#benedict bridgerton fluff
Text
Eden
Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader
Summary: Seeing you with other Bridgerton offspring has an interesting effect on your new husband...
I couldn't resist using a Season 3 gif cos hello.
Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, breeding kink, dirty talk, mutual masturbation, vaginal sex, creampie, ie filthy babymaking. Also, the smut is bookended by fluff; yeah, that probably needs a warning, lol.
Word Count: 4.2k
Authors Note: This is a very belated request fill for @victoriaholland (HERE) and Anon (HERE) about Benedict with a touch of baby fever. I decided to combine the asks as I saw a way to weave them together. Sorry for the delay, but well at least babymaking seems appropriate for spring hehe. Thank you to @colettebronte for being an awesome beta, as always. Err, Enjoy! <3
Daphne’s latest child is beautiful; you delight in his joy as he bounces on your lap, learning the strength of his sweetly chubby legs, little fists wrapped tight around your fingers.
Looking up, you catch your husband's eye from afar, his stare intense across the gardens of Bridgerton House as you sit under a tented shelter upon a picnic blanket. The rest of the family are scattered around, playing games or chatting, but you are quite content minding the little one while his nanny takes a few moments to eat lunch.
“Is everything alright, my love?” You inquire as Benedict draws closer.
“Yes… I….” He seems a little flustered.
“Are you sure?”
You pull a funny face for the infant, who breaks out into the most adorable infectious giggles that has you grinning from ear to ear and hugging him into your body, swaying with him.
“Are you alright? Minding the child?” He checks, his voice a touch odd.
“Oh yes. We are more than happy, are we not, my little prince?” You talk in a vaguely silly baby-talk voice, addressing the child in your arms as much as Benedict.
Again, the child peals with delighted noises and spit bubbles enthusiastically, looking up at Benedict eagerly as much as you do.
“Well, that is wonderful news,” he blusters, and you could swear he is out of sorts, breathless almost. “I shall… leave you to it,” he adds, giving you a bow and then withdrawing as the little one wiggles out of your arms.
“Ignore your Uncle Benedict; he is being a silly billy,” you whisper conspiratorially once the man in question is out of earshot.
The response is babbled nonsense as the child bashes one wooden brick against another.
“I quite agree,” you state sagely before breaking into a goofy grin.
——
“Please?” Hyacinth wheedles.
“No, Hy,” you sigh without even looking up.
“Ugh, you are no fun!” she scowls, crossing her arms defiantly.
“What is all this?” Anthony clips as he strides into the drawing room, Benedict on his heels, as Hyacinth flounces dramatically across the room.
“Your little sister is angry at me because I will not allow her to drink the punch; it has brandy in it,” you explain cooly.
“Quite right, too!” Anthony chimes as Hyacinth rolls her eyes.
“Listen to y/n, Hyacinth, and do as she says,” Anthony lectures, and you feel grateful for his support, effectively neutering her rebellion. “Despite a temporary lapse of judgment when choosing a spouse, she is otherwise one of the most sensible people in this family.”
“Hey…!” Benedict protests.
“Please…” Anthony withers, twisting towards him. “Brother, if there is one thing us Bridgerton men know how to do, ‘tis to marry a woman entirely too good for us. And well done on that, by the way.”
You smirk at Anthony’s hilarious way of putting his brother - your husband - in his place, catching Kate’s eye with a wink as she enters the room carrying her baby.
“Y/n, come and meet the future Viscount; he’s awake at last,” she calls to you.
You are immediately on your feet and grinning, taking the tiny bundle from her arms and cooing at the sweet little boy. The baby opens his enormous brown eyes and observes you for a second before breaking into a one-toothed grin and happily waving his fists at you.
“Oh, he really likes you!” Kate enthuses, delighted.
“As I do you, little one,” you smile, leaning over to kiss his forehead.
You look up to see Benedict with that same look on his face as earlier. A tempest, almost an energy over his being. It’s almost as if he is… aroused?! Which is most odd.
As you hand the baby back to Kate, giving him one final kiss, Benedict is suddenly by your side. Announcing to the family that there has been a change of plan and, regrettably, you will not be able to stay for dinner, his arm an insistent tug around your waist.
——
“Why did we not stay for family dinner as originally planned, my love?”
Your question is soft, only just audible over the noise of the carriage as you trundle over the cobbled streets of Mayfair a few minutes later.
“I decided that we should perhaps dine at ours this evening…” his voice adopting that deeper edge which always causes butterflies in your tummy. His hand lands on your knee, a heavy weight that feels portentous. He slides closer on the bench seat.
“Why might that be?” your ask turns breathy, entirely without you meaning it to.
“I want to be alone with you,” he murmurs, unmistakably pitched to arouse.
The carriage seems to notch up a few degrees as the rocking motion presses your side rhythmically into his. The sound of the wheels and hooves is so loud. He twists to wrap an arm around your shoulder and pulls your back against his flank.
“All day today, I have watched you,” he rumbles, hand warming the skin around your clavicle, fingertip brushing in circles. “You are so very good with children, darling. Seeing you so naturally with the babies and how you handled Hyacinth… you would be the perfect mother.”
You blush a little at his praise. “Thank you, my love. I would like children one day. Your children. Imagine a child with your eyes. They would be quite the most beautiful,” you sigh wistfully, leaning back into him, his hand feeling heavier on your skin.
Benedict chuckles modestly. “And what of your beauty? Would a child version of you not be the most fetching?”
You giggle and turn your head sideways to nuzzle against his jaw. “I think we would indeed make beautiful babies together, Benedict.”
“I agree,” his voice a tempting lilt, fingers skating downwards over the swell of your breast now, slipping inside the fabric and making you gasp as he tweaks your nipple. “And I think we should start as soon as we get home.”
“Did seeing me with babies suddenly make you want your own, Mr Bridgerton?” Your hand flexes on his knee as he toys with your breast.
“Oh yes darling, it made me want to take you right there…” he asserts, finally admitting those looks he gave you were indeed pure arousal.
You reach up and run your hand into his hair, fingers flexing on his warm scalp as you pull his face to yours. “And suddenly, it appears I am no longer hungry for dinner…” you whisper flirtatiously, your cupid's bow brushing his stubbled upper lip.
He groans, and his passionate kiss is plundering, a tingle running over your limbs, just as your carriage comes to a shuddering stop outside your townhome.
Uncaring of the neighbourhood or any prying eyes, Benedict sweeps you out of the carriage in his arms, carrying you bridal style over the pavement and through your front door.
“My wife and I are not to be disturbed,” he announces crisply and loudly to the staff as you enter the hallway.
Leaving no room for doubt about his plans by pulling you into a searing kiss for all to see before ascending the stairs rapidly. He practically growls as he kicks open the door to your master bedroom door and slams it shut again with his foot.
“Benedict…” you stammer, heart pounding at how overwrought he is.
You have never seen him like this. Commanding, crackling with an energy that has your body simmering. He is usually so sweet, affable, and kind. Every time you have been intimate since your wedding night a few weeks ago, he has been a complete gentleman: loving and so very tender. The grip he has had on you tonight feels different. This is something primal—like a switch has been flipped at a basal level in his being.
He places you down onto your feet before the roaring fire, his face intense.
“Wife…” The way he says it makes you feel a flush creep over your skin.
“Husband…” you respond in kind, belly fluttering with excitement.
“Take off your dress,” he orders, his dilated pupils shining in the firelight.
This is new. Usually, he is the one to remove it slowly and softly from your body.
“I cannot, the buttons…” you confess, signalling behind you. You would need your ladies' maid to unhook them from between your shoulder blades.
He moves closer, seeming so much taller; his ragged breaths dance in the tendrils of your hair as he reaches around behind your shoulders. With a rough tug that makes you startle, he tears the fabric asunder, the sound of tiny pearl buttons skittering across the polished wooden floor behind you as you gasp in surprise.
“There…” he smirks dangerously, “problem resolved.”
You are speechless as he withdraws a pace, looking at you expectantly. You follow his order, a slight quake in your hands as you push the frayed dress down your body, still a little shocked by his strength. Then you reach for the crisscross lacing of your stays, feeling the weight of his stare as each loop relents, his eyes hungry, his body heaving with deep breaths his fitted jacket taut with each inhale. You peel the item away, leaving just your thin white cotton chemise.
“Rip it too,” you plead before you realise it, enthralled by this assertive demeanour.
With a noise in the back of his throat, he takes a pace forward again, and you stare up at him, enchanted. He grasps the fabric above your breasts and then rips it loudly from your chest all the way to your ankles, the sound echoing up the walls. Again, his strength has your knees weak. As the torn pieces flutter from your body, you want to bathe in the hungry sound he makes as he realises you are clad only in white knee-high silk stockings, no underwear to be seen, the warmth from the fireplace swirling around your intimate area.
As you stand almost naked before your imposing husband, him still fully dressed, there is a knot low in your gut. But it’s not fear; it’s something else entirely—desire. Trembling, breathless and wanting. An elemental wish to be thoroughly taken.
He steps forward, eyes glittering, and his fingers plough roughly between your legs, making you gasp.
“Eden,” he proclaims, his fingers snagging over your swollen pearl of a clit with almost rough strokes, the callous where he holds his paintbrush abrading your folds. “A wonderful, lush, wet garden. Just waiting to be planted.” His words are hypnotic and low, questing fingers being coated with a dewiness that is entirely of his making.
“Please…” you whimper, squirming on his touch, captivated by this version of your husband, wanting to submit to him, a burning need low in your belly. His fingers slide faster, making a lewd, wet noise.
“Are you going to let me?” Benedict croons. “Plant my seed inside you?”
Until now, he has always been careful to complete outside your body. A slightly bereft feeling every time - the wonderful moment cut short as he leaves you suddenly empty, a warm splash upon your thighs, tummy or spine. The idea he will stay inside you is alluring in a way you don’t fully comprehend.
“Yes, please, husband,” your nipples puckering almost painfully against the wool of his lapels as he crowds into you.
“Good. Get on that bed right now,” Benedict orders roughly, pointing at your four-poster bed as he tugs off his jacket.
You scramble to obey. Feeling under a spell. Being naked save your stockings feels illicit as you lay back into the soft pillows and watch as he undresses, staring you down the whole time.
You slide a hand between your legs instinctively as more of his toned body is revealed. He growls at the sight, you biting your lip and watching him, his torso bare, his trousers clinging to his shapely legs, to his swollen cock. He bends to remove his shoes, and the sight of his broad shoulders flexing is enough to make you moan. As he stands back up and hooks his elegant fingers around the trouser buttons, a smug look on his handsome face that he is doing this to you.
“Husband…” you call out to him, writhing on your fingers shamelessly now, one hand shooting up to brace your movements against the headboard, flushing warm down to your toes.
With a few dextrous flicks, the buttons relent, and his trousers drop to the floor. His naked body is always a delicious sight, but tonight feels more, every sense heightened, moaning again as he takes a step towards you, thigh muscles flexing, his cock standing proud to attention.
Again, a soft plea falls from your lips, your eyes raking every plain of his tempting form, feeling yourself swell under your fingertips.
“Not yet,” he clucks, the arrogance somehow more beguiling as you bite your lip. “I think I want to watch you come, my darling. All by yourself. I hear female pleasure can aid with conception after all.”
“Will you not touch me?” you petition, reaching your other hand imploringly towards him.
“No darling, I shall watch,” his lopsided grin deadly.
He wraps a strong fist around his own cock, pumping slowly, a bead of moisture gathering at his tip, glistening in the candlelight as he does.
“Now, use both hands, please. Place your fingers inside yourself,” Benedict instructs as you blindly follow, a languid buzz in your brain—you would do anything he told you to right now.
Planting your feet squarely on the bed, you drag your ankles up higher towards your bottom, letting your legs fall open wider to give him a better view as your other hand slides down. You plunge two fingers into yourself, your hips canting off the mattress with a staccato breath at the sensation of yourself, so hot and tight.
“That's right,” he endorses, a leisurely movement of his hand up and down his cock as he watches you from a few feet away. “‘Feel yourself, darling. Tis paradise, is it not?” that trademark rumbling voice skittering over your skin, goosebumps raising down your arms just at the tone.
“Come closer,” you appeal breathily, wanting to smell him, feel his heat, his flesh—anything.
He shakes his head, smirking wider as his refusal spurs you on, desperate to come. Mewling as your fingers speed up, one circling your clit, the others buried as far as you can, wishing instead it were his long, graceful fingers reaching places you are unable. Watching him squeeze his own cock hurtles you fast, already aroused from the moment he slid a hand into your dress in the carriage.
Unable to fight the tide in your body, you screw your eyes shut and call out his name as your pussy starts to convulse around your own fingers, toes curling into the sheet, your muscles all going stiff, your hips again raised as you feel the tide break. A gush of wetness runs down your palm and your bottom cheeks as your mind floats away. Distantly, you can hear him speaking, but it’s fuzzy as you flop back down, sated, your legs going flat, too shaky to balance.
You startle as a warm hand circles the wrist of your fingers still inside yourself, bringing you abruptly back into the room. Benedict looms over you, his chest heaving, that power still there.
“What was that?” your query drowsy, lips dry.
He chuckles richly. “I said that was spectacular,” he repeats, bemused. “But also that I want you to paint your nipples with your arousal, my love, for me,” he commands, tugging your hand so your fingers slide out of yourself.
You do as bidden, still floating down from the high, smearing your own warm juices onto your puffed areolas.
“Perfect..” he intones.
In one swift, athletic move, he mounts the bed. You cry out as his warm mouth encloses your left nipple, groaning lewdly as he licks you clean of your arousal, his tongue a heavy, warm, wet weight curling around your sensitive bud, his lips tugging gently, reawakening those synapses only just recovering from your orgasm.
“Why do you always taste like heaven?” his dusky question is rhetorical, his breath gusting over your sternum as he swaps to your other breast to meter out the same treatment. He has you moving under him again as he settles his body over you more firmly, your hips tilting up to feel his hard cock graze your inner thigh. “I wonder if you will still taste like heaven when you are heavy with my child?” he hums thoughtfully as he teases your nipple with the tip of his nose, one hand cupping your empty belly. “I dare say even moreso, ripe like a vine, bearing fruit…” That sonorous voice teases over your skin as he moves slowly upwards to nuzzle your neck. “My fruit….” he adds, possessive as he sucks your earlobe into his mouth, so loud now right by your ear.
His hands wind around your thighs as he shuffles position so he is kneeling between your legs, his ropey thighs spread wide under yours…
“Are you ready for that, my love?” he pauses until you nod almost imperceptibly; you squeak as he suddenly hauls you down the bed, hips onto his lap, your pelvis now higher than your head upon the sheets. Your stockings unfurling down your legs where he quickly plucks at the ribbons holding them aloft.
“Good, because I am more than ready for you,” it almost sounds like a warning.
Then, with a solid thrust, he spears into your body, the invasion toe-curling, your fingers grasping his muscular forearms that are clamped around your waist. It is a primal position, and he begins to thrust with no mercy, his cock feeling huge and heavy, a strong weight that drags heavily over your walls as your pussy clings to him. Your eyes flutter closed as you whimper his name, powerless to do anything but take his thrusts, draped across his lap as you are.
“Look at me,” he demands raggedly. And you do, his handsome face contorted with effort as he slams into you, a little bead of sweat forming on his brow. “Look at me while I fuck a baby into you, wife.”
He’s never spoken to you like this before, clipped, harsh. It seems appropriate that he would be almost desperate in an act so elemental, so of the earth—to create life. Stoking a fire deep in your core that is a clarion call for him, a frisson running over your skin at the idea you are being impregnated. Bred.
You know neither of you will last long with this almost frenzied coupling, the tendrils of your arousal already swirling so soon after your last, his near-brutish handling precisely what you need, your swollen pearl slammed into his flat abdomen with every stroke he takes. The sheets roll under your shoulder blades as he keeps the same position, your hips high, a mounting that you cannot and do not want to escape, knowing he is leaving fingertip bruises around the dip of your waist, marks you will carry secretly with pride just for him.
You moan his name, so close again to that ephemeral bliss, thrashing your head from side to side as if willing the pleasure to break and wash over you.
“Come on, come for me, milk me, darling. Take what you need, take my seed,” his voice a deep wrecked purr, the lines of his body tense, craving release as much as you.
That command is what breaks the dam for you, an almost violent ricochet fanning out from where you clench around him, his cries muffled behind the rushing noise in your ears, every part of you convulsing in a pleasurable wave. And then, in a floating haze, for the very first time, you feel your husband come inside you, a warm bloom that coats your walls. It's an intoxicating feeling; you never want him to come anywhere else ever again.
“That's it, well done, my love,” he croons, eyes still shut as he shudders with little aftershocks, not leaving your body—as if he wants to stay inside you always.
——
As the embers in the fireplace glow white, you lay in post-coital bliss, bodies dewy from exertion. Benedict rests his head upon your stomach as you card your fingers leisurely through his hair.
“Do you believe we may have made a baby, darling?” he hums, pressing his ear to your belly button as if listening for a heartbeat.
“I am certain of it, husband; you were so very thorough with your attentions,” you assure as he takes your hand in his, lacing your fingers together. “I hope our baby has your face,” you opine.
“Even if it is a girl?!”
“Thou art as pretty as thou art handsome, Mr Bridgerton,” you quip.
He laughs, carefree, crawling behind you and pulling you into a spooned embrace. “Be careful with such provocation, wife; I may not be done with you after all,” he jests idly. “I, on the other hand, hope our child looks like you, even if it is a boy.” he posits, crowding into your back, his lips warm on the shell of your ear.
“Why?” you laugh, frowning, twisting to look back at him.
“So that I may love them as much as I do you,” he breezes nonchalantly as if what he says is not the sweetest thing you can imagine, causing a tart, sudden spike of want through your body, even as you lay sated.
“Be careful, husband,” you volley back, coquettish. “Or I may not yet be done with you.”
There is a sharp, approving intake of breath, and his hand slides low from your belly into the thatch of hair at the apex of your thighs.
“Is that a promise” he rumbles, your gasp loud as his fingers expertly drag against your clit.
“It is whatever you want. Just do not stop,” you rush out, your hand curling around his bicep, feeling a rigid mass slide hot against your bottom. “Again, husband,” you appeal breathily. “Impregnate me again.”
“With pleasure, wife,” he growls, surging into your body with a force that again steals the very breath from your lungs.
The pinkish light dawn is streaking over the ceiling above when you both finally succumb to sleep after many more vigorous attempts at babymaking. The last one, perhaps the most desperate, you pinned against the headboard, him fucking into you so hard from behind that a jagged crack appears, spidering up the wall from where the bedframe slammed into it. A flaw which he steadfastly refuses to get fixed, claiming it to be the most profound art—a souvenir and ode to a momentous night.
——
9 months later
Benedict’s lips mash against your sweaty brow as he keeps lauding you with praise, excitement and pride evident in his every word. You flop back onto the bed, exhaustion deep in your bones, your body turned inside out, hurting in a way you have never known.
But it was all worth it.
What feels like only moments later, in your shattered, addled state, the doctor and nurses depart. Your husband perches on the bed next to you, his face a picture of wonderment. Holding not just one but two bundles of joy in the crooks of his arms. One girl, one boy—fraternal twins.
“My love, we have created the most beautiful creatures on all of this earth,” he attests partisanly, his voice profound with emotion, his eyes pinging from one swaddled face to the other as they sleep soundly.
You shoot him a watery but ironic smile. “I suppose, dear husband, that is what happens when you spend a whole night impregnating me. You succeed twice over.”
His brow raises pointedly, his tongue shooting out to pass over his bottom lip. “Are you suggesting next time around, wife, we keep going for three days straight? So that I may have a brood of eight by the time we are done?” Deploying his bedroom voice that he knows full well makes your knees weak.
“Do not say such things in front of the children!” you chide, swatting his knee where it touches your thigh. “And no, I am not carrying six of your progeny at once; that is simply preposterous!”
“Four?” he petitions with a wink.
You roll your eyes affectionately, settling back into the mound of pillows. “A maximum of two at a time is my final offer, Benedict Bridgerton,” you respond drolly.
“Entirely reasonable,” he chuckles contentedly, dropping a kiss onto each of their foreheads before handing both to you so delicately, as if they are the most precious bundles in the world.
Which to you both, they are.
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Can you write a Benedict Bridgerton fluff oneshot where Colin is best friends with the reader’s twin brother (and she with Daphne and Eloise) and Colin let’s it slip that he’s accidentally seen the reader in her nightgown amongst his and Anthony’s teasing of Benedict’s long-standing feelings for her and the reader happens to overhear?
little things
benedict bridgerton x reader
synopsis: the brothers teasing has finally made its mark, and benedict can’t hold himself back anymore
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colin, anthony and benedict greeted you and your twin brother as you arrived to the bridgerton household. the bridgerton sisters followed, daphne and eloise smiling brightly at you as you returned their smile.
your twin brother, ernest, was swept up by the bridgerton boys. you turned back to raise an eyebrow at him, “be back soon! and nothing out of the sorts, i mean it, bridgertons!” you tried to use your best, stern voice as your brother was shoved out the door, most likely going to the local gentlemen’s club.
your brother was usually sent home in a carriage, practically spilling out the door with how drunk he was. it was funny the first few times, but now it was anything but.
daphne and eloise took you by the arms, leading you to their library for some discussion on the latest novel you have all been reading. “don’t worry about ernest, he’s a good boy, and colin will take him home as always.” daphne tried to comfort you, but thinking about it, it didn’t make it any better.
a few drinks in, and ernest excused himself. the three brothers watched him walk steadily out to find the bathroom before turning to each other.
“he’s a delight.” anthony remarked with a smile before downing his drink.
colin laughed, “i’ll say. his sister is turning out to be an even better one!” he swung his rum around in his glass, taking a sip while he turned a coy eye to anthony.
anthony picked up what colin was putting down and nodded firmly, “yes. a good set of childbearing hips, and she has a good set of lungs on her.” he raised his eyebrows at benedict, who knew exactly what his brothers were doing.
