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Chapter Text

Sophie Baek was a bastard.
It wasn’t something spoken about at Penwood house. The shame of her birth was a delicate topic among the family, who did not want the social scrutiny, and the staff, who feared they might upset her. But everyone knew she was a bastard. And perhaps, more importantly, Sophie knew she was a bastard.
With her unwedded mother long deceased, and her father, the Earl of Penwood dead not long after she had turned ten years of age, her time as his ward had been cut short by his new wife, Lady Araminta Gao. Overnight it seemed, she was transformed from an educated and agreeable ward of an Earl, to a penniless maid slaving over her father’s widow.
And that wasn’t to mention the two young misses that came with the position, her stepsisters Rosamund and Posy Li.

Life had gone from bad to worse, but she supposed she couldn’t complain. Although she went unpaid for her endless labour, the Penwoods provided her with a roof over her head and a meal in her belly, which was more than she could say for most people of her station. So, she worked. The logical part of her knew she needed the position to survive; a young, unmarried girl would not get very far without money or a recommendation. But a tiny part of her, buried in the deepest parts of her heart where no one could reach, worked as well as she did because she figured that one day, Araminta would accept her as one of her own. Like she was supposed to all those years ago. Her father was gone, but perhaps she could still have a mother, even sisters. She would never admit such a thing aloud to anyone; her fellow staff would either laugh at her or pity her. But the only thing in the entire world she had ever wanted was a family. Even if that family was as cruel as Araminta.

“Ah, Sophie! Will you be joining us?” Asked Mrs. Cho, stirring her oolong tea at a pace that suggested Ana hadn’t made it quite right, but was too polite to complain. Sophie gave her a knowing smile. “I would love to, but the girls have loaded me with mending in preparation for the masquerade, and Araminta’s skirting board needs cleaning.” She rinsed Rosamund's tea set and lit the stove once more, allowing the water to boil for what had to be the hundredth time that morning. She bit her lip in annoyance. There was nothing wrong with the tea Sophie had brought her step sister half an hour ago, but she was tasked to make it again simply to rile her up. If there was one thing Sophie Baek would never give the Penwoods, it was a reaction.
“But you have been at it all morning! Surely it is time for you to rest.” From the pantry, Ana chirped in agreement. She emerged with a plate of day old biscuits, and set them down on their make shift dining table. “Look, cinnamon biscuits! I dug them out especially.”

Sophie smiled. For a household as cold and lifeless as the Penwoods, she would forever be grateful for the fellow staff that made her days bearable. “I have already dallied enough, Ana.” She said, taking a biscuit for Rosamund’s tray. Both the housekeeper and the kitchen maid rolled their eyes. “You have never dallied a day in your life, Miss Baek.” Scolded Mrs. Cho. “Get that tea up to that wicked girl, and come spend the evening with us.”
“Wicked indeed,” Ana murmured. “Yesterday she tore the hemming of my uniform, and all because it dragged across the floor! She’s as bad as her mother, that one.”
Sophie giggled, carefully taking the loaded tray. “We mustn’t be so cruel. Just this morning she allowed me a stroll in the gardens.”
Mrs. Cho sighed. “You fail to mention that you were only in the gardens to pick flowers for her hat.” Ana giggled, half in disbelief. “I do not get it. You are treated no better than a prisoner in this home and yet you still want to see the good in everyone,” she teased, tapping Sophie’s nose with the tip of her finger. “Either you are a modern day saint, or you are completely deranged.” This got a laugh out of Sophie. “The latter, to be sure.”
For all their teasing, Sophie felt comfort in the knowledge that no one had uncovered her secret to survival. Smile and grin and bite your lip. She was no saint. She had words, thoughts about her jailers, her abusers. In some of her more wretched dreams, she imagined herself hurting them a great deal. Sometimes even physically, like tearing the silky black hair from Araminta’s scalp, or laying a firm punch in the delicate cheek of Rosamund. Posy was left out of these dreams. She didn’t have the heart to do anything to Posy. But still, her more violent and wicked thoughts were no match for her desperation to be loved. To be accepted. She would labour until she was. Which, the logical part of her screamed, would never happen.

Ana yawned most dramatically. “Fine, go back to your mending. We shall remain, drinking our tea, all the while gossiping about you.” Mrs Cho sighed again. She would often remind the two that her contract as housekeeper did not detail the mothering of two prospectless orphans. “You have your work too, Ana. There are always messes to clean.”
Ana placed too fists on her slight hips in protest. “There are not! Sophie made sure of that. And I’ve just finished mopping the last of Posy’s midnight feast. So as of right now, I have no one’s mess to clean.” Sophie mischeviously eyed the open sack of flour that slumped against the kitchen door. She did not recognize the hand that gripped a fistful. And she certainly couldn’t be blamed for the arm that steered said hand in the direction of her dearest Ana, sending flour dust flying and landing quite impressively on her skirt. She scowled, and Mrs. Cho laughed.“Now you do.” Was all she said, before taking the tea and returning to Rosamund’s room.

She found Rosamund at her dressing table just as she left her, plucking her eyebrows with golden tweezers. “Leave it there.” She spoke, giving Sophie absolutely no indication of where “there” is. She paused for a moment, assessing the situation. She could ask Rosamund what she meant, or simply pick a spot and run out of the room as fast as she could. Either had a high possibility of those tweezers ending up in her eye. She chose the latter, hoping that Rosamund’s vanity in her appearance distracted her from the placement of her tea. She chose to set it down where she had before, on a nearby mahogany locker. Alas, her hope was disparaged the moment the tray touched the table. “No not there, you fat wit!” She cried. “I can’t drink it from there. Probably why your last pot was so cold.” Sophie grinded her teeth to stop her from shouting something like “Why can’t you move it yourself you deplorable little wench?” But she resisted, flashing her best survival smile. It was time for option two. “Where would you like me to put it for you?”
From the reflection of the mirror, Sophie saw Rosamund roll her eyes most dramatically. Much as she hated her, she always thought her stepsister would lend herself wonderfully to the theatre. “Just put it there, by the vase. And tell Posy I want my hairbrush back. Dreadful girl always taking what’s not hers.” She fought the urge to laugh. Posy was many things, but dreadful could not be counted among them, especially not from the lips of, in Sophie’s good opinion, London’s most dreadful girl herself. She placed the tray on a pembroke table next to a porcelain glass of pink roses, curtseyed and left the room.

She ought to find Posy before continuing with the mending. No doubt she’ll be in some trouble by dinner time if Rosamund does not have her hairbrush back. Just as she made her way to Posy’s room across the hall, the pull bell rang. It was coming from the drawing room. Posy was too shy to ring the bell, and would chase down Sophie herself if she wanted her. And although Rosamund had no qualms in ringing the bell to her heart's content, she was just with her. She sighed, bracing herself for what was to come. It was Araminta who wanted her.
She practically leapt down the stairs to the first floor. What did she want now, more mending? Carpets cleaned? Or perhaps she simply wanted to yell at her for not yet cleaning her skirting. Only time would tell.
She dusted herself off and tucked away her fly away hairs before turning the golden handle. Eyes fixed on the floor, she walked to Araminta, who was embroidering on the sofa, and curtseyed so deeply, she felt her knees might buckle. “My lady.” She said, and awaited the scrutiny that followed.
She hated it. She hated how scared she was around this woman. She had long overcome her fear of Rosamund, it was difficult to be afraid of such a spoiled, temperful young lady with no agency of her own, bending to the rod of her mother’s will no better than a servant. And as for Posy, well, she was never afraid of her. How could she be? Although she was complacent in the abuse, Posy was a kind girl at heart. She was just as terrified of Araminta as Sophie was, and was afraid of the consequences if she did not toe the line. Perhaps, ending up like Sophie. A servant, not a sister.
And oh, how Sophie was terrified.
Standing before Araminta, it was as if her long accomplished walls of self defense crumbled under her gaze, revealing her as the weak little girl she was the day they had met. “Sophie.” She said callously. “You are late.”
Of all the scoldings Sophie expected to receive, this had to be the most ridiculous one. She could hardly be expected to teleport at the first chime of the bell; she had practically flown down the stairs in order to reach the drawing room. Probably only thirty seconds had gone by since her boarish nails wrapped themselves around the bell up. And yet, Sophie took it on her shoulders. “I apologize, My Lady.” Araminta let out a little “Hm.” In response. Sophie had long learned not to entertain her with a battle. She handed Sophie a blue ticket. It read:

“For the attention of Lady Araminta Gao, Miss Rosamund Li and Miss Posy Li.
Your order of three gowns is due for collection Thursday next.
Please present this ticket on arrival as proof of your purchase.
Kind regards, Madame Genevieve Delacroix.”

Oh good, she thought. She liked Madame Delacroix, the few times the girls had bought dresses in London had been of her design. She admired her business, her creative eye and her talent for making even the most sorrowful of ladies sparkle. She only wished her talents extended beyond the upper class. It was girls like her, base and penniless with no prospects, no future, that really needed to sparkle. Sophie curtseyed once more. “I shall leave now, and will be back by two o’clock at the latest.” Araminta nodded, and Sophie was grateful she had forgotten about the fresh basket of mending she had planted at her doorstep yesterday. “See to it that you do.”
Sophie had one foot out the door before she realised: how could she carry three boxes of ball gowns with enough jewels and metal on them to break concrete across the streets of London? She sighed, knowing she must confront Araminta once again.
“My Lady?”
Lady Penwood let out an unimpressed “Hm?” In response.
“Might I take the cart?”
A scoff echoed in the room, her voice rich with familiar mockery as she spoke: “No you may not.”
Sophie knew there was no use in arguing.
She left the house as eagerly as a dog escaping a kennel.

A spring in her step with this rare taste of freedom, Sophie treaded merrily to the shop of London’s most esteemed seamstress. She could not help herself gawking at the debutantes that passed. It was perhaps the only thing she enjoyed about the city since moving: the fashions. The young ladies, in their silk dresses and jewelry, hair pinned up delicately, a lacey umbrella in their gloved hands. It was difficult to believe that in another life, where her father did not die or perhaps, her father did not marry Araminta (or even better, had he married her mother!) she would be among them: donned in the finest silks and satins, her rouge soaked cheeks blushing bashfully at the gentlemen that passed. She would visit Madame Delacroix as a customer, not a handmaid. She would have her own gowns and shawls and shoes. Such a life cannot be further from the one she lived now.

As she nudged the door open, Madame was waiting to greet her. “Good day, Sophie!” She said smiling, planting a tobacco flavored kiss on both of her cheeks. Sophie blushed. She never knew what to do when affection was shown to her. “Good day, I am here to collect for-“
“Yes, yes, the Penwoods! I had my work cut out for me with those ladies.” Sophie sighed. Not even the most patient modiste was immune to their impossibility. “Sorry.” She said meekly, a soft, apologetic smile on her face. Madame brought a gloved hand to her cheek. “Nothing to be sorry for, ma chérie. It is not you the gowns are for. Though, I rather wish it was.” This got a laugh out of Sophie, following Madame to a pile of what had to be the biggest boxes she had ever seen. “You are kind, but I am not quite a debutante worthy of such grandeur.” Madame fumbled one of the boxes, struggling with its sheer weight.
“Oh, here, allow me to help.” Madame slapped her hand away. “Nonsense. And I mean it, Sophie.” She gave the girl a warm smile. “They are not half the young woman you are. None of them.” She felt silence was the only appropriate response. She did not feel like a young woman at all. She felt like a terrified little girl. Madame stood, drawing a huffed breath. “Oh my, these dresses are quite something. Tell me, where is your cart?”
Sophie looked down. She was in for a scolding Mrs. Cho would be proud of.
“Sophie..”
Slowly, she met the modistes horrified eyes. “I do not have- I was sent to carry-“
“She sent you to carry these boxes on your own?!” Exclaimed Madame in horror, and Sophie was very thankful no other customers were present in her shop. “Oh, that vile, wretched, deplorable woman. Next time I see her, I shall-“
“Do not worry yourself, Madame Delacroix.” Sophie stopped her before the entirety of London would hear her verbal rampage. “I can manage just fine. And if I drop them, it will be my blood on the floor for the scuffings, not yours.” This did little to comfort the enraged modiste. “Of course you bloody can’t manage!” Her voice sounded oddly British. “Wait here, I shall fetch one of my delivery boys. What was she thinking, sending you down here without a cart!” Sophie stifled a laugh as Madame powered off, muttering to herself curse words she had never before heard, and was quite sure she would never hear again. She took advantage of the moment to gawk at the shop, the fine fabrics and half finished dresses hanging on the racks.

Something glittered from the corner of her eye. She glanced around to see if Madame was there, but she could only hear her mumbling from far away. She ought to stay put. It is terribly bad manners to wander in a shop like this, and as a maid too! But she could not stop herself. Her feet moved on their own, following the silver gleam to the back corner of the store, covered by a rack of fabrics. She gently moved them aside. She had to see what it was. Her heart demanded she proceed.
And then, she saw it.
The most stunning gown she had ever laid her eyes upon.

Stitched in silver that was stolen from the moon itself, the dress was a beacon of beauty. Crystal flowers decorated the hem, dragging up the skirt and dotted like stars in the night sky. They bounced off the light, glimmering under the sunshine from the window. How stunning would it be under the moon? The wearer would be part of the stars themselves. Silver bows were embellished on the sleeves, making it deliciously girly, something she would have dreamed about as a child.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Sophie turned around to face the modiste.
“Oh, Madame I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-“
“Shush, you.” She said standing next to Sophie and analyzing her handiwork.

