Page 19

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 mother 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?”