Miss Posy Reiling (younger step-daughter to the late Earl of Penwood) isn’t a frequent subject of this column (nor, This Author is sad to say, a frequent subject of attention at social functions) but one could not help but notice that she was acting very strangely at her mother’s musicale on Tuesday eve. She insisted upon sitting by the window, and she spent most of the performance staring at the streetscape, as if looking for something . . . or perhaps someone?

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 11 JUNE 1817

Forty-five minutes later, Benedict was slouching in his chair, his eyes glazed. Every now and then he had to stop and make sure his mouth wasn’t hanging open.

His mother’s conversation was that boring.

The young lady she had wanted to discuss with him had actually turned out to be seven young ladies, each of which she assured him was better than the last.

Benedict thought he might go mad. Right there in his mother’s sitting room he was going to go stark, raving mad. He’d suddenly pop out of his chair, fall to the floor in a frenzy, his arms and legs waving, mouth frothing

—

“Benedict, are you even listening to me?”

He looked up and blinked. Damn. Now he would have to focus on his mother’s list of possible brides. The prospect of losing his sanity had been infinitely more appealing.

“I was trying to tell you about Mary Edgeware,” Violet said, looking more amused than frustrated.

Benedict was instantly suspicious. When it came to her children dragging their feet to the altar, his mother was never amused. “Mary who?”

“Edge—Oh, never mind. I can see that I cannot compete with whatever is plaguing you just now.”

“Mother,” Benedict said abruptly.

She cocked her head slightly to the side, her eyes intrigued and perhaps a bit surprised. “Yes?”

“When you met Father—”

“It happened in an instant,” she said softly, somehow knowing what he’d meant to ask.

“So you knew that he was the one?”

She smiled, and her eyes took on a faraway, misty look. “Oh, I wouldn’t have admitted it,” she said. “At least not right away. I fancied myself a practical sort. I’d always scoffed at the notion of love at first sight.” She paused for a moment, and Benedict knew she was no longer in the room with him, but at some long-ago ball, meeting his father for the first time. Finally, just when he thought she’d completely forgotten the conversation, she looked back up and said, “But I knew.”

“From the first moment you saw him?”

“Well, from the first time we spoke, at least.” She took his offered handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes, smiling sheepishly, as if embarrassed by her tears.

Benedict felt a lump forming in his throat, and he looked away, not wanting her to see the moisture forming in his own eyes. Would anyone cry for him more than a decade after he died? It was a humbling thing to be in the presence of true love, and Benedict suddenly felt so damned jealous—of his own parents.

They’d found love and had the good sense to recognize and cherish it.

Few people were so fortunate.

“There was something about his voice that was so soothing, so warm,” Violet continued. “When he spoke, you felt like you were the only person in the room.”

“I remember,” Benedict said with a warm, nostalgic smile. “It was quite a feat, to be able to do that with eight children.”

His mother swallowed convulsively, then said, her voice once again brisk, “Yes, well, he never knew Hyacinth, so I suppose it was only seven.”

“Still . . .”

She nodded. “Still.”

Benedict reached out and patted her on the hand. He didn’t know why; he hadn’t planned to. But somehow it seemed the right thing to do.

“Yes, well,” she said, giving his hand a little squeeze before returning hers to her lap. “Was there any particular reason you asked about your father?”

“No,” he lied. “At least not . . . Well . . .”

She waited patiently, with that mildly expectant expression that made it impossible to keep one’s feelings to oneself.

“What happens,” he asked, as surprised by the words tumbling forth as she undoubtedly was, “when one falls in love with someone unsuitable?”

“Someone unsuitable,” she repeated.

Benedict nodded painfully, immediately regretting his words. He should never have said anything to his mother, and yet . . .

He sighed. His mother had always been a remarkably good listener. And truly, for all her annoying matchmaking ways, she was more qualified to give advice on matters of the heart than anyone he knew.

When she spoke, she appeared to be choosing her words carefully. “What do you mean by unsuitable?”

“Someone . . .” He stopped, paused. “Someone someone like me probably shouldn’t marry.”

“Someone perhaps who is not of our social class?”

He glanced at a painting on the wall. “Someone like that.”

