With the insistent voice of Violet Bridgerton nipping down his ear, Benedict Bridgerton found himself standing in front of his bedroom mirror, adorned in black, with a mask tightly pulled against his face. He turned this way, and that, making sure that it not only sat correctly but that he didn't look a fool. Well, there was something foolish to be said about going to a masquerade in the first place. Though, there was something entirely other to be said about the fact that for once, Benedict wouldn't be recognised or ambushed by debutants & their mama's.

As he arrived however, he found that perhaps his disguise wasn't all he thought it was cracked up to be. For the moment he stepped foot into the room, a flood of women made haste toward him. He stumbled backward, and darted in such a way that you might think he'd arrived drunk, but was actually a method he'd perfected in disappearing amongst the crowd. He slid more and more, checking the way he came so to be sure he wasn't followed.