“I made it with my friend in mind a few years ago. An opera singer.” Madame’s voice was wistful, and Sophie listened eagerly to every word. “She wasn’t a woman who wore light colors, but not even she could disapprove. It is, I think, my favorite dress I’ve made to date.”
“When did she wear it?” Sophie asked. And why was it sitting all the way back here?
Madame offered Sophie a sad smile. “She didn’t.” She began, looking down. “Life for us working women isn’t an easy one, as you know. She did what she had to do to survive, took a few gentlemen who kept her comfortable. A man who she was very fond of broke her heart.” Anger colored her brown cheeks red. Sophie placed a reassuring hand on her arm.
“So, she did the only thing she could do to get him back. A stubborn woman, she is! She took another gentleman. And, well, she followed him overseas. Russia, I believe.” Sophie watched as a singular tear fell from her eyes. “I miss her dearly. She would have been so beautiful in this dress I- I haven’t had the heart to sell it. No one in the society who hurt her so terribly deserves such beauty. It is twisted logic, I know, but I am a sentimental woman.”
“It is okay to be sad.” Sophie assured her. “And it is your design, you must only distribute it how you see fit.”
Madame looked back up at Sophie, sniffling her tears away. “When I make my gowns, I want a woman to glow. To sparkle. To feel so beautiful she might as well be mythical. And yet, I look at all these young ladies, these poised, prim debutantes with perfect breeding and impossibly good manners and I think- well, none of them shine brighter than the woman whose neck they stood on. Whose occupation they looked down upon. Whose birth status was not quite right to them.” Sophie felt a tear of her own trickle down her cheek. Whoever this woman was, she would kill to meet her one day. She felt as though, with Madame’s few words, she knew her already. Or perhaps that was the sisterhood shared among working women. Their life was a difficult one. And so, they must stick together.

“It is a beautiful gown, Madame Delacroix.” Sophie turned to her, taking both hands in hers. “But, while I cannot pretend I know much about clothes, I think a gown is only as beautiful as the wearer.” She thought of Rosamund in her silky dresses and bejeweled shawls, objectively beautiful yes, but not quite sparkling, as Madame had described. “On the inside, that is.”
A moment passed where the women simply held each other, the unspoken hardness of the world beneath the upper class mutually acknowledged, but not dwelled upon. “Oh Sophie.” Madame looked her in the eye, her voice the barest whisper. “How I wish things were different for you. For all of us.”
The sound of the delivery boy calling for Sophie outside snapped them out of their emotional trance. They laughed and wiped their tears. Sophie kissed the hands she held. “You mustn’t worry about me.” She said, trying to regain her usual merry voice. “Though, do keep me in your thoughts tomorrow night before the Bridgerton ball. I have three women to dress up, each as demanding as each other!” She laughed, making for the exit.
“Goodbye, Sophie” Madame called, as she and the delivery boy made their way down the street, tugging the cart of boxes along.
“Goodbye!” Sophie cheered from over her shoulder. She knew it was well past two, and Araminta would have her head when she returned. Still, she wouldn’t give the time she spent with Madame Delacroix, gazing upon the dress for the world. Even if it was only gazing.
-
Sophie, thought Madame Delacroix, was a rare kind of woman.
She had only met the girl a handful of times, since the Penwoods only recently took up residency in London for the upcoming social season. She had a captivating look about her. Dressed as plain as anything, yes, with the kind of maid's clothes that would make any seamstress with a heart weep, but Sophie had this rare glint in her eyes. Was it sadness? She wouldn’t be surprised if it was, god knows what the poor girl had to endure at the hands of Araminta. Was it her birthright? She had been told by an old friend Mrs. Cho (who was conveniently housekeeper of the Penwoods) that Sophie was the late Earl’s bastard, damned to a life of servitude at the hands of her stepmother while watching her stepsisters enter society.
But there was something else there.
Determination?
Resilience?
Kindness?

Undoubtedly part of her character. But after her conversation with the enigmatic young woman, behind Sophie’s eyes lay something rarer than all three. Perception. The silver gown she had kept hidden away, Sophie was drawn to it for a reason. And then, her conversation about her dearest Sienna, god, she hadn’t had the heart to talk about her to anyone in so long! But Sophie made it so easy. She was beautiful, inside and out, and possessed the kind of sparkle that had been beaten out of London’s eligible young misses. She looked at the silver dress again in earnest, and she knew Sophie had been right. A gown is only as beautiful as who the wearer is inside. There had been a reason why she couldn’t bring herself to sell it off for a pretty penny to one of the elites. And now, there was a reason for the gown to be taken out of the shadows it had been cast in, and presented into the open light. Like the woman she decided would wear it.
She fumbled in her pocket for the invitation she had received earlier to the Bridgerton Masquerade Ball.
It seemed that tomorrow evening, she would be making a surprise visit to Penwood House.

Chapter Text

Benedict Bridgerton was one of eight siblings. But there were times when he felt like he was one of a million.
Such a time was felt this morning in the Bridgerton drawing room, where his brother, the Viscount, the Viscountess and his mother invited the entire family over for breakfast. All eight of his siblings were in attendance, including Daphne who made the journey with her children from Clyvedon, as well as Francesca and Eloise who had recently returned home from Scotland. Their spouses were not forgotten, adding to the stampede. He was delighted, of course, to see his nephews, and spent most of the morning engaged in a rather intense game of peak-a-boo with Edmund, Anthony’s first born and heir. And yet somehow, despite the energy of the room, the familial love that practically bounced off of the walls and struck his heart like lightning, he felt as though he were drowning.

He adored his family, and knew how lucky he was to have them. And yet, watching as they moved on with their lives: settling down, finding love and passion and happiness all the while he remained purposeless with a failed art career and no direction as to where to go from here, it filled him with a deep sense of sadness. Perhaps it was why, since Colin married, he avoided his family home and spent most of his time wallowing in his bachelor lodgings. He could not let his family, not even his brothers find out how shamefully he had been living these past few months: paintbrush untouched, canvas blank, and undressed in bed almost every night with any man or woman who wanted to blow off some steam. Such behavior might have been expected from Anthony in his day, and Simon, Daphne’s husband. Even Colin indulged in it for a while. But Benedict? He was now older than any of them in their rouge days. And with each night next to a stranger, sweaty and spent in bed, the reality became more and more crushing. He was a failure of a second son.

He caught his mother, amidst the buzz of the room, eyeing him while conversing with Kate. He met her gaze, casting an innocent face that suggested he didn’t know what she was looking at him for (which, in that moment, he truly hadn’t the foggiest), and the two women went back to their devious chatter. Benedict spent the next ten minutes uncomfortably judged, as if the two were picking a part every expression of his in their conversation. Suddenly, Kate stood up. “It is a wonderful morning for a promenade, is it not?” She suggested. A chorus of groans echoed in the room, his voice among them. Perhaps that was what they had been discussing. There was nothing he hated more than a society promenade. “It may rain yet, sister!” Protested Eloise, her nose firmly buried in a book. “We should hold out a while. And we can hardly bring the babies.” It was his mother who chimed in this time. “What nonsense, Eloise. It is perfectly lovely. A bit of fresh air can do us no harm. Come, children. Ready yourselves at once. We shall have a wonderful walk. The babies may stay here with their nurses. They could do with a nap, anyway.”

A few more arguments were heard but ignored by both women. Everyone rose to their feet, dragging them across the floor. He noticed that his mothers feet stayed firmly planted.
As his family quickly piled out of the drawing room, a voice stopped him in his tracks. “Benedict, dear.” His Mother called. Drat, he had been so close to the door. Silently cringing at the lecture to come, Benedict turned to face his mother, one foot in the hall. When she gestured to the seat in front of her, he knew he was in for it. He dragged his feet to the chair Hyacinth had just occupied, and helped himself to some of her left over scone. “Mother,” he pronounced merrily, jam across his teeth. “What do you need me for?” Violet scoffed at her son's words and hideous table manners. “I do not need you, as it were. Can a mother not engage in conversation with her son without wanting for anything?” Benedict rolled his eyes, earning him a kick in the shin from a rather pointy heel. “Ow!” That got him to sit up straight. “Mother, whatever it is, just spit it out.”

A moment's silence passed between them, a rather obvious clue as to the topic they were about to discuss. “I was just thinking..” Violet mused, innocently stirring her teacup. This topic was one that had been sensitive among all her sons (and Eloise) for some time. “With the new season underway, your brothers happily married and your sisters busying themselves with their own homes, perhaps you may give some thought to…” Benedict groaned, lolling his head back on the chair like a four year old throwing a fit. “Mother, I have no care-“
“I only mean,” Violet interrupted, reaching a hand on his knee to distract him from the protest. “That it is natural for you to feel rather lonely. I admit, I knew Anthony and Colin would wed before you, but surely you desire a love as pure and true as your siblings.” Violet gave him a warm smile. “Colin has always been the most sensitive of you three. But I know you are a romantic at heart, Benedict. Your passions, your boundless creativity, it is time you found someone to share your talents with.”
Share his talents. What his mother really means to say, is that she will compose a list of dazzling debutantes who have been taught watercolors to moon over his subpar paintings as if he were Giotto himself. His wife would be someone with a carefully cultivated facade, full of praise and awe to flatter him. In reality, she would have no care for his works, and would subscribe to the shared sentiment of his lack of capability. False hope is worse than none at all.
“Mother,” he rubbed his eyes in annoyance. “I have no care for marriage, at least not right now. Those sparkling debutantes with their good manners, false smiles and impossible Mamas, are more terrifying to me than a pack of wolves.” A shiver ran down his spine just thinking about it. At least last season, he had Colin to hide behind. Now, he was the only unmarried Bridgerton brother up for grabs. And make no mistake, they haven’t the slightest clue as to who he actually is, just that he’s the tallest and number two. On the marriage mart, his surname, height and second son position seemed to be his only valuable attributes. “I am content alone. Anthony has his heir now, so I am no longer-“
“I see you, Benedict. I see the burnt scraps of paper by the fire. I see your sketchbook collecting dust, your easel even more so. I watch you leave the house in the middle of the night, walking the London streets and ending up god only knows where- no, don’t start.” She held a hand up to him. “I am no fool. I know what activities you get up to under our noses.” Benedict found himself turning an embarrassing shade of bright pink, remarkably like that of Hyacinth's dress. Violet sighed. In her eyes, he saw disappointment. Anger he could take. Tears even. But the pitying look he saw in her eyes caused him to shrink under her gaze. “Dearest, such a lifestyle, such frivolity and carelessness is expected of a man in his twenties. I have stayed silent while you and your brothers explored the world in all its wildness. But you are nearing two and thirty. I look at you now, Benedict, and no longer see a young man of wide eyed curiosity. I instead see a man who is lost.” Her hand found its way back to him from across the table, clutching on to his. “Lost in his passion. Lost in his position. Lost in himself.”
Abruptly, Benedict stood up. The weight of his mothers words suddenly became too much to bear. The truth behind them even more so. He cannot let her see that she is right, though he suspects that would be of no use. She always is when it comes to her children. Assuming his teasing, unaffected persona he often took on around his family, he bent down to kiss her on the cheek. “I am going back to my lodgings.” He ignored the annoyance that wore on Violet’s face. “Benedict…” she began to lecture. He ignored that too. “I shall see you tomorrow night at the masquerade. I promised to make myself known, didn’t I?”
She sighed, hand rubbing her head in defeat. “Go. But at least make an effort tomorrow.”
He thought better of mentioning that he had planned on smoking in the bushes with Eloise all evening. “Tomorrow, I shall be the most charming gentleman in attendance.” He said, offering her a final smile before making for the door. Even with his back turned, he could envision his mother’s scowl.
“I seriously doubt that.”

Chapter Text

Sophie spent the evening readying the Penwood girls for the Bridgerton Masquerade. The four of them were cramped in the dressing room: Posy twirling in her magnificent mermaid dress, Araminta sipping tea on the armchair, waiting for her shoe polish to dry, and Sophie bent over the vanity doing Rosamund’s hair. ‘Ow!’ yelped Rosamund as Sophie stuck another pin into her head. ‘Careful! Must you always be so rough?’ Sophie let out a silent huff. Out of all the ladies maids in London, she was surely the only one who would agree to attempt a Marie Antoinette updo. Although, it was not as if she were given much of a choice. Rosamund failed to consider that the former Queen of France’s magnificent hair had been an artificial wig, as was Queen Charlotte’s. To style one’s natural hair as big as the members of court was impossible. And yet, Sophie thought she did a rather good job. Even with her stepsister reminding her every minute that it was not tall enough. With a final pin, Sophie gestured to Rosamund that she had finished, and to let Posy take her place at the vanity. Rosamund sniffed, analysing her handiwork. ‘I suppose it will do.’

‘Sophie! I found a blue ribbon in my wardrobe. Do you think you could wrap my hair in it?’ Posy presented her with silk that was impressively similar to the colour of her dress. Sophie smiled. She could not refuse Posy. ‘Sophie, fix the pins in my dress. They're coming loose,’ growled Araminta, pointing to invisible pins at the side of her bodice that looked perfectly fine. Fix your own bloody pins, Sophie was tempted to say, but thought the better of it. Araminta merely wanted to get a rise out of her. And that she would not allow. ‘Just a moment, Posy.’ She mumbled, rushing to Araminta’s side.
She merely took the pins out and pushed them back exactly to where they were, maybe for her own satisfaction and confirmation of how ridiculous Araminta was. ‘Oh, I cannot wait for tonight!’ Posy sighed wistfully from the vanity. ‘I wonder who I shall dance with first?’ Rosamund snickered cruelly. ‘You will be lucky to dance at all. Though, perhaps there may be some decrepit elderly man awaiting you. Surely none of the gentlemen will spare you a second chance in that dress.’ Sophie pressed her lips together in a thin line, her heart hurting for Posy whose face from the mirror was etched with sadness. Posy may not be a polished debutante like Rosamund, but she was kind of heart. Surely, that was a more attractive quality than any of Rosamund’s outer beauty. ‘I think you look beautiful, Posy.’ She said, finally making a start on braiding the ribbon into her hair. Araminta and Rosamund scoffed in unison. ‘No one cares what you think, Sophie. What would you know of gentlemen? You are a lowly servant.’ Sophie chewed her cheek. ‘I suppose I would not.’

Suddenly, Araminta arose from her chair, inspecting Rosamund up close. ‘You look stunning,’ She said. ‘You shall have no problem snaring a suitable husband tonight. I expect a great many callers tomorrow indeed.’ Sophie felt Posy shrink in her seat. She doubted Araminta expected any of those callers to be for her youngest. ‘Lord Stafford and Lord Fitzgerald are in search of a wife, each with a sizable estate and fortune. But we must not forget there is still an unmarried Bridgerton man left on the market. See that you make an impression.’
‘Who?’ asked Posy innocently. She could practically feel Araminta roll her eyes from behind her.
‘Benedict Bridgerton. Second son, which makes him the second wealthiest, next to his brother the Viscount.’ She replied coldly, suggesting Posy had no business inquiring before Rosamund. She gestured once again to her eldest. ‘You will have no trouble charming him.’