“I see. Well . . .” Violet’s brow scrunched a bit, then she said, “I suppose it would depend on how far out of our social class this person is.”

“Far.”

“A little bit far or quite a lot far?”

Benedict was convinced that no man of his age and reputation had ever had such a conversation with his mother, but he nonetheless answered, “Quite a lot.”

“I see. Well, I would have to say . . .” She chewed on her lower lip for a moment before continuing. “I would have to say,” she said, slightly more forcefully (although not, if one was judging in absolute terms, forceful at all).

“I would have to say,” she said for a third time, “that I love you very much and will support you in all things.” She cleared her throat. “If indeed we are talking about you.”

It seemed useless to deny it, so Benedict just nodded.

“But,” Violet added, “I would caution you to consider what you are doing. Love is, of course, the most important element in any union, but outside influences can put a strain on a marriage. And if you marry someone of, say”—she cleared her throat—“the servant class, then you will find yourself the subject of a great deal of gossip and no small amount of ostracism. And that will be difficult for one such as you to bear.”

“One such as me?” he asked, bristling at her choice of words.

“You must know I mean no insult. But you and your brothers do lead charmed lives. You’re handsome, intelligent, personable. Everyone likes you. I cannot tell you how happy that makes me.” She smiled, but it was a wistful, slightly sad smile. “It is not easy to be a wallflower.”

And suddenly Benedict understood why his mother was always forcing him to dance with the girls like Penelope Featherington. The ones who stood at the fringes of the ballroom, the ones who always pretended they didn’t actually want to dance.

She had been a wallflower herself.

It was difficult to imagine. His mother was hugely popular now, with an easy smile and piles of friends. And if Benedict had heard the story correctly, his father had been considered the catch of the season.

“Only you will be able to make this decision,” Violet continued, bringing Benedict’s thoughts back to the here and now, “and I’m afraid it won’t be an easy one.”

He stared out the window, his silence his agreement.

“But,” she added, “should you decide to join your life with someone not of our class, I will of course support you in every possible manner.”

Benedict looked up sharply. There were few women of the ton who would say the same to their sons.

“You are my son,” she said simply. “I would give my life for you.”

He opened his mouth to speak but was surprised to find that he couldn’t make a sound.

“I certainly wouldn’t banish you for marrying someone unsuitable.” “Thank you,” he said. It was all he could manage to say.

Violet sighed, loudly enough to regain his full attention. She looked tired, wistful. “I wish your father were here,” she said.

“You don’t say that very often,” he said quietly.

“I always wish your father were here.” She closed her eyes for a brief moment. “Always.”

And then somehow it became clear. As he watched his mother’s face, finally realizing—no, finally understanding—the depth of his parents’ love for one another, it all became clear.

Love. He loved Sophie. That was all that should have mattered.

He’d thought he’d loved the woman from the masquerade. He’d thought he’d wanted to marry her. But he understood now that that had been nothing but a dream, a fleeting fantasy of a woman he barely knew.

But Sophie was . . .

Sophie was Sophie. And that was everything he needed.

Sophie wasn’t a great believer in destiny or fate, but after one hour with Nicholas, Elizabeth, John, and Alice Wentworth, young cousins to the Bridgerton clan, she was beginning to think that maybe there was a reason she had never managed to obtain a position as a governess.

She was exhausted.

No, no, she thought, with more than a touch of desperation. Exhaustion didn’t really provide an adequate description for the current state of her existence. Exhaustion didn’t quite capture the slight edge of insanity the foursome had brought to her mind.

“No, no, no, that’s my doll,” Elizabeth said to Alice. “It’s mine,” Alice returned.

“It is not!” “Is too!”

“I’ll settle this,” ten-year-old Nicholas said, swaggering over with his hands on his hips.

Sophie groaned. She had a feeling that it was not a terribly good idea to allow the dispute to be settled by a ten-year-old boy who happened to think he was a pirate.

“Neither of you will want the doll,” he said, with a devious gleam in his eye, “if I simply lop off its—”

Sophie leapt to intervene. “You will not lop off its head, Nicholas Wentworth.”

“But then they’ll stop—”

“No,” Sophie said forcefully.

He looked at her, obviously assessing her commitment to that particular course of action, then grumbled and walked away.