“i’ll have you two know, that lady y/n is a very intelligent woman. a good set of brains on her.” he nodded, happy with his answer as he swung a drink down.
“a good set of something for sure.” colin pursed his lips, “the modiste didn’t use too much fabric on her nightgown. i could practically see everything.” he nudged anthony who nearly spat out his drink.
benedict stopped moving completely, “what?”
colin shrugged, “her hips, every curve, every nook, every cranny. she’s gorgeous, brother. i understand why you fancy her so.” anthony quieted the conversation just as ernest walked back into the room, “listen boys, let’s call it a night shall we?”
you rushed down the steps of the bridgerton house as you heard the carriage pull up. you bid your farewell to the sisters as you walked out into the fresh london air.
the door to the carriage opened and out fell the three bridgerton brothers. anthony greeted you first, bidding you a quick goodbye as he strolled inside. colin did the same, avoiding your eyes, strangely, he booked it inside.
benedict took slow steps as you approached the carriage, his hands in his pocket as you stopped before him.
“my, my, sir bridgerton. i see that the night has served us both well.” you smiled, and benedict returned the smile, “only has it gotten better that you illuminate it once more with your smile.” he complimented you, “have a good night, lady y/n.” he grabbed your hand, gently placing a kiss on it before strolling inside.
as you hopped into the carriage, you saw your brother, slightly less drunk than previous times, still smiling widely though as he greeted you.
“sister- didn’t you have a coat on when we arrived?” he blinked once before throwing his head back, closing his eyes with a groan.
you looked down and realized he was right. you were wearing a long sleeved dress, and didn’t even realize you had forgotten your cost. good thing the carriage hadn’t pulled off yet!
you stepped down, and ran back up the steps to the bridgerton house. a maid let you in, and you ran back to the library to get your coat.
you found it sitting in the chair that you had been in, and you shucked it on.
you tiptoed out of the library and past anthony’s study, which had the door cracked open. as you approached, you heard loud voices echoing off the walls. it was the brothers, and whatever it was about, was clearly heating them up.
“-you can’t just say things like that, colin! you know how he feels about her!” one voice said, and you deciphered it to be anthony.
colin, you assumed, cleared his throat, matching the volume level, “i am drunk! and it’s about time he admits he loves her, im tired of trying to make him jealous enough to do it! i might as well marry her if that’s what it’ll take!” it was clearly about a girl, and it seemed like it was about benedict too.
benedict, the last one to say anything was sighing deeply, “you are so lucky i didn’t punch you out right there. how could you admit to seeing her in her nightgown?! she was indecent, and yet you joke about it like it’s something funny? y/n is a lady, her twin brother is our best friend!” benedict shouted back at colin, and you realized with a pang, that it was you they were talking about.
“fine, im sorry benedict. but you need to admit things to yourself. this isn’t just some childhood crush, she’s debuting next season, make sure y/n becomes your wife.” colin exited the room first, and as the door opened, your shocked face on the other side of it, it was like his face was lit on fire.
“y/n- lady y/n! i thought you left?” colin pushed the door open and his brothers stood up to meet him at the door.
you looked at him and raised an eyebrow, “i left my coat behind.” you looked at the three brothers and nodded firmly, “very well. i shall depart now.” you gave colin a glare before you started to walk away.
as you walked, you heard them whispering amongst themselves, and as you reached the door, a slap echoed into the hall and you stopped for a moment until you continued on.
as you walked down the steps to the carriage, a shout had you turning around.
“y/n!” all formalities had been thrown out as benedict stepped down to meet you, he panted slightly and caught his breath, “my brothers-“ he laughed, “are horrible.” he finished, “i apologize for what you heard, if you did hear anything but,” he reached down and grabbed your hands in his, taking you by surprise, “i suppose i needed this.” he chuckled slightly, “in order to do this.”
leaning forward, his lips met yours in a kiss, taking you in his arms, you kissed him back roughly. suddenly, it dawned on you where you were, and you inhaled sharply, pulling back.
“mr. bridgerton.” you couldn’t help but smile as you fiddled with the buttons of his shirt. his hand lifted your chin slightly and you stared for the first time in those big bright eyes, “i suppose you’ll see me tomorrow morning.” he let you go now, and you smiled, “i suppose so.”
he turned and watched you walk to your carriage, your brothers drunk slurs floating up to benedict’s ears as he carried himself back inside, his brothers already cheering from the doorway.
#benedict bridgerton x reader#benedict bridgerton smut#benedict bridgerton angst#benedict bridgerton fluff#anthony bridgerton x reader#bridgerton angst#bridgerton fluff#bridgerton x reader#bridgerton smut
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NOT FOR HIM — BENEDICT BRIDGERTON
masterlist
pairing: benedict bridgerton x reader [plus platonic anthony x reader where he’s being a matchmaker/shitstirrer]
description: you may not have been the season’s diamond, but your debut had caused quite the stir in many a man’s heart — your childhood best friend benedict bridgerton included. however, given that the viscount had decided that he would marry this season, benedict cannot see why you would choose him over his brother.
warnings: kinda tiny bit of angst (if you squint) into tooth-rotting fluff !!! tiny bit of suggestive benedict at the very end but it’s not much !
author’s note: this is basically like a reverse to the anthony one i wrote because i have a big ol’ soft spot for benedict too after my latest rewatch. enjoy !!! [edited, but not thoroughly — will be returning to do so asap]
“You look astonishing, Y/N,” Benedict’s eyes were wide when he saw you, “Absolutely astonishing.”
You blushed crimson under the intensity of his gaze, “You don’t look too bad yourself this evening, Lord Bridgerton.”
You never called him that — you’d known him far too long to consistently comply with formalities — but considering that it was one of your very first balls of your very first season, you had to be the picture of manners.
“It is so strange to hear you call me Lord Bridgerton,” Benedict screwed his face up, “Even if it does give me some small hope that you might consider me too as one of your many suitors.”
You shook your head gently with a laugh, “Oh, Benedict, as if you would wish to court me.”
Before he had a chance to retaliate with stern disagreement at your idea that it was such a preposterous notion, your eyes snapped up to see his brother entering the ballroom.
“Ah,” you grinned, noticing that he had spotted you both immediately and was on his way over to you, “It appears your brother has finally arrived!”
You didn’t look at Benedict for long enough to see the frown on his face at your apparent excitement.
For years, everyone around you had speculated about the closeness of your relationship with Benedict.
Granted, you were close with the whole family, but the tenderness with which Benedict treated you had always teetered on blatant romance even if neither of you had seen it before.
Of course he was aware of it now — he’d realised he was in love with you long ago as silly young teenagers, and now that you were finally out in society (emphasis on finally, as you had delayed doing so as much as possible) he had hoped to make that clear.
But of course your eyes were fixed on his brother, the Viscount, who had finally decided he wished to marry and therefore seemingly snatched all of your attention away from him.
“Good evening, my lord,” you curtsied, and Anthony laughed, “Such formality! How are you enjoying your first ball, Y/N? I trust my brother has not let you leave his side?”
You giggled, and as much as Benedict adored the sound of your laughter he couldn’t help the clenching of his jaw at his brother’s remark and your evident amusement.
“He has taken great care of me, undoubtedly,” you smiled, hands resting on Benedict’s upper arm for a moment as you leaned into him, “How do you feel about your first ball on the hunt for a wife?”
Anthony scoffed, “Consumed with dread, as expected,” he joked, “Brother, would you mind if I stole Y/N away for one dance? Only so that I might enjoy one last moment of vague freedom before I endure the onslaught of mamas I see staring me down?”
Benedict swallowed thickly, because yes he very much did mind you being stolen away to dance with a man who could provide for you so much better than he could.
He had always been second best to his brother, but never with you.
And now he felt rather ridiculous as he nodded meekly and watched you saunter away at the side of his own brother, who would never love you like he did nor treat you as more than a friend and a commodity necessary to the life of an important man.
“Of course.”
You smiled shyly over at Benedict as you followed Anthony away, and made a mental note to confront him about the sad look gracing his features as you did so.
“My brother is staring daggers into my skull already,” Anthony chuckled as you took your positions to dance, “I rather wonder why he was not dancing with you if he is so bothered by my doing so.”
You bit your lip, “We have danced together twice already, Anthony. In fact, I’ve danced only with him so far tonight. I feel… safe with Benedict. This is all so terrifying.”
As Anthony beamed down at you knowingly, you realised quite what he had initially said, “Whatever do you mean by him staring daggers? Why would he be doing that?”
“Oh, my dear Y/N, you must see that my poor fool of a brother is overcome with jealousy at our interaction,” he laughed as though it was the most obvious thing in the world, “Particularly now that I plan to marry. He quite clearly thinks that it is you I wish to do so with.”
You looked down at your feet for a moment, suddenly feeling shy.
When you remembered that you were talking to a man you knew like he was part of your own family, however, your head snapped back up — a smirk gracing your face.
“Oh, am I not to become Viscountess? I so had my hopes up!” you feigned a gasp, “In all seriousness, Anthony, why on earth would Benedict think we might marry and more so why on earth would he care so much?”
Anthony heaved out a deep sigh at that as you danced, almost irritated by your blatant ignorance to what was so clear.
“I don’t believe I should tell you the answer to that if you are somehow quite unaware of it yourself,” he shook his head, briefly meeting the eyes of his brother as he spun you, and smiled almost teasingly at him, “I hope that after stealing you from him for this dance he might finally discuss it with you himself.”
You rolled your eyes, “You jest, Anthony, because if you are trying to imply that he has affections towards me I’m sure you are sorely mistaken.”
Anthony stopped abruptly, quirking his eyebrow at you, “You truly are oblivious?”
You looked at him curiously, doe eyed and inquisitive as you waited for him to continue — or to resume dancing so you didn’t continue to feel all eyes on your frozen frames.
“Right, very well. I am going to walk away now, all smiles,” he informed you, plastering a smile on his face and nodding at the onlookers as he kissed the back of your hand to show no ill-will had halted your dance, “I would suggest that you get some fresh air, perhaps? My brother might… Come to check on you.”
You forced a smile as he silently moved away from you and towards the buffet table at the other side of the hall.
With a sharp breath you took his advice, despite your confusion, and lifted your skirt a little to busy your hands as you traipsed out of the ballroom and onto the balcony.
Like clockwork, Benedict Bridgerton found himself at your side in mere moments.
“Are you waiting here for my brother?”
The tension in the air was palpable, his voice low as he failed to hide the disappointment at his suspicions.
“Not for him, no.”
“Then for another?”
“I suppose so.”
“Apologies, then. I’ll leave you to it.”
You spun on your heel now as he turned to leave, touching his shoulder, “No, Benedict, I was waiting— for you.”
“For me?”
The incredulous smile on his face made your heart swell with hope — perhaps Anthony was right.
Maybe what you had spent all these years perceiving as friendship truly was reciprocated love all this time.
“Anthony claimed he believed you jealous, and that you thought we were attached,” you giggled, and he swore his heart melted at the sound of your gentle laughter, “And I was utterly unsure as to why you would believe that, let alone be jealous of it. But then he told me to get some fresh air and that you might find me here and I became hopeful.”
“Hopeful?”
“Yes. Hopeful that perhaps the feelings that have steadily grown on my part throughout the time I have known you might be returned. That perhaps you were not joking when you said you hoped I might consider you a suitor this season,” you blushed crimson as you served him your honest feelings on a silver platter.
He cocked his head to the side curiously, not quite believing you entirely though you were evidently being sincere, “Do you not wish to marry my brother?”
You scoffed, quickly covering your mouth with your hand at the outburst, but then sighed as you looked deeply into his eyes, “Of course not, Benedict.”
“But he is a Viscount — he could offer you so much more than I, and he seemed taken with you.”
“He was taken with making you jealous enough to confront me, my dear Benedict. He spent our dance essentially telling me to wise up and talk to you,” you bit your lip nervously, “Because he knows that I have long loved you, and believes that you feel the same.”
The curious smile on his face grew now into a beaming grin, his hands flying to take yours within them and bring them to his lips for a gentle kiss.
“I—, Y/N, I cannot— I cannot even begin to express the joy that those words have brought me,” the words tumbled from his lips like he couldn’t think fast enough to convey his feelings, “I have been in love with you for as long as I can remember. I settled for cherishing mere friendship because I feared I would not be… I would not be the man for you beyond that.”
You shook your head, “Benedict, surely you know how dear you are to me? I— at the very least in my heart, you are the man for me. I’ve been certain of it for so long and that is why I feared entering society so much. I didn’t want to marry for the sake of marriage and have to have the man I truly love as a mere friend. You are more than enough for me, Benedict, I feel safe with you — you are home to me.”
“And you are home to me, Y/N,” he was trying so very hard not to kiss you, his words soft and delicate as his breath fanned over your face due to your newfound close proximity, “If you would allow me to… I would like to court you. In fact, I would propose to you now if I was to allow my selfishness to take control. But I want you to be sure it is me you want, even if it hurts to see you dance and converse with others.”
“You’re all I could ever want, Benedict,” you spoke like it was utterly obvious, “And when you do propose, you can be certain of my acceptance. For now I am happy to share every dance with you and pretend we need to get to know each other to form an engagement. We have all of the time in the world.”
“We do.”
You were both breathing heavily, eyes glossy with the sheer emotion of the confessions you had just shared.
“I wish so badly that I could kiss you right now, but I fear I may not be able to control myself in future once I do,” his voice was barely above a whisper as you licked your lips, swallowing thickly.
“I wish— I wish you might kiss me too,” your reply was hardly even coherent, too love drunk to properly formulate your words, “More than anything.”
He was still holding onto your hands, and so he brought them up to ghost another kiss over them again, settling for this as he fought his urge to press his lips to yours instead.
“As you said, my love, we have all the time in the world,” there was a subtle undertone of what you might describe as lust in his tone now, intertwined with the love struck lilt he had been speaking with.
Your breath hitched in your throat as his lips ghosted up your forearm briefly before he brought them back down to your hands.
“And I cannot wait.”
———
horny benedict at the end to satiate my own need for that despite the intention for this to just be fluffy hahaha. hope you enjoyed !!!
feel free to keep requesting — and in the mean time here is my masterlist.
#bridgerton#benedict bridgerton#benedict bridgerton x reader#benedict bridgerton imagine#benedict bridgerton imagines#benedict bridgerton fluff#anthony bridgerton#benedict bridgerton one shot#bridgerton one shot
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𝐃𝐑𝐔𝐍𝐊 𝐒𝐊𝐄𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒 — benedict bridgerton x female reader . in which benedict discovers a lady asleep on his bed after retiring from the annual bridgerton ball for the night.
3200 words | a fluffy mess ! | masterlist | suggest fics ideas
The last thing that Benedict had expected to see when stumbling into his bedchambers after retiring from the ball for the night, still slightly tipsy, was a lady fast asleep on his bed. But Alas — there you were. Fast asleep, chest slowly rising and then falling again, your lips parted and the material of your ballgown draped in a rather messy manner around you.
He rubbed at his eyes harshly, as if doing so would prove that you were indeed a figment of his imagination, that he was coming down with a fever and therefore hallucinating, that a shadow had taken form on his bed and he had simply mistaken it for a girl. But no. You were actually there. On his bed.
Benedict felt his mouth fall open and shut again – bewildered but slowly coming to his senses. He finally closed the door behind him, so as to ensure nobody would see you, that your reputation wouldn’t be ruined over something which wasn’t anything. “Alright… alright.” he mumbled to himself, taking a few steps closer to the bed and kneeling onto the mattress besides you. Hoping that perhaps his weight shifting underneath would wake you up but… no. Instead you just mumbled something incoherent in your sleep, shifting onto your side as you did so.
The annual Bridgerton ball had taken place that night, was still taking place downstairs in fact, and was still running into the early hours of the morning. But Benedict decided that he had had enough of the ton for one day, that he would get a somewhat early night. Instead one of his mother’s guests was napping in his bedchambers. Which he had to admit was something completely new to him, in their many years of hosting balls he had never experienced this.
“Um… Excuse me? Miss?” he half whispered, placing a light hand on the soft skin of your arm and attempting to gently shake you awake. “You really need to wake… You don’t wish to be caught alone together, hm? Especially not in my bedchamber…”
Upon further inspection, Benedict noticed that your hair had been lazily removed from its updo, and instead fell around you, framing your face and complimenting your features perfectly. He brushed a piece away from you, tucking it behind your ear and frowning as he stared down at you. He was entirely unsure of what to do, and far too aware of how the situation would appear to anybody else - your reputation would be completely ruined if you were caught in this situation. Benedict wanted to ask his mother for help, but was frightened to leave you here alone. What if something happened to you? What if something had already happened to you?
Benedict was unaware that just a few hours earlier, you had began to grow incredibly bored of the ball – by the mundanity of it all, the endless stream of men that your mother insisted on parading in front of you, the dances, the meaningless and far too polite conversation. You had instead decided to plant yourself in a corner nearest to the drinks table… where you had been drinking the night away ever since.
You were unsure of how much you had actually drank, but when the entire room began to spin in a rather unpleasant way you had decided that it was probably time to stop. You had managed to stagger out of the ballroom and into a hallway – though you can hardly remember the journey upstairs and through the hallways into Benedict’s bedchamber, nor can you remember falling asleep, but you know that you certainly didn’t intend to fall into such a deep slumber.
“Miss?” your eyes fluttered open to the sound of a concerned voice – a man. You sat yourself up quickly, too quickly. You immediately regretted it as the room began to sway again, the unfamiliar surroundings rocking back and fourth. You soon discovered the source of the voice, sat besides you on the bed with his eyebrows pulled together in concern. A Bridgerton. You weren’t entirely sure which one, but you knew that he was a Bridgerton.
“Oh dear God.” the words fell from you before you could stop them, bringing your hands upwards in an attempt to cover your face. Although you were still very drunk, you had enough sense to be embarrassed, mortified in fact, by the entire situation. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry Mr Bridgerton.” you mumbled — refusing to meet his eyes, which were burning through you with an undeniably intense curiosity.
Benedict blinked in surprise, he had never got quite used to the entirety of the ton being aware of who he was — most of the time they cannot tell him apart from his brothers, but they are still aware that he is a Bridgerton, meanwhile he is half asleep when introduced to people by his mother, it can be quite rare that he actually remembers a name.
“Are you quite alright?”
“I’m a little bit...”
“Drunk? I know that. I can smell the alcohol on you. But are you alright? I mean you were hiding in my bedchambers, asleep on my bed. Did something happen? Other than the copious amounts of alcohol.” Underneath his concern, his curiosity, his twenty questions – was amusement. You could tell that he was repressing a smile, perhaps even in a small laugh.
You felt your cheeks begin to warm, feeling completely and utterly embarrassed – he could smell the alcohol on you after all. You stood from the bed as soon as you could get up, an action which ended up being a complete mistake, you began to stagger sideways almost instantly. Benedict having to stand from where he was sitting in order to prevent you from falling. He placed two firm yet gentle hands on your arms, holding you in one place.
“It’s alright… I’m not angry, if anything I’m quite amused…” you were forced to make eye contact with him at that point, and discovered that he was practically gazing at you, smiling as if he was biting back a laugh – he became serious again rather quickly. “But are you alright? Has anybody hurt you? Or was the annual Bridgerton ball just that boring?”
You shook your head quickly. “I’m quite alright… I didn’t mean to fall asleep, do you see? I just needed a rest.” Your excuse didn’t give you any comfort, here you were, apologising to someone who was practically a stranger for falling asleep on his bed because you… needed a rest.
“So you’re fine. Just sleepy, I suppose.”
“Just sleepy.” You confirmed.
“And drunk… Too much of my mother’s famous punch.”
A quiet giggle fell from your lips – he was actually quite amusing. Why couldn’t your mother have paraded him in front of you instead of the magnitudes of bores who she insisted on you at least considering?
“Do you care to tell me your name?” Benedict questioned, his head tilting to one side as his eyes scanned across your features, not making an attempt to hide his curiosity.
“Y/N.” You replied, raising your head in the most confident and self assured manner that you could muster.
“Well… It’s lovely to meet you, Miss Y/N.” He removed his hands from each of your arms, instead taking your hand in his and pressing a soft kiss to the bare skin, before gently releasing you. “I’m Benedict — You don’t have to bother with the Mr Bridgerton stuff, I’m just Benedict afterall.”
“I must be getting back… Benedict.” You smiled, hesitating at first but ultimately enjoying the way that his name sounded on your tongue. Benedict — you decided that you could get used to it. “I am sure that my mother will be worrying.”
Benedict raised an eyebrow, sitting back on the edge of his mattress. “You can hardly stand, Miss Y/N. I’m not sure that you’re in any fit state to return to the ball just yet.” He stretched his legs out, removing his waistcoat and discarding it somewhere across the room.
“I appreciate the concern but I am perfectly fine.” you crossed your arms across your chest, feining irritation as you stared down at where he now practically laid across the bed. Unbeknown to you, your words were still slurred – very slurred.
He was now laying back, gazing up at the ceiling. “You’ll be the talk of the town! I can picture it now… Do you think that you’ll be the main feature on Lady Whistledown? Or instead one of the more minor segments?” You stayed silent, arms staying tightly crossed. “Miss Y/N…” He held out an arm dramatically above him “drunken disaster…”
“That is very rude! Were you not taught never to speak to a lady in such a manner?” you exclaimed, picking up what was nearest to you and throwing it across the room, where it landed on his chest – luckily, it was quite a small book, and did no damage when it came into contact with him.