Benedict Bridgerton. It was a name she had heard of fleetingly in Whistledown, though he was mentioned less than the rest of his family. She knew from her days of worshiping the gossip columnist, who turned out to become a Bridgerton herself, that he was the second eldest of the family, with a keen interest in art and had even attended the Royal Academy for a time. She knew he was particularly close to the second daughter Eloise Bridgerton, known for her rebellious spirit and disdain for society. She also knew he lobbed the head off of his sister Daphne’s doll once, a detail she found hilariously irrelevant. It was no wonder that Penelope Featherington became Penelope Bridgerton, given how much she knew about the family.
The Bridgerton’s. What was so special about them, anyway? Of course they were a well respected, if not the most well respected family in the ton, with a Viscountcy dating hundreds of years. They were wealthy, yes, but so was every family in Mayfair. And yet, they had captured the interest of every young lady in the country. Sophie was not sure she had ever seen someone cry as much as Rosamund did when the Viscount married. Same goes for Posy and the third son last year. It was truly beyond her comprehension.

And yet, Rosamund looked determined, perhaps more so in a second son than any of the titled men Araminta had recommended. ‘I will,’ she said, nose turned up. ‘And I will marry before the seasons end.’ Sophie smirked. It was now Rosamund's third season. She had a proposal from one Mr. Cavender, but ironically turned him down due to his lack of title. She could see Araminta’s face from the mirror's reflection grow very grave indeed. ‘You must. The new Earl of Penwood will not allow us back for another season. If I had known, I’d have pushed Cavender on Posy.’

The room went silent, and Posy shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Fortunately, Sophie was finished with the ribbon. ‘There,’ she announced. ‘That colour is lovely on you.’ Her heart warmed at Posy’s delighted smile. ‘Do you think so? Oh, you did a splendid job Sophie!’ Araminta scoffed once more. ‘Took you long enough. Come, girls. The carriage is outside. Sophie here has made us very late.’ She gritted. You wouldn’t be late if Rosamund hadn’t made me re-do her hair five times Sophie thought to herself. She held the door open as the three women rushed out, and followed them down the stairs. Footman Alan was waiting for them at the door, head high and posture immaculate as always. Yet, Sophie did not miss the subtle smirk he threw in her direction. How strange. Alan had never been one to smirk. ‘The carriage is waiting, Ma’am.’ He bowed to Araminta who curtly nodded in response, leading her daughters outside. Yet, Posy looked back at her with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
‘Have fun,’ Sophie mouthed, returning her smile.
Posy bit her lip. ‘I wish you could come’ she spoke soundlessly, but Sophie could make out the words from the shape of her lips.
And with that, The Penwood women took off in their carriage, leaving Sophie standing at the bottom of the stairs. She was rather looking forward to having the night to herself. With the Penwoods gone, there was no one to make demands of her. Maybe she would read, though the library had no new books to speak of. Perhaps she would have that tea with Ana and Mrs. Cho. But her eyes grew heavy. It was probably best she caught up on some sleep, as she had spent the last week without it, stitching hems by firelight until she eventually collapsed. Yes, sleep would do nicely.

“There is no time!” A panicked Mrs. Cho interrupted her thoughts, grabbing her wrist and rushing her up the stairs once more. “Mrs. Cho? Whatever is the matter?” Sophie asked. It was unlike the ever so composed housekeeper to be in such a state. “Mrs. Cho?” But she got no response, being dragged behind until they reached the bathroom, revealing an anxious looking Ana standing over the tub. Suddenly, Mrs. Cho began undoing her buttons, practically tearing her uniform off her body. “What is this? I can undress myself!” But there was no time, not even for her to be embarrassed. Before she knew it, she was submerged in a cold lavender bath. “It’s freezing!” Sophie exclaimed, bringing her arms to her chest, hanging on to her last shred of dignity. Then, Ana practically attacked her with a sponge. “It would have been warmer if you got the girls out faster. I thought you’d be forever doing Rosamund’s hair!” Sophie scoffed. “Well, what on earth is the rush for? You only need tell me if I smell. I would have bathed myself tonight anyway.” Mrs. Cho smiled knowingly, bringing towels into the bathroom. “There is no time. Besides, party goers do not dress or bathe themselves, as you should know well Sophia.” That caught Sophie’s attention. Party-goers? What on earth was she on about?
“Can someone please tell me what is going on?” She called out impatiently as she emerged from the tub and was wrapped in a towel. Ana smirked. Mrs. Cho beamed, cupping Sophie’s face with her rough hands. “You, Sophia Baek, are going to the ball.”

Then, the world stopped. The walls of the bathroom disappeared entirely. She could see herself in a ballroom, a tether of the girlish fantasy she had clung to for so long. A world where she was legitimate. A world where Araminta and Rosamund did not exist. A world where she was dancing among the members of the ton, not merely polishing their glasses. A world where she was Miss Sophia Gao, daughter of Richard Gao, the Earl of Penwood. A world where her mother married her father.
But she was not. She was poor Sophie Baek, the bastard of Penwood House who would spend the rest of her days sweeping floors and sewing hems. And she certainly did not attend grand balls.
“Whatever are you talking about?” Sophie gritted, slightly angry at poor Mrs. Cho for inviting her mind to imagine all sorts of outlandish things. “Tell me right this second.”

Mrs Cho only sighed. “Sophie, the way you have been treated in this house is a crime. You are your fathers rightful heir, his only child and yet you are made to slave over his wicked widow. It should be you going to this ball. Not them.” She took both of Sophie’s hands in earnest, a single tear trickling down her wrinkled cheek. “I know I do not speak of your mother often enough. But it is so hard for me because you make me feel as if she is right here beside me.” Her lips quivered. “Sophia, you may look like your father, but you are your mother’s daughter through and through. I see her in you every day. I see her in your smile, in your innate sense of kindness. I see her in your even temper and sharp wit. I see her in the way you carry yourself, with all the natural grace and elegance of a lady, but none of the snobbery. I see her in how when you walk in a room, the world becomes a little brighter.” One of her warm hands moved down to Sophie’s necklace, once that she had since she was a baby. The only thing her mother left her.
“Maria Baek left this world far too quickly after your birth, but she did not leave us empty handed. My dear, she gave us you. And she would be so proud of you, we all are.” It was Sophie who let the tears fall this time.

Mrs. Cho so rarely spoke of her mother. And despite her persistent begging, all she was told was that they were maids together at Penwood House, and that she fell in love with the Earl. Then, Sophie was born, and her mother died, leaving her nothing but a silver chain in her memory. She was not an idiot. She knew her father was a bad man, who took advantage of a young maid’s naivety to the point where she became with child, before all but abandoning her. In truth, her biggest fear was that she would become like him. Selfish. Irresponsible. Uncaring. A fear that only deepened with how their physical likeness was constantly commented on.
But to hear from Mrs. Cho that she was more like her mother, whom, although she had never known, was clearly loved deeply by those she worked with, it gave her a new sense of hope. Maybe she was worth something after all.

Ana coughed. “Sophie, you’re needed in the dressing room. Right now.” Abruptly, Mrs. Cho wiped her tears and stood. “Yes! Child, there is one more surprise. Though this time not from us.” She was led once again down the carpeted hall. The hall where she had spent her entire life going up and down. Except now, this was not for the Penwood girls. This was for her.
Ana swung the doors open, revealing an excited looking Madame Delacroix holding a box. “Hello, Sophie.”
Sophie rushed to embrace her. “Madame? What are you doing here? Are you in on this ruse as well?” She could not help but laugh at Madame Delacroix’s proud smile. “Ma chérie, I am the instigator.” She placed the box on a nearby table, opening it to reveal a familiar silver fabric.
“Oh, my!”

Madame Delacroix held the gown up, and Sophie could not believe her eyes. It was the gown! The very one she had ogled at in the shop, almost brought to tears by its beauty. But this time, she was brought to tears. It was somehow even more magnificent than she remembered. “My word.” Was all she could say, as the room echoed in a chorus of giggles. “Well, I made some adjustments, including the creation of a mask to match,” she began, holding up a matching silver and diamond encrusted demi- mask, tied to her head with a dainty bow. “And do not worry, I have ensured it will cover most of your face. They will not recognize you. But I must admit, I completely forgot about the shoes. Perhaps the girls have something you may borrow?” Sophie bit her lip, not wanting to admit that she had before tried on Rosamund’s and Posy’s shoes when cleaning them. “Rosamund’s are far too big, and Posy’s are far too small.” A contemplative silence fell across the room, as if no one wanted to be the one to suggest what had to be done next.
“Well then, there’s nothing for it.” A brave Ana stated, marching out of the room. “We will have to take from Araminta’s collection.” A shiver ran down Sophie’s spine. God, if she scuffed Araminta’s shoes, she would be done for. But it was either that or she went to the ball bare footed.

After a few minutes of investigating Araminta’s wardrobe, Ana came across a suitable pair of silver heels. “Oh, they’re perfect! They will look beautiful with the dress. As much as I hate to admit it, the Countess has a sense of style.”
Returning to the dressing room, Sophie allowed Madame Delacroix to help her into the dress while Mrs. Cho and Ana did her hair into a fashionable bun as quickly as they could. The mask was neatly tied, and she slid her arms into a pair of satin silver gloves that came up past her elbow.
All that was left were the shoes.
Stepping into Araminta’s slippers, she could not believe what a perfect fit they were. It was as if they were made for her and although Sophie could not dance, she imagined these were the shoes she would like to in one day. She was brought to the mirror, Mrs. Cho’s hands on her shoulders. She gasped.
“Is that truly me?”
She could not believe it. Gone were her maids' rags. Gone was her sunken posture and practically permanent scowl. Tonight, she was a glittering member of the ton. Tonight, she glowed as she never had before.
“You look quite pretty.” Mrs. Cho spoke fondly, rubbing her shoulders in assurance.
“Come, the carriage is waiting!”

Sophie exited Penwood House with her enté rouge behind her, only to find Footman Alan waiting for her at the carriage. Of course, she thought. That was what he was smirking about! She felt like a prize idiot, being the only one not in on this ruse. “Alan? Are you escorting me tonight?” She grinned, taking the arm he offered as he led her down the steps. The young man chuckled, and Sophie noticed how his silver wig comically matched her dress. “More like smuggling you in.” He jested, opening the carriage door and helping Sophie in. Madame Delacroix gave her a warm embrace, handing her a slip of paper. “Your invitation, ma chérie. Just as well they do not put names on these things. I’m afraid we do not look much alike, even with a mask.” Sophie laughed, kissing the modistes cheek. “I cannot thank you enough.” She said, and Madame smiled. “Then do not thank me. Have a magnificent night instead, and I will be satisfied.”
It was Ana who said goodbye next, wrapping Sophie in a tight hug. “You look beautiful, Soph. I can’t wait to hear about Rosamund’s face when she sees you walk in.” Sophie could only smile in response, thinking better of mentioning that Rosamund’s scowl would be hidden behind her demi mask. “Goodbye, Ana.”
And then, dear Mrs. Cho cupped her cheeks once more, hands trembling slightly. “Listen to me, child. Alan will be back with the carriage at midnight sharp. Not a second later. He must leave in enough time to circle back and collect the Penwoods.” She looked into her eyes, a burning fire present that Sophie had never seen before. “You will have a brilliant time, Sophia. Do not let them intimidate you. They may come from money, but one of you is worth a thousand of them. Remember that.” Sophie kissed the old woman’s cheek. “I will. And thank you. For everything.” She squeezed her hand. “I know my mother will be happy in heaven, knowing she has you to look after me.” Mrs. Cho simply stepped back with a warm smile and glassy eyes, signaling for Alan to get a move on.
As the carriage rumbled down the cobbled street, Sophie poked her head out the window. “Goodbye!” She exclaimed, waving until Penwood House was entirely out of sight.
She settled back into the plush carriage seat, never feeling the comfort of something so lavish before. And then, it hit her.
Tonight, she was not Sophie Baek.
Tonight, she was Miss Sophia Gao. The lady she should have been all this time.
And only for tonight, she belonged.

Chapter Text

Sophie felt as though she were the last to arrive. This was untrue of course, her carriage was just one in a line what felt like hundreds trundling down Grosvener’s Square. And yet, as she gazed upon the red bricked building of fairytales that was Bridgerton House, she could tell that the masquerade was in full swing, and had been for quite sometime. Each window was alight and full of movement, dancing, drinking, chatting and full of whatever nobles do at these events. The carpeted entrance leading to the grand doors was littered with loose glitter from debutante dresses and stray petals that fell from the garden arches above. There was not much of a queue, at least, not the kind of queue that a night like this would usually demand. A couple of Mamas’ fussing over their daughters' hair, and a group of gentlemen tossing around a flask of whiskey. The dwindling crowd was a sign that the doors would soon close and with it the beginning of the night in earnest.
Which meant Sophie had to move.

Before she could open the door, Alan bet her to it. He offered her a warm smile and an outstretched hand. That experience alone was the stuff of dreams; how long had it been since she was in a carriage? When she was three, on the road to Penwood Park, accompanied by her grandmother? It must be so. With every move from the city to the country that followed after, Sophie was made to sit on a box filled crate. She grinned before accepting the hand offered to her, watching her footing as she stepped one foot at a time out of the carriage and onto the pavement. “Thank you, Alan.” She squeezed his hand. “For everything.” He only patted her on the shoulder before climbing into his seat and taking the reins once more. “Enjoy yourself, Sophie. I’ll be here at midnight.”
Midnight. That gave her two hours. Two hours to live every fantasy she had fashioned since childhood. Two hours of complete and utter freedom.
And Sophie was determined to make every second count.
-
About an hour after the doors had shut, Benedict arrived on horseback. He knew he was in for it when his mother would find him. In truth, he had no good excuse for his late arrival. Could he claim some sort of illness? No, because then she wouldn’t allow him any of the champagne, which he was going to need a lot of to get through tonight. Could he say he was at some sort of art class? Of course not, for she had been the very one lecturing him the other day about his untouched easel. Maybe he did not have to see her. Maybe he could bribe one of the staff to let him in via the servants quarters, and avoid the crowds she would undoubtedly be searching for him in. No, that wouldn’t work either. His mother could sniff out any one of her children, even from the kitchens. There was no hiding from Violet Bridgerton. And so, he must brave the storm.
He handed his trusty stead, Carter, off to the stable boy before dragging his feet down the carpeted entryway, covered in flower arches and candles. Luckily for him, the guests were already inside. The only thing worse than meeting Mama’s and debutantes on the dance floor was meeting them outside, staring him down until he gave in and put his name on a dance card. It was the little victories that counted.

