she be wearing an ancient glove? He turned it over in his hand, as if the motion would somehow bring her back, at that was when he noticed a tiny bit of stichting at the hem. SLG. Someone's initials. Were they hers? And a family crest. One he did not recognize. But his mother would. His mother always knew that sort of thing. And chances were, if she knew the crest, she'd know who the initials SLG belonged to. Benedict felt his first glimmer of hope. He would find her. He would find her, and he would make her his. It was as simple as that. 💙 Julia Quinn, An offer from a gentleman