Benedict seemed utterly unfazed, laughing quietly to himself and opening the book to a random page – where he seemingly pretended to be utterly engrossed in the chapter. “Apparently not… I have four sisters so I am quite used to bickering with these so called ladies that you speak of.” He paused for a moment. “I will find something to sober you.” he stood, suddenly serious, his gaze turning to where you stood. “But only if you promise to stay here for the time being. If someone sees you leaving my bedchambers it would look most suspicious.”
You nodded quickly, knowing that as much as you wanted to disagree, he was most definitely right. “Just sit.” Benedict pointed to the bed, and you did so without hesitating, being very obedient. “And stay there. I won’t be gone for very long.”
Benedict managed to leave his bedchamber without being spotted – using the servants staircase in order to avoid seeing anybody, and making his way down to the kitchen in order to fetch tea and biscuits for you. Meanwhile, you sat on the edge of Benedict’s bed, inspecting the surroundings the best you could without moving. You noticed an easel in the corner of the room and raised an eyebrow – you wouldn’t have guessed that he was a painter, but then again, you hardly knew him.
The minutes dragged on for what felt like eternity, waiting for Benedict to return to his room, and when he finally did you weren’t expecting him to return carrying a huge tray in a rather clumsily manner. He placed it down on the table besides his bed, shutting the door behind him as quick as he could. “Sorry that took me so long I…” He hesitated for a moment, seeming to carefully think his words over. “If I’m being completely honest I couldn’t work the stove to heat the water… but I got there eventually. Tea and biscuits, for you.” Benedict smiled sheepishly, before beginning to pour you a cup of tea. He handed it to you, and you gratefully took it. “You actually stayed sat there, how obedient!”
You rolled your eyes, attempting to pay no mind to the way that particular comment made you feel – deciding to ignore it completely. “Thank you, Benedict.” Silence fell between the two of you, Benedict pouring a cup for himself before sitting besides you. “You’re an artist?”
He glanced over at the easel in the corner of the room before looking back to you, nodding as he did so. “Something like that… I like to draw, but whether I am an artist or not is most likely up for debate.”
“Are you any good? Would you be able to capture my likeness? Can I see one of your sketchbooks?” You inquired, questions falling from you with zero difficulty. You thought that perhaps you might be speaking too much, but Benedict entertained every question that you asked him.
He paused for a moment, eyes scanning you up and down – you couldn’t help but shiver underneath his gaze. “Hm… I’m certainly not a bad painter, though sometimes I doubt myself – I suppose we all doubt ourselves at times.” He was quiet once again, choosing his words carefully. “I’m unsure whether I’d be able to capture your beauty, but I’m always up for a challenge.” Benedict began to search through his bedside drawers, holding multiple sketchbooks in his hand. “I’m not sure if all of my sketches would be exactly… appropriate for a lady.”
Once again, your cheeks warmed in embarrassment, and you turned your attention quickly to your tea to hide just how flustered his words made you – trying to ignore him as he began to flick through the pages of the filled books, tossing a few aside as he deemed them as being too inappropriate for your eyes. Of course you were curious, but you chose not to press on.
You crossed your legs underneath you in the best way that you could manage whilst still wearing your ballgown, leaning forwards with interest as Benedict opened a sketchbook on the bed in front of you – pointing to the charcoal sketches. “My sisters… Daphne, Eloise, Francesca and Hyacinth.” he pointed to each picture, smiling proudly as he did so – proud more so of his actual sisters than he was of the drawings (although he knew that he had captured them well.)
“They’re beautiful, truly. You’re quite gifted.” You turned the page, smiling as you took in each sketch.
You certainly didn’t miss how Benedict’s cheeks flushed a reddish hue with each compliment, how his lips turned up at the corners into a shy smile. He was clearly passionate about his work, cared more than he wanted to about what others thought of his art, that he valued your opinion. “Thank you… it means a lot. Truly.”
The two of you spent as long as possible, talking, laughing, looking through Benedict’s sketchbooks, discussing books you had read recently – until you had sobered up… at least a little bit. The tea and biscuits soaking up some of the alcohol in your system, though there was nothing wrong with being a little bit merry at an event.
“I suppose you truly should be off now.” Benedict sighed, helping you to your feet. “Most people will be leaving soon… and you don’t want your mother to end up sending out a search party to find you.” You were certainly a lot more steady on your feet this time around, taking a few hesitant steps with the help of Benedict and feeling fine.
You nodded, sighing quietly to yourself – you had had a much more enjoyable night, with better conversations in the short amount of time spent with Benedict than you had had at any other ball. “Thank you, for being so kind… and I’m sorry again.”
Benedict shushed you, pressing a gentle finger to your lips – apparently feeling rather more bold than he usually would. “There’s no need to apologise – as strange as it was, I’ve had a lovely time. A better time than I would had I spent more time actually socialising.”
“Me too.” You admitted, smiling sheepishly at him. Benedict turned from you, creeping to the door of the room and slowly opening it in order to prevent it creaking — he peered out, eyes scanning the hall to ensure that nobody was around. “It’s clear.” He reached out his hand to guide you to the door and you gladly took it, enjoying the warmth of his skin on yours as you were lead from the door. Benedict walked you to the end of the hall, pointing as he gave you directions back to the ballroom.
You couldn’t help but feel a sadness within you as you walked the halls, taking in every tiny piece of detail: the paintings; the wallpaper; the furniture; the flooring – certain that you wouldn’t be returning. “Well… Goodbye.” You whispered shyly, offering a small wave before turning and beginning to descend the grand stairs.
“Wait…” Benedict mumbled, turning and taking your hand in his and spinning you around to face him. You felt your eyebrows furrow together in confusion, watching as he hesitated with his words before finally blurting out the question – “Can I see you again?”
“Of course you can… Mr Bridgerton.” You smiled, and in a feeling of unnatural and rare moment of courage you leaned up to kiss his cheek – pressing your soft lips to his skin before pulling away and watching as his face began to flush to a pretty shade of rosy pink. Unbelievable. You had managed to make Benedict Bridgerton blush.
Before he could speak, you practically ran from the scene, gathering up your skirt in your hands to ensure that you wouldn’t trip. You knew that it was probably quite a dangerous thing to do, considering the fact that you weren’t exactly sober.
Benedict watched as you ran from him until you were completely out of sight, his lips slightly parted in surprise as he struggled to process all of the events from that night — it all felt very much like a fever induced dream.
On returning to his bedchambers, Benedict flipped to a new page in his sketchbook and began to draw – wanting to sketch you to the best of his abilities before his memories began to fade. Despite his previous desire for an early and long night of sleep, he ended up staying awake for most of the night working on the portrait, ensuring that it would be ready before you awoke that morning.
And when you awoke one of the first things that you discovered was a grand bouquet of roses left on the table besides your bed, made up of all sorts of different shades and sizes… alongside a note. Your lady’s maid had brought the flowers into your room whilst you had slept, creeping along the wooden floor so as not to wake you. She was secretly excited for you, having sneakily seen the note which came with the bouquet – she had unfolded it before tucking it back into place.
Hours after the flowers had arrived, you finally awoke. Still in your nightgown, half asleep and still in your nightgown, half asleep and sporting a small alcohol induced headache - you had leaned over to inspect the flowers before reaching for and unfolding the note — discovering a drawing of yourself.
A small gasp escaped you as you took it in. Benedict. He had made you look beautiful, so beautiful – he had captured you perfectly, all of you, seeming to even capture the soul behind your eyes. You just seemed so alive. His signature was at the bottom of the portrait, alongside the words “Sketched with love and care for Miss Y/N. – Benedict Bridgerton.”
You ran your finger gently across the words, careful not to smudge any of it – the words repeating in your head again and again. A contented sigh falling from your lips, you fell back onto your mattress, holding the drawing close to your chest as the night’s events really sunk into you. It was hard to believe – yet the words on the page were there as proof — sketched with love and care for Miss Y/N. Benedict Bridgerton.
#benedict bridgerton#benedict bridgerton x reader#benedict bridgerton x y/n#benedict bridgerton fanfic#benedict bridgerton fluff#bridgerton#benedict bridgerton fanfiction#benedict bridgerton blurb#benedict bridgerton x you#bridgerton fanfic#bridgerton fanfiction#bridgerton x reader
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Madness
I wrote this so long ago and then abandoned it because I didn’t know if the ending was satisfactory or not. I thought it would have a greater plot as well but when I couldn’t find it, I was dissatisfied until I reread it and realized the prose was too good not to publish.
Fluff but also a little bit of angst if you squint hard enough.
In which Benedict Bridgerton finally reveals the truth.
She was beautiful. Too beautiful, if Benedict was being perfectly honest with himself. Not the kind of beauty that had him picking up a paint brush and painstakingly striking an easel with lovely swirls of color but the kind of beauty that distracted him, made him brood in a dim corner of the room, watching the little twists of her mouth and the subtle way she arched a brow. Beauty to the point of distraction, like spending hours watching shooting stars dash across the night sky, not realizing as dawn approached on the horizon.
It was utterly maddening.
She was utterly maddening.
How was he meant to live, to exist and breathe, to witness such great beauty and yet have none of the capacity, the right, to keep it?
Just a glance from her, a single curve of her lips, and Benedict could feel his faith in God strengthening as easily as he could deny the Lord’s existence. Only a benevolent God could create such ecstatic beauty and yet no benevolent God could exist in this world if Benedict had to bear the cruelty of Y/N’s indifference.
Maddening.
He sighed, the sound bereft as he continued to watch her charm the eligible men of the ton. She had a veritable cabal of men gathered around her and if any other debutant had been in her position, they surely would have been overwhelmed by now.
But not Y/N.
Never Y/N.
With her head held high and her smile demure, she directed the men as easily as if she was holding court. A slight clearing of the throat and already, someone had a glass of lemonade in their hand while a flap of her hand would have the men falling over themselves in an attempt to get her a chair.
A queen holding court, indeed.
Benedict rolled his eyes at the man to her right, who practically shoved at the man on his left in order to catch Y/N’s attention. Not that it really mattered though, especially not when Y/N’s attention was focused on Benedict.
Even from across the room, the tension between them felt palpable. Exhilarating. It always had been with Y/N. Thick and smooth, the connection between them as tangible as their own beating hearts. Just a shared look between them and the world fell silent, the edges of his vision practically darkening at the edges until he saw only her.
Beautiful. Even as her face contorted with hurt for the briefest of seconds, her eyes pulling away from him and returning to the crowd of men that surrounded her.
Benedict gritted his teeth, the only sign of annoyance he let himself show.
“I see you are not quite so enamored with our diamond.”
Benedict’s head whipped to the left, finding Lady Danbury watching him with those shrewd eyes of hers. The old crone had her cane gripped tightly in her hands and Benedict fought his grimace at the phantom pain that shot up from his ankles. The dowager countess had a terrible habit of whacking gentlemen she didn’t like with that sturdy cane of hers and Benedict had felt the brunt of that pain far too many times for his liking.
Still, as a gentleman, he couldn’t very well ignore the woman. It would have been terribly rude of him to and it went against every fiber of the etiquette that had been drilled to him as a child.
He spared Y/N another glance before he spoke. “You think all those men enamored with her?”
“I think they think themselves enamored by her,” Lady Danbury said. “She is quite a beauty and accomplished too, I hear. Are you acquainted with the young lady?”
He had been, when he was young. As recently as a few months ago, Benedict had counted Y/N as one of his dearest friends but with everything that transpired between them…
“We are familiar with one another.”
Lady Danbury arched a brow, directing her attention back to Y/N. She was animatedly speaking with Anthony and Colin, the only time the entire evening where her smile didn’t seem a little bit forced. “Your brothers seem friendly with her. Why aren’t you?”
Because he was a stupid, bloody, idiot who didn’t know how to keep his damn mouth shut, that’s why.
But his pride would never let him say that, especially not in front of Lady Danbury. “We are familiar with each other.” He repeated, voice tight.
Lady Danbury’s eyes flickered. “I seem to recall your mother telling me about how you and the Lady Y/N were thick as thieves not so long ago.”
Bloody hell, the old crone was relentless. He didn’t want to talk about his and Y/N’s falling out, especially not with her.
He suddenly whirled, cocking his head to the side. “Oh, I believe I hear someone calling me.”
No one was calling him but not even his impeccable manners could make him stay.
Lady Danbury harrumphed. “I may be old, boy, but I am not deaf.”
“Definitely hear someone calling me.” Benedict even cupped a hand, placing it on the side of his mouth before he yelled a quick, “I’ll be right there!” He turned back to Lady Danbury, who was looking at him as if she knew his claims were a lie. “Lady Danbury, if you’ll excuse me.”
The dowager countess simply gave Benedict a knowing look yet let him go.
He ducked into the crowd towards… bloody hell he couldn’t find anyone he would rather talk to. His brothers were still off speaking with Y/N and he didn’t feel like speaking with his mother, who would likely hound him about his fight with Y/N. Which left the last person of their party, Eloise. A quick scan of the room revealed his sister in the other side of the room, conspiratorially whispering to her best friend, Penelope Featherington.
He zoomed towards them, turning his back on Y/N and Lady Danbury.
Eloise caught his eye as he approached and her lips pursed in displeasure. “Why do you look as if you’re expecting me to bail you out of a horrible situation.”
“Can’t I see my favorite sister with joy in my face without being suspected of ill intent?”Benedict said with a grin before bowing to Penelope, who returned the gesture with her own curtsy.
Penelope ducked her head to suppress a giggle.
Eloise rolled her eyes at him. “What do you want?”
“To ask you why you’re sulking in a corner instead of dancing despite—“ he pulled at the dance card in her wrist, every single line filled with names that were unfamiliar to him. “Did you put fake names in your dance card?”
Eloise snatched her wrist back. “Yes. I thought that with Y/N grabbing the attention of so many of the gentlemen, I would be spared the embarrassment of having to entertain any gentlemen tonight. Unfortunately, I was wrong.”
Benedict turned to Penelope. “How many approached her?”
“Six,” Penelope smirked, “and those six quickly turned right back around.”
“Well with a full dance card, I’m not at all surprised.”
Eloise rolled her eyes in annoyance. “Spare me the lecture, brother. I’m sure I’ll hear enough from mother tonight.”
“She caught you?”
“After Eloise turned down the sixth one, Lady Violet began to suspect,” Penelope explained.
Benedict grinned. “When have you known me to lecture you?”
She gave him a saccharine smile, the kind that Benedict always knew would end with her barbed words. “Aren’t you meant to be fawning over Y/N? You’d done it most of our life.”
He bristled at her words.
Penelope shot them a curious look. “You never told me you were acquainted with the lady?”
“Hadn’t I?” Eloise frowned. “Lady Y/L/N’s family and ours have been acquainted for ages. Of course, she rarely ever came to London and if it hadn’t been for her father’s recent passing she wouldn’t have had a season at all. Mama had held hope that perhaps one of my dear brothers would begin to take some responsibility and marry her.” She lowered her voice in a conspiratorial whisper that was so loud, it still reached Benedict’s ears. “Personally, I always thought Benedict would offer. He and Y/N had a special bond growing up. Even Daphne thinks so.”
Benedict had never hit a woman before but perhaps, just this once, excuses could be made for one’s sisters.
“So, well acquainted then,” Penelope said with a slight smile.
“I do recall Benedict pining after Y/N for years,” Eloise mused, uncaring as Benedict’s mood soured. “You never did tell me why it is you suddenly became estranged”
“Not that it’s any of your business.” He grumbled.
Eloise batted eyes innocently. “Irritable today, aren’t you, brother? Could it possibly be because of the cadre of men that hound every one of Y/N’s footsteps?”
“I have changed my mind. Francesca is now my favorite sister.”
“I love you too, Benedict,” she all but grinned.
He turned his attention back to Y/N, who, to his surprise, had taken her leave.
“She’s in the garden, if you wish to speak to her,” Eloise said, noting his wandering eyes and nodding towards the open veranda at the side.
“What gave you the impression that I would like to speak to her?”
Eloise simply rolled her eyes before tugging Penelope’s arm. “With Y/N taking her respite, I imagine there will be a sudden influx of gentlemen who would like to dance. Let us make ourselves scarce.” And she pulled Penelope along, the red head offering Benedict an apologetic look.
He glanced at the crowd once again before letting his feet carry him through the veranda and out towards the garden. There were still many people milling about outside that granted them protection from scandal but it was much more intimate than the loud din of the ballroom.
The night was cool, the spring air serene compared to the humidity of the ballroom.
He spied Y/N, her back turned against the door. Upon hearing his approach, she sighed. “Good sir, if you did not understand me, I wish to be al—“ she turned and her words died at her lips at the sight of him. “Oh. It’s you.”
She looked even lovelier up close. She always did. Whether dressed in a simple frock with her long hair flowing down her back or dressed ornately with jewels adorning her, she always looked lovelier up close.
“What do you want, Benedict,” Y/N said, dropping that societal mask she employed inside.
“To apologize.”
She shook her head. “There is nothing to apologize for. You asked for my hand under false pretenses, I rejected you. End of story.“
“Under false pretenses?” He echoed, his own tone turning sharp. “You think my proposal to be insincere? Is that why you rejected me?”
“I did not think it insincere, I knew it to be insincere. I heard you and the Lady Violet discussing me. I heard when you declared your intention to ask for my hand in marriage simply because she had asked you to.”
Oh.
Oh.
He remembered then, the conversation he had with his mother right before he proposed.
“Propose to her,” Violet had urged just as breakfast had been served, with only Benedict and Violet dining.
“I am not even courting her, mama,” he replied exasperatedly. It had been far too early in the morning to entertain his mother’s insistence on seeing him wed to Y/N. She’d pestered him about it in one form or another even before the Y/L/Ns had come to visit the Bridgertons and Benedict knew she would not stop until he and Y/N were formally engaged.
But Y/N had just ended her mourning period for her father. And though societal mandates dictated that it was perfectly reasonable for Benedict to ask for her hand in marriage, he knew how deeply she mourned the man, especially since his death had placed her in such a precarious position. The late patriarch of the Y/L/N family had been fond of his only child, even if she had been born a girl. And Y/N had loved him, even if his death left her and her mother saddled with financial debt despite coming from the longest line of barony in England.
“What does it matter that you are not courting?” Violet demanded. “You have known her since you were both children. You’ve been courting her all your life.”
“Mama, please leave it well enough alone.”
“What is it that you do not like about her?” She insisted. “She is beautiful and accomplished and you have known each other your whole lives. Any young man would be fortunate to be bound to her in marriage.”
“I never said anything that would imply otherwise.”
“Then why do you refuse to ask her for her hand in marriage? Doing so would spare her a season in London and limit their financial troubles.” And then she had gasped in indignation. “Or is their financial troubles the very reason why you refuse? I never raised you to be avaricious!”
Bloody hell. “I am not avaricious, mother. I do not care about her dowry or lack thereof!”
“Then what is it? Do not tell me it is because you do not love her. I have seen the way you look at her.”
Benedict had eyed his fork, had wondered if perhaps, it would be a better to shove it in his ears than listen to his mother’s hullabaloo.
Instead he took a scone, spreading a generous layer of clotted cream and jam so his hands had something to do rather than maim himself.
“And how is it I look at her, mother?” He drawled.
“The same way your father used to look at me.”
At that he had paused, scone half-raised to his mouth. He hadn’t known what to say anymore. Mentions of his own father had always been capable of silencing his mind.
Finally, he had decided on telling her the truth, that his mother may finally stop pestering him.
“Asking Y/N for her hand in marriage had always been the plan, mother,” Benedict relented. “I was simply waiting for the perfect moment.”
Violet smiled at her son kindly. “There are no such thing as perfect moments, dearest. Only moments that can be made perfect. And whether you ask her later or tomorrow or next week, that moment will be perfect by virtue of you asking.”
She was right, of course. Violet Bridgerton was so rarely incorrect especially in matters of the heart and love.
Benedict had given her a smile, and said, voice dripping in sarcasm. “Well, since you so graciously asked me to, I shall propose to the Lady Y/N, if only to make you happy.”
That must have been what Y/N heard. Not the whole story but the end, when Benedict had teased his mother.
Now he was convinced that God existed and that he must be cruel. Only the machinations of a cruel God could have lined up the timing perfectly.
Y/N’s eyes flickered as she regarded him. “I do not wish to bind you in marriage with someone you do not hold any affection for. You have fulfilled your promise to your mother and have asked for my hand. I rejected you. We no longer have any obligations with one another. Good night.” She made a move to pass him, to walk back to the ballroom to her gaggle of men but Benedict’s hand shot up, gripping her arm and keeping her to him.
His hands were gloved and even Y/N’s arms were sheathed in silk. And though he had never felt gloves to be particularly offensive, he wished to burn the ones that covered their hands. If only so he could feel her smooth skin beneath his fingers.
The heady scent of her perfume wafted through his senses. She smelled divine, like walking through a garden of roses under the cover of moonlight as the stars twinkled above his head. Utterly mouthwatering, and capable of driving even the sanest of men into insanity. The scent of distraction.
Always so distracting.
Benedict forced his mouth to speak before his brain could forget the words he needed to say. “Do you think so little of me? Capable of such cruelty especially when it comes to you.”
Y/N’s brows met, a flash of pain in her eyes and then it was gone. “It is the opposite, really. I think the world of you, Benedict. Only a gentleman would offer to marry a girl he has no obligations to simply because of her precarious position in life. You are an honorable man and any woman would be lucky to call you their husband. It is why I cannot accept your proposal, not when you do not love me. Not when there is no one on this world more deserving of love than you.”
Benedict frowned at her. “Why do you continue to insist that I do not love you?”
“Because you do not!” She pulled away from him, wrenching her hand from his grasp. Her eyes were pure anguish as she looked at him and the very sight of her pain had him staggering back. “If you truly held any affection for me, I would know. I have studied you all our lives, Benedict. And in all the time we shared together, you had never shown any affection for me beyond that of a friend. Your proposal hurt, Benedict. I have loved you in every way a man could be loved for so long and for you to ask for my hand in marriage out of pity—“ She choked, eyes widening as if she didn’t mean to say the things she’d said.
