Chapter Text
Miss Sophia Maria Beckett, age twenty-two, was perhaps not so much in the first blush of youth as the other young ladies making their debut. But she had something else going for her: mystery. It was widely known that since the Earl of Penwood had had that unfortunate health scare eight years earlier, he preferred to stay at home in the country. Not that that ever hindered his wife, Lady Penwood, or his step-daughters. The minute Miss Rosamund Reiling turned of age, Lady Penwood had packed up her belongings and set herself and her daughters loose on London society; husband-hunting with a determination that ought to be commended by an olympic medal.
But Miss Sophia Beckett, as it was also widely known (or perhaps merely assumed), was fiercely devoted to her guardian. And chose to stay by his side at Penwood Park year after year, instead of enjoying a London season as no doubt any young lady would want to do.
Of course this only increased the mystery surrounding her. Would she come to London this year? What sort of dowry did she have? Was she beautiful? Was she accomplished? And most importantly: where had she come from?
The longer she remained elusive, the more the ton wondered.
Lady Danbury assured that Miss Beckett was the orphaned daughter of a heroic and decorated soldier that died for king and country against Napoleon.
Lady Featherington had heard that she was a poor relation of the earl’s third cousin.
Lady Pleinsworth suspected she was the secret child of a French royal who was being hidden in England for her protection.
Lady Penwood did not wish to talk about such a boring topic but would anyone care to see Miss Rosamund’s watercolors instead? She had such skill!
Year after year, the society gossips held their breaths when Lady Penwood first arrived to town and year after year they let out huffs of disappointment at seeing only the odious woman and her two, slightly more tolerable, daughters.
It was the year of 1815 however that would finally bring with it the as of yet unseen resident of Penwood Park; and by this point the intrigue had gone on so long that even the most reluctant bachelors (who ran at the sight of match-making mamas and eager debutantes everywhere), had cause to attend the first ball of the season and meet the mysterious Miss Beckett.
That is, all but one.
“-and Lady Pleinsworth thinks she might be French royalty, which personally I think is a bit too fantastical,” Eloise Bridgerton declared to anyone who would listen. Unfortunately for him, Benedict was one such creature who had to listen; seeing as he was trapped in a carriage sitting across from his sister. And opening the door and jumping from the carriage and into traffic was not an option. Not yet at least. If he had to hear one more factoid about Miss Sophia Beckett he might be tempted.
Even Genevieve had mentioned her the day before! The young miss had entered her shop to be fitted for a dress and with all the commotion she was causing in London, Genevieve couldn’t help but form an opinion of her.
“She’s very beautiful,” she had remarked idly as they made small talk in bed. Benedict had stared at the ceiling and hummed, feigning interest. “And very intelligent. We had a lovely chat. If I were a lady of the ton, I should be very worried,” she had said with a chuckle.
“I wonder what she looks like,” Eloise mused. Benedict almost echoed what Genevieve had said but he clamped his mouth shut to avoid questions.
“We’re nearly there,” Anthony said, glancing out the window. “You shall have your answer soon enough.”
“I should like to be friends with her,” Eloise declared.
“Keeping the competition close, Eloise?” Kate teased. It was Eloise’s second season and she scoffed.
“Please. I’ve already met or am related to-” she cut her eyes to Benedict; then Anthony, “every idiotic man in London. She’s welcome to them all.”
The minute Benedict entered the ballroom he did one required lap around the room. He greeted his mother, his sister Daphne, he danced with Eloise and then Penelope Featherington and once his duty was done he made a beeline for the cards room. If the famous Miss Sophia Beckett ever showed, Benedict was not there to take notice.
Sophie Beckett was exhausted. She had arrived in London three days before and she had not had a moment of respite since. Not to mention that having to pretend to be polite to Araminta in the presence of the earl (and all of London society) was emotionally exhausting enough. Tonight she could add physical exhaustion to her woes.
When she found her way outside, to her host’s vast garden, she took in a large breath of cool night air. She had danced nearly every single dance since she’d arrived. There had been so many gentlemen, she was sure she couldn’t recall a single one of their names. She pressed a gloved hand to her warm and sweaty forehead.