Footman John stood guarding the entrance, and Benedict did not miss the disappointed sigh he let out upon noticing his arrival. He said nothing, just twisted the doorknob and waited for Benedict to waltz in.
‘What? Not even going to ask me for my name, John? This is a masquerade ball. I could be anyone under my disguise.’
Footman John chewed the inside of his cheek. ‘Forgive me for speaking plainly, sir, but your disguise is not half as concealing as what my Lady had intended for this event. It is rather obvious it is you.’
A hand on his heart, Benedict gasped as dramatically as he could. ‘You wound me!’ Though, he knew John was right. He’d put in a minimal amount of effort, another thing his mother would surely scold him for tonight. A half open black tunic, worn in trousers and a black demi mask, he was surely the most boring looking guest in attendance. Good, he thought. Then no one will be looking for an introduction.

He passed through the entryway and into the ballroom, admiring the scenery in his stride.Though he was never a fan of such events, he had to admit his mother did a brilliant job. The ballroom was decked out in the finest drapery, navy silk clung to every wall, beautifully complementing the slivers of moonlight invited from the windows. Elaborate ice sculptures had been commissioned for the event, figures of crystalline swans and cherubs and even mermaids loomed over the guests as they danced, and that was not to mention the decadent chandeliers she had imported from France, adding to the grandeur.

‘Benedict Bridgerton’s here!’ He heard a poorly disguised whisper from somewhere next to him, a group of debutantes, no doubt. That was his sign to keep moving.
‘Oh my! I think he’s in want of a wife.’ Where did they even get this from?
‘Wait, which one is he again?’ That was more like it. He wondered how long it would take them to figure out that he was number two. He powered through the crowd. Perhaps a better disguise would have been beneficial after all.
He walked with his head down, which unfortunately only resulted in him crossing into a lion's den. Another group of debutantes. ‘Mr Bridgerton, a moment?’
He expertly swerved, avoiding the young ladies with the urgency of a man who was being chased. Was there anywhere in this godforsaken ballroom that wasn’t littered with young ladies on the hunt?

He shoved his way through the swarms of guests, making for the champagne table that was hidden behind frumpy gowns and ridiculously tall hats. Just as he was about to complain, the oddest sensation held his body captive. A warmth flooded his heart, and then his stomach, before fluttering around his entire body. It was… anticipation? No, that cannot be word enough for it. Happiness? Not exactly. Magic?
Magic was the only word that even came close.
This feeling, whatever it was, took control over his body. His feet turned around on their own accord, his eyes settling on something, or rather, someone. But it was a moment before the overwhelm subsided enough for him to actually comprehend the sight.
And then, he saw what had to be the most breathtaking woman in the world.

Draped in glittering silver, she stood alone at the edge of the ballroom, lost in thought. Her tanned skin gleamed in the fabric, as if she were born from the moon itself. Her dark glossy hair was done up on the crown of her head, allowing tantalizing loose curls to fall behind her ears. And god help him, did he want to wrap his fingers around those curls. But what sent him over the edge was her face. It wasn’t even that she was beautiful, (although he could tell she very much was, even with her mask in the way,) but it was her expression. Her chocolate brown eyes were fixated on a sight above her, and her plump, heart shaped lips curved into a mind numbingly gorgeous smile.
She just looked so damned happy. So innocently, unwaveringly happy.
Benedict had to know. Had to know her. Had to know what she was looking at, whatever could be so worthy of such a reverent gaze he would spend his family’s entire fortune if it meant she would cast it upon him instead. And so, he followed her eyes up to be met with a chandelier.

Such a simple, silly thing Benedict had walked passed a hundred times, but never spared it a thought. He had grown up around such grandeur, and had never known anything but extravagance, so much so that he could find no appreciation for it anymore. But through her lense, he too found himself enchanted. It was beautiful, he thought. But not as beautiful as the woman whose attention it earned.
His gaze rested once more on her, drinking in the sight of her and committing her to memory. He wanted to draw her. He wanted to paint her. Wanted to sculpt her, and have her be the focus of his work from now until he died, because he wasn’t sure he would ever be so inspired again.
And then, an intruder.

‘Pardon me, young lady.’ A blonde man approached, one he immediately recognized as Philip Cavender, an acquaintance of his. His Lady in Silver turned to face him. ‘Might I trouble you for the next dance?’

Something primal was triggered within him. Christ, he actually growled. For a moment, he considered clawing Cavender’s eyes out with his own fingers, though he wagered that wouldn’t go down well with such a graceful lady. How dare he interrupt her, when she was clearly so at peace? How dare he so much as look at the woman he had already claimed as his, despite never even speaking to her? He was like an angry dog whose territory had been crossed. Territory? Lord, this woman was already making an animal of him.
He found his feet moving on their own volition, marching up to the pair and stationing himself between her and Cavender. He could not help but breathe in her scent, now that they were so close. She smelled of honey and lavender.

‘Apologies, Mr. Cavender, but the young lady has already promised this next dance to me.’ He smiled at her curious gaze, the way her eyes narrowed mischievously. However, her smile returned upon the interruption, just as he had hoped. It was clear she was grateful for the intervention. And knowing Cavender, he couldn’t blame her.
Cavender snickered. ‘You? I never knew you to be a dancer.’
He gave the man his best toothy grin. ‘I’m a man with many talents.’
Cavender eyed him narrowly, then averted his gaze to the woman's wrists. ‘Do your talents include signing your name with invisible ink? It seems the lady is without a dance card. How can that be?’ He pressed, a hand raised to his chin in smug contemplation.
Benedict was not a violent man.
But could this woman really hold it against him if he smashed Cavender’s head in then and there?
He looked again to the Lady in Silver, her eyes darting around the room with unease. No dance card? Even widows wore dance cards.
She cleared her throat. ‘I lost it. Earlier in the night. But indeed, I owe this man a dance. Excuse me.’ She curtseyed. Cavender glared at Benedict for his win, which only widened his wicked smile. Eventually he backed off, merging into the crowd to hunt for the next pretty young thing he might have a hope with.

He turned to the Lady in Silver, grinning as if the previous exchange hadn’t happened. And god help him, she was even more breathtaking up close. He could see the way her brown eyes glittered in the reflected candlelight. He delighted in the moles that embellished her silk-like skin; one just under her right eye, and another above the left corner of her lip. And her smile- her lips pressed together as if suppressing the urge to laugh. Until finally, she did.
And it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.
He held out a hand which she took, attempting to hold himself together from the electric waves that manifested in his body the moment his skin touched hers.
‘What are you laughing about?’
Another giggle. ‘I suppose I should thank you.’
‘Thank me? Whatever for?’
A smile this time, thoughtful and true. ‘You have saved me from a most unfortunate fate.’ Benedict could not contain a chuckle of his own as he led her away from the walls. ‘Ah. A dance with Philip Cavender would be just that.’ Her eyes widened. ‘Is that the young man's name? How can you tell in his disguise?’

Benedict grunted. He very much did not want to talk about Cavender of all people at this moment. ‘I just can.’
That seemed to satisfy her well enough, as she responded with a curt nod. “Well, I am glad to know his name, but the gentleman in question was not the cause of my hesitation. I am grateful you found me when you did.”
“Oh?” Benedict was curious now. Though he did not busy himself with debutante gossip, Philip Cavender was a name well known amongst the young ladies of London. And not for very good reasons. Even Eloise knew of the man’s reputation for compromising women, particularly his staff. He was a father to three bastard children, born out of wedlock to three different maids. It was a wonder the Lady in Silver hadn’t so much as raised an eyebrow at the name. “And what, pray tell, was the reason for your reluctance? Aside from Cavender being particularly dull company.”
She laughed once more, a beautiful, full sound before raising a gloved hand to her mouth, as if embarrassed. Her cheeks flushed a faint, delicious pink.
“That is a secret I shall never tell.”
“And what of your other secrets? Your name, for a start. I promise, I am very discreet.”
A smirk tugged at her lips. “It is a night for secrets, is it not? I shall reveal none.”

Benedict bit his lip in contemplation. Whoever this woman was, she did not wish to be known. Not to worry. He would get her name by the end of the evening or better yet, a glimpse of her face unmasked at the stroke of midnight. And then, he would call on her tomorrow. Yes, his plan was coming together very neatly indeed. Though he would be damned if he wasn’t curious. He had been in her company for all of five minutes, and found himself wanting to unravel every last piece of her.
He coughed, alarmed by his own certainty. “Very well then. Perhaps I might uncover more of them on the dance floor. Tell me, do you dance the Quadrille? I believe that is what they are playing next.”
Then, the strangest thing happened.

The woman’s glowing smile sank, her eager eyes diverting to the floor. Before he could speak, the Lady in Silver sighed. “I suppose now I must reveal to you my secret. Well, one of them anyway.”
Benedict leaned in closer, a distance that dangerously lingered on the border of propriety and sensuality. “Do tell.” He would have the morning to be embarrassed at the hoarseness of his voice.
The lady’s voice was barely a whisper. “I do not dance.”
That took Benedict aback. “What, are you injured? If so forgive me for-“
“No, no, no! Nothing like that!” She assured him. “It’s just I- well, I do not know how.”
A young lady at a ball that hadn’t a clue how to dance? Surely, she had to have had at least some tutoring. He knew from his sisters, dance lessons were perhaps the most important part of their education. He had been roped in to being a partner for every one, even the reluctant Eloise young Hyacinth. Was it even possible for a lady to go her entire life without learning how to dance? It explained the absence of her dance card. Though, he was impressed at how she managed to evade it. He must ask her, and relay his findings to Eloise.
He could not stop the words that came out of his mouth next.
“There’s nothing for it then. I shall have to teach you.”
“Teach me?” She tilted her head like a curious puppy.
“A beautiful lady not knowing how to dance, it seems a crime against nature really. One that I will happily remedy.”

She froze for a moment, her eyes still yet thoughtful. She was studying him, of that he could be certain. Beyond that, he was at a loss. Was she… excited? Curious? Offended? Scared? He realized very quickly the interaction could go one of two ways. Either she would be swaying in his arms in the next five minutes, or she would be running for the hills in the next one.
“And where will you conduct the lesson? We can hardly do it here, in the middle of a ballroom.” She sighed rather wistfully. “With the eyes of these expertly trained young ladies upon us, I will be the laughing stock of the ton.” Benedict shot her a lopsided grin. “Then, we shall take to the gardens.”
Her eyes widened exponentially. “The gardens? But there are so many people, how can we-
“The private gardens.”
He searched her eyes for any hint of reluctance, any ounce of hesitation. It was what he expected, after all, he knew his suggestion was nothing short of scandalous. An unmarried gentleman and young lady being together without a chaperone, it was the sort of thing that almost got Anthony killed in a duel. And, though it worked out for the better in the end, forced his sister Daphne to marry the Duke of Hastings. Indeed, if anyone were to discover them, he would have to drag the Lady in Silver up the altar without question. The thought was exhilarating.
But what he found in her gaze instead was intrusive. Her lips quirked into a sly smile, her head tilted in contemplation. “And how, pray tell, would you know of a private garden?”

That stopped him in his tracks; stopped him from sweeping her off the floor that very second and whisking her away from this god forsaken ball. Could it be possible that she did not know who he was? His disguise was the poorest there, as Footman John had kindly pointed out. Surely, she would know a Bridgerton when she saw one, even if she didn’t know he was number two. The chestnut hair, blue-grey eyes, prominent nose and sharp jaw; these were features that rendered every last child of Edmund Bridgerton identical in the eyes of the ton. And yet, she did not recognize him. For this reason, he was certain she did not frequent London.
Benedict cast an innocent grin on his face, shrugging his shoulders. “I have my ways. Well then, shall we?” He offered her an arm, and could not ignore the way his breath hitched at the feel of her fingers in the crook of his elbow. A perfect fit.
She smiled at him, his heart beating so rapidly in his chest, he thought it might burst. He wondered if this is how the chandelier felt.
“We shall.” She responded, and the two fled from the ballroom.

Chapter Text

Tonight, Sophie Baek was feeling very bold indeed.
It started at the entrance to the ball, lying to a kind looking footman about her chaperone already being inside, and doing so without feeling even an ounce of guilt. Not for him, nor for the haughty hoard of London’s high society she was about to dupe.
Then, she rather wickedly ignored the table full of dance cards entirely, and glided straight into the ballroom like a moth to a flame. She would have no need for a dance card anyway. She couldn’t dance in the first place.
But now, she was about to conduct the most sinful, naughty action of the night, or perhaps in her entire life.
Here she was, arm in arm with a gentleman, unchaperoned and making for a lucrative exit.

Their pace was not rushed per say, but the gentleman was urgent enough in his stride to indicate a strong sense of purpose. She, on the other hand, was utterly lost. She had thought the ballroom the grandest space she had ever seen, but it turned out the rest of the house was just as breathtaking. Creamy white walls with intricate panels, rich wooden flooring that somehow offered a sense of homeliness and comfort is such an enormous building. Pale blue drapery clung to every window, fresh flowers of every kind- daisies, lilacs, hyacinths, primroses,- were presented in delicate vases on every surface. God, Sophie thought, she felt like she could actually breathe! Penwood House was so stifling, so throat tightening and suffocating despite it’s unabashed grandeur. The murky pink walls felt as though they were closing in on Sophie with each minute that she worked. But here, everything was so bright! So open! She could never be miserable if she worked in a house like this. Even if Araminta was her mistress.

And then, there was the man. The fairytale-like creature who whisked her away from the ball to share a dance in the velvet night. It was terribly scandalous. Although she were a mere maid, she’d read enough books on ladies etiquette aloud to Rosamund (who, though she would never admit it, could not read.) to know that all happenings between an unmarried man and woman must take place in front of a chaperone. To be alone with a member of the opposite sex was, well, the sort of thing that got you in Whistledown the next morning. And eventually, to the church.
Her heart leaped at the thought.
But somehow, she trusted him. She did not know why, she had no reason to, and doing so went against every life lesson she had ever learned. Do not put faith in others so freely, for they will only let you down in the end. Her father had. Araminta definitely had. The same goes for Rosamund and even Posy. The only person in her life she could say she wholeheartedly believed in was Mrs. Cho. Everyone else would leave her eventually.
And yet, tonight her heart dominated any control her head tried to take. She wanted to flee the ball. She wanted to be alone with this man. And she didn't know his name.

