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.
Sophie looked as she always looked before bed—plain, simple, and unassuming, her hair pulled into a loose braid, her feet tucked into warm stockings to keep out the chill night air.
She was back to looking what she was in truth—nothing more than a housemaid. Gone were all traces of the fairy princess she’d been for one short evening.
And saddest of all, gone was her fairy prince.
Benedict Bridgerton had been everything she’d read in Whistledown. Handsome, strong, debonair. He was the stuff of a young girl’s dreams, but not, she thought glumly, of her dreams. A man like that didn’t marry an earl’s by-blow. And he certainly didn’t marry a housemaid.
But for one night he’d been hers, and she supposed that would have to be enough.
She picked up a little stuffed dog she’d had since she’d been a small girl. She’d kept it all these years as a reminder of happier times. It usually sat on her dresser, but for some reason she wanted it closer right now. She crawled into bed, the little dog tucked under her arm, and curled up under the covers.
Then she squeezed her eyes shut, biting her lip as silent tears trickled onto her pillow.
It was a long, long night.
“Do you recognize this?”
Benedict Bridgerton was sitting next to his mother in her very feminine rose-and-cream drawing room, holding out his only link to the woman in silver. Violet Bridgerton took the glove and examined the crest. She needed only a second before she announced, “Penwood.”
“As in ‘Earl of’?”
Violet nodded. “And the G would be for Gunningworth. The title recently passed out of their family, if I recall correctly. The earl died without issue . . . oh, it must have been six or seven years ago. The title went to a distant cousin. And,” she added with a disapproving nod of her head, “you forgot to dance with Penelope Featherington last night. You’re lucky your brother was there to dance in your stead.”
Benedict fought a groan and tried to ignore her scolding. “Who, then, is SLG?”
Violet’s blue eyes narrowed. “Why are you interested?”
“I don’t suppose,” Benedict said on a groan, “that you will simply answer my question without posing one of your own.”
She let out a ladylike snort. “You know me far better than that.”
Benedict just managed to stop himself from rolling his eyes.
“Who,” Violet asked, “does the glove belong to, Benedict?” And then, when he didn’t answer quickly enough for her taste, she added, “You might as well tell me everything. You know I will figure it out on my own soon enough, and it will be far less embarrassing for you if I don’t have to ask any questions.”
Benedict sighed. He was going to have to tell her everything. Or at least, almost everything. There was little he enjoyed less than sharing such details with his mother—she tended to grab hold of any hope that he might actually marry and cling on to it with the tenacity of a barnacle. But he had little choice. Not if he wanted to find her.
“I met someone last night at the masquerade,” he finally said.
Violet clapped her hands together with delight. “Really?”
“She’s the reason I forgot to dance with Penelope.”
Violet looked nearly ready to die of rapture. “Who? One of Penwood’s daughters?” She frowned. “No, that’s impossible. He had no daughters. But he did have two stepdaughters.” She frowned again. “Although I must say, having met those two girls . . . well . . .”
“Well, what?”
Violet’s brow wrinkled as she fumbled for polite words. “Well, I simply wouldn’t have guessed you’d be interested in either of them, that’s all. But if you are,” she added, her face brightening considerably, “then I shall surely invite the dowager countess over for tea. It’s the very least I can do.”
Benedict started to say something, then stopped when he saw that his mot
her was frowning yet again. “What now?” he asked.
“Oh, nothing,” Violet said. “Just that . . . well . . .”
“Spit it out, Mother.”
She smiled weakly. “Just that I don’t particularly like the dowager countess. I’ve always found her rather cold and ambitious.”
“Some would say you’re ambitious as well, Mother,” Benedict pointed out.
Violet pulled a face. “Of course I have great ambition that my children marry well and happily, but I am not the sort who’d marry her daughter off to a seventy-year-old man just because he was a duke!”
“Did the dowager countess do that?” Benedict couldn’t recall any seventy-year-old dukes making recent trips to the altar.
“No,” Violet admitted, “but she would. Whereas I—”
Benedict bit back a smile as his mother pointed to herself with great flourish.
“I would allow my children to marry paupers if it would bring them happiness.”
Benedict raised a brow.
“They would be well-principled and hardworking paupers, of course,” Violet explained. “No gamblers need apply.”
Benedict didn’t want to laugh at his mother, so instead he coughed discreetly into his handkerchief.
“But you should not concern yourself with me,” Violet said, giving her son a sideways look before punching him lightly in the arm.
“Of course I must,” he said quickly.
She smiled serenely. “I shall put aside my feelings for the dowager countess if you care for one of her daughters . . .” She looked up hopefully. “Do you care for one of her daughters?”
“I have no idea,” Benedict admitted. “I never got her name. Just her glove.”
Violet gave him a stern look. “I’m not even going to ask how you obtained her glove.”
“It was all very innocent, I assure you.”
Violet’s expression was dubious in the extreme. “I have far too many sons to believe that,” she muttered.
“The initials?” Benedict reminded her.
Violet examined the glove again. “It’s rather old,” she said.