She had only come to London to appease the earl. Year in and year out he insisted that she go to London with Araminta but Sophie could think of nothing she’d rather do less than spend months on end confined to a house with only women who hated her and so she threw herself into caring for the convalescent earl with abandon. He probably didn’t deserve such devotion. He’d never been particularly kind to her; only indifferent at best but he must have been eager to get her married and off his hands because this year he had decided that he too would travel to London, and thus Sophie ran out of excuses to put off her season any longer.
Behind her, she heard the string quartet begin to warm up again and before she could think better of it she fled further into the garden, deep within a maze of hedges until she found a bench. She dropped herself on it and then pulled out her dance card; she was missing a waltz. She could very much live with that.
When she’d first arrived, she had been mesmerized by the ballroom. So beautifully decorated it looked like something out of a fairytale. And her gown, truth be told, was exquisite. She felt giddy and excited and so happy to be there. She had even blushed and been flattered by the gentlemen that immediately approached her. Vanity wasn’t something she indulged in often, holed up as she was at Penwood Park. And a few of those gentlemen had been quite handsome and charming. But as fun and lively as the night had been she was finding a rather lot of peace alone in that garden. She knew that with the earl coming to London in his health, the implication was that she must marry. And the dancing was fun and the attention was flattering but all night Sophie had waited and waited for that something. That spark she might feel when she saw a gentleman approach her and ask her for a dance. Every time one did, she held her breath and waited for a spark of magic and it never came. And she knew, she knew, it was only her first ball and she shouldn’t despair but what if it never came? She’d already been informed by a formidable woman named Lady Danbury that every eligible man in London had made himself available for the night to come meet her. What if this was it?
“You silly girl.” she said out loud, wrapping her arms around herself. If the earl decided that she must marry (he hadn’t said as much but Sophie could read between the lines), she didn’t really have the time to be waiting around for magical sparks.
“I beg your pardon?”
Sophie heard a disembodied voice and leapt from the bench where she sat, looking around her in the darkness.
Then she spied it: the flash of a white necktie, the silhouette of a man; obscured by the darkness and the thick branches of the hedge between them.
“Who goes there?” Benedict asked, throwing his cigarette down and stomping it out. Truly, could he not find two minutes of peace tonight?
“It’s only me.” A soft feminine voice said. Benedict peered through the hedge. Quite a bit down, actually. He caught the faintest sight of a head of blonde hair and a pale champagne dress glowing in the moonlight.
“Oh, well if it’s only you.”He said with sarcasm.
“I’m not supposed to give unknown gentlemen my name,” the woman behind the hedge said in a clipped voice, as if reciting from a book, “I’m to wait to be introduced.”
For some reason, this made Benedict smile.
“Of course. We must abide by the etiquette.”
“They’re silly rules,” she said quietly.
“I agree whole-heartedly.”
“For example, I’m not allowed to refuse a man’s offer to dance, could you believe that? I’ve had my toes tromped on so much tonight it will be a wonder if I can walk tomorrow.”
“That popular, are you?” He teased. There was a pause where Benedict imagined she looked embarrassed. “You must know that now you can never face me. What if we reveal ourselves and I’m one of the gentlemen who injured your toes? My pride would never recover.” He wasn’t. Not only because he’d only danced twice tonight but also because he was actually an above average dancer.
“I don’t think you are,” she said tentatively. “I don’t recognize your voice.”
“Perhaps I was quiet during our dance.”
A laugh bubbled out of her and it was lovely; soft and tinkling, the kind that made Benedict smile.
“A gentleman who didn’t step on me and was quiet long enough for me to hear my own thoughts, or heaven forbid, the music? I assure you, sir, I would jump over this hedge immediately just to get a look at such an anomaly.”
Benedict laughed fully now and he decided he must look at this creature. He eyed the house, the end of the maze where the two would finally be face to face and he took a few steps forward, hoping it would urge her to do the same.
“I’ve never been called an anomaly. Quite the opposite, in fact.”
