I don't know why I told Violet I'd accompany them to these balls. Back home, we rarely had soirees as grand as the one's mother told me about from her time living in London, and even when we did have them, I was always able to hide away in my chambers when things got overwhelming or find quiet solitude in the library, where no one ever seemed to wander.

    The dress Violet had made for me is matching with her and Eloise, a classic empire waist gown with sequins sewn on intricately. They were both in signature Bridgerton colours, pastels that made their dark hair stand out, while mine was black, the sequins and lace making it appear more stunning than anything else I've worn these past few months.

    Eloise and I are standing on either side of Violet as we enter the grand ballroom. Large floral arrangements are displayed as couples dance around them, the string quartet playing a melodic tune. The sheer grandness of it all is overwhelming.

    "Stop fussing with your dress," Violet warns Eloise, who'd been fidgeting with the tight bodice since her dress was put on her. "You look lovely."

    "I look like a prize calf trussed up for auction," Eloise corrects her rather dramatically. Her mother was right. She did look lovely, though I know hearing that did not make any of this easier for the girl.

    Benedict moos, in response to his sister's declaration, causing me to giggle as all our gazes moved over to him. Violet seems anything but amused as she begins talking about Daphne's first official ball and how even she was nervous about attending it. But her words are drowned out as Benedict grins back at me, a cheeky smirk that makes my stomach flutter.

    He hasn't smiled at me like that since we were kids.

     He only looks away when a man begins walking over, eyes set on my fidgeting friend. "Come, sister. The cakes at these occasions are surprisingly good."

    Eloise takes her brother's arm with zero hesitation, allowing him to whisk her away before the awkward-looking boy could step any closer. "Uh... uh..." He stammers, sighing with defeat. Before he can open his mouth to ask me for a dance, Anthony loops his arm through mine, his glare causing the boy to scurry away.

    "It truly is a sparse crop."

     "Indeed," I mutter, eyes dancing across the floor.

      "Oh, I am sure there is someone here who will charm you," Anthony's mother reassures, "After all, this is the season the viscount intends to find a wife." She raises her voice as all eyes shift over to us. Even the women standing alongside other men seem interested, their mothers swooping over to guide them our way.

    "You honestly just did that?"

     "She did," I grimaced at him, letting go of his arm as I shot him an apologetic grin. "I'm feeling rather parched suddenly. I think I shall go and find a drink."

    Anthony shoots me a panicked expression as mothers and their daughters corner him. But I merely shrug in response; the last thing I need is these girls thinking I, too, am trying to court Anthony Bridgerton. They will all hate me.

    Eloise is nowhere to be seen as I grab a flute of champagne from a maid walking past, smiling at her politely as I grab it off her tray, and I take note of the trio of women with fiery red hair that could only be related to Penelope, their youngest daughter absent as well. They must have found a decent enough space to hide away from all this.

    Before I can even begin to search for them, an older woman begins to approach me; her dress is a deep plum shade, her arm holding a cane. "You must be Miss Campbell." She smiles at me knowingly. "You are the spitting image of your mother. I was so sorry to hear of her passing. I'm Lady Danbury. I knew your mom when she was young."

    "She's told me stories of you," I say, curtsying. Bowing my head to greet her. In all the stories, Lady Danbury seemed to be a spitfire, the kind of woman who knows what she wants and goes for it. "My mother admires you greatly. It is a pleasure to meet you."

    I realize my slip-up as soon as it falls past my lips. I'd spoken of her in the present tense, as if she were waiting back at home for me, staying up late to hear how my night went as soon as I arrived home. Sometimes, it hits me all over again. She's gone.

    At once, guilt washes over me like a tide. I am at this elegant ball, dressed up and sipping champagne from a flute, and my parents are gone. I should not be here.

    If Lady Danbury can sense my sudden guilt, she does not point it out, merely smiling at me as she nods her head in agreement, "I admire her too."

    She's looking at me with an almost maternal glance, and there's something about it that makes the pit in my stomach grow even more. It makes me want to cry.

    But I can't do that here.

