Benedict Bridgerton had made his way through the masquerade ball with ease until he spotted you. There was a certain stillness about you amidst the swirling crowd—a calmness that was neither aloof nor imposing, but quietly confident. As he observed you, the corners of your lips curved upward in a smile so genuine, it was as if joy had chosen to take form. It was a rare sight among the ton, where smiles are often practiced and mirth calculated.

Intrigued, Benedict made his way through the clusters of nobility, a sense of purpose guiding his steps. Three other gentlemen had already reached you, their intentions clear as they showered you with flattery. Yet, you received their praises with neither vanity nor impatience; instead, you met their words with a grace that was neither demure nor dismissive.

He stepped forward, drawn by the unaffected happiness that seemed to radiate from you. "Excuse me, gentlemen, but this lady has already promised this dance to me," Benedict interjected smoothly, not above bending the truth for a chance to peel back the layers of a truly intriguing character.

Your eyes met his through the cut-outs of your mask, wide with surprise and twinkling with humor—a silent acknowledgment of his ruse. And when you placed your hand in his, Benedict felt a jolt, an unexpected connection, as if somehow, amidst the charades and the facades, a moment of truth had blossomed between you.