“Oh? Are you exceedingly normal?” Her voice was directly in front of him and he knew she had moved with him; he smiled.
“I’m exceedingly common.” He took two more steps and picked up a branch, dragging it across the hedge as he moved, to lure her down.
“I’m afraid I must ask for clarification.”
“There’s a lot more of me.” Seven more, to be specific.
“You’re...rotund?”
Benedict laughed again.
“No.”
“No, I didn’t imagine you were.”
“Are you imagining what I look like?” He bit back a smile. He was enjoying this, actually. A conversation with a woman who didn’t already know who he was, what his name was and where he fell in the family line. He’d been in the ball room for a half of an hour and he’d been called “number two” no less than three times.
“Aren’t you?”
He crouched down again and saw tiny glimpses of her profile between the hedge. Not enough to know anything discernible. Not enough to make a face.
“I see blonde hair...a champagne gown. You’re not very tall.”
“That’s cheating,” she replied primly. They continued to walk slowly and Benedict noticed that she was decidedly not turning towards where his voice was. “We’re supposed to imagine.”
“What are you imagining?”
She made a little sound of contemplation.
“Not rotund.”
“We established that.”
“Tall. Athletic.”
“Dark hair or fair?”
“Dark.”
“You said that decisively.”
“If you were fair, I would have seen it when I first peeked. I only saw your necktie in the shadows.”
“I thought that was considered cheating.”
He heard her giggle again, that melodious airy sound.
“You’ve...brown eyes.”
He pulled a face and she interpreted his silence.
“No? Green then.”
“Grey, I’ve been told.”
“That’s very unique. I’m not sure I’d call you ‘exceedingly common’ at all.”
He couldn’t help but feel flattered by this. “Ah but you haven’t met my siblings.”
“I might have,” she quipped. “After all, I do not even know your name, sir.”
“Why don’t you tell me the names of gentlemen you danced with and I will tell you if any of those toe-tromping idiots was my brother?”
“You’ve only one?”
“Oh, I’ve several. But only one would have danced tonight.”
“There were...a great many names. I’m not sure I can remember.”
“My,” Benedict said, amused, “you are popular.”
“You must think me the most vain ninny.” And to be fair, she sounded mortified. Which only charmed Benedict more.
“Names, Miss,” he insisted.
“Er...there was a...Mr. Fairbrooke?”
“Berbrooke.”
“Perhaps you’re right.”
“He stomped on you.”
“How did you know?”
Benedict scoffed. “I know him well.”
“But he is not your brother?”
“Lord help me, no.”
He heard what must have been a giggle muffled behind a gloved hand.
“There was Lord Wetherby.”
Benedict hesitated.
“I would not get your hopes up with him. He er...has his sights set on someone else.”
“He did seem a bit distracted,” she conceded, “either way, he was a wonderful dancer.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“I waltzed with Mr. Dunford.”
“Surely he was a passable dancer, at least,” Benedict said, only a little bitterly. Dunford could famously charm the skirt off a nun if he tried it.
“Oh, yes.” And she sounded almost a little breathless. Benedict rolled his eyes.
“I’d be careful with him. He’s not looking for a wife.”
“Perhaps I’m not looking for a husband.”
Benedict stopped in his tracks; scandalized, and he could tell she was mortified at the implications of what she’d just said; not even realizing it until the the little quip was out of her mouth. And Benedict realized that with this, and the recitation of society rules, she must be new to London.
“I only mean...it was just a dance.”
Benedict felt benevolent so he let it go. “Of course.”
“Um...there was also a Mr. Bridgerton.”
Benedict slowed, a smile creeping up on his face. Oh Colin.
“Mr. Bridgerton?”
“Yes?” He replied automatically and then he cursed to himself. Damn, had he just given himself away?
“I asked: Do you know him?”
Perhaps not, he thought, smiling.
“Mr. Colin Bridgerton, I presume.”
He supposed there was a chance Anthony had danced with her, but it didn’t seem likely.
“Yes.”
“Still a bit wet behind the ears,” Benedict said, taking great delight in this, “A bit of a wildcard where toe stomping is concerned.”
