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She’d been so completely and utterly stunned, she’d almost forgotten that Phillip’s friend still held her pinned against him and was grabbing her behind in a most humiliating manner. For one brief second the world had melted away, and the only thing  she could see, the only thing she knew, was Benedict Bridgerton. It had been a moment of perfection. But then the world had come crashing back, and all she could think was—what on earth was he doing here? It was a disgusting party, full of drunkards and whores. When she’d met him two years ago, he hadn’t seemed the sort who would frequent such events. But she’d only known him for a few short hours. Perhaps she’d misjudged him. She closed her eyes in agony. For the past two years, the memory of Benedict Bridgerton had been the brightest light in her drab and dreary life. If she’d misjudged him, if he was little better than Phillip and his friends, then she’d be left with nothing.
Not even a memory of love.
But he had saved her. That was irrefutable. Maybe it didn’t really matter why he’d come to Phillip’s party, only that he had,  and he had saved her.
“Are you all right?” he suddenly asked.
Sophie nodded, looking him squarely in the eye, waiting for him to recognize her.
“Are you certain?”
She nodded again, still waiting. It had to happen soon.
“Good. They were handling you roughly.”
“I’ll be all right.” Sophie chewed on her lower lip. She had no idea how he would react once he realized who she was.  Would he be delighted? Furious? The suspense was killing her.
“How much time will it take for you to pack your things?”
Sophie blinked rather dumbly, then realized she was still holding her satchel. “It’s all right here,” she said. “I was trying to  leave when they caught me.”
“Smart girl,” he murmured approvingly.
Sophie just stared at him, unable to believe he hadn’t recognized her.
“Let’s be off, then,” he said. “It makes me ill just to be on Cavender’s property.”
Sophie said nothing, but her chin jutted slightly forward, and her head tilted to the side as she watched his face.
“Are you certain you’re all right?” he asked.
And then Sophie started to think.
Two years ago, when she’d met him, half of her face had been covered by a mask.
Her hair had been lightly powdered, making it seem blonder than it actually was. Furthermore, she’d since cut it and sold the locks to a wigmaker. Her previous long waves were now short curls.
Without Mrs. Gibbons to feed her, she’d lost nearly a stone.
And when one got right down to it, they’d only been in each other’s company a mere hour and a half.
She stared at him, right into his eyes. And that was when she knew.
He wasn’t going to recognize her.
He had no idea who she was.
Sophie didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.
Chapter 7
It was clear to all of the guests at the Mottram ball Thursday last that Miss Rosamund Reiling has set  her cap far Mr. Phillip Cavender.
It is the opinion of This Author that the two are well matched indeed.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 30 APRIL 1817
Ten minutes later, Sophie was sitting next to Benedict Bridgerton in his phaeton.
“Is there something in your eye?” he asked politely.
That caught her attention. “I-I beg your pardon?”
“You keep blinking,” he explained. “I thought perhaps you had something in your eye.”
Sophie swallowed hard, trying to suppress a round of nervous laughter. What was she supposed to say to him? The truth?  That she was blinking because she kept expecting to wake up from what could only be a dream? Or maybe a nightmare?
“Are you certain you’re all right?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Just the aftereffects of shock, I imagine,” he said.
She nodded again, letting him think that was all that affected her.
How could he not have recognized her? She’d been dreaming of this moment for years. Her Prince Charming had finally  come to rescue her, and he didn’t even know who she was.
“What was your name again?” he asked. “I’m terribly sorry. It always takes me twice to remember a name.”
“Miss Sophia Beckett.” There seemed little reason to lie; she hadn’t told him her name at the masquerade.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Beckett,” he said, keeping his eyes on the dark road. “I’m Mr. Benedict Bridgerton.”
Sophie acknowledged his greeting with a nod even though he wasn’t looking at her. She held silent for a moment, mostly because she simply didn’t know what to say in such an unbelievable situation. It was, she realized, the introduction that had never taken place two years earlier. Finally, she just said, “That was a very brave thing you did.”
He shrugged.
“There were three of them and only one of you. Most men would not have intervened.”
This time he did look at her. “I hate bullies,” was all he said.
She nodded again. “They would have raped me.”
“I know,” he replied. And then he added, “I have four sisters.”
She almost said “I know,” but caught herself just in time. How was a housemaid from Wiltshire supposed to know that? So instead she said, “I expect that is why you were so sensitive to my plight.”
“I would like to think another man would come to their aid, should they ever find themselves in a similar situation.”