“You love me?” He echoed, heart beating quickly in his chest. He wondered, briefly, if his fast beating heart marks the day he really lived. If Y/N’s confession had been the reason he truly felt alive for the first time in his life.
Her face crumpled in pain as she stepped back. “Forgive me, I shouldn’t have said those things. Please take your leave, Benedict. That I may salvage whatever scraps of my dignity is left.”
But Benedict did no such thing.
Instead he took her hands and lowered himself into a kneel, setting his eyes upon her. The arching light of the manor spilled over the veranda casted her in a soft glow that took his very breath away.
Y/N’s eyes widened in alarm and whatever pain she held there was washed away by her surprise. “Benedict, what are you doing?”
“Begging you for forgiveness.”
“What? Benedict, get up.”
But he held firm, his determination cementing his knees to the ground. “Forgive me, Y/N, for my grave transgressions against you. That you had ever lived your life doubting my affections for you, or wondering if I cared for you as more than a friend are sins I will carry with me to my last breath. It will be my great shame that I had not made it abundantly clear that I love you. Because I do love you. Most ardently.”
“Benedict, get up. This is madness—“
“You are right. It is madness. The way I feel for you would drive the sanest of people into lunacy. But if loving you is madness then I don’t ever wish to be sane.”
Her eyes gleamed silver with unshed tears that threatened to fall from her pretty eyes. “B-But that morning, the day you proposed—“
“I did not propose to you out of pity for you, I did it out of pity for me. I needed to put myself out of my misery and finally marry the only girl I ever had the privilege of falling in love with rather than continue pining after you in secret.”
She let out a a laugh through her tears, the sound like bells chiming during a storm. Light and beautiful despite the pouring rain that threatened to drown it out. “Ask me again.”
His heart leapt to his throat, pounding so quickly he struggled to get the words out. But they came nonetheless, the words clear and betraying none of his anxiety. “Y/N, will you marry me?”
“Yes.”
#bridgerton#bridgerton netflix#king george#violet bridgerton#anthony bridgerton#benedict bridgerton#benedict bridgerton x reader#benedict bridgerton x you#benedict bridgerton fluff#benedict bridgerton imagine#bridgerton fanfiction#bridgerton x reader#bridgerton x you#bridgerton oneshot#bridgerton imagine#benedict bridgerton oneshot#anthony bridgerton x you#anthony bridgerton one shot#bridgerton season 2#bridgerton season 1#bridgerton series#lady danbury#regency era fic#colin bridgerton#daphne bridgerton#hyacinth bridgerton#gregory bridgerton
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𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐔𝐌 || 𝐁.𝐁.
summary: you’ve been receiving love letters from a secret admirer and you’re desperate to reveal his identity.
contains: benedict being fucking adorable, fluff n’ angst!
a/n: first part of this multi-chapter fic.
It was a day like any other. You woke to the humming of the maid, the hum-drum of life about the house. You rubbed sleep from your eyes as you reluctantly got out of bed. You selected your gown for the day after scouring through your wardrobe of various shades of pastel. You bid good morning to the servants as you made your way downstairs and joined your family for breakfast. There your mother urgently reminded you (as if you had forgotten from one day to the next) the importance that you find yourself a suitor, someone of good rank.
But you barely had any mind to pay her; for it was elsewhere, with another. You cut your breakfast short, unable to bear any more talk of suitors and marriage and a life without love. You were buttoning your coat when an angel descended the staircase. Well, it wasn’t truly an angel; only your lady’s maid, but the letter she held in her hand couldn’t have been any more sacred to you. She passed it to you and your eyes met hers, the looks you exchanged almost like those of two best friends trading gossip, or in this case, your own little secret.
You slipped the sealed envelope into your coat pocket before finally stepping out the door and down the front steps. Outside, London was alive and full of the colors of spring. Though you could’ve walked the streets for hours on end, you opted to head straight to the park and sat down on the nearest bench. You sifted through your pocket, pulling the envelope out. You couldn’t help noting that it smelled of lavender and cinnamon as you gently broke the seal. There, the words you had been waiting anxiously to read.
Dearest,
I dreamt of you last night. I dreamt of those eyes so deep I was tempted to swim in them. Of that laugh so melodious I was tempted to turn it into a symphony. Of the lips so sweet I was tempted to kiss them. Alas, I know not if I shall ever reveal myself to you. I know you must be dying to figure me out. But you must understand I couldn’t bear to be rejected by you. You drive me mad! When I am awake, you occupy my every thought, and when I sleep you visit me in dreams! I am a tormented man, but oh, how smitten I am with my torment! I clutch it to my chest and carry it with me wherever I go. How could I not? When it was you who gave it to me. Such a state of delirium is the one you have driven me to, simply by existing. Anyway, all this to say that I love you and always will. Write to me, my love. I’ll be waiting.
You pressed the piece of paper to your heart, beating faster than ever. You folded the letter back and let it fall into your pocket once more before starting for the Bridgerton house. It took every fiber in you to go on with this written affair for months on end without uttering a word to your good friend Daphne. But you felt it was something too precious, too fragile to speak of; like a creature as easily spooked as it is beautiful.
This was what you repeated to yourself in your mind when you arrived at the Bridgertons’, and Daphne swore you had a glow about you only people in love wear.
“Come now, who is it?” she teased as she delicately sipped her tea. “You must tell me!”
You shook your head with a playful roll of your eyes. “There truly is nothing to tell, Daph. You must believe me.”
“Nonsense!” she poked on. “I wish to know the lucky gentleman who has you so obviously smitten.” It was then that the others entered the parlor. Anthony, with Kate on his arm, and Colin and Benedict following suit. “Fill us in on today’s gossip, sister.” jested Benedict as he lounged on the nearest chaise with his usual happy-go-lucky air. How handsome he looked today, his jet black hair shiny as ever, his grey eyes twinkling with mischief.
“There’s nothing to share, you busybody.” Daphne scolded him lightly. “Mind your own affairs.” At this, Benedict shot you a cheeky look, one you couldn’t help but return. You wondered if your secret admirer was as handsome as he was, as sweet and boyish.
“Oh!” Daphne exclaimed suddenly. “I forgot to tell you! We are holding a ball this weekend! Isn’t that exciting?” You felt yourself light up at the news. Exciting indeed. Many things can happen at a ball, dances shared and souls intertwined, and perhaps a certain identity revealed.
tagging: @velvetcloxds @oweninadaydream @holdthegirrrl
#benedict bridgerton#benedict bridgerton x reader#benedict bridgerton x you#benedict bridgerton x y/n#bridgerton#benedict bridgerton fluff#benedict bridgerton oneshot
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Benedict Bridgerton Asks You to Model for Him
Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x Fem!Reader
Tags: fluff, suggestive, nudity, art modeling, painting, flirting, praise, kissing, suggested erection
A/N: What can I say, I love a fellow artistic soul.
"Stop moving so much, darling, I won't be able to capture your beauty like this. Although a beauty like yours, I doubt it can be fairly portrayed by any artist." He leaned to the side of his canvas, showing you his charming smile, his eyes briefly running down your body before returning to his art piece. Benedict was all to easy to read.
Despite his reassuring words you squirmed on top of the table, your hands pushed in front you front so your natural breasts seemed bigger then they were. The room was almost fully silent safe for the sound of the brush on canvas, the occasional water splashing and Benedict's instructions.
Then silence. "Finished." He clapped his hands together, "Come. Take a look."
"Right away!" You hoped he didn't notice how you pressed your legs together and tried to ignore his choice of words. His little smile told you he knew of the effect he was having on you. All those dirty thoughts left your mind when you saw the finished piece.
"By your silence I assume you like it." His hand took yours, smearing paint over your palm but you didn't care. You couldn't help but bent down, hold the back of his neck and pull him into a deep kiss. "A little more then like it, perhaps?" Benedict quipped sheepishly as he pulled your naked body onto his lap. "You see now why I had trouble focusing." Indeed, he had a very big problem distracting him.
Dividers made by: @/cafekisune
#benedict bridgerton#benedict bridgerton fluff#benedict bridgerton imagine#benedict bridgerton fanfiction#bridgerton#bridgerton imagine#bridgerton fanfiction#bridgerton fluff#benedict bridgerton x reader#benedict bridgerton x female reader#benedict bridgerton x you#bridgerton x reader#bridgerton x female reader#bridgerton x you#benedict bridgerton drabble#bridgerton drabble#fluff drabble
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i hate accidents: the ball
femme!reader x benedict bridgerton, femme!reader & the bridgerton family, femme!reader & penelope featherington
summary: the adventures of a working class femme who befriends a fellow writer, a boisterous family, and a bewitching second eldest son
sections: I. the beginning / II. the between / III. the ball
y/n: bipoc, she/her, afab, nonbinary femme, queer, working class, of immigrant parents
content warnings: classism, mentions of financial survival, microaggressive sexism, microaggressive gender assumption, intersectional low self-image of y/n, positive/supportive families, nondescript mention of gagging (not related to self-image) in [III.iii], sexually charged 18+ interactions in middle to end of [III.iv]—minors dni, please stop at the end of the paragraph that begins "you repeat his words with sped up mockery"; you may resume at "you jut out your hip"
word count: 15.7k (of 38.8k)
story context: everything in s1 and s2 of the tv series is canon for this story except for the s2 epilogue with the bridgertons. this story takes place leading up to and into the 1815 season.
additional notes: this story is incomplete. scenes that are not written are described in chevrons <> with third person pov or are delineated by isolated ellipses. additionally, the author has only watched s2! she has not watched any of s1 aside from clips, and they have not read the books aside from quotes used in edits. they have not yet watched queen charlotte. the author kinda knows the gist of an offer from a gentleman; they are familiar with sophie beckett (and are excited to meet her/them in the tv series!).
author’s note: this is the first time the author has written fanfic in 13-15 years. :) it is her hope that they have made some progress since her pre/teens. additionally, this fanfic has been written, on and off, over the course of two years. the author sincerely hopes you find some sort of joy in it, especially the readers who maybe hope to see themself a little more specifically in the world we so love.
tagged: @omgsuperstarg @stvrdustalexx @bedobeeeee @crazymar15 @kahhorri @mayalopes @benedictbridgertonss @athensflower @02wrldz @queerlavalier @merlslrem @pillsbury-doughgirl @lamourdure3ans and all who have read either/both sections one and two—thank you. <3
𝄆 ⚘ ✸ III.i ✸ ⚘ 𝄇
“you look like a princess, y/n!” hyacinth squeals in delight.
“i regret not being of age yet to attend balls,” gregory sighs. “i would have been honored to ask you for your first dance.”
you beam at the youngest bridgertons with all the fondness in your heart. judith, an elderly maid of number five, had attempted to dispel hyacinth and gregory from the room as your hair was done, but you had asked her to please allow them to stay. the two kept you at ease throughout the foreign process, and their sweet sincerity kept you grounded amidst the anxiety that still floods your veins.
“you are both too kind. and fear not; tomorrow morning we will have a ball all of our own,” you lean in for a whisper, them following suit to listen. “and perhaps we will need the talents, and bravery, of a young sorceress and a young knight to save the guests from the intrusion of an unruly wyvern.”
“you promise?!” hyacinth and gregory yell at the same time. you hold out your pinky finger, just as you used to do with your siblings, and the two young ones wrap their pinkies around yours.
“i promise.”
“you are all done, miss y/l/n,” says alice, placing the last pin into your hair. she steps back and curtsies. her formality towards you renders you uneasy; she treats you as above her but you are of the same world. you school your facial features from showing your unease; you do not want to upset her or have her wrongly think that she has done something wrong.
“no need to call me ‘miss.’ i am simply y/n!” you grin at alice. “a friend.”
she smiles, albeit a bit sheepishly.
“of course, y/n. are you ready to see yourself?”
you shudder in a breath. you had asked not to be prepared in front of a mirror. to have seen your transformation so readily reflected at you at every point of this process—
you exhale frantically. the maids and genevieve had graciously accommodated your wishes, both going so far as rearranging this room and her fitting room to avoid any lines of your sight with a potential reflection; you were, and are, utterly grateful.
but i am unable to delay the inevitable any longer.
standing up and squaring your shoulders, you give alice a feeble nod. she bows her head in response, a small, encouraging smile on her lips, and leads you to the mirror as hyacinth and gregory turn in their seats to watch you cross the room.
it is just a dress. it is just a tiara, and just some jewelry, and just some gloves, and just some shoes, and just a bit of makeup. it is just you. it is still you. be the courageous person you are, y/n.
or—
just before you see even a miniscule bit of your reflection in that accursed mirror, you shut your eyes tight.
—be a coward.
you continue step by agonizing step, approximating where the mirror is, and shudder in another breath.
perhaps i am being too dramatic. perhaps i can faint and feign illness. perhaps i shall run away by way of the nearest window. perhaps i—
“the mirror is to your left, y/n; whenever you are ready,” coaxes alice.
you exhale once more.
or perhaps, i should open my eyes.
and so you do.
oh.
“oh,” you say aloud.
the person you see in the gilded full-length mirror is, somehow, a complete stranger and entirely you.
the one time you’ve worn makeup before was for your elder sister’s wedding: a bit of your mother’s rouge on your cheeks and lips to have some color to your otherwise dull face. now, your cheekbones glow with a blush much more complimentary to your complexion than a mere red as your lips shine with a gossamer of a similar shade. entirely new to you are the glimmering minerals on your eyelids that magically bring attention to your eyes and make them shine like starlight.
your eyebrows have been plucked (much to your initial pain but your current appreciation), maintaining their shape and fullness but now without strays.
soft tendrils of curls frame your face, and your hair—normally worn down when not working—has been pulled back into a loose coiffure and styled with sprigs and small blooms, the crown of your head graced with a silver tiara.
“this,” violet smiled fondly when she first set the tiara on top of your head, “is the tiara i wore to my first ball after my presentation. i had insisted on keeping it, thinking i could pass it on to my daughter when her first ball had come. but daphne was resolute on having her own tiara, and eloise was resolute on not wearing any,” violet laughed, her eyes shining when they connected with yours, “i see now, though, perhaps it was always meant to be yours.”
“violet, i— i cannot wear this. it is too— it’s too—”
sumptuous? opulent? regal?
no.
well, yes, the tiara is all those things. but those were not what had concerned you then. it’s too—
“beautiful,” you admitted quietly.
something as beautiful as that surely does not belong on the head of someone like you.
“well,” violet smiled, “then you are merely proving my point, my dear. it perfectly suits you.”
you hold out your hands, flare out your fingers, and stretch out your arms, examining the dark forest green of your long satin gloves, mesmerized that a muted color with such depth and richness could be achieved through dyes.
moving your hand, you touch one of the small rosewhite pearls adorning your earlobes and, with your other hand, touch the inky oblong pearl that shimmers violet, indigo, and green as it hangs from the thin, black velvet choker around your neck.
“my dear,” mama appeared in your doorway one evening as you wrote at your table, “do you require jewelry for your occasion?”
“oh. i suppose i do? i hadn’t given it much thought.” jewelry had been the last thing on your mind of things that terrified you of the impending ball.
“well, if you have not been offered anything by the bridgerton family yet, i thought— i thought perhaps you might like these.”
she approached you, a small wooden box in her hand, and placed it on your table. taking the box into your hands, you looked at it and then up at mama. she smiled at you but something of her countenance seemed strained. nervous. you offered her a smile in an attempt to assuage whatever concerns preoccupied her mind and, turning back to the box, unclasped it open.
“these are the earrings and necklace i wore when i married your papa. they were gifts from your grandmama that were gifts from her mama. i had tried giving them to your sister when she was to be married, but she thought… they are plain, nothing like what those fashionable people wear, i am certain; but if you have nothing else, i—”
you shot up from your seat, throwing your arms around your mama, feeling how she reeled from the ferocity of your sudden embrace, as you clutched onto the box of her wedding jewelry.
“they are beautiful, mama,” you said quietly but emphatically as the vehemence of your emotions tried to trap your words in your throat. “they are the most beautiful things i have ever seen, and i am so— i am so honored to be bestowed with the blessing of wearing them, and of wearing them proudly. thank you.”
you heard how mama sniffed her nose, and how she tried to hide it, as she gently rubbed your back, as she always had in your moments of vulnerability.
“i love you, my child.”
“i love you, mama.”
you then touch your exposed shoulders. the neckline of your dress, nowhere near your neck, follows the curved peaks of your breasts to meet and form a small v-shape in the crevice of your bosom.
“where is the chemise?” was the first thing you had said when you first tried on the gown at the modiste.
genevieve grinned.
“there is none.”
your jaw dropped.
“then what of a stay? what sort of stay would be worn with this?”
turning slightly, and noting your rather bare upper arms in the process, you angle your exposed back towards the mirror. another v-shape, its furthest point down a third of your bare spine.
“my dear, both you and i know that you already know the answer to your inquiry.”
“oh, my good g—”
never, in your life, has the expanse of your upper body been so naked and on display than in this ball gown.
“i do not mean to doubt your artistry, genevieve; truly!, the dress is magnificent, but—” you turned to kathani, who had exclaimed and clapped with immense delight upon seeing you in the gown, “is this—— permissible?”
the viscountess had arched an eyebrow at you then.
“y/n y/l/n, concerned with the rules of society? and of high society, at that?”
“no— no!” you yelled all too loudly as genevieve chortled and placed pins for final alterations into the dress. “i just, i just do not want to embarrass you and your family, is all.”
you had not meant for your voice to come out so quiet and small. the older women’s faces softened immediately.
“you could never embarrass us, y/n,” kathani stated with such tenderness. then she smiled. “you look beautiful.”
the off-white base layer of the dress feels luxurious against your skin, the fabric hugging your upper body, puffing out at the sleeves, and, from the underbust, flowing and falling into a cone silhouette for the skirt—but what truly awes you is the artistry of the outermost layer. a cream translucent silk, the piña seda (you recall genevieve proudly naming it as) of the outermost layer glistens while you sway and turn your body, light shifting and transforming the ever beauty of the dress, the swish of the skirt moving like how waves are described in the passages of your books and in the reminiscing of your parents’ memories. lined at the underbust begins the intricate thicket of embroidered foliage, painstakingly threaded with innumerable shades of greens and blues, a shimmering teal threaded throughout to gleam in tandem with the sheen of the fabric. the embroidery of foliage then grows and thickens as it cascades down the middle of the dress and comes to an encircling end a few inches above and around the floor-length hem. in the negative space of the piña seda are spread out, small ivory embroideries of floral motifs.
it is a dress deserving of someone most beloved in titania’s garden court.
“indeed,” genevieve affirmed, a smile on her lips akin to kathani’s. “those in attendance will not be prepared. you will look the most beautiful of all.”
and perhaps…
perhaps you should be unnerved by how different your dress will be from the others’ of the ton. perhaps you should be unnerved by how easily you will stand out from the crowds. perhaps you should be unnerved by the attention, the whispers, the stares you will inevitably receive with your dress, with your appearance, with your presence, with your very existence. but, instead—
“i do look like a princess,” you say finally. quietly.
you do look beautiful.
like you could belong amidst the ton.
like you could belong with the bridgertons.
like you could belong with him.
𝄆 ⚘ ✸ III.ii ✸ ⚘ 𝄇
“are you anxious, y/n?”
you turn to gregory at your side and see the swell of worry in his eyes.
“what gives you that impression?”
“you are shaking terribly,” hyacinth comments from your other side, replacing her usual pluck and wit with a worry akin to her brother’s.
the two had volunteered to escort you from the dressing room that you had been prepared in to the grand staircase of number five. with their arms hooked around yours, gregory on your left and hyacinth on your right, the youngest bridgertons have been walking you down the corridor. your heart aches with anguish: you know you have failed when the children are the ones to care for the adult.
“i am sorry to have concerned you both. yes, i— i am anxious.”
“it is reasonable to be anxious. but there are a great many cakes at these balls, or so i’ve heard, so you can eat one, and then another, to help ease your nerves!”
“how is that of any help, gregory.”
“it is plenty of help!”
“to eat and eat when she is already uneasy? the last time you were uneasy, you nearly—”
“do not recount that in front of y/n!”
“why not!”
“it is not— it is not proper!” gregory’s voice jumps in pitch, causing a swift blush to form on the apples of his cheeks. hyacinth snorts.
“why does your voice do that?”
“i do not know! kate said it is natural for bo— for young men to experience such a thing!”
“aren’t young men meant to be tall?”
“i am an inch taller than you now!”
“you are not!”
“i am too!”
you laugh. the youngest bridgertons halt their dispute and look at you.
“i must say, your usual squabbling is keeping me much at ease,” and you offer a sympathetic smile to gregory. “i am sorry that it seems to be at your expense, however.”
his eyes shine.
“you need not worry about me! i am glad to see you smile.”
“i as well,” hyacinth adds. you turn to her and see how her eyes shine too.
“i am most grateful to you both for being at my side on such a night.”
“we are most grateful for you, y/n.”
“that is something, and probably the singular thing, hyacinth and i can agree upon.”
you plant soft kisses on the tops of their heads, just as mama and papa and your elder sister had done when you were their ages. gregory and hyacinth nestle their heads into your upper arms and only part from you when the three of you reach the top of the first set of steps.