She laughed.
“I thought he was a delightful dancer, actually. And very funny.”
“Yes I’ve heard he’s quite a laugh,” Benedict said, rolling his eyes.
“I appreciate your insight on these gentlemen. I’m new to London, you see,” she confided in a quiet voice, as if someone might hear them. Benedict smiled at his correct guess.
“I guessed as much.”
“Because I’m so very uncultured?” She asked apprehensively. He could hear a little smile in her voice but it sounded self-deprecating.
“No,” he said honestly, almost...passionately, “because you’re so very...refreshing.” And it was true. The women he met at these events simpered and preened and had rehearsed lines they learned from a book of rules for husband hunting passed down from society mama to society mama. It was difficult to have an honest or even an amusing conversation with any of them. But this woman, in the short time they’d been conversing she had made him laugh; multiple times.
“I shall take that as a compliment.”
“It’s how it was intended.”
“Sometimes ‘refreshing’ is a word used like ‘quaint’. To describe simple country folk.”
“Are you from the country, then?”
“Yes, but I thought there was only the country. And then London.”
Benedict chuckled. “Not precisely. There’s a great many cities in England besides this one.”
“Do you see what I mean? Uncultured.” She gave a dreamy little sigh. “I’d never been anywhere before this trip.”
And the truth was Benedict hardly had either. At least not the way Colin was plagued by wanderlust. But this woman sounded so earnest and wistful, he found himself saying. “I should love to show you someday.” Show her what? Wales? He felt like an idiot standing there talking to a hedge already, never mind making promises to a woman whose face he hadn’t even seen.
He stayed absolutely still, listening to her take shallow breaths. They were nearly at the end of the path now; the house was only a few meters away when she suddenly whispered:
“May I tell you a secret?”
Benedict felt a shiver run down his spine.
“Of course.” And he leaned in. As if there wasn’t an entire hedge between them.
“Tonight was absolutely wonderful,” she whispered.
Benedict couldn’t help the smile that broke out on his face. She sounded so happy. Truly, honestly happy and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so genuinely wonderstruck by something the way she was about a ballroom full of stuffy members of the ton. “Like there was magic in the air. Do you not think so?”
Benedict stopped. He pondered.
“Yes,” he whispered.
He thought there were perhaps three or four more strides left on the path, and then he would see her face. He burned with anticipation for it. Hang propriety. They didn’t need an introduction, he already felt as if they knew each other.
He was almost there, just two more paces or so, when suddenly the doors to the garden were opened and in the soft candlelight of the ballroom stood Lady Danbury.
Benedict cursed and retreated back into the shadows of the maze. If they were caught out here, whoever she may be, it would cause a scandal. It would ruin her. He pressed himself against the hedge and made himself quiet.
“Ah! There you are!” He heard Lady Danbury exclaim when she caught sight of his mystery woman. Lady Danbury gave her cane a little knock on the ground. “What on earth are you doing out here all alone?...You are alone aren’t you?”
Benedict stopped breathing. He stopped blinking.
“Yes. Of course,” the woman replied, sounding dazed.
“Well get in here then!” Lady D urged and Benedict watched his mystery woman emerge from her hiding spot. He only saw her back. He was right, she was small. A full head shorter than him at least and her hair was a a dark blonde pinned up gracefully. “The last dance is about to start and if we play our cards right, I might be able to distract that fool Berbrooke long enough for you to nab a final dance with that dashing Mr. Dunford!” Lady Danbury was rambling on.
Benedict held his breath and almost as if she could read his thoughts, his mystery woman turned in his direction. There was no way she could see him in the darkness, but he saw her. And she was...she was simply the most beautiful woman he had ever seen and he wanted to fall to his knees and curse the heavens. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on and he didn’t even know her name.
“Well come along, dear girl!” Lady Danbury exclaimed again, gesturing with her cane. “We must make haste, Miss Beckett!”
There were such a thing as small mercies, Sophie was starting to realize. For instance, Araminta had drank too much wine at the ball the night before (as much as she vehemently denied it) and was confined to her bedroom for the entire day; curtains drawn shut, a maid at the ready to be yelled at.
