The revelers were still removing their masks, and the party was loud with raucous laughter. Sophie pushed and jostled,  anything to beat her way to the other side of the room. She threw one desperate glance over her shoulder. Benedict had entered the ballroom, his face intense as he scanned the crowd. He didn’t seem to have seen her yet, but she knew that he would; her silver gown would make her an easy target.

Sophie kept shoving people out of her way. At least half of them didn’t seem to notice; probably too drunk. “Excuse me,”  she muttered, elbowing Julius Caesar in the ribs. “Beg pardon,” came out more like a grunt; that was when Cleopatra  stepped on her toe.

“Excuse me, I—” And then the breath was quite literally sucked out of her, because she found herself face-to-face with Araminta.

Or rather, face to mask. Sophie was still disguised. But if anyone could recognize her, it would be Araminta. And—

“Watch where you’re going,” Araminta said haughtily. Then, while Sophie stood openmouthed, she swished her Queen Elizabeth skirts and swept away.

Araminta hadn’t recognized her! If Sophie hadn’t been so frantic about getting out of Bridgerton House before Benedict  caught up with her, she would have laughed with delight.

Sophie glanced desperately behind her. Benedict had spotted her and was pushing his way through the crowd with considerably more efficiency than she had done. With an audible gulp and renewed energy, she pushed forth, almost knocking two Grecian goddesses to the ground before finally reaching the far door.

She looked behind her just long enough to see that Benedict had been waylaid by some elderly lady with a cane, then ran out  of the building and around front, where the Penwood carriage was waiting, just as Mrs. Gibbons had said it would.

“Go, go, go!” Sophie shouted frantically to the driver. And she was gone.

Chapter 4

More than one masquerade attendee has reported to This Author that Benedict Bridgerton  was seen in the company of an unknown lady dressed in a silver gown.

Try as she might, This Author has been completely unable to discern the mystery lady’s identity. And  if This Author cannot uncover the truth, you may be assured that her identity is a well-kept secret indeed.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 7 JUNE 1815

She was gone.

Benedict stood on the pavement in front of Bridgerton House, surveying the street. All of Grosvenor Square was a mad  crush of carriages. She could be in any one of them, just sitting there on the cobbles, trying to escape the traffic. Or she  could be in one of the three carriages that had just escaped the tangle and rolled around the corner.

Either way, she was gone.

He was half-ready to strangle Lady Danbury, who’d jammed her cane onto his toe and insisted upon giving him her opinion  on most of the party goers’ costumes. By the time he’d managed to free himself, his mystery lady had disappeared through  the ballroom’s side door.

And he knew that she had no intention of letting him see her again.

Benedict let out a low and rather viciously uttered curse.

With all the ladies his mother had trotted out before him—and there had been many—he’d never once felt the same soul-searing connection that had burned between him and the lady in silver. From the moment he’d seen her—no, from the moment before he’d seen her, when he’d only just felt her presence, the air had been alive, crackling with tension and excitement. And he’d been alive, too—alive in a way he hadn’t felt for years, as if everything were suddenly new and  sparkling and full of passion and dreams.

And yet...

Benedict cursed again, this time with a touch of regret. And yet he didn’t even know the color of her eyes. They definitely  hadn’t been brown. Of that much he was positive. But in the dim light of the candled night, he’d been unable to discern  whether they were blue or green. Or hazel or gray. And for some reason he found this the most upsetting. It ate at him,  leaving a burning, hungry sensation in the pit of his stomach.

They said eyes were the windows to the soul. If he’d truly found the woman of his dreams, the one with whom he could finally imagine a family and a future, then by God he ought to know the color of her eyes.

It wasn’t going to be easy to find her. It was never easy to find someone who didn’t want to be found, and she’d made it more than clear that her identity was a secret.

His clues were paltry at best. A few dropped comments concerning Lady Whistledown’s column and...

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 through the ballroom. He brought it to his face and inhaled its 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, and that was when he noticed a tiny bit of stitching 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.

*  *  *

It took a mere half hour to return Sophie to her regular, drab state. Gone were the dress, the glittering earbobs, and the fancy coiffure. The jeweled slippers were tucked neatly back in Araminta’s closet, and the rouge the maid had used for her lips was resting in its place on Rosamund’s dressing table. She’d even taken five minutes to massage the skin on her face, to remove  the indentations left by the mask.