“are you ready?”
though you wish to say ‘no,’ you brace yourself with a deep inhale and nod.
your heart quickens with each step as time around you slows. your mouth has gone dry, and your body feels entirely numb, sensation only returning to you when you feel hyacinth and gregory unhook their arms from yours. turning your head, you see them stepping backwards, away from you, leaving you at the center of the landing to the rest of the grand staircase. you face forward once more, and ahead, below, you see the gentlemen and ladies of bridgerton house, waiting for you, looking at you.
you swallow.
for the very first time, in your dress, by yourself, you take a step forward.
breathe, y/n. shoulders back; tilt your chin up, but not too much; just as kathani had taught you. and just, breathe.
but it is hard to breathe with all eyes on you. with—
i must control myself. i must not seek him out. i must not seek out his face. i must not seek out those o—
you step on the hem of your dress and feel yourself start to fall forward. thankfully, god, for whatever reason, has blessed you with enough dexterity in this very moment, and you manage to catch yourself from tumbling down the steps as you hear gasps from above and below you. you mumble an apology (you don’t know why; it is not nearly loud enough for anyone to hear) and offer everyone a smile. upon seeing their relaxed shoulders and reassured expressions, you continue to descend the staircase.
stupid benedict. distracting me in remembering how to walk, and how to breathe, and how to—
oh.
i am doing it again.
shit.
goddamnit, stupid benedict!
somehow, you reach the landing of number five’s entrance hall without any additional accidents and, approaching the bridgertons, immediately look to the viscountess. as if knowing you seek her approval, kathani nods her head; a beam illuminates her countenance. you feel yourself ease, your shoulders relaxing (that you promptly square again; you are, after all, pretending to be a lady for the night), your heart racing less, if only minutely, and manage a smile. you feel someone take hold of your gloved hand and, turning to face the source, see violet gazing at you.
“beautiful.”
it is all she says, but with such tenderness in her voice, it makes your heart swell.
“the importance of appearance,” rasps eloise, causing you to turn to her, “and the lengths gone to achieve so-called perfection of such, especially for those of feminine disposition, is an entirely antiquated, offensive concept that must be eradicated from our, and all, societies—— but you do, look, beautiful, y/n.”
you grin.
“we’ll eradicate it together; and with help along the way, i am certain.”
when she responds in kind, you turn to the gentlemen, and, to your mortification, colin and anthony bow at you. the high society etiquette directed towards you from your friends overwhelms you with an embarrassment that you cannot even begin to fathom; they haven’t performed such formalities towards you since your first meeting all those months ago. but, in spite of your horror, the sincerity of their intentions, as well as their countenances, touches you deeply.
“madame delacroix and the maids have outdone themselves,” remarks anthony. “as mother and eloise have said, you look beautiful, y/n.”
“indeed,” colin beams. when he turns to benedict, however, his smile transforms into an expression befitting of a fairytale creature; one with mischievous intentions. “what say you, brother?”
you follow his line of sight and connect with ocean eyes. the flood of self-consciousness and the tempo of your heartbeats magnify hundredfold under his gaze, the butterflies within you fluttering the most violently they ever have, and you feel as though your entire body has been set ablaze.
anthony, with what looks like a smirk, nudges his brother with his elbow. as if suddenly aware of where he is, benedict hastily bows at you and, returning his ocean eyes to yours, says,
“you look— well.”
you hear eloise snort. turning your head towards her, you see she has completely sucked in her lips. to her left, kathani smiles massively. to kathani’s left, violet remains ever poised but with wide, sparkling eyes. you still feel self-conscious but are infinitely amused by whatever is happening to the bridgertons and, with a playful smile on your lips, return your gaze to benedict.
“thank you, mr. bridgerton. i had felt uneasy with an unnerved stomach earlier, but i am glad to know that my health appears to be in proper order.”
and you deeply curtsy at him.
from above you hear the sweet giggles of the youngest bridgertons. ahead, in your periphery, you see how anthony closes his eyes as he sucks in air through his nostrils and how colin, with an unabashed laugh, clasps his hand onto benedict’s shoulder.
“well!” anthony booms, attempting to control his smile on what ought to be an authoritative expression. “i believe we have a ball to commence. shall you lead the way, viscountess?”
and with an expression both equal in authority and warmth, kathani declares,
“i shall.”
𝄆 ⚘ ✸ III.iii ✸ ⚘ 𝄇
you had grown ease of mind knowing that you would not be asked to dance. not only were you a stranger to everyone in the ton aside from the bridgertons and penelope, you were also not handsome like the debutantes flitting about the room, swishing prettily in their gowns, strategically but delicately fluttering their eyes at a gentleman with which they wished to dance. with anonymity and a plain face, you enjoyed the haven of people observing, snickering at the artifice and smiling at the sincerity. kathani chatting with her guests. anthony standing by her side. penelope dancing with colin. eloise hiding behind a plant. violet beaming at her family. (you tried to convince yourself that you had not noticed the absence of a particular person.) your nerves have finally begun to calm, finding content in your station at the margins of the dance floor.
when colin bridgerton approaches you, hand outstretched in your direction, with a twinkle in his eyes.
“miss y/l/n, may you do me the honor?”
“i’m sorry, what?”
he laughs.
“will you dance with me?”
you gape at him.
“you’re mad.”
“my mind is perfectly intact.”
“this is unwise.”
“this is the best decision i have made this night.”
“i shall surely step on your toes.”
“i have worn my sturdiest shoes for the occasion.”
the corners of your mouth tug down into a moue at the third bridgerton’s stubborn charm. his grin merely widens as your eyes narrow to slits at him. penelope approaches from behind the beguiling imp and smiles warmly at you.
“it will be fun,” she encourages. “i promise.”
penelope! no!
“et tu, brute?” you bemoan.
she shrugs.
“what is a ball without dancing?” penelope offers. sweet innocence colors her voice, but the delighted glint in her eyes reveals her true duplicitous nature. she knew exactly how to play the game of this conversation, no doubt a devious plot concocted between her and her beau.
you sigh.
“fine,” you huff, slapping your hand into colin’s palm. “i would be honored, mr. bridgerton.”
the diabolical duo laughs at the sarcasm that drips from your words as colin leads you to the lineup on the dance floor.
–
“how is the dance treating you, miss y/l/n?”
“i hate you.”
colin guffaws. (you see in your periphery how heads shift towards him and how eyes narrow at you. the partner you had just left looks at you with particular scrutiny.)
“if your hatred towards me is the cost of you enjoying the ball, then it is a burden i shall carry, and happily so.”
“has anyone ever told you how infuriating you bridgertons are?”
“no, but we very well know that we are,” he grins, “and we take immense pride in it.”
you groan, throwing your head back. (you hear murmurs around you. not ladylike.)
“are you truly not having fun?” the gentleness in his voice makes you look back at him. his expression is soft. sad. guilty. “we can leave the lineup, if that is what you would like.”
you consider his words and his offer.
“i am having fun,” you reply truthfully. his eyes light up at that and your heart warms at the sight. “it is just— being in a circumstance so wholly unfamiliar— it’s overwhelming, is all, i think. but…” you feel a smile form on your lips, “knowing that you all—as infuriating as you bridgertons are—are here with me, by my side, wanting me to enjoy myself, wanting me to be happy, it makes all the overwhelming feeling worthwhile. i am happy. you all make me happy.”
colin doesn’t say anything. he just stares at you as the two of you dance still. you are about to inquire—
“i am grateful to call you my friend, y/n. becoming your friend has been one of the greatest blessings to have been bestowed upon me and my family.”
you suck in a breath.
as is becoming yours has been one of mine.
but another thought also lives in your mind. so, on the exhale of your breath, you smirk.
“only second to falling in love with penelope, yes?”
he laughs, an uncharacteristic shy smile forming on his lips as he looks at his feet and then back at you, eyes shining incandescently.
“i hope you do not take offense to being second.”
“being second to penelope is truly, sincerely, still a victory in of itself. you are very blessed, indeed, to be her premier.”
you did not think colin’s eyes could shine brighter than they had mere moments prior, but you suppose— no, you are certain that this is the effect that the love of penelope featherington has on the third eldest bridgerton: the light in colin’s eyes is absolute radiance.
“‘very blessed’ is to put it very lightly.”
with unabashed grins, you and colin continue to dance. you have to walk most of the steps, often keeping good on your promise and stepping on his toes, but your partner is deterred neither by your incompetence nor by his injuries. the two of you laugh (drawing leers from the other guests, you notice but brush off) and end your dance with exaggerated flourishes of a curtsy and a bow to one another.
“you underestimate your dancing skills, miss y/l/n,” colin remarks with a beam.
“see if you feel the same after tending to your bruises, mr. bridgerton,” you beam back.
“colin bridgerton!”
you both whip your gazes to the call of colin’s name and see a man fastly, eagerly approaching.
“hastings!”
hastings? why does that sound familiar?
colin and the absurdly handsome man embrace, smiles broad and sincere.
“i was uncertain you would be joining us on this occasion.”
“we would have seen to arriving early, as we had intended, but augie is proving to be quite unpredictable with his tantrums as of late.”
“he must take after his uncles,” colin smirks with odd pride. that makes the other man chuckle.
“unfortunately, it seems to be so.”
he then shifts his gaze onto you. his expression is curious and— sweet? kindly. you feel yourself become rather self-conscious as you notice, in your periphery, colin assuming a posture of gentlemanliness.
“my apologies for my dreadful manners. simon, this is miss y/n y/l/n. y/n, this is simon basset.”
simon bows most graciously at you.
“good evening, miss y/l/n. it is a true pleasure to finally meet you. i am simon basset, daphne’s husband.”
daphne?
as in daphne bridgerton?
you recall the day you and benedict toured the art gallery: a portrait, a fairly recent one, it seemed, of a beautiful young woman and a beautiful young man—the duchess and the duke of hastings, the plaque read.
your jaw drops.
“you are the duke!” you remember the etiquette kathani taught you. “your grace!” and you sloppily curtsy.
simon laughs.
“that is hardly necessary. please, if you feel comfortable in doing so, call me simon.”
“yes— of course!, your— simon,” you compose yourself. “and you may call me y/n; i would prefer it, actually.”
simon grins.
“then, y/n, may i have the honor of having your next dance?”
your jaw drops again, your composure completely falling away. you look at simon, who is utterly amused by your reaction, and then to colin, who is utterly delighted by the turn of events, and back to simon.
“that is a mistake.”
that earns guffaws from both of the men. (you feel stares falling upon them and, once again, scowls falling upon you.)
“i am more than willing to make that discovery for myself, if you will allow it.”
you throw back your head (ignoring the additional glares shot your way) and, with a sigh, whip it back to look at simon with a fatigued, but earnest, smile.
“i shall allow it.”
colin bows his head at you, his grin having never left his countenance since the end of your dance together, and steps to the side as you place your hand into simon’s outstretched one and are led to the next lineup by the duke.
–
“has the duchess accompanied you to the ball this evening?”
“while it is poor courtesy to speak on behalf of my wife when she can speak for herself, i can say, with confidence, that she would much rather you call her daphne.”
“kathani had taught me your society’s etiquette in preparation for the ball, in the event it would be necessary,” you roll your eyes. “while i find it all utterly ridiculous, and entirely unnecessary for me in particular, i want to honor the knowledge that my teacher has bestowed upon me as a way to honor her.”
simon grins.
“you are a dedicated student. indeed, she is in attendance. the last i had seen her, she was tending to benedict.”
your heart sinks.
oh no.
“tending to benedict? is he unwell? did something happen? is he all right?”
you hear how your voice rises in pitch and grows louder and more frantic with each word. (you try not to care for the stares that you feel on you. they are not of importance right now——or ever.)
is that why i have not seen him all night? because he is in poor condition? shall i leave the ball? shall i see where he is being tended to? shall i—
“y/n?”
oh. yes. you were having a conversation with simon.
“sorry, what did you say?”
“i had said that i did not mean to worry you,” simon says sincerely, but there is something in his smile. not suspicious, neither mocking nor teasing. it is as if he is withholding the full expression of his emotion. “i simply mean that she is speaking with him and— encouraging him, is all.”
you feel the entirety of your body, mind, heart, and soul ease; but now, you are perplexed.
“encouraging him? whatever for?”
“i had not stayed with them long enough to hear the details of their conversation; i had sought you out rather immediately.”
“me!”
the dance had timed perfectly that upon receiving such information, you are forced to turn to another partner (who is unnerved to have you as a temporary companion). when you reunite with simon, his chuckling has mostly subsided.
“indeed. the viscount had encouraged me to ask you for a dance. the viscountess then stated that you required the practice.”
“i—— am utterly lacking in words in how to respond to that.”
“if it is of any comfort to you, it was something i had already intended on doing.”
“that is, rather strange?”
he grins.
“i can see how that is so from your perspective, yes. but from mine,” and it surprises you how suddenly simon’s countenance softens, “i had to find out for myself how wonderful this y/n y/l/n is to have so easily won the affections of all the bridgertons at number five. daff and i, as well as francesca, were becoming quite jealous that we did not have the good fortune to spend time with you as the rest of the family has had.”
“the family has… spoken of me?”
“in these past months of knowing you, you have become their most beloved topic of conversation. hyacinth and gregory idolize how resplendent of a storyteller you are. eloise adores being challenged by your intellect. colin aspires to your ferocity of quick wit. kate cherishes every discussion you share together. anthony reveres your unwavering resolve. violet becomes overcome with delight at every recounting of a memory in which you are involved. and benedict…”
you swallow.
“yes?”
you hear how feeble and quiet your voice has become.
“never stops speaking of you; so much so that it would be impossible to abridge what he loves in you.”
you shut your eyes closed at the words “he loves” and attempt to control the tears that threaten to flow at the word “you.”
the love he has for you is not the love you have for him.
“i— i did not know that they held me in such high regard,” you whisper.
you flutter your eyes open, grateful that no tears have fallen, and are greeted by the gentlest of smiles from simon. it assuages your soul.
“the highest of regards. they care very deeply for you.”
“and i care very deeply for them,” you declare softly. you then feel yourself break out into a smile. “i cannot say the same for you, yet, but i can see it forthcoming.”
simon throws his head back with a loud laugh, your smile transforming into a large grin (as you ignore the scowls that fall upon you). simon whips his head back to you, and he too wears a large grin.
“i am honored that you see the potential within me.”
with a final spin, you and simon release the other’s hand, ending the dance in a curtsy and a bow, both of your grins non-faltering.
“thank you for bestowing me the honor of dancing with you.”
you snort. (you hear scoffs and other suppressed noises of disapproval.)
“i fail to see how much of an honor it is to have someone incessantly knock into you, but if such is your feeling,” you curtsy with much theatricality and, upon your rise, let out a sigh of relief. “now, i shall retire to the margins once more.”
simon, once again, looks as if he is withholding the full expression of his emotions, but in it you detect— delight? you narrow your eyes.
“what?”
“you are not meant for the margins, y/n; please forgive me,” and with that, simon bows, his smile still non-faltering, and turns to leave you in the middle of the dance floor.
you are about to call out his name, curious and agitated by his vagueness—
“y/n?”
you turn around to the familiar voice and are greeted by a smiling anthony.
“oh no. are you going to ask me for the honor of having my next dance?”
the viscount looks as if he is about to howl with laughter and attempts to mask it, poorly, with his absurdly elated smile.
“is the idea of dancing with me truly so appalling?”
“the idea of dancing more is what i find so appalling.”
“i shan’t force you to do anything you do not want to do.”
“but how will your pride take it?”
this time anthony fully howls (earning looks of confusion at the host and their looks, predictably, turning to glares when they trace the impropriety back to you).
“i am always working on humbling myself,” he says, his expression softening. “i assure you that i, as well as my pride, can manage your rejection if it means that you are happy. you need not worry about my well-being.”
these damned bridgertons, and their damned charm, and their damned sincerity.
despite your internal accusations, you smile. you offer your hand (hearing a gasp or a few around you), and beaming, anthony takes it.
–
“you look like a princess, y/n!”
the saccharine words of hyacinth echo in your mind. with the transmutative magics of your fairy godmothers in mama, violet, kathani, genevieve, judith, alice, and the maids of bridgerton house, the impossible was made possible: you look like a princess. but it is not until this very moment, after descending a regal staircase, after entering this enchanting ball, after dancing with two dashing gentlemen and now a third, that you feel like a princess. you recall how you and your siblings played imagination; how you often asked to be the princess; how you did it so often that mama sewed you a dress from scraps of fabric and papa crafted you a crown out of discarded branches and your elder sister announced you as princess y/n whenever you played and your younger sibling waltzed with you around the first floor of your home. it makes you elated with childlike wonder how fortunate you are to be here and how lovely it is to be here, how strange and wonderful it is that imagination has become real life; as if it is all a wish for which you did not know you had wished, a wish that you did not know you had wanted to come true until it came true.
but—
“is there something on your mind, y/n?” you hear anthony ask, sometime after returning to him as your partner. “you seem pensive.”
“ah, yes. despite my gripes with you, and your brother, and your brother-in-law insisting on dancing with me—”
“i gave you an option not to do so!”
“i am not finished speaking!”
he huffs out air through his nostrils, waiting with what seems to be a morsel of patience for you to continue.
“despite my gripes with you, your brother, and your brother-in-law insisting on dancing with me—” anthony gives you a tired look that of an older sibling; you grin, “i am enjoying myself. i just wish, i just wish my family could be here with me, to enjoy it too.”
anthony’s expression softens immediately, and it makes your heart tighten. you know with what gravity, duty, and love he looks after the entirety of his family; you have witnessed it at every given second since becoming his friend. if someone were to be with you as you navigate this pain, you are glad that it is anthony.
“we shall invite them to the next ball we host,” he declares. your jaw drops. “it was a lack of foresight on my part for not doing so for this occasion, and i shan’t make that error again.”
you try to do rough estimations of what costs that would entail for the bridgertons— dresses and coats and shoes and four to six sets of two abstained days of work at least.
“anthony, i cannot possibly ask you to—”
“you did not ask,” he grins. “i offered. and i do so wholeheartedly. it shall not be a trouble for us, just strategic planning as kathani and i work the books. and before you protest—” you frown, both disappointed and flattered that anthony could sense your retaliation, “it is something i—as well as the rest of the family, i am certain—wish to do. if you won’t consider it for yourself and your family, then perhaps consider it as a gift to us selfish bridgertons.”
that makes you laugh loudly as you feel tears form in your eyes (whispers of you be damned). expression turning gentle once more, anthony continues,
“it would be an honor to finally meet your family. if they are even an inkling like you, then they must be truly wonderful, indeed.”
with a small sniffle of your nose and all the gratitude in your heart, you smile.
“they are. they are truly wonderful. i love them so much.”
anthony smiles in return with a nod of his head.
“then it is settled.”
“you are a good brother, anthony.”
you have wondered often if that is something anthony knows. while the bridgertons’ love for one another is apparent in all that they do and say and breathe, you haven’t heard them say very complimentary things to one another, particularly to the eldest. it is typical of families to tease and to jest, you know that intimately, but you also know how important, then, it is to tell your family what you truly think of them, how you truly feel of them. they ought to know just how much they are loved.
though his overall demeanor is composed and dignified, the softness in anthony’s eyes reveals his true emotion.
“and you are a good sibling, y/n.”
< their dance eventually comes to an end. someone approaches them. >
“good evening, brother,” benedict turns his ocean eyes to you. “good evening, y/n.”
“good evening, benedict.”
you vaguely hear something in your periphery. you turn to it and see a brilliant grin lighting up the viscount’s countenance.
“huh?”
“i had said that the viscountess is calling me over to her. i must pardon myself.”
“oh. yes. farewell, anthony.”
his grin broadens, dimples forming in his cheeks, and he bows. you see how, as he brings himself upright, his eyes shift towards his brother, the delight in his grin never leaving but something in his eyes… softening? before you can fully process it, he has turned and now walks towards kathani.
you turn back to benedict.
“i—— good evening, y/n.”
“good evening, benedict. though, we have already greeted each other this night, just moments ago.”
“ah, yes— that—— that would be correct. and— is… correct.”
he is anxious. your heart aches at the sight, and you want to reach out and touch him, comfort him, ease whatever his concerns are—but you refrain.
benedict clears his throat.
“are you— are you enjoying yourself?”
while heavy by benedict’s current state, your heart cannot help but glow brighter at his question.
“yes, tremendously so. the dancing has been plenty fun, despite how horrendous i am at it.”
that makes benedict laugh, and relief floods your body, mind, soul, and heart. it is good to hear him laugh. to see him smile.
“i do not think you are as horrendous as you think you are. your form has been quite good.”
you cock your head, feeling the scrunch of your eyebrows and the smirk on your lips.
“you have been observing me?”
his jaw drops, his body stiffening again. suddenly shy, he looks at his shoes and, with a cough, looks back up at you, and you attempt to hold in your gasp.
how.
how is that, after all this time, he makes these butterflies within me flutter still.
“i— i do not have a clever diversion for that. yes; yes, i have. i suppose i have been building the— the courage within myself.”
“‘the courage’? the courage for what?”
he swallows.
“to ask you to dance with me.”
oh.
“oh.”
he looks… he looks scared. exposed. vulnerable.
you feel them within yourself, too.
he offers his hand.
“may i dance with you, y/n?”
you place your hand in his.
“yes. yes, you may, benedict.”
i am terrified of nothing else and would love nothing more than to dance with you.
benedict leads you to the floor, his ocean eyes never leaving yours, your eyes never leaving his.
the quartet starts up, and you detect how it is music for a waltz. of all the dances you were taught, even you can admit that you were best at learning the waltz.
…
you curtsy as he bows. benedict places his hand on your waist, and you try not to elicit your gasp from feeling his touch.
< their dance commences. they are silent. a lot of staring and shit.
< notably, y/n is not cognizant of the ton’s perception of her while she dances with benedict as she had been with her previous partners. it seems her sole focus in this moment is dancing with benedict, being with benedict. her heart, mind, body, and soul is with him.
< y/n’s mind goes Rampant when benedict places his hand on her exposed shoulder. >
do not close your eyes, you reprimand yourself. if you close your eyes, you will indulge. you will indulge in this sensation. in this touch. in his touch. in benedict’s bare hand on the expanse of your exposed skin. in imagination. in fantasies. in thoughts. in other thoughts on other parts of your body that you so, so very much want him to—
“i had not spoken properly.”
you try not to shudder a gasp upon hearing his voice.