“I think we need a new game,” Hyacinth whispered to Sophie. “I know we need a new game,” Sophie muttered.

“Let go of my soldier!” John screeched. “Let go let go let go!”

“I’m never having children,” Hyacinth announced. “In fact, I may never get married.”

Sophie forbore to point out that when Hyacinth married and had children, she would certainly have a flotilla of nurses and nannies to aid her with their keeping and care.

Hyacinth winced as John pulled Alice’s hair, then swallowed uncomfortably as Alice slugged John in the stomach. “The situation is growing desperate,” she whispered to Sophie.

“Blind man’s bluff!” Sophie suddenly exclaimed. “What do you think, everyone? How about a game of blind man’s bluff?”

Alice and John nodded enthusiastically, and Elizabeth gave a reluctant, “All right,” after carefully considering the issue.

“What do you say, Nicholas?” Sophie asked, addressing the last remaining holdout.

“It could be fun,” he said slowly, terrifying Sophie with the devilish gleam in his eye.

“Excellent,” she said, trying to keep the wariness out of her voice. “But you must be the blind man,” he added.

Sophie opened her mouth to protest, but at that moment, the other three children started jumping up and down and squealing with delight. Then her fate was sealed when Hyacinth turned to her with a sly smile and said, “Oh, you must.”

Sophie knew that protest was useless, so she let out a long-suffering sigh—exaggerated, just to delight the children—and turned around so that Hyacinth could fasten a scarf over her eyes.

“Can you see?” Nicholas demanded. “No,” Sophie lied.

He turned to Hyacinth with a grimace. “She can see.” How could he tell?

“Add a second scarf,” he said. “This one is too sheer.”

“The indignity,” Sophie muttered, but nonetheless, she leaned down slightly so that Hyacinth could tie another scarf over her eyes.

“She’s blind now!” John hooted.

Sophie gave them all a sickly-sweet smile.

“All right now,” Nicholas said, clearly in charge. “You wait ten seconds so that we can take our places.”

Sophie nodded, then tried not to wince as she heard the sounds of a mad scramble around the room. “Try not to break anything!” she yelled, as if that would make any difference to an overexcited six-year-old.

“Are you ready?” she asked. No response. That meant yes. “Blind Man!” she called out.

“Bluff!” came five voices in unison.

Sophie frowned in concentration. One of the girls was definitely behind the sofa. She took a few baby steps to the right.

“Blind Man!”

“Bluff!” Followed, of course, by a few titters and chuckles. “Blind M— OW!”

More hoots and squeals of laughter. Sophie grunted as she rubbed her bruised shin.

“Blind Man!” she called, with considerably less enthusiasm. “Bluff!”

“Bluff!”

“BLUFF!”

“BLUFF!”

“BLUFF!”

“You are all mine, Alice,” she muttered under her breath, deciding to go for the smallest and presumably weakest of the bunch. “All mine.”

Benedict had nearly made a clean escape. After his mother had left the sitting room, he’d downed a much-needed glass of brandy and headed out toward the door, only to be caught by Eloise, who informed him that he absolutely couldn’t leave yet, that Mother was trying very hard to assemble all of her children in one place because Daphne had an important announcement to make.

“With child again?” Benedict asked.

“Act surprised. You weren’t supposed to know.” “I’m not going to act anything. I’m leaving.”

She made a desperate leap forward and somehow managed to grab his sleeve. “You can’t.”

Benedict let out a long breath and tried to pry her fingers off of his arm, but she had his shirt in a death grip. “I am going to pick up one foot,” he said in slow, tedious tones, “and step forward. Then I will pick up the next foot—”

“You promised Hyacinth you would help her with her arithmetic,” Eloise blurted out. “She hasn’t seen hide nor hair of you in two weeks.”

“It’s not as if she has a school to flunk out of,” Benedict muttered. “Benedict, that is a terrible thing to say!” Eloise exclaimed.

“I know,” he groaned, hoping to stave off a lecture.

“Just because we of the female gender are not allowed to study at places like Eton and Cambridge doesn’t mean our educations are any less precious,” Eloise ranted, completely ignoring her brother’s weak “I know.”

“Furthermore—” she carried on. Benedict sagged against the wall.

