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Mrs. Gibbons dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “You just have a good time, dearling. That’s all the thanks I need.”
Sophie looked again at the clock. Two hours.
Two hours that she’d have to make last a lifetime.
Chapter 2
The Bridgertons are truly a unique family. Surely there cannot be anyone in London who does not know that they all look remarkably alike, or that they are famously named in alphabetical order: Anthony, Benedict,  Colin, Daphne, Eloise, Francesea, Gregory, and Hyacinth.
It does make one wonder what the late viscount and (still very-much alive) dowager viscountess would,  have named their next child had their offspring numbered nine. Imogen? Inigo?
Perhaps it is best they stopped at eight.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 2 JUNE 1815
Benedict Bridgerton was the second of eight children, but sometimes it felt more like a hundred.
This ball his mother had insisted upon hosting was supposed to be a masquerade, and Benedict had dutifully donned a black demi-mask, but everyone knew who he was. Or rather, they all almost knew.
“A Bridgerton!” they would exclaim, clapping their hands together with glee.
“You must be a Bridgerton!”
“A Bridgerton! I can spot a Bridgerton anywhere.”
Benedict was a Bridgerton, and while there was no family to which he’d rather belong, he sometimes wished he were considered a little less a Bridgerton and a little more himself.
Just then, a woman of somewhat indeterminate age dressed as a shepherdess sauntered over. “A Bridgerton!” she trilled.  “I’d recognize that chestnut hair anywhere. Which are you? No, don’t say. Let me guess. You’re not the viscount, because  I just saw him. You must be Number Two or Number Three.”
Benedict eyed her coolly.
“Which one? Number Two or Number Three?”
“Two,” he bit off.
She clapped her hands together. “That’s what I thought! Oh, I must find Portia. I told her you were Number Two—”
Benedict, he nearly growled.
“—but she said, no, he’s the younger one, but I—”
Benedict suddenly had to get away. It was either that or kill the twittering ninnyhammer, and with so many witnesses, he  didn’t think he could get away with it. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said smoothly. “I see someone with whom I must speak.”
It was a lie, but he didn’t much care. With a curt nod toward the overage shepherdess, he made a beeline toward the ballroom’s side door, eager to escape the throng and sneak into his brother’s study, where he might find some blessed  peace and quiet and perhaps a glass of fine brandy.
“Benedict!”
Damn. He’d nearly made a clean escape. He looked up to see his mother hurrying toward him. She was dressed in some  sort of Elizabethan costume. He supposed she was meant to be a character in one of Shakespeare’s plays, but for the life  of him, he had no idea which.
“What can I do for you, Mother?” he asked. “And don’t say ‘Dance with Hermione Smythe-Smith.’ Last time I did that I  nearly lost three toes in the process.”
“I wasn’t going to ask anything of the sort,” Violet replied. “I was going to ask you to dance with Prudence Featherington.”
“Have mercy, Mother,” he moaned. “She’s even worse.” “I’m not asking you to marry the chit,” she said. “Just dance with her.”
Benedict fought a groan. Prudence Featherington, while essentially a nice person, had a brain the size of a pea and a laugh so grating he’d seen grown men flee with their hands over their ears. “I’ll tell you what,” he wheedled. “I’ll dance with Penelope Featherington if you keep Prudence at bay.”
“That’ll do,” his mother said with a satisfied nod, leaving Benedict with the sinking sensation that she’d wanted him to dance  with Penelope all along.
“She’s over there by the lemonade table,” Violet said, “dressed as a leprechaun, poor thing. The color is good for her, but someone really must take her mother in hand next time they venture out to the dressmaker. A more unfortunate costume,  I can’t imagine.”
“You obviously haven’t seen the mermaid,” Benedict murmured.
She swatted him lightly on the arm. “No poking fun at the guests.” “But they make it so easy.”
She shot him a look of warning before saying, “I’m off to find your sister.”
“Which one?”
“One of the ones who isn’t married,” Violet said pertly. “Viscount Guelph might be interested in that Scottish girl, but they  aren’t betrothed yet.”
Benedict silently wished Guelph luck. The poor bloke was going to need it.
“And thank you for dancing with Penelope,” Violet said pointedly.
He gave her a rather ironic half smile. They both knew that her words were meant as a reminder, not as thanks.
His arms crossed in a somewhat forbidding stance, he watched his mother depart before drawing a long breath and turning  to make his way to the lemonade table. He adored his mother to distraction, but she did tend to err on the side of meddlesome when it came to the social lives of her children. And if there was one thing that bothered her even more than Benedict’s unmarried state, it was the sight of a young girl’s glum face when no one asked her to dance. As a result, Benedict spent a  lot of time on the ballroom floor, sometimes with girls she wanted him to marry, but more often with the overlooked wallflowers.