“pardon?” you say, a bit breathless. the dance calling for it, benedict twirls you, and you are now face to face again.
“earlier; when i had commented on your appearance, i had said you looked well.”
you snort, recalling the peculiar word choice, and that earns a smile from benedict.
“what i had meant to say is—“ he swallows, “you look beautiful, y/n.”
“i think,” you respond perhaps too swiftly, “that is testimony to genevieve’s skill and not to my appearance.”
“i think genevieve only enhances what is already there.”
you want to change, you don’t want to change— you do want to change the topic. you cannot handle whatever— whatever benedict is insinuating. the indecipherable, intense, attentive gaze of his ocean eyes on you. it is so much; it is too much.
“she spoke of you.”
shit. why did i say that?
his face immediately falls, ocean eyes transforming with it.
shit.
“genevieve spoke of me? with you? why?”
“kathani had accompanied me to the modiste, and i had shared with genevieve how i became acquainted with penelope and the bridgertons,” you half-truth. “talking about the family, and then you, was a natural consequence.”
“what did she say? about me?”
you try not to wince at the urgency in his voice.
“she shared how you and she had— an intimate and passionate acquaintance,” you divulge, using the words your friend had to describe the artists’ relationship. perhaps you imagine the sensation, but you feel benedict wince as you dance. “and that it was brief and no more.”
“she said that? ‘brief and no more’?”
“indeed.”
he sighs. you detect relief in the exhale, but perhaps you had, once again, imagined it. you always had an active imagination; trying to bend what you perceive to what you wish was real.
“i see,” is all benedict says.
“do you care for her?” you inquire. it is truly masochistic, what you are doing. but you cannot help yourself. it is something you often do when benedict is near. when you and he are so close.
there is a small silence.
“i did. at least, i think i did,” he shares. “i was hurt when our— acquaintance came to an end, but i was not heartbroken. i had known nothing of heartbreak, not until—”
and he suddenly stops speaking, sucking in his lips.
“until?”
“nothing. nevermind. forget i had said anything,” he says all too quickly. you laugh, and he scrunches his face in adorable disapproval at you.
“well, that only makes me the more curious, benedict! the mystery of it, and your very clear blush, indicate it must have been quite the event.”
“i am not blushing!”
“you cannot lie about something i can literally see.”
“you are infuriating.”
“and what do you think you are?”
benedict just pouts at you, though you see the twinkle in his ocean eyes. you want the twinkle to be of affection, but you will settle for amusement. for friendship. you take pride in how you can elicit this reaction out of him. you take joy in how he can elicit this reaction out of you. you love him, and you are grateful that is something you can say and know and feel. even if he does not love you as you love him.
“the first time i felt heartbreak,” he begins, finally giving in. you perk up in anticipation. “was when— was when you had walked out of the house after i had crumpled the paper to the floor.”
you nearly stop in your tracks, halting your waltz with benedict entirely, until you find a way to recover and continue the steps with him. he is looking intently at you, waiting for your response. you inhale a breath and on the exhale say,
“oh.”
it is a pathetic response, but it is the only one you can muster at this moment. breath has entirely left your lungs, your heart palpitates at a maddening rate, the lightning of benedict’s touch and proximity magnifying at every passing second.
“i had hurt you, this person whom i—” he swallows, “whom i care for, deeply and completely. i was, and am, ashamed of my deed and the arrogant thoughts and beliefs that led me to do it.”
“i have long forgiven you for that, benedict.”
“it is something of which i am not deserving.”
“you cannot tell me what to think or do,” you challenge, arching an eyebrow at him to add levity to the conversation. benedict smiles, despite himself, and it makes your body flood with relief and joy.
“i would never dare.”
“as you shouldn’t,” you grin, then inhaling and exhaling through your nostrils. “you need not flagellate yourself for what you did. that accomplishes nothing, and guilt is entirely useless in the structures that be,” you say resolutely. more softly, you continue. “my forgiveness is something i gave you willingly because it is what i truly wanted. because i knew, and know, how you wish to do better. i see that in everything you do; in your art, in your character. it is something i admire in you.”
benedict simply stares at you, his ocean eyes impossible to decipher again. his gaze is overwhelming, but you refuse to break it.
“i was about to say how undeserving i am of your compassion,” he says, “but then swiftly realized you would have just admonished me.”
you laugh.
“you were correct in thinking so, yes.”
he looks at you still, his expression still impossible to decipher, but there is something soft about it.
“thank you, y/n.”
the butterflies within you flutter once more.
“and if you ever wish to discard your paper again,” you diverge from your feelings, “simply hand it to me. i am always in need of more.”
he laughs fully, the corners of his eyes crinkling with delight, and you feel the flutterings violently rage within. perhaps diversion was not the wisest choice (or perhaps it was, if it meant that you were the one to make benedict laugh like that).
“i have gotten quite good at maximizing the amount of negative space on a sheet, but nothing would delight me more than to support your writing.”
“i am most grateful for your patronage, mr. bridgerton.”
benedict makes something of a gagging noise, and you snort loudly.
“you are making it strange with the master-servant relation, y/n.”
“ah, so you are learning,” you comment with a sagacious nod of approval. it is now benedict’s turn to snort.
“what can i say?” he grins. “i have the greatest of teachers.”
“they have done quite well; please give them my regards.”
“i shall.”
and with the music coming to an end, you turn to face one another, wide and wild smiles on your faces. you curtsy as benedict bows.
“may i fetch you a drink?” he inquires after you are both upright again.
“is alcohol served at these occasions?”
benedict laughs.
“champagne it is.”
he gives you one more bow, lingering a moment more with one more smile, before taking off to retrieve your drink.
you try to bite back your smile, but it’s entirely useless. you twirl in your spot, feeling the swish of your dress in the spin, for you cannot help yourself. you cannot help how much joy radiates off of you in this moment, how giddy you are. it feels like a fairytale. you look in the direction benedict took off and feel your smile widen.
it is dangerous what you are doing— indulging in this. but you do not care.
this is undoubtedly the most wondrous night of your life.
“so you’re the pauper that the bridgertons have invited to their ball.”
you freeze.
“how else would you have been asked to dance by the host—the viscount and a bridgerton, nonetheless; his two brothers; and the elusive duke of hastings? it is an endearing sight, really.”
her posse snickers.
“the bridgertons have always been so kind and thoughtful in that way, extending their hands to the less fortunate. why they chose you, however, remains a mystery. if it were a pretty face that appealed to them, i perhaps could have understood, but you are simple at best.”
“you are cressida cowper,” you state.
penelope and eloise had warned you about a cruel creature amongst the ton, and the young woman before you matches all of the criteria they had described: icy platinum hair, draconian eyes, and a haughty disposition that ought to be reserved for the royals.
cressida daintily gasps and smiles at you with what seems to be all the mockery she can muster.
“i see that my reputation precedes me! though, only those of my standing can refer to me as such. cannot have my name tainted by the mouths of the lowly.”
you feel the gazes of other guests on you. you hear muffled sneers.
this is entertainment for them.
you should say something, stand up for yourself— against cressida, against her posse, against the ton— but you don’t. you can’t. your mouth has gone dry, your mind has gone silent, your body has gone numb. you have never, ever felt more powerless.
“your dress— did the bridgertons pay for it? of course they did. pity, though, for their wealth to go to waste on such an offensive thing. allow me to assist you—”
and she pours her drink onto you.
you try not to gasp at the chill of the liquid making contact with your skin. looking down, you see a reddish purple stain seep into the cream fabric of your ball gown as it continues to travel downwards.
you hear cressida giggle. you look up.
“better,” she simpers. “beautiful at last.”
her posse sneers with delight. the guests who had tried to suppress their laughs do nothing to hide their mirth now.
this is entertainment for them. my humiliation— it is entertainment for them.
you step into cressida’s space, eliciting a stunned gasp from her as the others follow suit, and shove your face as closely to hers as possible.
“if we were not in your domain, i would rip out your delicate hair and strike my hand across your pretty little face. but i am a lady—not in blood nor in title, but in character. and with your words and your deeds, you have shown just how utterly undeserving you are of such a title with your complete void of morals, compassion, and integrity. i do not care what you think of me, cressida, or what drinks you pour on me because i can rest easy in my sleep and waking hours knowing with perfect certainty that i am nothing like you. i bid you good night.”
and maintaining the ferocity of your glare on her horrified eyes, you muster up the most mocking, deep curtsy you can, turn, hitch up your skirt, and run away. you cannot care for the booming silence from that creature and her posse, for the murmurs and glowers of the ton thrown your way. you cannot take time to process what words a flutters-inducing voice snarls at cressida.
no.
you must simply run away, quickly and efficiently, because you refuse to give into these monsters’ satisfaction of seeing your tears.
𝄆 ⚘ ✸ III.iv ✸ ⚘ 𝄇
the cool air of the night whips your face as you run as far and as deep as you can into the gardens. you curse your damned shoes, for they are slippery and nothing like your sturdy boots, and they make you realize even further how much you have fucked up in allowing yourself to get this far. in allowing yourself to go to the ball, in allowing yourself to dance, in allowing yourself to fall in—
feeling your shoe catch on something, you fall forward and throw your hands out in front of you, your gloved palms digging into the bark of a tree trunk as you attempt to steady yourself. you attempt to control the staggered rhythm of your breath, the sobs that choke out of your throat, the palpitations that threaten to collapse your heart.
why did i allow myself to get this far?
“y/n—”
you snap your gaze over to the call of your name as your stomach knots, somehow, even now, with flutterings upon hearing his voice.
“benedict, no— just— no,” you manage to croak out, stepping away from where he approaches. you hold up your hand, as if it is a magical force that will push him away. it does not. “just go, please, just go.”
“i refuse to leave you, y/n, you are hurt—”
you cackle, sniffling the snot that tries to escape your nostrils. you push your remaining hand off the tree and turn towards him.
“hurt? what gave you that impression? is it the tears? they are just water, benedict, they will dry.”
“this is not the time to jest!”
“then what do you want of me!”
“to allow me to help you!”
“why! why do you care! why do you care for some, some low status person like me!”
“that is not how i see you!”
“THAT IS WHAT I AM.”
he freezes. you feel yourself clenching your hands into fists, your nails digging into your palms through the satin of the gloves that were bought for you.
“you are the son of a viscountess, a brother to a viscount. i wonder every day if my family will have enough food to eat at our one meal. we—” you gesture between the two of you, “—are not of the same world. and maybe, maybe it should have stayed that way. to, to have stayed in our own worlds. we should have stayed in our own worlds!”
“and is that what you want?” he shoots back.
“what?” you snark.
“is that what you want? for us to stay in our own worlds?”
you fall silent, words suddenly failing you, breath suddenly leaving you. he huffs out a breath and continues.
“if that is what you want, i shall stay away from you. i shall never bother you. i shall never hurt you as i have. we shall—” benedict swallows, “we shall forget each other. if that is what you want, y/n, i shall give it to you.”
you do not respond to him. you stare into him as he stares into you.
“is that what you want?”
you shake your head as you feel fresh tears rush to your eyes.
“then what do you want?” he softly asks.
you flutter your eyes closed and breathe in. on your exhale, you open your eyes to the tear-blurry sight of benedict still looking at you with such tenderness in his ocean eyes.
“i want you,” you whisper.
you barely have time to process anything else when benedict surges forward and wraps his arms around you in a crushing embrace. tears fall even harder than before as you cry into his chest and wrap your arms around him.
benedict pulls back from the embrace to look at you, to cup your cheek, to wipe away the tears that fall so quickly from your eyes.
“i want you, y/n. i want to be yours. i want to be in your world, i want our worlds to be one. i want to go wherever you go. i want to make you laugh and to make you smile every day and every night; i want to do everything with you. i want to be with you, to share this life with you. from the moment i met you, from the moment you intended to shake my hand, i have wanted nothing more than to share all the time i have on this earth with you. i do not care for balls, i do not care for the ton, i care— i care for you, y/n. these are not the circumstances in which i wanted to confess this, with you crying and us yelling at one another, but i must be true with you. i—”
“benedict?”
“yes?”
“may i kiss you?”
benedict’s jaw drops and you laugh at his shock, sniffling your nose as you beam at him. he quickly recovers, breaking out into the smile that has always made you flutter with butterflies, the smile that you always secretly hoped, dreamed, wished was reserved for you. and you begin to think that, after all this time, perhaps it is.
“good god, please, yes—”
he barely completes his ‘yes’ when you jump forward to crash your lips into his. benedict practically trips backwards with the force of your eager leap, the two of you laughing into your kiss at the messiness of it all, as he holds you both steady.
this is your first kiss. you are so glad that it is benedict.
and somewhere within you blooms the hope that he is your last first kiss.
you have no idea what you’re doing, or what you should be doing, but you are far too much enjoying having benedict’s lips on yours, your hands on his cheeks, his hands on your waist, and your bodies pressing more and more into each other to give the slightest care. and the smile you feel against yours makes you think that benedict doesn’t mind—at all.
you pull apart to breathe, but your lips do not move far from one another.
“i love you.”
“i love you, too.”
“and i am sorry.”
“for loving me?”
you feel benedict jump back as he holds you, his face absolutely crestfallen, panic flooding his eyes, and he’s about to open his mouth to speak when you giggle and peck his parted lips with yours.
“i’m teasing you, my love.”
benedict’s eyes soften but quickly glint with mischief. you’re curious about the expression when you feel him tickling the sides of your waist.
“okay, okay!” you gasp with laughter as he tickles on. “i— i yield, i yield!”
benedict grins victoriously, his tickles fading into him softly rubbing circles on your waist.
“i am sorry for saying that is not how i see you, when you spoke of your social standing. i had not meant it that way, but i understand now how it was understood, and i should not have said it as i did. i know that i have lived a life of unfathomable ease with the wealth and circumstances into which i was born. the privileges i hold are not things i had reflected on, really, until— until i met you.”
you soften at his earnestness, by the way he humbles himself before you. but you cannot help the giddy mischief that bubbles from within.
“did you only reflect on your privileges as to win a femme’s favor?”
benedict’s jaw drops again, but you see how his ocean eyes shine with like-minded playfulness.
“do you truly think so lowly of me?”
you grin.
“perhaps.”
you feel benedict teasingly threaten his hands into tickling position onto your waist, and laughing, you shoo them away. he grins and softens his gaze once more.
“what i wanted to say to you earlier is— i wish you did not speak of yourself so harshly. as if you are unworthy of care from me because of your status. i care for you, i love you, y/n, as you are. as you were, as you will be. with all your circumstances, all your experiences, all your deeds, all your words, all your thoughts, all your feelings. for your heart, for your mind, for your soul. i love you because you are you, and i wish for you to see that, for you to see you as i see you. as so many of us see you.”
“i— i do not know what to say.”
“you do not have to say anything; just to, if i may ask of you, seed my words into your heart and mind and soul and know them to be true, wholly and completely,” a playful smile forms on his lips. “though, i must say, i am rather pleased with myself for rendering a writer with ferocious conviction speechless.”
you roll your eyes, but your voice is soft.
“you have had that effect on me for quite some time, benedict.”
benedict swallows and gently rubs circles onto your waist again.
“i love you, benedict.”
“i love you, too.”
< y/n and benedict, hand-in-hand, start to walk towards the house; they are taking their time. >
“are you certain you want to return the ball?” benedict inquires. “we can stay here in the gardens and wait until the last of the guests have gone.”
you hum.
“i would like to dance.”
“ah, was there a gentleman or a lady who caught your eye, miss y/l/n?”
“oh, loads. i hope it won’t make you terribly jealous, mr. bridgerton.”
“it will, but i shall simply stare at them maliciously if their hands are to roam.”
“yes, my form is reserved for your hands and your hands alone.”
you exchange grins.
“indeed.”
benedict nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, and you laugh. he lifts his head and plants a soft kiss on your temple.
“are you certain? i do not mean to doubt you or your wishes to dance. we can dance out here, under the bright light of the moon. i want you to feel content and safe.”
“i do feel content and safe. with you. with the family. within myself. i shan’t let the ton or cressida ruin my first ball. though, the idea of dancing in the moonlight is quite enticing. perhaps another night?”
“you have my word,” and bringing your hand to his lips, he kisses your knuckles. a serene silence falls between you two until benedict makes some sort of a noise in his throat, as if to clear his voice.
“i, uh, must say,” benedict begins, “your confrontation with cressida was, uh, quite— alluring.”
you stop, letting go of his hand, and stare at him.
“alluring?”
a delicious blush colors your love’s face.
“indeed.”
a newfound bravery blooms in you.
you step into his space, not breaking eye contact with his blown out pupils, the ocean of his eyes mere outlines. you sneak your lips towards his ear and hear a soft whimper emit from his lips.
“is that something of interest to you, mr. bridgerton?” you murmur, your bottom lip barely grazing his earlobe. you feel him shiver and inhale. “when you see someone be put in their place?”
he exhales frantically.
“it is something of interest to me when— when you do it,” he admits, as if out of breath. you smile, pressing your bottom lip softly into his earlobe. he does nothing to hold back his moan as you do everything in your power to hold in yours.
“that is good to know,” and quickly rip away from him.
in your step back, you take in benedict’s state—flustered, expectant, ruttish—and wink at him. you turn and walk away at your leisure, putting on a performance of superiority as you hide your own arousal.
it is only a few moments later that you hear benedict follow you.
“you,” he says, voice still fraught with desire but full with love, “will be the death of me.”
you look back at him and grin.
“and what would you like me to put on your epitaph?”
“benedict bridgerton, he who, in life and in death, loves the best soul to have ever existed.”
you cannot help your giddy self and close the distance between the two of you once more, grabbing his face and pressing your smile into his. benedict happily obliges as he places his hands at the low of your waist and pulls you closer into him.
< they get into it!
< y/n takes off her gloves so that she can touch benedict; she is about to throw them on the ground. >
“wait—”
and he takes your gloves.
“hm?”
“your gloves. they were costly to make,” benedict states as he stuffs them into the inside pockets of his jacket. “i don’t want to be flippant in letting them be discarded to the ground.”
you gape at him.
“you concern yourself with the cost of my gloves?”
“why, yes, of course, it is something i—”
you clutch onto the lapels of benedict’s jacket and push him backward into a nearby hedge, his mouth now agape and his pupils dark with a desire you very much want to satisfy.
“i find your consideration quite alluring.”
in the midst of his apparent arousal, benedict giggles, and that makes you grin.
“what is it?”
“a hedge, y/n? of all things to anchor me against?”
you roll your eyes.
“it was this, benedict, or the bark of a tree.”
“ah, so i should be grateful then.”
you repeat his words with sped up mockery, making him laugh and the corners of his eyes crinkle in the adorable way that is so very distinctly benedict, and you capture your love’s lips again to shut him up, smiling and laughing into the kiss.
…
“what do you want?”
“you. whatever you want, benedict, i want it. please.”
“are you certain?” he breathes into your ear.
“god, yes, benedict, please, yes.”
“then—”
benedict positions his head downward, burying his face into the crevice of your bosom, and before you can even begin to tease him for his absurdity, you feel the wetness of his tongue flat against the curvature of your right breast. your gasp of surprise quickly transforms into an ungodly guttural wail, feeling yourself dig your fingernails into benedict’s back, arching into him to steady yourself, as he painstakingly drags the flat of his tongue from your right breast against the expanse of your exposed chest to the length of your right shoulder. dazed and euphoric, you feel how benedict sneaks towards your ear, hovers it, panting ragged breaths,
“i’ve wanted to do that since you descended the stairs in that dress. and—”
taking your left hand, benedict pushes your middle finger and forefinger fully into his mouth. he methodically works his tongue against them as he guides your hand to pull and push in him, his blown out pupils never once leaving your intoxicated stare. you feel the desperate urge to throw your head back at the incandescent eroticism that throbs from your fingertips to the rest of your body, but may god smite you if you willingly tear your eyes away from the divine sight of benedict’s almost oceanless eyes gaping into you as his gorgeous mouth sucks on your fingers. just before you feel as though you are to fully blank out and ascend into the heavens, benedict rips your hand out of his mouth, the action creating an obscenely delicious ‘pop’ sound, and, wrapping his hand around your wrist, pulls you back into him, your face finding respite just below his shoulder.
“i’ve wanted to do that since first drawing your hand.”
you laugh-cry into his jacket.
“shit, benedict.”
your love laughs and nudges his head into yours and rests it there as he softly rubs circles on your back with his thumb.
“please—” good god, breathe, “please remind me to ask you more frequently what you want.”
“did you enjoy it?”
“no, benedict, i quite plainly hated it.”
“i’d be glad to accept your critiques.”
“i know you would,” you smile into his jacket and, lifting your head, are greeted by your favorite sight: benedict, with his soft smile and his gentle ocean eyes.
“i have never felt like that before,” you admit in a whisper.
“nor have i,” he whispers back. that shocks you, and you must have made your reaction visible because benedict emits a laugh through his nose, soft smile and gentle ocean eyes unfaltering.
“but you have been with others before; you’ve had similar experiences, yes?”
you had assumed that your exhilaration must have been, apart from it being benedict, rooted in your lack of experience in such things.
benedict brushes a loose strand of your hair away from your eyes and tucks it behind your ear, his hand moving down to cup your cheek, his thumb gently rubbing it.
“yes, but those were different.”
you cock your head in response. he smiles, as if it is apparent.