“—I am of the opinion that the reason we are not allowed access is that if we were, we would trounce you men in all subjects!”

“I’m sure you’re right,” he sighed. “Don’t patronize me.”

“Believe me, Eloise, the last thing I would dream of doing is patronizing you.”

She eyed him suspiciously before crossing her arms and saying, “Well, don’t disappoint Hyacinth.”

“I won’t,” he said wearily.

“I believe she’s in the nursery.”

Benedict gave her a distracted nod, turning toward the stairs.

But as he trudged on up, he didn’t see Eloise turn toward his mother, who was peeking out of the music room, and give her a big wink and a smile.

The nursery was located on the second floor. Benedict didn’t often come up that high; most of his siblings’ bedrooms were on the first floor. Only Gregory and Hyacinth still lived adjacent to the nursery, and with Gregory off at Eton most of the year and Hyacinth usually terrorizing someone in some other section of the house, Benedict simply didn’t have much reason to visit.

It didn’t escape him that aside from the nursery, the second floor was home to bedrooms for the higher servants. Including the lady’s maids.

Sophie.

She was probably off in some corner somewhere with her mending— certainly not in the nursery, which was the domain of nurses and nannies. A lady’s maid would have no reason to—

“Heeheeheehahaha!”

Benedict raised his brows. That was most definitely the sound of childish laughter, not something likely to come out of fourteen-year-old Hyacinth’s mouth.

Oh, right. His Wentworth cousins were visiting. His mother had mentioned something about that. Well, that would be a bonus. He hadn’t seen them in a few months, and they were nice enough children, if a little high-spirited.

As he approached the nursery door, the laughter increased, with a few squeals thrown in for good measure. The sounds brought a smile to Benedict’s face, and he turned when he reached the open doorway, and then

—

He saw her.

Her.

Not Sophie.

Her.

And yet it was Sophie.

She was blindfolded, smiling as she groped her hands toward the giggling children. He could see only the bottom half of her face, and that’s when he knew.

There was only one other woman in the world for whom he’d seen only the bottom half of her face.

The smile was the same. The gamine little point at the end of her chin was the same. It was all the same.

She was the woman in silver, the woman from the masquerade ball.

It suddenly made sense. Only twice in his life had he felt this inexplicable, almost mystical attraction to a woman. He’d thought it remarkable, to have found two, when in his heart he’d always believed there was only one perfect woman out there for him.

His heart had been right. There was only one.

He’d searched for her for months. He’d pined for her even longer. And here she’d been right under his nose.

And she hadn’t told him.

Did she understand what she’d put him through? How many hours he’d lain awake, feeling that he was betraying the lady in silver—the woman he’d dreamed of marrying—all because he was falling in love with a housemaid?

Dear God, it bordered on the absurd. He’d finally decided to let the lady in silver go. He was going to ask Sophie to marry him, social consequences be damned.

And they were one and the same.

A strange roaring filled his head, as if two enormous seashells had been clapped to his ears, whistling, whirring, humming; and the air suddenly smelled a bit acrid and everything looked a little bit red, and—

Benedict could not take his eyes off of her.

“Is something wrong?” Sophie asked. All the children had gone silent, staring at Benedict with open mouths and large, large eyes.

“Hyacinth,” he bit off, “will you please evacuate the room?” “But—”

“Now!” he roared.

“Nicholas, Elizabeth, John, Alice, come along now,” Hyacinth said quickly, her voice cracking. “There are biscuits in the kitchen, and I know that . . .”

But Benedict didn’t hear the rest. Hyacinth had managed to clear the room out in record time and her voice was disappearing down the hall as she ushered the children away.

“Benedict?” Sophie was saying, fumbling with the knot at the back of her head. “Benedict?”

He shut the door. The click was so loud she jumped. “What’s wrong?” she whispered.

He said nothing, just watched her as she tore at the scarf. He liked it that she was helpless. He didn’t feel terribly kind and charitable at the moment.

“Do you have something you need to tell me?” he asked. His voice was controlled, but his hands were shaking.

She went still, so still that he would have sworn that he could see the heat rise from her body. Then she cleared her throat—an uncomfortable, awkward sort of sound—and went back to work on the knot. Her movements tightened her dress around her breasts, but Benedict felt not one speck of desire.