That was not entirely true.
Considering he had known about the private gardens, he had to be somewhat close to the hosts, or even one of the hosts himself. Could she really be arm in arm with a Bridgerton? She studied him for a moment, trying to recall the faint descriptions of the siblings from Whistledown.
“You are staring at me.”
“I am trying to figure out who you are.” She said, before she could catch her tongue at the irony of that sentence. He laughed, throwing his head back in disbelief.
“Funny, I am endeavoring in the very same feat. Perhaps we give each other a clue? Although, I suspect you have uncovered my identity already. I am unfortunately rather easy to decipher.”
Sophie frowned. “I do not think that. Everyone has secrets.” He clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth. “Not me. I’m an open book. Go on, ask me anything.”

She was taken aback. What could a silly little maid like her ask this clearly esteemed and well regarded gentleman of the ton? Ask him about his family? His country estate? His preferred taste in waistcoats? He looked at her expectantly, as if challenging her to reach into the depths of his soul and claw something substantial out. She was, unfortunately, too simple minded to do just that.
“What is your favorite colour?”
His body stiffened beside her, he stopped in his tracks and looked at her in what she could only describe as disbelief. “What?”
“I believe I asked you a question, as was your request.” she pressed, suddenly feeling very brave. “What is your favorite colour?”
He chuckled, a deep, masculine sound that made her heart skip a beat. “I can’t believe you are going to waste your question on that.”
Sophie gave him a challenging stare. “So? Will you not answer?”
The man thought for a moment, tilting his head slightly.
“Blue.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean why?”
“Why is blue your favorite colour?” Sophie pressed, growing impatient with the want to know more about the gentleman. “Is it because you are a fan of the sky? The colour of the ocean? Or do you just simply like it?”
He bit his lip in contemplation. Sophie smiled to herself in triumph, knowing she had caught him off guard. “There’s a lake at Aubrey Hall, the place where I grew up. Even on a damp day, the water always seemed to sparkle blue from a distance. My brother and I used to swim in it every summer, along with our father. Those were happier times.” His voice dissipated into the barest whisper at the last part. Instinctively, her grip tightened on his arm, a gesture she had meant to be re assuring, before loosening it rather abruptly as her senses returned. She had only just met the man, for gods sake. She had no business in such private affairs of the mind. And yet, before she could be completely embarrassed, the gentleman smiled softly, tearing down her walls of defense with a single gaze.

“And you?”
“Hmm?” Sophie responded, grimacing at the knowing look in his eyes. The man knew she was ogling at him. And by god, did he look like he was enjoying himself.
“Your favorite colour?” He clarified, his head tilted like a curious puppy.
It was embarrassing that Sophie had to think for a moment.
Being a maid, or rather, a slave for most of her life, Sophie hadn’t been allowed to have a favorite anything. She lived to serve the interests of her step family, and Araminta had made sure she knew that she had no other purpose in life. Truthfully, she did not know what it was she liked. It was laughable. The question she asked first because she thought it was the most simple, and now she fails to form an answer to it herself.
So instead, Sophie thinks of happiness. Or at least, the sliver of it she’d been allowed in childhood.
“Green.” She said, her mind drifting to a world of her own. “It reminds me of grass, I suppose. I know that it sounds rather silly, but I so love grass. And trees. Anything found outdoors, really. It reminds me of the days I spent running around in the fresh air with my governess. I used to live in the country, you see-“ Sophie shut her mouth. She had revealed too much.
His lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes ravaging her very soul.
“Were you happier there?”
Her throat dried up. She could only offer him a curt nod in response.

A moment of silent understanding passed between them. He could have pressed for more, wore her down with questions until she finally revealed every inch of her life’s story. He was curious about her; she could tell from the intriguing glint in his eyes that bore into her own whenever she spoke, or the way his head tilted slightly to his left shoulder should she have said something particularly strange. And by god, was she curious about him too. Perhaps not in the traditional sense- she did not want to know his name, his age, his income, or whether he had courted a lady seriously or not, (all of which were, Rosamund had once explained, factors contributing to making a man a suitable husband). Instead, she found herself wanting to know his habitual practices; was he a late riser or an early one? She wanted to know how he liked his tea, if he liked tea at all. She wanted to know about his interests. Was it music, mathematics, or literature? Or all? Or none? She very much wanted to find out. Though, she suspected she never would, for it must be nearing midnight. But the fact remains that he did not press. He respected her reservations, for he too, she imagined, had some of his own.

As they reached the end of the hallway, he swung the doors open, revealing the grandest garden Sophie had ever seen. Rows and rows of roses lined the pavilion, neither wilting nor withering in the chill night air. A grand blanket of lush grass carpeted the garden, expanding to a distance that surely exceeded the size of Penwood House in its entirety. The garden was clearly well loved; each winding bush, each contrasting color were clearly planted with the utmost precision and care. Although difficult to thoroughly take in, given the light haze of fog that hung heavy in the air, Sophie found her mouth hanging open. Despite all of the grandeur she had been exposed to this evening, each sight seemed to be more impressive than the last.
But none more impressive than the man beside her, who had drifted very close to her indeed. “It is a grand ball, but in truth, I prefer it out here.” His voice was deeper than before, more gravelly. She tried to ignore the shiver that ran down her spine. She coughed, clearing her throat. “Indeed, the fresh air is relieving.”
“As is the distance from Mamas and debutantes.” He grumbled, leading her to a staircase adjacent from the pavement, winding down to the gardens below. She surprised herself by laughing at his indiscretion. “Well, you should allow them some grace. I can imagine it is vexing to be pursued.”
“Vexing?” He inquired, looking surprised.
“Mmh hm. You must remember that these young ladies have spent their entire lives preparing for the pursuit. Hundreds of hours of finishing lessons, fittings, not to mention the three hours alone it takes to do up their hair, for the five to six hours they will be at this ball, all in the hope that you might simply notice them.”

He stopped them at the edge of the stairs, looking at her intently. Sophie knew she was being studied. Perhaps even more than before. “Hmmm… them? Are you not also hoping to be noticed?”
She could not help the sigh that escaped her lips. In truth, getting the attention of a gentleman, or anyone for that matter had been the last thing on her mind, especially with Araminta lurking in the ballroom. And yet, here she was. Alone on the outskirts of a garden with a gentleman who she didn’t know. “I am merely hoping to enjoy myself tonight.”
“And are you?”
“Of course!” She said far too quickly.
“You can speak the truth.”
She thought for a moment, reflecting on what the night had been thus far. And while she was incredibly indebted to Mrs. Cho and Madame for the opportunity, and although she knows she ought to be inside, soaking up the grandeur for this is the last time she will ever have a taste of such a like, she could not shake the feeling of discomfort that seemed to hold her body captive, no matter how objectively wonderful the evening had been. It was as if her skin was too tight for her bones, threatening to burst open at any moment and reveal the skeleton that hid underneath.
She chose her next words very, very carefully.
“It is a lovely evening, but in truth, I cannot help but feel out of place at a society function.”
He looked at her as if she had grown a second head.
“How can that be? You look as if you were born to grace the ballroom.”
She gave him a small smile. “Perhaps I feel more comfortable… appreciating the details of such a fine event than I do participating.”
The man nodded in response. She could tell her knew that was all she was going to say about the matter. He grinned. His grey-blue eyes glistened under the moonlight. “Well, I believe I still owe you a dance tutorial.”
“That is correct, you do.”
“Perhaps by the time I’m done, I shall transform you into a woman who does feel comfortable participating. Although, I cannot guarantee I won’t fill up every dance on your card.” He chuckled good naturedly.
She responded with a giggle of her own, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes this time. The gentleman took notice, for he was now looking at her very intensely indeed, anticipating her next words. She hardly knew the words before she spoke them.
“Tonight, I am transformed. Tomorrow, I shall disappear.”
His eyes deepened, a pool of emotions she could quite untangle swimming in their depths. It was then that she knew for certain he felt it. This bright burning spark. This magic.
He took her hand in his and kissed her gloved knuckles softly, only barely detaching his lips as he spoke, his breath hot on her fingers.
“Then, we shall pack an eternity into this very night.”
Before she could think, before she could rationalize the decision, knowing that she would have to leave him at the stroke of midnight, she found herself running hand in hand with the gentleman down the steps and into the gardens below.

-

Laughter. That was all that could be heard in the night air, for Benedict had left the mindless chatter and stringed melodies of the quartet in the ballroom above. Gone were the judgmental Mamas and flashy debutantes, gone were the rigid rules and society expectations. Gone was his name, his identity as a Bridgerton man, the second son, and all the misery that came with it. Tonight, there was only her. And laughter. So, so much laughter.
He had not felt so free in years, like a rabid dog who was finally let loose from his chains. Oh, he played the part well. He could not fault himself on his ability to pretend. He attended the functions, danced with the women, drank with the gentlemen. It had become routine over the years. Grit your teeth and bare the misery. Be a man. Be a Bridgerton. And yet, the woman beside him, running down the steps, her gown caught in a gentle breeze, her mouth agape and eyes in awe as if the silly gardens he had walked through a thousand times were the most glorious sight in the world. On that, he would have to disagree. Because to him, she was.
“Where are we going?” She laughed, following Benedict as he pulled her along a dirt trail. “You’ll see.”
Maybe it was the champagne, or the whiskey he’d had beforehand. Maybe it was the fog, infecting his senses like poison. But Benedict was beginning to feel rather dizzy at the perfection of it all. The perfection of the Lady in Silver.

He led her into the gazebo his mother kept tucked away at the back of the gardens, fighting through the flutter in his heart as he heard her breathless gasp. Her hand still firmly in his, he brought her to the center, the part where the moonlight most exquisitely reflected onto the tiles, illuminating their bodies. That, and the candles that had been dotted between the flower beds. He would ask someone tomorrow why exactly they had been lit. Or maybe he wouldn’t. It was surely God himself on his side. Or perhaps his own father in His kingdom above. He’d half forgotten about the beauty of the place, the winding flowers that twisted around the quartz pillars, or the tiles that had been engraved in leafy motifs. He shook off his daydreams, casting them far away from the gazebo, from the moment. She said she would disappear tomorrow. She wouldn’t, not if he had a say in it. But still, he did not want to waste a single moment in her presence. Tonight was a night for a million memories.
“No wonder my mother bans guests from out here. It is rather pretty.”
“Your mother?” She queried.
Oh, god.
He had given himself away.
He cringed at himself. Although he suspected she knew, or at least was close to figuring it out, he was rather enjoying this game of pretend. “You are a Bridgerton.” She stated, like it was a fact more than anything else.
“Yes. Though I fear I have been rather obvious at my discretion.”
She laughed at him, a sound that flooded his ears like the soft strings from the ballroom above. “I didn’t know who you were! Not at first. Though, I had my suspicions.” He tried to grin. “What gave me away?”
She smiled brightly. “Well, you knew about such private gardens in the first place. My first thought was that you were someone close to the hosts. Your most recent misstep has confirmed to me that you are among the hosts themselves.”
“Okay, you caught me. I’m-”
“You are Benedict.”
He could not help the way his eyes practically leapt out of their sockets. This woman was full of surprises. “How could you know?”
She bit her lip shyly, eyes lowering to her feet. “I am not the great detective you think me. Whistledown writes quite a lot about your family. I happen to know that the Viscount and third son are married, one of which to the author herself. And your youngest brother is but four and ten. That leaves you as the remaining candidate, Mr. Bridgerton.”
Ah, of course. Whistledown.
Still, the fact that she was able to discern that much on her own was further than most of society would get. They didn’t really seem concerned whether or not his brothers were married in their fighting for a dance. “Alright then,” he held out a hand in a formal gesture, one that she politely shook. “Benedict Bridgerton, at your service, Miss…?”
The woman actually laughed at him.
“Admirable effort, Mr. Bridgerton, but I happen to be much more careful in concealing my secrets.”
He huffed. Damn it altogether.
“Fine. But if you are not going to give me your name, at least allow me to take the dance that I’m owed.”
She grinned. “That I will allow.”