“because they are not you.”
the sweetness of benedict’s ocean eyes are quickly replaced with shock then delight and then you don’t know what because he closes them as you crash your lips into his. whatever you had just felt before, you want it again. you want benedict. all of him. and you want all of him to feel what you just had.
you lick his teeth, and granting your wish, benedict opens his mouth more, groaning, bringing his hands to the curvatures of your ass, pushing your bodies even closer together though no space left exists between the two of you. you move your hand to the back of his head and, gripping a tuft of his hair, pull it roughly just as you capture his tongue with your mouth and suck hard. the sounds that benedict produce in reaction are entirely inhuman, but you vaguely deduce he is trying to say your name, and you’ve never attended a concert but, my god, nothing will ever sound as harmonious as the symphony that is your name gutturally trapped in benedict’s throat.
continuing with the work you’ve done to undo benedict thus far, you take your other hand and start to rake it against his body, starting at the base of his throat, taking time and leisure to explore, lowering and pressing into his chest, wondering wildly what beauty exists behind his damned shirt, lowering and feeling the firmness of his stomach and trying not to completely undo yourself with the sinful, transcendent thoughts of putting your tongue there, lowering and lowering and touching something curious and unfamiliar and hard and—
when he pushes you off of him.
“benedict, i— i am so sorry,” you panic, “please, what did i—”
“no, no,” he swallows, “you did— you have nothing to apologize for, my love, you were— uh— you were doing quite——” he clears his throat, “you were doing quite well; very well, actually…”
you continue to frown, still concerned.
“then why are you so tottery?”
“because— because if we were to continue, i do not think— i know i would not last for— um, for very much longer.”
you jut out your hip, putting the knuckles of your fist on it, and furrow your eyebrows at him.
“benedict bridgerton, i still do not understand what you are trying to convey. speak plainly.”
“we should stop.”
your jaw drops, as does your hand from your hip.
“why?” you practically whine. you should be embarrassed by your desperation, but to be entirely frank, you couldn't care less. benedict huffs out a laugh, still breathless, and, stepping towards you, lays a tender kiss on your forehead.
“as much as i would love for us to continue, i think being in the family gardens with a ball being held a few meters away is hardly an ideal location for the more— involved aspects of such activities. the aspects i’d like to explain to you,” he takes another step into your space, lowering his voice to an unfamiliar but enrapturing gravel, “the aspects i’d like to show you.”
you swallow your whimper.
“i—— i would very much like that,” you manage. and then you grin, “though, exploring such aspects in the family gardens sounds like it would be quite the adventure. a calculated risk, if you will.”
the alluring tone of benedict’s voice is completely replaced with a giggle, and your grin broadens as you press even closer into him and nudge your nose against his. benedict rests his forehead against yours and flutters his eyes closed.
“what did i do to have you love me back?”
you flutter your eyes closed.
“you were you. you are you.”
𝄆 ⚘ ✸ III.v ✸ ⚘ 𝄇
< ahead, y/n sees kathani. she makes the connection that kathani must have accompanied benedict as a chaperone so that y/n wouldn’t be “disgraced” by having a man by himself chase after her.
< as the two approach the viscountess, kathani recognizes how disheveled y/n and benedict look and promptly fixes them to look more presentable. she takes some hedge leaves out of benedict’s hair. >
“i see that you are well, y/n?” inquires kathani.
“never better, actually.”
she laughs, a smile falling on her lips.
“i am sincerely glad to hear that.”
< they walk closer to bridgerton house. >
“you are fortunate that it was not anthony who volunteered to chaperone. he would have not reacted well to his loved one being dishonored, as he would say, particularly on family grounds.”
“oh dear,” you say, nervous and suddenly self-conscious. you do not want to be the target of the eldest bridgerton’s wrath. “what have i done to dishonor—“
kathani laughs.
“i wasn’t referring to you, chellam. i was referring to him,” and she juts her chin out at benedict.
“me!”
“anthony will be furious when he finds out that you have been— private,” she says, gesturing to his newly tidied appearance, “with y/n in the gardens. not very gentlemanly of you.”
“he won’t find out!” benedict pauses. “he won’t find out— right, kate?”
kathani just makes a face of feigned deep thought and you chortle.
“kate!”
“i do not keep secrets from my husband, benedict.”
“but what if it’s for love?” he implores. he says it facetiously, but you feel with what conviction he exudes his true feeling.
kathani’s expression softens as she looks between you and benedict. you offer a small nod and a smile, confirming her thoughts. she beams at you but then narrows her eyes at benedict. there is no heat to her gaze; she is, however, having the most sublime time making her brother-in-law squirm.
“i do not keep secrets from my husband, benedict,” kathani repeats. benedict groans, throwing his head back like a disgruntled child, and you belly laugh at him.
“i hope you are ready for gregory to be your second,” she continues.
you almost double over as benedict snaps his head forward to look at his sister-in-law.
“gregory!”
“indeed. it is a shame as well— anthony’s accustomed second being the one he has to duel,” she sighs dramatically. “oh well. colin will make a fine replacement.”
“this family is ridiculous,” you declare, grinning like mad. “gregory seems a tad young, though. what about eloise? i am sure she would be a more than suitable second for benedict.”
“oh, i have no doubt,” grins back kathani, “but i would not dare involve a woman in the idiocy of men and their ludicrous concepts of honor.”
you and kathani laugh loudly, delighted by how much you are enjoying yourselves, untroubled by benedict’s moping.
“it has been wonderful being in love with you, benedict,” you state simply. “it’s a pity that it has to come to an end so soon."
kathani snorts. benedict stops in his tracks and gapes at you.
“you think i would lose the duel!”
“anthony is more stubborn; he would let it fuel his will to live.”
“i think you underestimate how much i love you and how that fuels my will to live.”
you smile. in your periphery, kathani smiles. despite his current displeasure with you, your love smiles.
“i suppose i do.”
𝄆 ⚘ ✸ III.vi ✸ ⚘ 𝄇
< upon returning to the ball, y/n, benedict, and kathani see how anthony and violet are ensuring that the cowpers are leaving. before the family leaves, y/n approaches cressida. >
“i do hope to see you at another one of these events. if you find a way, of course, not to have yourself kicked out.”
and you curtsy. you turn to your love, his mouth in a wide smile and ocean eyes sparkling, and offer him a wink. you hear the quartet start up.
“i believe it is time for another round of dancing. care to be my partner?”
“i would love nothing more.”
< they dance. it is sweet, silly, romantic, and delightful. both y/n and benedict touch each other beyond what is considered proper, like hands laying too low on the waist or eliminating the space between their bodies, but they truly do not care. their unabashed joy is abundantly evident to everyone in the ballroom, but they are only focused on one another. they are in their own world. they giggle, they grin; it is the happiness they both deserve.
< they dance the next set.
< after her and benedict’s third dance together, y/n makes eye contact with violet, who is at the margins of the dancefloor, eyes wide with joy. >
“as much as i love dancing with you, my love,” you beam, “i think i am in need of a new partner.”
< y/n approaches violet and with a bow asks her for the honor of being her next dance. though delighted, violet remarks how she is too old, and y/n says that the youngsters can learn a thing or two from her wisdom and skill. >
“we would need permission from the host,” offers violet.
“from anthony! you birthed him! you granted him permission to exist!”
that makes violet laugh.
< violet agrees, and they walk hand in hand to the dance floor. in this dance, y/n and violet are partnered, benedict partnered with penelope, kathani partnered with anthony. >
…
“you’ve told each other."
“has anyone remarked how keenly insightful you are, violet bridgerton?"
“no,” the dowager replies with twinkling eyes, “but it is something of which i am well aware, and take great pride in. i am happy for you both.”
“i am so glad to have your approval.”
“oh tosh! as if a mother’s approval or disapproval can get in the way of real, true love.”
“perhaps so, but it is affirming to have the blessing from someone you so dearly love in a matter such as this.”
“you make it easy to love you, my dear.”
< the dance calls for a switch in partners. y/n becomes partnered with penelope, and violet becomes partnered with benedict. >
“thank you, pen.”
“whatever for?”
“for bumping into me at the markets.”
penelope laughs.
“accidents are quite good, are they not?”
“i despise them, actually,” you declare with a grin.
< penelope reveals that benedict shared with her why he was not seen for the first three dances of the night. >
your jaw drops, and penelope merely titters in response.
“is that why i didn’t see him! because he was lurking in the crowds to prevent men from approaching me?”
“it has been my discovery that the bridgerton brothers do not handle their jealousies well.”
“do you think gregory shall be the same?”
“oh, i am entirely certain. he shall likely be the worst of all.”
the two of you snort as you are sent back to your partners, penelope with benedict and you with violet.
“and what has you and penelope in such giggles?”
“making barbs at your sons.”
violet laughs.
“they make it awfully easy to do so, do they not?”
< the dance comes to an end. violet plants a soft kiss on y/n’s head.
< turning, y/n connects eyes with benedict who wears an incandescently happy expression. >
how could you not see it before? how in love he is with you.
< tired but elated, y/n takes a break from dancing. she reunites with the rest of the bridgertons at the ball. y/n finally meets daphne, who remarks that she has heard so much about y/n. eloise shares how the family wished to check in on y/n when she had returned to the ball to see that she was well; in a rare smile rather than a smirk, eloise shares that, upon seeing her dance and dance again with benedict, that she looked quite well indeed. at some point in the conversation with the bridgertons, y/n inquires when she can meet francesca.
< time passes, and joy is had amongst the bridgertons, penelope, simon, and y/n. y/n cannot believe her happiness.
< the last dance is called. benedict approaches y/n. >
“may i have the honor of being your final dance of the night?"
“you aren’t tired of me yet?”
“i shall never tire of you, y/n.”
upon taking your hand, benedict twirls you once then twice as he leads you towards the dance floor. giggling and grinning, you decide to do the same to him, causing him to giggle and grin right along with you.
< they dance a fourth time. >
𝄆 ⚘ ✸ III.vii ✸ ⚘ 𝄇
< the guests have made their leave from the bridgerton ball. colin, eloise, and violet have gone to their respective bedchambers.
< anthony, benedict, kathani, and y/n walk up the steps of the grand staircase. anthony has his hand clamped on benedict’s forearm and pulls him up the steps with particular determination and quiet fury. >
“i know where i sleep, brother! i have slept there since we were children!”
“i am well aware of that, benedict, and i am also well aware of how you— roam when enticed.”
benedict looks at anthony, to you (you just shrug as you look on at the exchange with excitement), and back to anthony.
“do you people really think so little of me!”
“i do not think little of you, brother, i just know you.”
benedict’s shock deepens incredulously, though you see the smile underscoring it all.
“i am a man of honor! i am a gentleman!”
“yes, as am i, as is colin, as was father; all bridgerton men are, and all bridgerton men are idiots around the persons for whom they have affections. now, go into your bedchamber,” anthony finishes as he shoves his younger brother into the room.
“you are a nightmare!” you hear your love shout from within.
“and you are to stay here for the remainder of the night!” he shouts back, leaning forward to grab the knob to benedict’s bedchamber and pulling the door shut with a loud thud. he turns to kathani, composure returning to his senses.
“my dearest, may you call samuel and lawrence, please? i shall have samuel stationed here and lawrence stationed outside benedict’s window. they will be paid double their wage for these extemporary responsibilities.”
you laugh with your whole stomach and feel tears sting your eyes. you have no concern in hiding your howls until you remember hyacinth and gregory are asleep and promptly clamp your hand over your mouth. your hand succeeds in muffling your laughter, but marginally.
kathani rolls her eyes at her husband and deeply sighs.
“i shall,” she replies, smiling at her love’s antics.
pleased with her answer, anthony right about turns at benedict’s door, places his hands behind his back, and stands up tall, taking his temporary duty as guard with the utmost gravity. something then eases in his posture, and he turns to you.
“i hope you have enjoyed your night, y/n.”
your heart swells.
“it was wondrous, anthony. thank you.”
he beams, brilliant delight in his eyes.
“i wish you good rest.”
and with a bow of his head, anthony turns away from you and assumes his station once more, gravity and perfect posture and all.
the viscountess turns to you, her smile having softened, and says, “let me escort you back to your bedchamber. i shall help you prepare for bed.”
–
“despite his many flaws,” kathani says with all amusement and fondness in her voice as she removes the pins from your hair, “anthony is, indeed, a man of honor and honesty.”
“i never had my doubts, but—” you snort, “that has certainly proved it.”
“it is because he thinks so highly of you,” she shares, looking at you in the mirror. you turn around in your seat and connect with her eyes, eyes that are filled with so much warmth. “he cares deeply for you, y/n. anthony is only that overbearing and overly protective when it comes to his family, and he sees you as our family. we all do.”
you suck in air through your nostrils, feeling the swell of your heart. how did you get so fortunate as to be so loved by this family?
though, you detect something in kathani. her words are sincere, of that you are not doubtful, but they do not seem complete. it is as if she wants to say more, if the blossoming twinkle in her eyes is indicative of anything. but kathani does not elaborate.
instead, she picks up the brush on the vanity and gently brushes your hair. it reminds you of when your elder sister used to brush your hair before bedtime. you close your eyes, humming.
“i see you all as my family, too.”
𝄆 ⚘ ✸ III.viii ✸ ⚘ 𝄇
< the next morning, late morning. the dining room. >
“you are infernal,” benedict deadpans to anthony, staring at his brother and taking his seat next to you.
“you are incorrigible; i was correct,” anthony responds, his eyes not leaving his paper.
“correct about what, brother?” hyacinth asks.
despite their current rivalry, benedict and anthony both freeze. kate speaks on their behalf.
“your eldest had deemed it necessary to have lawrence stationed outside below benedict’s bedchamber window in the early morn and was proved correct in doing so; your second eldest had attempted to escape by way of that route.”
“stationed outside his window? why would that be necessary?” gregory inquires. he turns to benedict. “and why were you trying to leave through your window?”
in his periphery, benedict sees you whipping your head. you seem to have suddenly found some interest in the painting on the wall faced away from the current scene. he notices how you hide your smile behind your fist and how you attempt to suppress the convulsions of your laughter. kate, on the other hand, unapologetically laughs.
“i am certain you will learn in due time, gregory. it is something of a tradition, it seems.”
“will i get to participate in this tradition?” hyacinth enthuses.
“NO!” benedict and anthony shout in tandem. they look at each other, and the elder gives a ‘see!’ face to the younger. benedict just rolls his eyes.
his eyes eventually land back on you: you have now totally hidden your face in your hands with elbows perched on the table for support, any attempts at hiding your laughter now entirely gone. your entire body vibrates as you somehow squeak and guffaw into the palms of your hands.
“ugh, why do adults always speak in such vague statements!” hyacinth grumbles as she slumps in her chair and crosses her arms. she then suddenly shoots back up and looks at you. “y/n, you only speak in riddles when we play! may we play now?”
“yes! may we play now?” gregory pipes up.
“please!” the two youngest plead in tandem. benedict looks to you, and wiping away your hands to reveal your face red from laughter, you say,
“i would be— i would be delighted to do so,” you take sharp breaths in between attempts at controlling your laughter. “perhaps—” you full on snort, and it makes benedict break out into a grin, “—perhaps, after the young sorceress and— and the young knight slay the wyvern, they— they will save the— the—” you laugh hard again, “the princess, captive and forlorn in her tower.”
gregory and hyacinth shout their joy and take off from the table.
“you haven’t been excu!— oh, nevermind,” anthony grumbles in an uncanny, childlike resemblance to his youngest sibling.
benedict watches as you use your forefingers to swipe at the corners of your e/c eyes, fits of laughter still bubbling out of your mouth.
i love her, and she loves me, he thinks in awe. it has been on repeat in his mind since you confessed to one another in the gardens just the night prior. she is mine, and i am hers.
“your lordship,” you giggle still as you look at anthony, and benedict snickers, “may i be excused to play make-believe with your youngest siblings?”
anthony rolls his eyes with much theatricality, but his smile at you is sincere.
“you are not my sibling,” he states, but benedict catches how his elder brother quickly glances at him with eyes that say ‘yet,’ “you need not my permission, but yes, you may.”
you bow your head in dramatic gratitude, causing kate to titter and anthony to look to the ceiling, and you lift yourself up from your seat.
before you follow after his siblings, benedict reaches out and gently takes your hand. you look at him, and he feels how his stomach flutters when his blue eyes makes contact with your e/c. just as it did the first time, just as it did every time after.
benedict feels you softly rub three circles on his hand. he softly rubs four circles on yours.
“good day, princess,” you say with a wink at your love, slowly slipping your hand away from his and then turning to walk out of the dining room. benedict stares at you as you leave.
i love her, and she loves me. she is mine, and i am hers.
“when do you intend on proposing, brother?” anthony smirks as he puts his teacup to his lips.
benedict smiles, looking off at where your laughter is heard.
“later this afternoon.”
anthony chokes on his tea, and kate, patting her coughing husband’s back, arches an eyebrow at her brother-in-law, amusement dancing in her eyes.
“without a ring?”
benedict turns to look at the couple and grins.
“who said i don’t have a ring?”
“you are joking,” anthony says matter-of-factly. “we all are excited at the prospects of y/n officially joining this family, but you just confessed your love for one another not even twelve hours ago. we are still breaking fast! there were guards at your door and your window! how could you have already procured a ring?”
benedict smiles, digging into his pocket.
“i do not jest, brother.”
and, with pride, he holds up a thin band made of twisted paper.
“now, if you will excuse me,” benedict announces, lifting himself out of his seat, giving a kiss to the top of kate’s head, and ruffling anthony’s hair. “i must be going.”
“and where are you off?” anthony demands as he straightens out his hair.
“do you think i am going to propose to y/n without asking her family’s permission first? would not be very gentlemanly of me if i did.”
“how do you know where she lives!”
“that is what you were asking penelope last night,” kate answers. anthony looks at his wife, incredulous and in awe. benedict grins.
“exactly so, sister. i’ve always known you held all the intelligence between you two. i would have seen to it sooner, but—”
an image of e/c eyes and ink-stained hands flashes in his mind, the flutterings in his stomach intensifying. butterflies— that is what he will paint next, he decides.
after he finishes his portrait of you.
“—i was held captive in my tower.”
#bridgerton#benedict bridgerton#benedict bridgerton fanfiction#benedict bridgerton x reader#benedict bridgerton x you#benedict bridgerton x y/n#benedict bridgerton imagine#benedict bridgerton fluff#benedict bridgerton angst#bridgerton x reader#bridgerton x you#bridgerton x y/n#penelope featherington#kate sharma#anthony bridgerton#colin bridgerton#eloise bridgerton#gregory bridgerton#hyacinth bridgerton#violet bridgerton
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Judgement: Benedict Bridgerton x actress!reader
Requested by @jaysgirlx <3
***
She wasn’t the most beautiful.
Or the most talented.
And definitely not born in the best family.
Nonetheless, neither of us, no matter how much willpower we are endowed with, has the possibility of choosing the environment we are born into. That is solely up to fate.
What we can choose, however, is how we adapt to the circumstances, how we behave, who we become and how we cope with the opinions that are – more often than not – negative and critical.
Especially when a woman, regardless of standards of an ossified, prejudiced society decides to make a living by being an actress. For Y/N Y/L/N no work was dishonorable. For the ladies of the ton, such profession was almost equal with being a lady of easy virtue. For the men – well- the behavior of some of them was below any norms of decency.
Funny how the point of view depends on the point of sitting.
***
She was late again.
For the third time this week and it was barely Wednesday. Not a good scorecard she kept and it definitely got under the skin of the theater owner. Y/N could not quite comprehend why the gentleman was so irritated since from the moment she stepped foot in that sanctuary of art she has been doing every single thing needed. Not only acting, but also cleaning the floor if required, repairing the costumes, helping with the dialogues. Very versatile all things considered.
Desperate for a job and survival? No, not entirely, maybe a little.
Enamored and passionate by the employ that gave her a bread and a questionable opinion. Yes, absolutely.
Rushing through the busy London streets, miraculously avoiding respectable matrons and their equally respectable lord consorts was not the best of the ideas of reducing, even to a small extent, the extent of her delay.
Y/N did not pay much attention while crossing the street either, obviously missing the speeding carriage and the moment she looked to the right, finding herself mere inches from the hooves of spooked horses, her entire life flashed in front of her eyes.
She let out a embarrassingly high cry of shock and freeze on the spot, mentally preparing herself of leaving the globe and letting her spirit fly away to some better world just like Julia Capulet did after her beloved Romeo—
“Watch out!” a man’s voice, a firm yet gentle grip of hand on her waist and a second later she was safely back on the pavement, sustaining no permanent injuries, save for rapid breathing and slightly flushed cheeks. “Are you all right, my lady?”
“I am not a lady.” She retorted automatically shaking her head and slowly raising her gaze to give thanks to her lifesaver “Mr. Bridgerton!” the second son of the late viscount was definitely not the person she expected to see and it made her take a step back immediately.
Almost ending up under another carriage if it wasn’t for Benedict Bridgerton’s reflexes and a bright, teasing smile.
“You don't learn from your mistakes, my lady” he teased “am I this repulsive to make you step away upon noticing my face? Is this how women behave this day?”
“Forgive me my Lord, I was blinded by all your glory” she almost rolled her eyes, saying the words before biting her own tongue. “oh…” the gasps that came out of her mouth a moment later only caused Benedict to laugh wholeheartedly.
“Not the usual reaction I get from a woman.”
“I can tell, my lord. I am sure ladies do swoon at the sight of you. And now that Viscount Bridgerton had tied the marriage knot you sure are looking for a wife so –” she sopped in the middle of the sentence realizing she was babbling again.
“Oh so you are a woman after all. Gossiping.” Benedict smirked.
“I beg your pardon!”
“Do I know you from somewhere?” he tilted his head examining her face trying to assess the possibility of them meeting before.
“No, my lord. I do not believe we have met.”
“May I have your name then, my lady?”
“Not a lady, my lord. And you should not preoccupy the place in your head with remembering my name.” she bowed, lacking skills a bit and – suddenly remembering that she was late – rushed to the theater.
Benedict Bridgerton.
Of course they have met before, but why would she remind him of the circumstances of the event happening so many weeks ago?
