CHAMPAGNE PROBLEMS [BRIDGERTON]

twelve.

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𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐯𝐞: 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐞
𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬
𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞
𝐩𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨
𝐝𝐢𝐞.

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The last thing Augusta needed ─ on top of her sweaty attire for the night ─ was for gentlemen attempting to be polite to her. All these pleasantries, fake smiles, and hooded eyes. . .pointless. Utterly pointless.

As she was backing into a room hidden behind the curtains, she felt her back collide with a structure.

Augusta uncharacteristically let out a yelp of surprise. "Pardon me."

It had seemed that the gentleman was also startled as his drink spilled. The gentleman apologized but not before throwing her a crooked and boyish smile. If this was another gentleman attempting to woo her, Augusta might actually just flee for the evening.

"Miss Woodbury, good evening!"

Augusta tried to decipher those brilliant blue eyes behind the gold mask. She couldn't pinpoint where she had seen that glint of mischief in those orbs until:

"I saw the rain cloud above your head."

Of course. It was Benedict Bridgerton who she had managed to be stuck with in a ball. May God help her survive this long night.

Benedict took a sip from his glass. "Your sister surely knows how to plan a ball."

Augusta scoffed. "A masquerade ball is vapid." She slumped down on the chairs, him mimicking her actions on the chair adjacent to hers. "Who are we supposed to know who we danced with when we can't see them?"

"I see you."

She stared at him.

What did he mean by that? Did he see the way she was examining his face? Had Benedict managed to discern that she had described his blue eyes as brilliant? Or that his presence may have potentially made the night a bit bearable?