“Very well then. First, we bow.” He bent his hips as deeply as he could, winding himself slightly in the process. Still, it was worth the delightful chuckle that escaped her, as she curtseyed with perfect, practiced grace. He moved closer, fixating his eyes on her once again. “Then, you put your hand on my shoulder.” She moved her hand closer to his neck. “No, just a touch lower, there.” He said, guiding her to the correct position. “Excellent. Now, put your other hand in mine.” As she did just that, he trailed his fingers along her lower back, his touch whispering over the fabric before securing himself firmly around her waist, savoring the feel of her in his arms. The lush curve of her waist, her slow, perfumed breaths, she fit just right. “Now, we move a bit closer.”
And so they did. His chest pressed against hers, his mouth just in he away from capturing her lips. Benedict found himself breathless. The Lady in Silver had her eyes closed.
“You are a quick study, dancing already with your eyes closed.”
She sighed wistfully, though her mind had left this world entirely. “I am trying to remember this moment exactly, so that if I wish… I can escape here.”
Damn it. If she could dream, so would he. He let his hands drift to her face, his fingers wrapping themselves around the loose curls of her hair, something he’d been wanting to do for the entire night. “Your hair is like silk.” He muttered before he could stop himself. He was surprised to hear yet more laughter. Suddenly, he was rather embarrassed.
“Why are you laughing again?”
She bit her lip. “No, no I do not mean to! It is just..” Her eyes were locked on his hands. “How can you possibly know that? You’re wearing gloves!”
“Oh..” he mumbled, but he was quick to recover from his idiotic rambling. Because, unbeknownst to her, the Lady in Silver had given him the most excellent idea he’s even have. He could hardly contain the smirk he knew was plastered on his face. “I suppose you are right. But just to be sure..” he held out his gloved hand to her. “Will you do me the honor?” She gladly, if a little shyly, accepted, pinching the tips of his leather gloves before pulling it off him entirely, revealing his bare hands. He could have sworn he heard her breath catch. He resumed his previous actions, controlling the urge to grown at the feel of her on his bare skin. “I was wrong.” He muttered. “It’s softer than silk.”
What she said next almost had him in his knees.
“My turn.” She whispered, and Benedict gladly complied, methodically worth it the silk sleeve off of her. He pressed his lips to her arm as he slid the fabric down. She gasped. “Oh!” He delighted in the feeling of his lips on her. He never wanted to taste anything else. Except perhaps, her own. “Like that, do you?” And she nodded. “Then, you don’t mind if I stay here a while?” And the Lady shook her head rather profusely.
As he moved the silk lower, he planted trails of kisses in it’s wake, the soft sound of her responsive breaths igniting something hotter than a fire within him. He’d wanted women before but this, this was something that went far beyond desire. This was something in the depths of his very soul. And with every look, every touch, every breath and every word that escaped her, she was undressing it inch by inch. When the glove came off entirely, he pocketed it before he knew what he was doing, his lips firmly planted in the palm of her hand.
“You are perhaps the most intriguing person I have ever met. If I cannot know your name or where you live, how am I meant to call on you tomorrow?”
Suddenly, her wide eyed gaze looked very somber indeed.
“I am afraid that won’t be possible.”
“Please, tell me your name.”
Before she could open her mouth to respond, the faint sound of a gong echoed through the gardens. “What was that?” She asked, her voice a little on edge. “It’s to signal midnight. Time for the unmasking.” He grinned. If he couldn’t know anything else, at least he would know her face. He would make a million sketches, he would bring them with him everywhere, so then maybe he could spot-
“I have to go.” She said, suddenly very panicked indeed, pulling her arm away from him, her feet stumbling to the steps of the gazebo. “My uh- my chaperone will be looking for me.”
He knew she was lying. He knew because she sounded so scared.
“Wait, Miss! Did I do something wrong?” He asked, his voice growing very soft. He watched as her eyes practically melted behind the mask. “No! No, you have been wonderful. Truly, you have been more than I could ever deserve. More than I could ever dream. I just…” Her eyes darted around their surroundings, like prey backed into a corner.
“Excuse me!” She exclaimed, before turning on her heels and running off into the velvet night.

Chapter Text

She wasn’t sure how she made her exit exactly, nor if the footsteps that followed were those of Benedict Bridgerton, but not two minutes past midnight Sophie burst through the grand doors like a dog out of a kennel, tripping over the fabric of her dress as she made her way to the carriage.
“Alan, I-“
“No time, Soph. Get in!”
She all but leaped through the gilded doors, gravity tossing her firmly onto the cushioned seats as they set off, trundling down the cobblestones. For a moment, all she could do was breathe. Deeply? Not exactly. The rhythm of her chest was rapid, rising and falling in short, quick movements akin to panic. But was she panicked? Certainly, the shock of the midnight chime and trying to navigate the maze that was Bridgerton House had put her in a tizzy, though any fear that should have been was overridden by what could only be described as adrenaline in its purest form. Confusion was the more likely answer. She had stolen into the ball intending to be a shadow, clinging to the corners to observe a life she’d dreamed of for so long, to admire the decorations and delicacies from a distance. And yet, she was noticed. She was listened to. She was understood. She laughed and danced the night away in the arms of a stranger.
She felt special.
And that was the worst part of it all.
Because she wasn’t. And she could never be. It was her life to serve from the sidelines, not dazzle. Not like her sisters.
She thought it had been enough, a roof over her head, a warm meal in her belly. A simple, albeit tedious life was easy, predictable. It has been how she spent her childhood and how she would spend the rest of her years, unnoticed, unimportant and unwanted. She had made her peace with it.
But this night, this gentleman, it made her realize that she was starved.
Starved for affection. Starved for attention. No matter how pathetic it made her sound, he made her want it more badly than anything else. He made her want him.

As the carriage stopped at Penwood house, Sophie unlocked the door and stepped onto the cold cobblestone, allowing her eyes to re-adjust themselves to the scene. This was her life, she needed reminding. This was her home, this hollow shell of a house with no warmth and richness. This was not the Bridgertons.
She gently turned the handle, allowing the front door to creak open and a trail of moonlight to enter the house. A cruel reminder that this is where it all ends. Where fantasies go to die.
She shut the door.
When Sophie saw her reflection in the quartz framed mirror that hung in the foyer, she barely managed to blink back the streams of salt that threatened to spill down her face. The mask had to come off. The show was over. She tugged at the ribbon, letting it unravel and fall to the floor. Gone was the glorious Lady in Silver. Plain old Sophie Baek was left in her wake.

She headed for the servants stairs, noticing the faint glimmer of firelight through the keyhole below. Ah. It was like Mrs. Cho to wait up for her, buzzing and eager for the details of the night. She would have to put on her best smile. She would have to bite back the anger that palpated in her heart, that the woman who was her protector allowed her a glimpse of happiness, because nothing would be the same after this. She had had a taste of freedom, and it was too sweet to ignore.
As she stumbled down the stairs and pressed the door open, she could hear a figure moving.
“Sophie! Is that you?”
Sophie swallowed the lump in her throat, creeping into the kitchen to find her dear Mrs. Cho wrapped in a blanket on the decrepit wooden armchair. Oh, how she loved that chair, however uncomfortable it was. She remembered how she crawled into Mrs. Cho’s lap as a little girl, warming herself by the fire on a winter evening, or seeking comfort when Rosamund said something particularly awful. Or having her wounds tending to when Araminta scratched her up.
“I’m home.” She said meekly, lowering her head at the sight of Mrs. Cho’s warm smile.
“Oh, my dear girl! How was your night? I’m eager to hear everything! Tell me, beginning to end. Was it as spectacular as you had hoped?”

Then, the strangest thing happened. For the first time in what had to have been a decade, Sophie cried. A small sob at first, one she managed to catch by palming her own mouth. But as the tears ran like a waterfall, Sophie was no longer in control. She all but collapsed on the floor. Mrs. Cho caught her, wrapping her warm arms around her skin, which was still chill from the night air. For a while, she simply held her, stroking her hair, rubbing her back. “It was even better.” Sophie managed to whisper in between cries. “It was better than I could have ever dreamed of.”
“Then why are you upset, dear?” Asked Mrs. Cho, her voice patient and soothing.
“Because it is over.” That set her off again, her explosion of sobs muffled by the hand that cradled her head into the chest of the housekeeper. “Because the mask is off. Because this is the real world.”
No more words were spoken between them, even as the clattering of heels was heard from above, signifying that Araminta and her stepsisters had returned. She only cried. Cried for the childhood that had been stolen from her. Cried for the abuse and suffering she had endured at the hands of a woman who was supposed to love her.
Cried for a world that was never really hers to begin with.
-
Benedict lay awake for the rest of the night, pathetically sprawled out on his bed, dreaming of her. Not dreaming exactly, one would have to actually be asleep to do that, which was the last thing he wanted to do. Sleeping might mean he’d forget some detail of her, sleeping would dull the spark of pain she’d inflicted as she ran. But he didn’t mind- so long as she was the one who inflicted it.
God, what had this mystery woman made of him?
Admittedly, his mother was right. He was a romantic at heart. Love at first sight was the stuff of fairytales, meant to appeal to children at best and lovesick idiots at worst.
And yet, he believed it.
He never imagined it for himself, of course. Not with another person, anyway. But it was difficult to look at a painting and feel a kind of awestruck lightning in his veins, however rare an occurrence, and not believe the same is possible for humans.
And tonight was better than paintings. He knew she felt it too, this palpable magic between them. Hell, perhaps she’d been the only reason his heart was guided to the masquerade in the first place, however reluctant he might have been.

He held her silk glove tight to her bare chest, the only evidence she existed at all. Had he not procured it, he would have thought himself mad, that his mind fashioned up a wife for himself to keep his mother at bay. But she was real. He stroked the silk, reminding him how her skin felt under his touch. Soft, so damned soft. It was a crime she had been wearing gloves in the first place.
He fiddled with the glove in his hand, searching the corners of his mind for anything she might have said that would reveal to him who she was. She grew up in the country. But then, how many society children did? Almost everyone, it seemed, including himself. Her favorite colour was green. She could not dance.
He was torturing himself now. How could he let her slip away? Why had she been running in the first place? A flash of pain stabbed his chest at the memory of the fear in her eyes. Surely he had not been the cause, had he? He’d never forgive himself if he was.
As he thumbed the inside of the glove, he felt something different. Not silk, exactly. Thread. A pattern.
He turned the cuff over, revealing a family crest, one he did not recognize.
But he knew who would.
And then, his search would begin.

Chapter Text

“Benedict, dear!” Violet Bridgerton exclaimed at the sight of her second eldest marching into the drawing room with a decidedly determined stride. “It is unlike you to be up so early. I’ll ring for tea-“

“Unnecessary, mother. Although, there’s something else that requires your attention. You are very knowledgeable about the history of the ton’s families, yes?” Violet narrowed her eyes, bewildered by the usually uninterested and unbothered Benedict’s sudden eagerness. “Yes. I had to learn about every one of them for my own debut, and the knowledge has stuck with me long after. Why?” Benedict practically flung himself to the seat beside her, presenting her with a silver glove.
“Mother, I met someone last night. Someone who I should very much like to marry.”
Violet gasped, both hands flying to her lips in shock. “Oh dearest! I am so glad I forced you into that ball! Tell me, tell me everything. Who is she? What is she like?”
Benedict found himself turning a bright red. “She is… kind. Attentive. And beautiful, very, very beautiful.” He began rather dumbly. “I feel this… magnetic pull towards her. Forgive me if I sound foolish but, it was as if the moment I laid eyes on her, I knew she was the one I was going to be with forever. It was electric. Magic, even.” As she listened to her son, Violet wiped away the tears that began to bubble from the corners of her eyes. “That is precisely how I felt when I met your father. My, I didn’t know any of you were capable of love at first sight, considering what a stubborn bunch you all are! But Benedict, how wonderful! And thank goodness too. I have fought quite the battle with your brothers and sisters trying to get them to see sense, but you-“
“Unfortunately, Mother, I fear this may be your greatest battle yet.” He scratched the back of his head. “Because she did not give me her name.”

Suddenly, Violet’s wistful smile scheming eyes dropped into an expression of pure bewilderment. “You didn’t get her name? How did you-“
“She would not give it, try as I might. All I was left with were vague clues at best and one of her gloves, before she ran away at the stroke of midnight.”
Violet fixed her eyes once again to the glove. She frowned. “Do I even want to know how you managed to procure said glove?” Her son cast her a sinless, lopsided smile. “It was all very innocent, I assure you.” His mother could only grumble, as she flipped the inside of the glove open and inspected the crest.
“Do you recognize it?”
“Yes. I believe it is the Penwood crest. I vaguely knew the Earl before he passed some years back. I believe a cousin has taken over. His widower remains, however, along with her two daughters from a previous marriage. I must say, I am surprised. I always thought those three to be rather spiteful, especially the Countess.” Benedict hummed in response. “Yes, I do believe I encountered one, dressed like Marie Antoinette. Right after the Lady in Silver exited into the night. Rosamund Li, if I recall. Perhaps she is a sister, or a cousin of some kind. The more distant the better.” He grouched at the memory of the Li sister stopping him at the door right as he was about to catch up with his mystery woman. He could hardly hear her over the sound of his racing heart, and managed to mutter some pleasantries about how he would dance with her at the next ball should she let him exit. She did, but the Lady in Silver had disappeared.

“Benedict..” his mother warned, though she could not outright dispute him. “Well, sister or cousin, I should be glad to meet this young lady who has captured your heart. Perhaps you might invite her to dine with us?” Benedict could only nod in response as he rose from his seat and kissed his mother’s cheek. “I shall call over to Penwood House this morning, and invite her to promenade. She did say she liked the outdoors.”
With one foot out the door, his mother called from behind. “Remember to buy flowers!”
Benedict nodded, though he failed to mention that he had woken at the crack of dawn to snare a fresh bouquet of lilacs and purple peonies, so he would have time to inspect every petal.
Perhaps he would seem too eager, even in her eyes.

-
“Sooophieeeee!” Squealed Rosamund from the drawing room. Just as Sophie thought she’d be given an hours rest as the girls prepared for the callers they would receive at noon, it seemed that Araminta and Rosamund couldn’t resist finding something for her to do, even if that meant ordering her to bring a new tea tray in despite the previous one being untouched just for the sake of it.
“Yes, Rosamund?”
“My hair is coming undone! Pin it again, and quickly!” Sophie sighed. There was nothing wrong with Rosamund’s hair, for she had spent two hours of the morning dressing it already. Still, she humoured her, and began mindlessly playing with the strands in between her fingers, finding something to fix. “How was the ball?” She asked, only because her sisters would think it furious if she did not. She often inquired after every event, just for a taste of its grandeur. “Are you expecting any callers?”

“There was one Mr. Kenworthy who danced the waltz with me.” Posy sighed dreamily, visibly fawning over the gentleman. “My, how handsome he was! I do hope he comes to call.”
Rosamund sneered. “Lower your hopes, Posy. The man only danced with you because he felt sorry. I on the other hand, have a plethora of potential suitors lined up for my hand, including one Mr. Benedict Bridgerton! Isn’t that right, Mama?”
Mr Bridgerton? Benedict?
The room started spinning. Had he truly gone off and danced with Rosamund after she had fled, or is this just another one of her tattle tales? She supposed she couldn’t blame him if he had. It was she who left after all, and Rosamund did look very beautiful last night. Could she really blame him? However, everything in her dumb betraying little heart told her it was a lie.
“Indeed. The drawing room shall be full by noon. Sophie, fetch my shoes.”
“Which ones?”

Araminta stared at her like she was headless. A particularly insane judgement, considering Araminta had enough shoes to fit a village. “Insolent girl. My silver ones, with the diamond straps! I should like to change.”
Sophie swallowed. Hard.
“Forgive me, but is there a problem with the pair you have on you?”
“Listen here, bastard child.” Araminta inched closer, her presence dark and domineering, her voice casting a dark shadow in the room. “I have given you an order. And you dare question me? Go! At once!” Sophie could only lower her head, and think of some excuse for the scuffings on the way upstairs as Rosamund’s shrill cackle echoed in the background.