It was, he thought ironically, the first time he hadn’t felt desire for this woman, in either of her incarnations.

“Can you help me with this?” she asked. But her voice was hesitant. Benedict didn’t move.

“Benedict?”

“It’s interesting to see you with a scarf tied around your head, Sophie,” he said softly.

Her hands dropped slowly to her sides.

“It’s almost like a demi-mask, wouldn’t you say?”

Her lips parted, and the soft rush of air that crossed them was the room’s only noise.

He walked toward her, slowly, inexorably, his footsteps just loud enough so that she had to know he was stalking her. “I haven’t been to a masquerade in many years,” he said.

She knew. He could see it in her face, the way she held her mouth, tight at the corners, and yet still slightly open. She knew that he knew.

He hoped she was terrified.

He took another two steps toward her, then abruptly turned to the right, his arm brushing past her sleeve. “Were you ever going to tell me that we’d met before?”

Her mouth moved, but she didn’t speak.

“Were you?” he asked, his voice low and controlled. “No,” she said, her voice wavering.

“Really?”

She didn’t make a sound.

“Any particular reason?” “It—it didn’t seem pertinent.”

He whirled around. “It didn’t seem pertinent?” he snapped. “I fell in love with you two years ago, and it didn’t seem pertinent?”

“Can I please remove the scarf?” she whispered. “You can remain blind.”

“Benedict, I—”

“Like I was blind this past month,” he continued angrily. “Why don’t you see how you like it?”

“You didn’t fall in love with me two years ago,” she said, yanking at the too-tight scarf.

“How would you know? You disappeared.”

“I had to disappear,” she cried out. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“We always have choices,” he said condescendingly. “We call it free will.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” she snapped, tugging frantically at the blindfold. “You, who have everything! I had to—Oh!” With one wrenching movement, she somehow managed to yank down the scarves until they hung loosely around her neck.

Sophie blinked against the sudden onslaught of light. Then she caught sight of Benedict’s face and stumbled back a step.

His eyes were on fire, burning with a rage, and yes, a hurt that she could barely comprehend. “It’s good to see you, Sophie,” he said in a dangerously low voice. “If indeed that is your real name.”

She nodded.

“It occurs to me,” he said, a little too casually, “if you were at the masquerade, then you are not exactly of the servant class, are you?”

“I didn’t have an invitation,” she said hastily. “I was a fraud. A pretender. I had no right to be there.”

“You lied to me. Through everything, all this, you lied to me.” “I had to,” she whispered.

“Oh, please. What could possibly be so terrible that you must conceal your identity from me?”

Sophie gulped. Here in the Bridgerton nursery, with him looming over her, she couldn’t quite remember why she’d decided not to tell him that she was the lady at the masquerade.

Maybe she’d feared that he would want her to become his mistress. Which had happened anyway.

Or maybe she hadn’t said anything because by the time she’d realized that this wasn’t going to be a chance meeting, that he wasn’t about to let Sophie-the-housemaid out of his life, it was too late. She’d gone too long without telling him, and she feared his rage.

Which was exactly what had happened.

Proving her point. Of course, that was cold consolation as she stood across from him, watching his eyes go hot with anger and cold with disdain

—all at the same time.

Maybe the truth—as unflattering as it might be—was that her pride had been stung. She’d been disappointed that he hadn’t recognized her himself. If the night of the masquerade had been as magical for him as it had been for her, shouldn’t he have known instantly who she was?

Two years she’d spent dreaming about him. Two years she’d seen his face every night in her mind. And yet when he’d seen hers, he’d seen a stranger.

Or maybe, just maybe, it hadn’t been any of those things. Maybe it was simpler than that. Maybe she’d just wanted to protect her heart. She didn’t know why, but she’d felt a little safer, a little less exposed as an anonymous housemaid. If Benedict had known who she was—or at least known that she’d been the woman at the masquerade—then he would have pursued her. Relentlessly.

Oh, he had certainly pursued her when he’d thought she’d been a maid. But it would have been different if he’d known the truth. Sophie was sure of it. He wouldn’t have perceived the class differences as being quite so great, and Sophie would have lost an important barrier between them. Her social status, or lack thereof, had been a protective wall around her heart. She couldn’t get too close because, quite honestly, she couldn’t get too close. A man such as Benedict—son of and brother to viscounts—would never marry a servant.