     "Would you excuse me," I step back, nearly tripping on my heels, "It's rather stuffy in here, is it not? I think I shall get some air."

    She says something to me, but I can hardly hear her as I turn around and stumble away. Bodies blur together as they waltz, the tears glossing over my eyes, making it hard to see. My dress is suddenly too tight, making it hard for air to escape past my lungs. Even outside, the air feels suffocating.

    "Lydia?" A voice calls out, muffled by my own thoughts. I look up, Benedict coming into view, "Why don't we go find a seat, okay?"

    I don't even bother trying to tell him I'm fine and to leave me be; my breathing is so strangled that I can barely get a word out. Instead, I allow him to wrap his arm over my shoulder, pulling me to his side as he guides me over to a bench.

    "Do you remember that game we played when we were children?" Benedict kneels down in front of me, looking up into my eyes. I grip the ends of the bench between my hands so hard it begins to hurt. "We'd hide, and Anthony would have to come and find all us kids."

    The most I can do in response to Benedict is nod, the memory slowly coming back to me. I remember Anthony hated being the one to come and find us all and how annoyed he'd get when he lost. The eldest Bridgerton had always been a sore loser.

    "What was our favourite hiding spot again?"

     He places a comforting hand on my knee, squeezing reassuringly. He doesn't rush me as I try to calm my breathing enough to respond, "The wardrobe in my mother and father's room." I shut my eyes, and I can envision it so clearly. Benedict shushing me for being too noisy, his hand flying over my lips when Anthony walked past the room, far too respectful to enter my parent's room without their permission. "Anthony would get so mad when we won."

    "He's still that way," Benedict laughs softly, and somehow, a smile tugs at the corner of my lips. The rest of the world comes into focus once more, "You're okay." Benedict says, rubbing soothing circles along my leg. "Just breathe, Lydia."

    Benedict stays quiet, patient as I close my eyes and take in slow, deep breaths. I didn't realize I'd made it so far on my own until now, sitting on a bench in a garden, the music from the ballroom drowned out, far away. Benedict squeezes my knee one more time before standing up, his arm brushing against mine as he sits down beside me.

    "How did you do that?" I finally say after a few moments of silence, turning to look at him.

    "Anthony's gotten like that before, too," Benedict explains, holding out a handkerchief from his pocket. I take it, dabbing under my eyes, where stray tears have landed. "Especially after father died."

   Benedict looks at me knowingly, and I suddenly remember he's felt the same pain I'm feeling right now; they all lost someone, too. He doesn't push me to talk about it, about what caused this entire thing. I wait for him to nosily ask why I'd gotten so upset and ran off like that, to pry and peel until there are no layers left. But Benedict stays silent, allowing me to share only if I want to.

    "Thank you," I fear if I talk about them, I'll begin to cry again and never stop, so I don't. "I'm sure there are other ways you'd prefer to spend your evening."

    "I've never really been a fan of these things," Benedict shrugs nonchalantly. His gaze is soft as he looks upon me, gentle and reassuring but not pitiful. "Perhaps we can get through the night together?"

    "You'd want to?" The question slips past my lips before I can think it through in my head. After everything Benedict did for me, I don't know why doubt still lingers in the back of my mind. This is the most we've spoken since I arrived, "I figured you weren't all that pleased to have me around."

    "What?" His expression falls guiltily, and I have to look away, down at the tear-stained handkerchief clutched in my gloved hands. Benedict sighs, almost sadly, leaning down to catch my gaze with his own, "Lydia, if I made you feel unwelcomed, I am truly sorry."

    "It's okay," I say to him, and truthfully, it is. We're not children anymore. Benedict does not owe me an explanation.

    "No, it's not." He says, almost sternly. There's so much going through his mind right now; I can tell by the way he furrows his brows together, "I was going through my own thing, and I was cold to you. That's no excuse, I know."

    He sounds truly genuine, not an ounce of hesitation in his tone. I sigh as I tilt my head at him, a small smile tugging at my lips. "Do you think we could start over?"

    Benedict smiles at me, and my heart practically skips a beat. "I'd love to."