When Sophie returned to the drawing room, silver shoes in hand, she found her gaze fixated to the floor, unable to meet Araminta’s feline ferocity. “These are scuffed.”
Sophie breathed. “Are they?”
Silence.
Then, a whack.
Sophie stumbled from the impact, as the heel of the shoe came into hard contact with her forehead. “Mama, you musn’t-“
“Silence, Posy!” The room distilled into an eerie silence. Not even a scoff or a sneer from Rosamund could be heard.
“I told you,” began Araminta, her voice laced with rage. “To have every one of my shoes polished and shined yesterday. And you leave a pair more damaged than they were before?”
Sophie chewed her cheek. “I’m sorry, My Lady.”

“I bet she was dancing around in them.” Rosamund chimed in, a sick smirk plastered on her face. “Poor Sophie Baek, the bastard who couldn’t go to the ball stumbling around in the shoes of a Countess! My, I would pay to see such a sight. Oh, let her dream, Mama. It is all she can do, after all.”
Sophie blinked back the tears that had begun to sting her eyes. It had been so long since she had felt so hurt, so beaten down. She thought she had gotten used to it- the insults, the cruelty, the abuse. But there were times where all of those things cultivated a perfect storm in her mind, with winds so rapid not even her self taught resilience could fight. Her hands began to tremble. Her legs felt like jelly.
The other shoe was thrown at her, this time hitting her directly on her left shoulder.
“Out of my sight! I want you to scrub and polish every one of my shoes twice over, and when you’re done with that you may move on to Rosamund’s. You useless, idiotic, pathetic girl! You deplorable bastard!”
With that, Sophie made a quick exit, wiping the tears with her sleeves as they fell.
-
Benedict was one in a line of men outside the drawing room of Penwood House that morning, flowers in one hand and silver glove in the other. He had spent his night wondering whether or not he should bring it. He didn’t want the Countess thinking anything untoward happened, even if it very much did. But, what better gift was there than simply returning what was one’s own?
At least for now. Next time, he would have a conversation with Anthony about how much he was allowed to spend on her presents.
He couldn’t wait to see her face. The woman who hid behind the mask, the woman who hid from him. She wouldn’t, not if he had any say in it. Perhaps she will be surprised, or even angry to see him at her family home after her great escape, but it would be worth it. He would take her around Hyde Park, and then to the art gallery, and then-
“A Mr. Benedict Bridgerton for you, Ma’am.”
An older eloquent voice spoke, one that Benedict found to be shockingly unpleasant. “Send him in!”

Benedict entered the drawing room to be met with three women. One he recognized as Rosamund Li, who was, despite being out of costume, dressed as grand as ever, with elaborate curls and plaits pinned at the top of her head, a very pink and very expensive looking gown complimenting her olive complexion. There was an older woman, who he could only assume to be the Countess, dressed in all black. Still in mourning, perhaps? Though, he thought the Earl had passed years ago. Perhaps she simply liked the aesthetic. And finally, looking rather lonely and seated by a piano stool was a taller girl, wearing a sea green dress that didn’t look half as costly as Rosamund’s. Posy Li, he deducted. He felt for the girl, she looked like she did not want to be here.
But where was the Lady in Silver?
“Ah, Mr Bridgerton! How wonderful it is to have you! I see you are here to call on my daughter, Rosamund. Do, sit and have some tea. I hope it isn’t cold. I shall send for another. Sophie?! Where is that insolent girl?”

He swallowed at the Countess’s rudeness towards her staff. “Mama, I believe you sent Sophie on a quest to mend every one of your shoes. Twice.” Posy chirped. “She cannot possibly do two things at once.” Benedict was grateful for the defense of the maid. Whoever this Sophie was, he felt very sorry for her indeed.
“Posy, do not be impertinent! Soph-“
“Actually, My Lady, I shall not stay for tea. Do you have any other young woman in residence? A cousin, perhaps?”
The Countess looked taken aback, before a dark, terrifying look took over her gaze. “No. No other relatives. Why do you ask? Are you not here to court Rosamund?”
Benedict coughed, mentally sighing at the sickening sight of Rosamund Li’s eager expression. “As delightful as Miss Li is, I’m afraid I am in search of another lady of the Penwood family. My search was spearheaded by the procuring of this glove, which the young lady was wearing. Stitched in it is your family crest. Do you know who it could belong to?”
She studied it for a moment, cold, calculating eyes scanning the glove frantically, dare he think more earnestly than he had himself. He could trace the moment when some sort of realisation dawned on the Countess, for she turned a rather ghostly shade of white. It was as if she were putting together a jigsaw, the pieces gradually clicking to reveal an unimaginable truth.
However, she quickly shook whatever it was off, offering Benedict a pearly white smile. “I’m afraid I do not, Mr. Bridgerton.”
Benedict averted his gaze, trying with everything in him to not let the disappointment in his heart seep through to his face. “Ah. Well, I thank you for your time. I must be off.” He bowed. “Miss Li, Miss Posy Li, My Lady.” All three acknowledged him with a nod, although he did not miss the poorly disguised scowl on Rosamund’s face.
“Good day, Mr. Bridgerton.”
“Good day.”

And with that, he exited the home, a strange tugging in his heart followed him as he left. Was the Countess lying? He had no reason to believe she was. Perhaps it was a mistake. Perhaps the gloves were a gift from the Penwoods.
Before the Footman could close the door, Benedict jumped at the sound of a shrill, feminine scream.
“Sophie!”

Chapter Text

A slap.
Then a push.
She fell to her knees on the hardwood floor.
“You… you rotten girl! You insolent bastard!” Sophie had seen Araminta angry before, but not like this. Never like this. She knew when Araminta came storming up the stairs, screaming her name until she sounded hoarse that she was in for it. She didn’t know how her stepmother knew. Just that she did.

“For one and twenty years I raised you! I’ve given you a roof over your head, a bed for the night, a job, everything! And you repay me how? By sneaking into the Bridgerton Ball? By stealing the second son away from Rosamund?!”
Sophie swallowed. It hurt very much to speak, or even think. “Benedict.. how do you- how do you know about Benedict?” Araminta only scoffed. “Oh, it’s Benedict, is it? I shouldn’t be surprised. You probably seduced the poor man like your whore of a mother!”
“Don’t you dare-“
“You can imagine my shock, Sophie, when Benedict Bridgerton came to call not five minutes ago. He wasn’t looking for Rosamund or even Posy- no. He brought with him a silver glove with the Penwood crest. He was looking for the woman it belonged to.” Sophie’s heart sank to her stomach. She stopped breathing entirely. “He came to call?”

“Oh, child, you needn’t worry- I told them I have no other young lady in residence. Because the one that I had decided to pretty herself up in silver gloves and silver shoes and march into the ball like she wasn’t an embarrassment to everybody.” Araminta inched closer. Sophie was backed against the wall. Her breath, reeking of bitter tea and sugared jam tarts suffocated Sophie. “I could have kicked you to the curb.” She began, her eyes growing dark indeed. “As soon as your father died, I could have thrown you to the streets to fend for yourself. No one would notice if you went missing. No one would even care. But I didn’t. Out of the grace of my heart-“

“Don’t say another word!” Sophie commanded, finally finding the voice that her stepmother and quelled for so long. Physical abuse she could take. Name calling she could take. But the suggestion that her mother was a whore? That she was the same? That she could not allow. “Don’t. You only kept me here so you could have slave labour. You kept me because it would be more satisfying to watch me dwindle in the shadows of work than to set me free from your sight. Employment? Employees are supposed to be paid! Do not pretend it was any act of kindness, for in you there is none.”

Sophie grew braver, allowing herself the upper hand as she took a step toward Araminta. “Do you know I could have left? Packed my bags and left on my own accord- let you feel the absence of an entire staff, because that was what I was doing. The work of ten maids. But I stayed. Do you know why?”

Araminta was frozen where she stood. Sophie took a deep breath. Here she was, confessing the deposed parts of herself, the skeletons of a closet she had never intended on opening. Revealing them to her stepmother, of all people. “I stayed,” she began, her voice shaky. She could not believe what she was saying. But as soon as the words tumbled out, they felt so natural. So true. “Because I suppose I thought that one day, you might come to love me. I worked, and I waited, and I never complained. Not once. From the first moment I saw you all those years ago, I cannot tell you how very much I wanted to be your family. But now-“

Araminta eyed her, caught between an expression of curiosity and anger. Sophie continued. “Now, I see what a fool I have been. You would never love me. Simply because love is not something you are capable of. Nowhere in your shell of a heart was there an ounce of affection for my father- not even for your own daughters. You dote on Rosamund so that you can sell her off to the highest bidder. You treat Posy no better than dirt on your shoe.” She was aware the two were eavesdropping, hearing their whispering from the foyer downstairs. Good, she thought. Let them hear.
“I will leave.” She uttered the words she should have spoken so long ago. “But let it be known I am leaving on my own accord.”
Araminta swallowed. “You will need to hand in your notice. You cannot just-“

“Stepmother,” Sophie began, wincing at the bitterness of the word on her tongue. “As I have said, an employee is paid. I am not your employee.”
Araminta pressed, cornering her once more. “Where will you go?” She smirked. “You will certainly get no reference from me. Will you run to your Mr. Bridgerton? Allow him to see you in the light of day? Hope he will save you?”
Sophie grit her teeth. “I am saving myself. I always have, and I always will.” With that, Sophie gave her a shove and stalked downstairs.
“You have until sunset to pack your things.” Araminta called from behind her.
“I shan’t need that long.” Was her reply.
-
After a particularly emotional goodbye to Mrs. Cho, a hug and a kiss from Ana and a pocket full of coins from Footman Alan, Sophie cast her eyes on Penwood House for what would be the last time. The house where she grew up. The only place she could ever call home.
Good riddance, she thought.
Just as she was about to set off to catch a carriage to the furthest place possible with the little money she had- a voice, small and meek, could be heard in the noon air. “Sophie!” It called. She turned to face Posy.
“Posy, what on earth-“

She couldn’t finish her sentence before her step sister pulled her into a tight hug.
No words were said, not for a while at least. The girls simply held each other. Sophie knew this was Posy’s way of apologizing, her way of acknowledging that the two would have made good sisters, in another life. She felt the cotton on her shoulder wetten. She stroked Posy’s hair. “Oh, Sophie, I-“
“Shhhh.” She comforted, though it seemed absurd that her stepsister was the one in need of consolation. “I will be safe, I promise.” Posy pulled back, her arms still firmly wrapped around Sophie’s middle. “Where will you go? Perhaps I could-“
“No.” She regretted the sharpeners of her voice, but she knew Posy couldn’t be trusted. She would inevitably tell Araminta. “I will go as far away from here as possible.” Was what she said. To her credit, she hadn’t told a lie.

“I have to go now.” Sophie spoke softly, blinking back tears of her own. She really did love Posy. “But I meant what I said, about your mother. She is terribly cruel to you.”
Posy spoke in a small voice. “I know.” She cupped Sophie’s cheek, an action unexpected but not unwelcome. “I’m not half as strong as you are.” She planted a kiss on Sophie’s temple.
“Good luck, Sophie. I really wish we could’ve been sisters.”
Sophie couldn’t help but sniffle. “Me too, Posy. Me too.”
-
The carriage dropped her in the middle of Wiltshire.
Not quite as far as she’d hoped, considering she must only be some three or four hours outside London. But still, she was away. And the taste of freedom was sweet.
But it was equally terrifying.

She had spent the last of Alan’s money on the carriage ride; she had nowhere to go. No place to sleep. No food to eat. She had filled up on cabbage and potato soup before hand, as ordered by her beloved Mrs. Cho, but her stomach was starting to feel noticeably empty.
It had occurred to her that she’d never really seen the world before; at least, not from outside the confines of Penwood House. She had never been so alone before. She had never been so afraid.
But she couldn’t cry. To cry would be to give satisfaction to Araminta, considering the false mask of bravery she adorned as she stormed out of the house, feeling quite triumphant despite the horrors of the afternoon. Her cheeks still stung from the hitting.

No matter. She would sleep on the pavement, or the grass somewhere tonight. In the early hours of the morning, she would knock door to door and beg for some position or other. And if that didn’t work, she’d spend another night on the grass, and do it all again the next day.
Sleep commanded her body rather quickly. It seemed that all the restless nights, the endless hours of sewing and scrubbing had finally caught up to her. As she nestled herself under a nearby tree, the realization came over her.
She was alone. She was afraid.
But she was free.
-
She woke up to a curious pair of bright blue eyes inspecting her.
“Miss?”
Sophie jolted. “Oh, my!”
“I didn’t mean to startle you.” The woman spoke, her voice dripping with curiosity. “I only mean to ask if you are alright.”
“Hmmm?” It was only then that Sophie came to her senses. Under a tree, alone, passed out. How foolish she must look. She sprang to her feet, which seemed to alarm the woman even more. “Oh, yes! Yes, I am well. I just, uh-“ she fumbled for the words. “I just arrived last night. I was hoping to find a position in a household. I must set off on my search, excuse me-“
“Oh, that’s wonderful!”
Sophie’s head perked. “What?”
It was just then that she noticed how pretty the woman was. She was not much older than Sophie- with fair freckled skin and mousy brown hair tied into a neat bun. She wore a black dress with a white apron. She must be someone’s maid.
“My employer, Lady Cavender, is looking for a lady’s maid! You don’t happen to have any experience in that field, do you?”
The name sounded unsettlingly familiar. Its origins were on the tip of her tongue. Perhaps after the sleep induced haze wore off, she would have a better recollection. Still, tending to three ladies at the same time, Sophie supposed she had adequate experience. “Yes, well, you see-“
“Then it’s settled!” She exclaimed, clasping her hands together like she made some big discovery. “I’ll bring you to the housekeeper, she’ll interview you and-“
“Miss,” she addressed the unknown woman straight in. “I have no references.”
She was waved off rather quickly.
“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll just forge them for you. She won’t know the difference.”
Sophie stared at her, her mouth slightly agape. “You would do that?” She asked, not knowing whether to be horrified or in awe.
“Course!” Was her response, like it was the most casual thing in the world. “How do you think I got my position?” The woman stretched out a hand. “I’m Hazel, by the way.”
Sophie grinned. It seemed her luck was changing after all. She took it. “Sophie.”
And with that, the two walked arm in arm to Cavender House.

