You had mastered the art of pretending.

Smile, curtsy, speak only when spoken to — and never let your gaze drift toward the second son of the Bridgerton family, no matter how his presence tugged at you from across every damn ballroom. For weeks now, the whispers had followed you like perfume — delicate, insinuating, dangerous.

He was watching you now.

You felt it as you stood politely beside Lady Cowper, nodding through a tedious conversation about lace trends. The music swelled again — a waltz — and your heart betrayed you, skipping just a little too hard behind your corset.

Then, he moved.

Benedict cut across the crowd like the scene belonged to him, elegant and entirely self-assured. There was no subtlety this time. He didn’t bother asking your chaperone for permission. Didn’t even glance toward the watchful eyes of the ton.

He stopped in front of you, expression unreadable. Steady. Focused.

“Dance with me,” he said softly, but not quietly.

Your throat tightened.

Eyes were already on you. Lady Cowper stiffened beside you. And yet, your gloved hand rose instinctively, drawn to him like a tide to the moon.

The room watched.

You stepped into his arms — slowly, deliberately — and the music caught you both.

“I told you,” you murmured as he guided you into the waltz, “this cannot last.”

“You also told me you weren’t in love with me,” he replied without a smile. “So I’ve learned not to believe you when you’re frightened.”

You looked away — but his hand was warm on your waist, grounding you. His scent was familiar. Home.

“You’re going to ruin us,” you whispered, feeling the stares like needles in your spine.

“I would ruin myself first, before I let anyone else shame what we are.”

The words hit harder than you expected.

Because this wasn’t some artist’s daydream or late-night secret. This was a declaration. In the middle of a ballroom full of lords, ladies, and gossiping mouths.

He was choosing you — out loud.

“I painted you,” he added under his breath, voice low by your ear. “Because no one in this world sees you the way I do. And they deserve to know they’ve been blind.”

The music built toward its final refrain.

And then, as if he’d planned it all — the final turn came, and with it Benedict dipped you low, the silk of your gown brushing the polished floor, your faces inches apart.

For the briefest of moments, you heard it — gasps.

And then… silence.

Because he kissed you.

Not lewdly. Not scandalously. But with reverence. In front of everyone.

And when he lifted you upright again, it was with the air of a man who no longer cared for shadows.

“If they speak of you after this,” he murmured, “they will do so knowing you were loved by a Bridgerton.”

Later, Lady Whistledown would call it the most daring moment of the season. But for Benedict, it was simply the night he stopped pretending.