Chapter Text
He had to catch her.
The moment she ran from the terrace, silver skirt brushing against the stone, he knew. His body moved before his mind had caught up, every thought narrowed to a single point: her. The only woman who had ever stirred such chaos in him. The only woman he could imagine loving. She was already woven into his very being, as if she had lived there all along, waiting to be seen. There had been women before. Men before. But none had made him feel the way he did. He needed her.
And she was running from him. Disappearing.
He would not let her escape. He could not lose her.
She would go through the ballroom, of course - every lady must pass through the house to reach the waiting carriages. But he had the advantage, Bridgerton House was his home. He knew every hallway, every passageway, every trick for slipping away unseen.
So instead of charging after her into the throng of guests, Benedict turned to the edge of the terrace. Below, ivy thickened against the wall, curling around the trellis he had climbed a hundred times as a boy. He almost smiled at the memory, especially as he noted fresh indents in the Ivy, suggesting his younger brother was also using it for mischievous escapes.
With the ease of long practice, Benedict swung himself down. His boots touched the ground, and then he was running, his long legs eating up the garden path. He vaulted over a low wall, the laughter of the party fading behind him, and found himself on the road.
The street was crowded with carriages and lingering footmen, but he scarcely saw them. He saw only her in his mind. The sweep of her silver gown, glimmering like moonlight. The cascade of dark hair, rich as the midnight sky.
Her eyes—
He faltered. He did not know their color. How was it possible that he had spoken to her, touched her hand, memorized the shape of her smile, and yet not seen her eyes? Because it did not matter. He did not need to. The colour of her soul was enough.
He remembered the first instant he had noticed her, standing beneath the chandelier, her mask hiding half her face, yet revealing everything at once. He remembered the twist of jealousy in his chest when another man—Lord Something-or-Other, he could not even recall—tried to engage her. He remembered the fierce, undeniable certainty that she belonged to him, that no one else should dare.
Where had she gone?
A carriage rattled past him. Inside he could make out a lone silhouette.
His heart leapt.
He sprinted. The vehicle lurched over cobblestones, the lanterns casting fleeting glows on her figure. He followed it through twisting streets, every turn, every jolt, his breath fogging in the cool night air. At last it drew to a halt before a townhouse on the edge of Mayfair. The street was quieter here, the houses dignified but tired, many with shutters drawn or paint peeling, homes of families who spent little time in London or of widows and gentlemen grown careless.
He lingered in the shadows as the carriage door swung open.
There she was.
The masked lady of silver. His lady.
Her steps were quick, almost furtive, as she mounted the stone stairs, glancing behind her in an anxious fashion. The carriage, instead of turning to the nearby mews, wheeled around and rumbled back toward Bridgerton House.
Benedict leaned against the iron railing across the street. The house stood silent, its windows dark, curtains drawn. No candlelight flickered. Perhaps she had slipped away from some vigilant chaperone, eager to escape their sharp watch. Perhaps the house itself slumbered, unaware that she had returned in secret. Unaware that she had ever left.
His mind spun, weaving her story from threads of imagination. She would be upstairs now, her maid unlacing her gown, her hair tumbling free in silken waves. He pictured her standing before a mirror, pale from the night’s adventures, unmasked at last. He pictured her slipping into a nightgown, her shoulders bare beneath soft muslin. The intimacy of the vision made his pulse quicken.
In his pocket, his fingers brushed against silk - the glove she had left behind. He closed his hand around it, feeling the imprint of her. He could return it. Yes. That was reason enough. He could present himself at her door, explain that he had only come to restore what was hers.
But at this hour? After midnight?
No father would welcome a gentleman prowling at his doorstep in the dead of night. No guardian would trust a man so eager. Even he, reckless as he was, knew better.
Still—he could not leave it. He needed to see her again. Tomorrow.
Which window was hers? He looked up at the dark façade. Was she awake now, gazing down, wondering about him as he wondered about her? He considered circling the house, seeking a sign of her presence. But there was nothing, only stillness.
Very well. Tomorrow. He would come back in the morning, no matter how unseemly his impatience. Before midday. After—yes—after he stopped at the vault to retrieve the ring promised him long ago. The ring that would be hers. He would waste no time. He would not risk another man claiming her before he did.
Resolved, Benedict smiled and turned back toward the street—just as the carriage returned.
This time, three ladies emerged.
The Li girls. And their mother.
Benedict’s brow furrowed. He knew of them, of course. They were newly arrived in society that Season, their mother fierce in her ambitions. Names like blossoms.
But why had the Li girls returned together - without his masked lady? Were they her sisters? Cousins? Something else entirely?
A shadow of doubt slid through him. Perhaps he had been mistaken. Perhaps she was younger than he believed, perilously young—closer to Hyacinth’s age than to his. The thought chilled him. Had he allowed himself to be bewitched by a mere girl?
He shook his head, banishing the fear. The answers would come soon enough. Tomorrow he would know.
Tomorrow, he promised himself, she would be his.