But an earl’s by-blow—now that was a much trickier situation. Unlike a servant, an aristocratic bastard could dream.

But like those of a servant, the dreams weren’t likely to come true. Making the dreaming all that much more painful. And she’d known—every

time it had been on the tip of her tongue to blurt out her secret she had known—that telling him the truth would lead straight to a broken heart.

It almost made Sophie want to laugh. Her heart couldn’t possibly feel worse than it did now.

“I searched for you,” he said, his low, intense voice cutting into her thoughts.

Her eyes widened, grew wet. “You did?” she whispered.

“For six bloody months,” he cursed. “It was as if you fell right off the face of the earth.”

“I had nowhere to go,” she said, not sure why she was telling him that. “You had me.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and dark. Finally, Sophie, propelled by some perverse sense of belated honesty, said, “I didn’t know you searched for me. But—but—” She choked on the word, closing her eyes tightly against the pain of the moment.

“But what?”

She swallowed convulsively, and when she did open her eyes, she did not look at his face. “Even if I’d known you were looking,” she said, hugging her arms to her body, “I wouldn’t have let you find me.”

“Was I that repulsive to you?”

“No!” she cried out, her eyes flying to his face. There was hurt there. He hid it well, but she knew him well. There was hurt in his eyes.

“No,” she said, trying to make her voice calm and even. “It wasn’t that.

It could never be that.” “Then what?”

“We’re from different worlds, Benedict. Even then I knew that there could be no future for us. And it would have been torture. To tease myself with a dream that couldn’t come true? I couldn’t do that.”

“Who are you?” he asked suddenly.

She just stared at him, frozen into inaction.

“Tell me,” he bit off. “Tell me who you are. Because you’re no damned lady’s maid, that’s for certain.”

“I’m exactly who I said I was,” she said, then, at his murderous glare, hastily added, “Almost.”

He advanced on her. “Who are you?”

She backed up another step. “Sophia Beckett.”

“Who are you?”

“I’ve been a servant since I was fourteen.” “And who were you before that?”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “A bastard.” “Whose bastard?”

“Does it matter?”

His stance grew more belligerent. “It matters to me.”

Sophie felt herself deflate. She hadn’t expected him to ignore the duties of his birth and actually marry someone like her, but she’d hoped he wouldn’t care quite that much.

“Who were your parents?” Benedict persisted. “No one you know.”

“Who were your parents?” he roared. “The Earl of Penwood,” she cried out.

He stood utterly still, not a muscle moving. He didn’t even blink.

“I am a nobleman’s bastard,” she said harshly, years of anger and resentment pouring forth. “My father was the Earl of Penwood and my mother was a maid. Yes,” she spat out when she saw his face grow pale, “my mother was a lady’s maid. Just as I am a lady’s maid.”

A heavy pause filled the air, and then Sophie said in a low voice, “I won’t be like my mother.”

“And yet, if she’d behaved otherwise,” he said, “you wouldn’t be here to tell me about it.”

“That’s not the point.”

Benedict’s hands, which had been fisted at his sides, began to twitch. “You lied to me,” he said in a low voice.

“There was no need to tell you the truth.”

“Who the hell are you to decide?” he exploded. “Poor little Benedict, he can’t handle the truth. He can’t make up his own mind. He—”

He broke off, disgusted by the whiny edge to his voice. She was turning him into someone he didn’t know, someone he didn’t like.

He had to get out of there. He had to—

“Benedict?” She was looking at him oddly. Her eyes were concerned. “I have to go,” he muttered. “I can’t see you right now.”

“Why?” she asked, and he could see from her face that she instantly regretted the question.

“I am so angry right now,” he said, each word a slow, staccato beat in the sentence, “that I don’t know myself. I—” He looked down at his hands. They were shaking. He wanted to hurt her, he realized. No, he didn’t want to hurt her. He would never want to hurt her. And yet . . .

And yet . . .

It was the first time in his life he’d felt so out of control. It scared him. “I have to go,” he said again, and he brushed roughly past her as he

strode out the door.