Chapter Text

- Two Years Later -

Sophie breathed deeply, embracing the fresh evening air. Any excuse to get away from the Cavender House was one she would take, even if that meant doing Hazel’s shopping for her. Still, she could not complain. Since leaving Araminta, she had spent what had to have been the most peaceful two years of her life since childhood. The Cavender’s were a fair sort; they expected hard work for a decent wage. Well, she supposed she couldn’t tell if it was decent or not. It had been the first time she was ever paid for her work at all.
Caring for Lady Cavender was a breeze in comparison to Araminta; she mostly slept all day and asked to be read to. And Lord Cavender was hardly there; rumor had it he was travelling around Europe. And as for Phillip Cavender… Well, it was a good thing he made himself equally sparse. Except it was hellish when he didn’t.

It took Sophie not one day after beginning work to understand where she remembered that name- he was the man on the night of the masquerade; a rather rude gentleman who seemed keen on pressuring women half his age to dance. He hadn’t recognized her, at least. No. If she thought he was rude when speaking to the Lady in Silver, well, it was no match for how coarse he could be around a young maid.

‘Miss Sophie!’ a little voice called out from around the corner of one of the town’s many maze like alleyways. Sophie turned to see a young boy in a too big coat that dragged across the cobble, its hem stained in mud. Underneath his tilted farmer's cap, she could make out a familiar toothless smile, wide eyes and dark skin. She recognized him as Albert, the Cavender’s stable boy. No one knew much of where he had come from or how he ended up there, just that he was. She was very much reminded of her younger self, little Sophie Baek who dwelled in the kitchens because she had nowhere else to go. Perhaps that was why she doted on him so much. Who else would?

‘Albie!’ She returned, patting his shoulder. ‘What on earth are you doing out here in the cold? You should be with Hazel.’ His grin only widened at that, waving a coin pouch he fished out from his pocket in the air. ‘I’m a delivery boy now! Miss Hazel knows some of the Whistledown printers, so they found me a second job. I run errands after dinner. I’m saving up for a new coat!’ Sophie chewed the inside of her cheek. Drat. She was planning on buying him one for Christmas, if she could afford it. Else, she would have made it herself. ‘What are you up to? It’s late for you to be out.’

She giggled at this. ‘Well if you must know, I’m on my way to the market to shop for groceries before it closes. Lady Cavender has taken ill, so Hazel has asked me to procure some last minute ingredients for one of her famous tonics. Or at least, that’s what I’m told. I don’t quite know how famous they are…’ she mused, mentally revisiting the odd shopping list she was given. Fish oil, wine vinegar, ginger, black treacle and opium. She would no doubt have her work cut out for her just locating such items. She bit her lip at the sight of Albie’s wide eyes peering into hers, silently begging her a request she ought to refuse. He wanted to come with her, of course. He always did. She’d been scolded one too many times by Hazel for indulging him. ‘He’ll never know discipline if you keep saying yes! Besides, he has mains to groom.’ She thought it was hilarious how the two had taken to bickering like a married couple over the boy who, in the span of two years, had become like their child. Hazel was the stern father, the one who held the boy by a firm hand and kept him out of trouble. For all her efforts, Sophie knew she played the role of the doting mother without the heart to say no.

‘Though I suppose I could use some company. Perhaps you would join me? If you’re good, I can see about sneaking you desert when we get back.’ She asked, holding out a hand which he gladly took, proudly leading her down the street with all the confidence and stature of a gentleman three times his size.
_

Benedict was bored to tears.
The Cavender gathering was loathsome at best. It didn’t help that he hadn’t wanted to go in the first place, but was sort of dragged by a friend of a friend at an earlier art exhibition. He figured he would grit his teeth and bare it. So long as the brandy was good, he’d make through the haughty chatter and mind numbing idiocy of the men around him, and leave for London once again. It wasn’t a long journey, a four hour carriage ride which should see him in his bed soon after midnight.

The brandy was not good.

And so, Benedict sat in the company of the men who were in his good opinion, England’s greatest degenerates. Talks of fruitless business, whorehouses, wives and women left him idle in his seat, twiddling his thumb over the glass of rotten liquor. ‘The solution is simple.’ One of the nameless men, who he vaguely knew to be Cavender’s cousin, spoke from the settee next to him. ‘Marry well. Take a dowry, and make sure it is a rather large sum. Fuck her a few times until you have an heir. Then, keep your mistresses comfortable with the money!’ He lectured another unidentifiable man, who looked at him with great intrigue. Perhaps it was a good thing Anthony had such a hard hand over Daphne and Francesca. Had any of his sisters married any of these empty headed scum, he’d certainly have blood on his hands. He ought to keep a close eye on Eloise, not to mention Hyacinth when her time came.

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen. Please, enough talk about the other sex and their endless complexities.’ Philip Cavender included himself in their corner, a man who was impressively even more insufferable than his company. ‘Let’s have a game of cards. With money on the line of course. What about Whist?’
Benedict wanted to claw his own eyes out. Philip hadn’t changed one bit since the masquerade, when he saw him last. Perhaps a part of him accepted the invitation because he wanted to speak to the only other person, to his knowledge, who had encountered the Lady in Silver, however brief it might have been. He had thought, as the years passed, the fire in his heart would simmer down, and he would be content to move on from the ghost woman who simply could not be found. In this, he was wrong. He’d been with other people since her, true, but he could never stop himself from closing his eyes and imagining it was her skin he was touching, that it was her hair he wrapped his hands around, and that it was her lips that captured his. He’d searched everywhere. Every street of London, every reputable household. He even attended each and every society event with the eagerness of a girlish debutante, all in the hope that he would catch a glimpse of her once again. That a glimmer of silver fabric would shine from the corner of his eye. God, it was enough to make even Daphne and Hyacinth laugh at him, despite their romantic sensibilities. And the worst part of it all, his search had yet to end.

A chorus of gentlemanly cheers echoes in the circle. Glasses clinked, brandy poured, and all the while Benedict was left to mope in his misery, fashioning a reasonable escape.
-
‘How much?’ Sophie asked, gesturing to a vile of cod liver oil. ‘Two shillings.’ The shopkeeper responded, happily accepting the coins that she dropped into his palm. She rather enjoyed the fact that it was not her own wages she was spending. She did not have to haggle as she usually did with her employer's money.
‘Alright, that’s almost everything. I just need to procure the ginger, and then we best be getting back. The stalls are closing down for the night.’ She led Albie to where a vegetable stand was stationed, one she knew to be fairly priced. On their way over, she could not help but stop and marvel at the fabrics stand.

Draped over the counter was a pair of silver satin gloves. Suddenly, she was flooded with memories of the Bridgerton Masquerade, the night that changed the trajectory of her life forever. She was brought back to the gazebo, to the dance she shared with Benedict Bridgerton under the cloak of the night sky. Her breath quickened at the recollection of the way his hand felt, touching the small of her back. How his lips felt, working their way down her arm, shedding the silver glove from her skin. She shook off the thought. That was two years ago. She would never see him again. Surely, he did not spare her a second thought all this time. She needed to move on.

‘You are staring, Miss Sophie.’ Albie observed from beside her, trying to make sense of whatever it was she was gawking it.
‘Oh, was I? Sorry, just admiring a pair of gloves.’ She muttered, her face flushing red. Albie looked at her with the curiosity of a puppy. ‘Which ones? The silver?’ Sophie could only nod in response, finding herself rather breathless at the course of her own imagination. She looked down to find Albie rather fixated on them as well.

‘Come along,’ she tugged at his hand. ‘The night is drawing in. Let’s get the ginger and return to the Cavender’s.’ The boy wouldn’t move. ‘I’ll wait here, Miss Sophie.’ He said. ‘I want to admire the rest of the fabrics.’ She rolled her eyes. If she was a bad daydreamer, there was no helping this boy. ‘Alright well, don’t move. I shall not be a minute.’ She assured, earning a nod in response.
-
After procuring the ginger and bidding good night to the shopkeeper, Sophie scanned the scene. Either her eyes were betraying her, or Albie had all but disappeared. “Where has he run off to now..” she muttered, inching toward the fabrics stand. “Albie?” She called into the drawing darkness, receiving nothing in response. She called again. “Albie?” This time, a few heads turned to look at her. Their expressions were close to pity.
Then, a scream.

Bright and shrill and unmistakable, it was the scream of a child. She ran as fast as her feet could take her, following the voice through the maze of crates and stalls, reaching the town square before the sound of the second scream. “Sophie!”
To her horror, she saw Albie sprawled out on the cobblestones, his helpless body limp under the command of a raised whip, held by a much older, much stronger man. Before she could think, she ran in the whips way. “Albie, no!”
Smack!
Sophie fell to the ground from the impact, body curled into her abdomen and cradling her stinging cheek. The world went black for a second- empty, save for the faint ringing of voices around her. “Bloody woman!”
Oh, that got her up alright.

She stood, rising to the man who must be some sort of guard, putting on her bravest face. “What are you doing, hurting a child? What is wrong with you?” She spat blood onto the concrete. “That rat,” he pointed, scrunching his nose at Albie. “Is nothing but a thief.”
She clutched his wrist instinctively. “Whatever he has taken, It cannot be worth public torture, can it?” She pleaded. “He is hardly ten!”
“And yet, he had the sensibility to snipe this from our finest fabric merchants.” He dangled a silver glove before her. She wanted to throw up. “Do you know how much this costs?”
Oh, she did. She had once worn a pair exactly like it, aware at the time that a single thread of the silver was worth more than her. And Albie stole them for her. He was almost beaten for her.
She could kill him.

“Albie, go.” She spoke, her voice as low and steady as she could manage.
“But Sophie-“
“Albie go!” She practically bellowed, sending the stable boy scurrying away from the scene. Good, she thought. She didn’t want him to see what was next. The man gave her a rotten toothed grin, circling her like a predator would prey. “What’s this then, eh? You going to take his punishment?”
She was aware that for women, a “punishment” could be something very, very different to a simple whip. Still, it was a risk she had to take. She unbuttoned her sleeve before he could touch her, holding out her arm. “Hit me instead.” She affirmed. The man hesitated. Suddenly, she was grateful for the crowd that had begun to gather. It meant that he would have some qualms in stripping her naked right there and then. “Well, go on.” She motioned, swallowing the lump of fear that formed in her throat. “Hit me.”

And so he did.
Nine times.
Her arm was dripping blood.
She felt as though she would faint.
Finally, he dropped the whip. “Get out!” He yelled. Sophie buttoned up her sleeve once more, and did just that.
Albie.

She was too weak to run from the scene, too dizzy from the blinding pain and cloudy vision. “Albie?” She croaked, once she reached the merchants street. “Are you there?” From the shadows, she heard a little voice croak. “Sophie?”
Her eyes softened at the sight of the young boy, sitting on the wet pavement, feet curled into his chest. She found herself moving to sit beside him. Her knees practically collapsed. “Hi.” She said, giving him a smile. She did not want to press, for she could see he was on the verge of tears. “Sophie, are you-“
“I am alright.” She patted his shoulder, knowing that could not be further from the truth. “I am well.”

“The man..” Albie began carefully. “Did he.. did he hurt you?”
She simply shook her head. “No. No he didn’t hurt me.” A stupid thing to say, for she doubted her white shirt did much to mask the pools of red from her arm. She gave him a playful grin. “I scared him away.”
Albie nodded.

The two sat there for a while until the moon began to rise, an indicator that the two should be heading back before Albie got a strong word from Hazel. Or Sophie an infection. “Just promise me.” Sophie said before rising from the pavement. “Promise me you won’t do that again.” The boy nodded solemnly. “I just wanted to make you happy.”
She put her good arm around his shoulders. “I know, my love. I know.”
-
“You stupid, stupid girl!” Hazel exclaimed as she fussed over her arm, dunking it in and out of a bucket of cold water, spreading stinging ointments of all kinds over her wounds. “What were you thinking, running out like that? You could’ve been killed! You could’ve been raped!”
“I was thinking,” Sophie cut in rather impatiently. “That I cannot stand by and watch a child get beaten. No less for something that was my fault.
Hazel sighed. “I am not saying your reasoning was not noble, just that- Sophie this was reckless!”
“I know, Hazel.” She clutched her other hand. “And I’m sorry. I did not mean to frighten you.” Hazel softened her furious face. She sighed. “Sophie. Just- just be more careful. Please.” She could only nod in response.

Suddenly, the door burst open.
In came a heavily intoxicated Philip Cavender, tripping over himself on the kitchen tiles, a half drunk glass of whisky shattering across the floor. “Ah, there you are, Sophie. I”ve been looking for you.” He grabbed her by the arm. Her bad arm. She yelped.
“Hmmm.. sensitive are we? I know you want this as much as I do. Come on we’ll-“ His slurred tirade was interrupted by a glance and Sophie’s arm, covered in angry red marks and sticky gels. “What’s this?” He raised it to him, inspecting her wounds. “Has my little maid gotten into a street fight?”
“Mr. Cavender, don’t-“
“Shut up! I’m talking to her, not you.” Sophie could see in her eyes, Hazel was one word away from getting herself fired. “So, what is it then, sweetheart? Gotten ourselves into a brawl, have we?” He stank of drink and tobacco. Sophie wanted to be sick.
Laughing, he dragged her out of the kitchen, laughing. “Oh, the gentlemen shall have a great time with you tonight!”

Sophie struggled against his grip, but was powerless by his determination. He shoved her into a large room, hazy with smoke and packed with people. Men. “Gentlemen,” he called out, snaking an arm around Sophie’s waist. “I’ve got fresh meat here tonight. But be warned, she’s a fighter. Look at her!” A symphony of laughter echoed at the sight of Sophie struggling in his arms, desperate to break free. “And, I hear she’s not afraid of a lashing or two.” He held up her arm now, her wounds on full display. “So don’t be afraid to tie her up!”
The world went darker and darker. The room grew smaller and smaller. This is it, Sophie thought. This is how I die. Humiliated, at the hands of Phillip Cavender. She tried to scream but she couldn’t. She could only let out a choked gasp as she felt a hand reach her breast.
Until..
“Cavender!” A voice called out, angry. Furious, even. She opened her eyes. She didn’t even realize she had them closed.
Standing before her after all this time was Benedict Bridgerton.