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And unlike Sophie, he’d never been alone.
What now? He had already decided that he was prepared to brave social ostracism and marry her. The unrecognized bastard daughter of an earl was a slightly more acceptable match than a servant, but only slightly. London society might accept her if  he forced them to, but they wouldn’t go out of their way to be kind. He and Sophie would most likely have to live quietly in  the country, eschewing the London society that would almost certainly shun them.
But it took his heart less than a second to know that a quiet life with Sophie was by far preferable to a public life without her.
Did it matter that she was the woman from the masquerade? She’d lied to him about her identity, but he knew her soul. When they kissed, when they laughed, when they simply sat and talked—she had never feigned a moment.
The woman who could make his heart sing with a simple smile, the woman who could fill him with contentment just through  the simple act of sitting by him while he sketched— that was the real Sophie.
And he loved her.
“You look as if you’ve reached a decision,” Colin said quietly.
Benedict eyed his brother thoughtfully. When had he grown so perceptive? Come to think of it, when had he grown up? Benedict had always thought of Colin as a youthful rascal, charming and debonair, but not one who had ever had to assume  any sort of responsibility.
But when he regarded his brother now, he saw someone else. His shoulders were a little broader, his posture a little more steady and subdued. And his eyes looked wiser. That was the biggest change. If eyes truly were windows to the soul, then Colin’s soul had gone and grown up on him when Benedict hadn’t been paying attention.
“I owe her a few apologies,” Benedict said.
“I’m sure she’ll forgive you.”
“She owes me several as well. More than several.”
Benedict could tell that his brother wanted to ask, “What for?” but to his credit, all Colin said was, “Are you willing to  forgive her?”
Benedict nodded.
Colin reached out and plucked Benedict’s foil from his hands. “I’ll put this away for you.”
Benedict stared at his brother’s fingers for a rather stupidly long moment before snapping to attention. “I have to go,” he  blurted out.
Colin barely suppressed a grin. “I surmised as much.”
Benedict stared at his brother and then, for no other reason than an overwhelming urge, he reached out and pulled him into  a quick hug. “I don’t say this often,” he said, his voice starting to sound gruff in his ears, “but I love you.”
“I love you, too, big brother.” Colin’s smile, always a little bit lopsided, grew. “Now get the hell out of here.”
Benedict tossed his mask at his brother and strode out of the room.
“What do you mean, she’s gone?”
“Just that, I’m afraid,” Lady Bridgerton said, her eyes sad and sympathetic. “She’s gone.”
The pressure behind Benedict’s temples began to build; it was a wonder his head didn’t explode. “And you just let her go?”
“It would hardly have been legal for me to force her to stay.”
Benedict nearly groaned. It had hardly been legal for him to force her to come to London, but he’d done it, anyway.
“Where did she go?” he demanded.
His mother seemed to deflate in her chair. “I don’t know. I had insisted that she take one of our coaches, partly because  I feared for her safety but also because I wanted to know where she went.”
Benedict slammed his hands on the desk. “Well, then, what happened?”
“As I was trying to say, I attempted to get her to take one of our coaches, but it was obvious she didn’t want to, and she disappeared before I could have the carriage brought ‘round.”
Benedict cursed under his breath. Sophie was probably still in London, but London was huge and hugely populated. It would be damn near impossible to find someone who didn’t want to be found.
“I had assumed,” Violet said delicately, “that the two of you had had a falling-out.”
Benedict raked his hand through his hair, then caught sight of his white sleeve. “Oh, Jesus,” he muttered. He’d run over here in his fencing clothes. He looked up at his mother with a roll of his eyes. “No lectures on blasphemy just now, Mother. Please.”
Her lips twitched. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Where am I going to find her?”
The levity left Violet’s eyes. “I don’t know, Benedict. I wish I did. I quite liked Sophie.”
“She’s Penwood’s daughter,” he said.
Violet frowned. “I suspected something like that. Illegitimate, I assume?”
Benedict nodded.
His mother opened her mouth to say something, but he never did find out what, because at that moment, the door to her office came flying open, slamming against the wall with an amazing crash. Francesca, who had obviously been running across the house, smashed into her mother’s desk, followed by Hyacinth, who smashed into Francesca.
“What is wrong?” Violet asked, rising to her feet.
“It’s Sophie,” Francesca panted.
“I know,” Violet said. “She’s gone. We—”
“No!” Hyacinth cut in, slapping a piece of paper down on the desk. “Look.”
Benedict tried to grab the paper, which he immediately recognized as an issue of Whistledown, but his mother got there first. “What is it?” he asked, his stomach sinking as he watched her face pale.