Another small mercy: the unmarried gentlemen of London were uncharacteristically early risers. Or so Sophie thought. The truth, of course, was that they had all had the exact same brilliant scheme to be the first caller of the day. And so they were. All of them. Together. The parlor of Penwood House resembled less a place of courtship and more a room at White’s. And Lord Penwood, confined to his armchair as he was and tasked with chaperoning, sent every gentleman a surly glare until one by one they shriveled under his gaze and vacated the premises — perhaps to actually go to White’s.
By mid morning all that was left as evidence of their visit were a vast array of floral arrangements, a dozen or so calling cards littering various surfaces, a furious Rosamund who was absolutely seething that not a single of those gentlemen had been there to call on her, and a greatly amused Posy, who had actually had a great time at breakfast without Araminta there to yell at her about having too many biscuits and she wasn’t letting anyone ruin that for her.
“Which of the gentlemen do you suppose you might allow to court you?” Posy asked warmly after having wandered about the room collecting the calling cards. She sat next to Sophie on the sofa and looked through each of them, before handing them off.
“Lord Wetherby is very handsome,” Posy mused.
“I heard he’s interested in someone else,” Sophie said quietly. This got Rosamund’s attention.
“Who? I danced with him last night and he spent a great deal of time complimenting me.”
“I don’t know who he might be interested in. Only that he is.”
Rosamund stood and snatched the cards out of Sophie’s hand. Sophie sent an annoyed look to the earl who, unfortunately, was fast asleep in his chair.
“I will keep his card,” Rosamund declared, and went back to her seat. Sophie shrugged and rolled her eyes. Truly, she couldn’t care less about Lord Wetherby. Or any of the gentlemen who called that morning. Sophie had sat at her spot on the sofa, smiling blandly while at any given moment four to six men spoke over each other, and she counted the minutes until she might be alone to think about him. That mysterious man she had spoken with last night and whose face she had not seen. But, mad as it might sound, he had made her feel that spark she was waiting for all night. The ballroom had been breathtaking. The music beautiful, the dancing mesmerizing. But it was there in that garden in the moonlight that she felt magic.
With the earl asleep, and all the gentlemen gone from her home, Sophie was simply biding her time until she could make an escape to her bedroom and she could ponder just how she would find that man. Because she would find him, she decided. She had to.
She began to shuffle in her seat, readying herself to make her excuses when their butler walked into the parlor with the expression of a man who had done this entirely too many times today.
“A gentleman caller, Miss Sophia.”
Sophie’s expression matched the butler’s and she nearly stomped her foot in frustration. The butler was extending the calling card but Sophie simply sunk back into her seat.
“Who is it? Do just tell me.”
“A Mr. Bridgerton, miss.”
For one moment, Sophie entertained sending him away. Anyone else she might have done. But Mr. Colin Bridgerton had truly been very funny and very good company the night before and although she couldn’t see herself being courted by him, perhaps she could spend the next twenty minutes in a friendly conversation. It would be a great change of pace from the morning of chaos she’d just had.
“Very well, send him in.”
“I don’t even know why I’m here,” Rosamund said petulantly, standing and dusting herself off.
“I don’t know why you’re here either,” Posy quipped and Rosamund sent her a death glare.
“Says you! How many of those gentlemen have been calling for you?”
“I’m here for Sophie’s moral support,” Posy replied with a sly smile that made Sophie want to laugh as well. “And to collect the calling cards.”
Rosamund looked at them both venomously. “Oh, suit yourself,” she spat at her sister, turning on her heel and disappearing. Sophie and Posy dissolved into a fit of giggles so intense they didn’t realize their visitor had entered the parlor until he spoke.
“Good morning, Miss Beckett.”
And Sophie looked up, caught off guard by the man standing in her parlor, a bouquet of flowers in his hand. This man was not Colin Bridgerton. This man was tall, he was handsome, he was smiling at Sophie with the most beautiful crooked smile she had ever seen.
And Sophie had no idea who he was.