He was a student in the art academy, lately enhancing his skills in the portrait area, polishing the subject of anatomy. Both male and female, with the latter obviously much more involving in many hands-on way and that was not a secret. Those models were beautiful and fragile after all and being confronted with the harsh reality of XIX century London they had nothing more to offer than their bodies. Y/N almost ended up the same, but her talent for acting changed everything.
Regardless, her older brother was earning some additional funds by assisting the students, providing canvas, brushes, paints, wine, measures of various kinds. Whatever the domineering might wish for. And one day she was visiting him, entering the classroom without the knowledge that the lesson was still in progress.
And so she ended up in the middle of the room full of men with a naked model on the platform, under the barrage of astonished glances.
“Oh look, we got another one to help us study today!” one of the men cried out and the entire room started laughing. “You ought to wait for your turn, sweetheart. Do not fret though, we’ll take proper care of you.”
She blushed like a peony, her hands trembling a little.
“I was eagerly awaiting the moment when the Academy will provide us with a full shaped, average of beauty woman and here we are! My prayers have been answered, gentlemen!”
She blushed even more at the clear invective threw her way. Men could really behave like animals in their own company. Zero decency, respect for others or moderation. And the worst part was that all the ton knew about this open secret and gave their universal consent to that. Men were supposed to have their flings before marriage even if that meant a lot of improper things.
Her half-furious, half-hurt eyes scanned the room, taking in all the men gathered their and their attire, not paying much attention to either before landing on that one person who actually looked like having at least a little self-reflection.
Benedict Bridgerton.
Frozen with the brush in his hand and slightly unbuttoned shirt, torn between joining the common laugh on her expense and putting an end to this merciless, ongoing teasing. Before he could do a thing however she put an end to his misery and left the room with the solemn resolution to never interact with any of those debauched animals.
Judging Benedict as quickly and easily as all the society judged her.
***
“Quickly! We’re almost starting and you cannot seem to be on time even once!”
“I am—”
“do not interrupt me girl, put on the costume and get on the stage! I swear one of those days you will make me do the thing I will regret!”
***
That woman spurred some memories in Benedict’s mind even if couldn’t fully put all the pieces of the picture together. At least not until Eloise playfully smacked his side.
“What?”
“Do you know who you just saved?”
“That girl back there?” he massaged the sore place giving his sister a reproachful look “no idea. Should I know her?”
“That’s Y/N Y/L/N!”
“Uh… okay?”
“She’s an actress!”
“Um…”
“She’s a self-made, independent woman not looking for marriage and free of societal expectations!”
“You better not let out mother find out that a woman with no title is your role model.”
“Oh I’d be more than happy to let her know that. I believe that the amount of injustice put on women-“
“I do realize the amount of your thoughts in the subject.”
“Since when are you judgmental?” Eloise scoffed
“I am not!”
“Fine then Come see her performance with me.”
***
Y/N was almost pushed on the stage, without having any time to gather her thoughts or to revise her role, forced to improvise by putting on a bright fake smile and subjecting the audience to a minute or two of suspension, before realizing what she was supposed to play that day.
Clearing her throat and fixing her costume she stepped into the light, joining the rest of the cast on the stage and started giving her lines.
Any other time she would be focused solely on the scene and words coming out her mouth making sure each of them were perfectly accentuated and spoke just the right way.
So what was this inexplicable instinct that made her scan the audience?
Spotting him.
With his eyes fixed on her, showing something that could not be mistaken for anything else but sheer admiration.
And she did not like it at all.
to be continued? ;)
#benedict bridgerton x reader#benedict bridgerton x you#benedict bridgerton#benedict bridgerton fanfiction#benedict bridgerton imagine#benedict bridgerton fic#benedict bridgerton angst#benedict bridgerton fluff
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Carpets and Gala's - Luke Thompson
Word Count: 907
Summary: Who said Met Gala's weren't special when you had the most special person by your side, right?
The bustling streets of New York City were filled with excitement and anticipation as the stars gathered for the highly anticipated 2024 Met Gala.
Cameras flashed and crowds of fans screamed as celebrities walked the red carpet, dressed in their finest designer gowns and suits.
Among the many A-listers making their grand entrance, there was you, known for your breakout role in the hit show Bridgerton, and your boyfriend, Luke Thompson.
As you made your way towards the entrance of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, all eyes were on the both of you, causing a frenzy among the fans in the street when Luke held up the train of your dress.
"I can't believe they're here!" exclaimed one fan, snapping a photo of the couple with her phone, as you waved towards her and made them scream harder.
"I had no idea they were dating, they look so perfect together!" gushed another fan, trying to get a better view of you.
You and Luke smiled and waved at the fans before making your way up the grand staircase and onto the red carpet, where you were immediately surrounded by reporters and interviewers.
"Y/n! Luke! Over here!' shouted the reporters, vying for your attention.
You were dressed in a stunning silver gown, and Luke, looking dapper in a grey tuxedo, happily obliged as you made your way through the crowd.
"Congratulations on your debut appearance as a couple, you two look stunning tonight!" one reporter exclaimed, holding out her microphone for you to speak.
"Thank you so much, it's an honor to be here at the Met Gala with Luke by my side," You beamed, looking at your boyfriend with a loving smile.
"It's a night to remember," Luke added, wrapping his arm around your waist.
As you both continued to make your way down the red carpet, you stopped to talk to more reporters and take photos with fans.
It was a dream come true for you since you had always wanted to attend the Met Gala and you were grateful to have Luke with you on this special night.
"Can you give us a sneak peek into what fans can expect from Bridgerton season 3?" one interviewer asked, causing your eyes to light up.
"I can't reveal too much, but let's just say there will be lots more of romance and a special carriage ride." You teased, much to the delight of the fans.
As you both finally reached the end of the red carpet, you and Luke were met by the host of the evening, the talented and hilarious Liza Koshy.
"Y/n! Luke! Welcome to the Met Gala!" Liza exclaimed, giving you both a warm hug.
"Thank you, Liza. We're thrilled to be here," You replied, grinning from ear to ear.
"So, this is your first Met Gala together as a couple. How does it feel?" Liza asked, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.
"It feels amazing. It's such an honor to be here, and to be able to share this moment with Luke just makes it even more special," You replied, smiling at him.
"Liza, can I just say that y/n looks enchanting tonight," Luke cut in, causing you to blush.
"You're not looking too bad yourself, Luke," Liza said with a wink, causing you all to laugh.
"Yeah, well, I had an amazing stylist," Luke replied, grinning at you.
"Okay, now, spill the tea. Is there anything you can tell us about Bridgerton season 3? Any new characters or plot twists?" Liza asked, wiggling her eyebrows mischievously.
"Well, let's just say fans won't be disappointed by their expectations," You replied slyly.
"Okay guys, I need to know. How was your first meeting?' she asked her usual bubbly self.
"It was better than anything I'd expect on meeting a co-star for the first time, better than I'd have imagined and more. And I have to say, the connection we had besides the chemistry made it more special," Luke replied, looking at you with adoration.
"I couldn't agree more. these last years of Bridgerton were mindblowing, and I'm so grateful to be able to share it with this man," You said, wrapping your arms around his waist as he pulled you closer.
Liza couldn't help but let out a squeal again, and we all laughed as she faked taking a picture to capture the moment.
"And on that note, I'm going to let you guys go. I can clearly see that you just want to be alone right now," Liza said with a wink, before giving you both a hug.
"Thank you for everything tonight, Liza. Seriously, we couldn't have asked for a better interview. Or interviewer," You said, hugging her back.
"Oh please, it was my pleasure. And who knows, maybe we'll see more of you two on the red carpet in the future," Liza said with a playful wink, before heading off to interview other guests.
As you both made your way inside, you couldn't stop talking about how amazing the night was going to be. You were both excited, but you knew that you would cherish this memory forever.
You knew that life was only going to get crazier from here on out with your growing fame, but you were also confident that as long as you had each other, you could handle anything.
And as you walked hand in hand towards your future, you couldn't wait to see what the Met Gala would bring.
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To Know You…
Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader
Summary: Benedict knows you better than anyone. But does he know himself well enough to know what he truly wants?
Warnings: none really… fluffy fluff. Childhood friends, class differences, marriage mart shenanigans, dancing, marriage proposals, Benedict being adorable while also a complete dumbass, unrequited to requited love, love confessions.
Word Count: 10.4k (yeah, it's a long one, folks)
Authors Note: this is a request fill for @curlsincriminology (ask HERE) about Benedict showing you all the wonderful things he sees in you, but will he figure out his own feelings before it's too late? Thanks to the complete trooper @colettebronte for beta reading this monster one-shot. Enjoy <3
I: To Know You….
“I would rather not, Miss y/l/n,” the young man clips, walking away from you at a brusque pace.
You sigh and look down at your feet. Mrs Parsons will be so very disappointed, is all you can think.
—
Benedict may not have heard the words spoken, but even from his vantage point at the other end of the ballroom, he could see the disdainful way the young man uttered his parting words to you. It makes anger flare hot in his chest, his fist forming reflexively at his side.
He watches as you look down, shoulders hunching, folding in on yourself physically, as if the rejection for a dance has manifested in a body blow. He feels a pang in his gut—of sympathy, indignance on your behalf and mainly at the injustice of it all. To him, you are a wonderful, intelligent, caring person worthy of a good match. Still, the circumstances of your upbringing seem to stymie your attempts to join so-called ‘polite’ society at every turn…
—
You look up with a defeated mien until your eyes land on one person who has always been able to ameliorate any of your more morose moods—Benedict Bridgerton. Instantly, you feel lighter. You give him a polite nod across the crowded room, and, to your delight, he returns it, a hint of a sympathetic smile tugging at his lips. It is just so very characteristic of him to offer silent support, to understand, from witnessing a moment of interaction, precisely what you are feeling. A large part of you feels so wistful that there is no other man quite as nice as him. Suddenly, your overwhelming need is to leave this stuffy ballroom and catch some air.
You grew up under the tutelage of the kindly doctor’s widow, Mrs Parsons, whose house is not far from the vast Bridgerton estate in Kent. The naturally born daughter of nobody quite knows whom, you were taken in as her ward when you were abandoned upon her doorstep at a mere two years old. Her reputation for kindness towards young waifs and strays is likely why you were left there. It is an event you were too young to recall, so all you have known your whole life is her generosity and kindness, raising you as if her own.
And now that you are of age, she takes you to events around Kent in the hopes of securing you a respectable husband, the most prestigious being tonight’s Hearts and Flowers Ball at Aubrey Hall. The Bridgertons have always been gracious enough to invite local families, those without the means to partake in the London season, to events at their country estate—a kindness that allows for your attendance tonight. It’s just such a pity that the one bachelor Mrs Parsons was so very keen for you to meet, one Mr Reeves, just rebuffed you so thoroughly.
You glance down at the remaining empty slots on the dance card tied to your wrist and sigh again. Now that you are out on the terrace in the fresh evening air, the light breeze is at least a partial balm, allowing you to recover from the sting of rejection away from the hubbub of the ballroom.
“I will never understand how the men of this county can consider themselves anything approaching mannered.”
You would know that refined voice anywhere. It haunts your dreams. Just the sound of it making your ribs tighten. You turn to see Benedict sauntering towards you, two drinks in hand, that sympathetic smile still in place.
“You are far better off without such rudeness,” he adds dryly as he pulls up beside you, arching an eyebrow for your entertainment.
“You are far too kind, Mr Bridgerton,” you answer, taking the glass he offers with a meek smile, trying not to let your ardent admiration for him be too evident.
“Mr Bridgerton?!?” he scoffs, “What happened to BenBen?” he teases gently, recalling your childhood name for him when you were a mere four and he was nine.
“We are at a formal event; I should address you as such, should I not?” you reply playfully, a warmth spreading inside as it always does when you get the chance to have a witty, convivial exchange with him.
By gosh, if there is one man to whom you would pledge yourself without hesitation, it is him. But, of course, he is the second son of an illustrious family. To think you would have any chance to win his heart would be as likely as a future king to marry a commoner. Still, you can dream…
“At least call me Benedict, Skylark,” he winks over his wine glass as he takes a sip, butterflies erupting in your tummy at the affectionate nickname he has used since you were small; you have to avert your eyes to avoid blushing deeply.
Just as he goes to speak again, his brother, the Viscount, materialises at his side. Looking to all intents and purposes as if he is trying to escape the ball as much as you are.
“Mother is best avoided tonight, brother,” Anthony warns sagely, taking a large gulp of his champagne. “She is under the erroneous impression I am suddenly in want of a wife.”
You can't stop the giggle that bubbles up from within at his wry observation of his predicament.
“Hello, y/n,” he greets warmly, just noticing you are also there, his face morphing into a youthful, playful grin. If Benedict is the husband you have always dreamed of, Anthony is the elder brother you have always yearned for. In fact, that is always how he has treated you, akin to Eloise and Daphne, who you grew up playing with, being of similar age.
“Hello, Anthony,” you chime back. “How was the hunt earlier? Did the infamous Bridgerton brothers kill another prized stag?” you inquire, keen to engage both of them for as long as they will entertain you. Just being around them always lifts your spirits to no end.
—
Benedict observes you as you listen intently to Anthony’s recounting of the hunt earlier that day, impressed by your resilience. He has no doubts any other woman would feign an attack of the vapours had a man rejected her so harshly. But here you are, politely listening to his brother’s boasting, even though he can tell you are hurting inside.
Perhaps it helps that your snub went primarily unnoticed. You are unknown to the Ton; any witnesses likely dismissing it as the business of ‘country folk’ unworthy of note. Which, frankly, he could scoff at, seeing as he holds you in higher regard than all of the other attendees combined.
“How about you?” Anthony ends his story with a question to you, interrupting Benedict’s train of thought. “How has your experience been at our fine event this evening?”
“Oh, the house is splendidly decorated and the music wonderful,” you obfuscate behind flattery. Anthony appears to buy it, but Benedict sees behind your facade, the flame behind your usually bright gaze dimming a little, making something ache in his gut to see it.
Damn that idiot for ruining your evening! This just won’t do…
—
You can feel Benedict’s eyes upon you as you respond abstractly to Anthony.
“Y/n here is too polite to say it, but she was treated harshly by that young Reeves chap from Tenterden,” Benedict edifies as you bow your head, embarrassed. “Let’s be sure to rescind his invitation to future events, brother,” he appends with a surly tone.
“Duly noted,” Anthony nods sincerely, a brush of confusion flitting over his face regarding his brother's vehemence.
“No, there is no need…” you begin to protest weakly but halt mid-sentence under the intensity of Benedict’s gaze.
“I bore witness. Believe me, He shall not darken our door again,” he states firmly.
It appears the matter is very much decided, and you don’t want to put up much of a fight, seeing as it ultimately benefits you. You do, however, want to bathe in the warm glow inside whenever Benedict defends you. It's wonderful to have someone looking out for you, especially one so handsome and kind.
—
Two days later, you are taking afternoon tea with Mrs Parsons at the local tea shop when Benedict breezes in, looking so majestic dressed in Bridgerton blues that you grind to a halt. Luckily, he has not seen you as he makes a beeline for the counter.
“‘Tis rude to stare, my dear,” Mrs Parsons lectures sotto voce, nodding to your teacup, frozen in mid-air.
You shake your head a touch and place said item back in your saucer as she turns briefly to look at what or who caught your attention. Then she reaches out, her lace-gloved hand gently patting yours.
“It would be prudent to set your sights a little more realistic…” she advises with a sympathetic air. “Not that I fault your choice,” she adds, so quietly at first you're not sure you heard her correctly, but there is a tiny playful smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. Your mouth falls open fractionally, and you stare as she shrugs. “I may be old, my dear, but I am not blind.”
Well, I never, Mrs Parsons!
As you take a bite of food, Benedict twists around from speaking to the proprietor, and he sees you. There’s a jolt down your spine as he breaks into a huge smile that claims his whole face. And you almost choke on scone crumbs as he makes a beeline over to you rather than the exit.
“Good afternoon, Miss y/l/n, Mrs Parsons!” he greets effusively. “Would it be terribly impolite to ask to join you briefly?”
Mrs Parsons' face is a picture of surprise. “Not at all; the pleasure is ours, Mr Bridgerton,” she responds affably, gesturing to the spare chair at your small round table.
As Benedict sits, Mrs Parsons shoots you an incredulous look. It's your turn to shrug fractionally.
“Mrs Parsons, I feel it necessary to tell you Mr Reeves was excessively rude to Miss y/l/n here at the ball, and I wanted to assure you that he will not be welcome at Aubrey Hall again,” he divulges sincerely.
Mrs Parsons looks taken aback and turns to you. “Why did you not tell me, my dear?”
“I-I did not think it necessary…” you twist your mouth into a bashful pout, biting your lip.
“Mr Bridgerton, thank you for bringing this to my attention, and I thank you for your generous offer, but that sort of action does not seem warranted,” she replies accommodatingly.
“That is what I said…”
“That is what she said…”
You and Benedict speak in unison at the exact same moment, and your eyes ping to each other, both laughing then bowing your heads immediately. You know your cheeks are flushed.
—
Benedict loves the look in your eye sometimes. That spirited sparkle with glowing cheeks. In his opinion, that is the only look you should ever wear; no one, especially one as unworthy as Mr Reeves, should be allowed to rob you of it. He feels a strong compulsion to do everything in his power to keep you looking like that—carefree, happy, stunning. It’s what motivates his subsequent words.
“If it is not considered too impudent for me to do so, I have a suggestion for Miss y/l/n’s introduction into society,” Benedict offers sincerely. “I believe you should be able to find her an excellent, worthy match by casting a wider net.”
“What are you proposing, Mr Bridgerton?” Mrs Parsons inquiries, almost warily.
“That Miss y/l/n come to London and partake in the remainder of the season as a guest of my family. My mother seems to think it an excellent idea, and I know my younger sister Eloise is already a good friend. I do not see why they could not attend events together,” he shrugs genially.
Mrs Parsons's face is a picture again. “You have already spoken to the Dowager Viscountess of this matter?” she checks, unable to modulate the astonishment in her tone.
“Of course,” he confirms with a nod. “I made such a suggestion this morning when your names came up. She heartily concurs. Miss y/l/n here is too bright and good of a person to have her marital choice limited by geography or circumstance.”
His eyes fall on you, and his heart gallops at the searing look you are giving him.
—
You don’t even try to temper your doe-eyed expression as you look upon Benedict, him extolling your virtues to the audience of the tea room.
Even distracted by all the wondrous things he has to say, you can detect the noise level on the surrounding tables has reduced; everyone in town always keen to eavesdrop on a Bridgerton conversation. Especially one that contains such noteworthy gossip as a local young lady being invited to the London season at the family’s behest.
“My dear, I trust that Lady Bridgerton will look after you well,” Mrs Parsons professes. “I have no objections should you desire to seize this opportunity.” Her tone pointed, very much encouraging you to do so.
“That would be just wonderful, Mr Bridgerton,” you exhale with a grateful smile. “I cannot thank you enough for even thinking to raise such a petition.”
“Think nothing of it, Miss y/l/n,” he smiles, standing up and giving you both a brief, shallow bow. “I shall see you anon, no doubt.”
And with that, he sweeps out of the tearoom, your eye line tracking his concave outline through the curved glass as he rounds the corner out of sight.
“Well, well,” Mrs Parsons puffs out her cheeks. “I am not sure what you did to inspire such actions in a gentleman. But bravo, my dear, bravo,” she holds her teacup aloft in a toast.
You are a jumble of emotions and could not even begin to answer Mrs Parsons about what you could possibly have done. Mostly, you are just elated by the prospect of the chance to attend the whirl of the London season, even if there is also a small pang of regret that Benedict is so keen to see you matched.
II: …Is To Love You
The following Tuesday, as your carriage pulls up outside the grandeur of Bridgerton House, you have nothing but butterflies. And as Lady Bridgerton - Violet as she insists you now call her - and her lady’s maid show you to your charming guest room, you cannot temper your excitement.
“Get yourself freshened up, my dear. There is a soiree this evening at the Queen’s new residence no less, and there is no time like the present to begin your introductions,” the dowager viscountess warmly counsels.
You nod your thank yous, and after they take their leave, you twirl excitedly around the room, taking in the elegant furnishings and airy sunlight flooding in. You pull up in front of a large sash window and are delighted to see bounteous gardens beneath. The rear of the property is very much an oasis of calm in the heart of the city. But one sight in particular draws your eye: a majestic oak with two swings attached to a stately arm. It looks like a place of refuge, and you feel oddly compelled to take a seat there.
Three hours later, walking into the palatial Buckingham House, you are in a different world from the one you know in Kent. Candlelit crystal chandeliers glint like towering clusters of jewels, spraying thousands of shards of light around the room. Every railing is bedecked in hundreds of drooping flower garlands, and the walls groan with enormous portraits of royalty. The mellifluous strains of a chamber orchestra fill the air. Your grip on Eloise’s arm is tight as you try not to look agog at all the opulence surrounding you.
“And I thought Aubrey Hall was grand,” you murmur quietly, and she just guffaws.
—
Benedict arrives late to the soiree from his bachelor lodgings, bustling in as stealthily as possible, knowing he will likely catch his mother’s ire for his tardiness.
But then he sees a sight that makes him temporarily stop dead in his tracks. There, hanging on to his little sister, surveying the room utterly lost in reverie at its grandeur—is you. He has not seen you dressed up as you are now, made over with the full attention of the Bridgerton staff. And he isn't afraid to admit to himself, at least, that it catches his breath. How they have applied cosmetics and styled your hair, emphasising your already evident beauty. And the dress they have chosen… well, he is almost ashamed of the heat pooling low in his gut; he has never seen you in such tailored, refined silks.
Whosoever marries you shall be quite the luckiest man indeed.
He doesn't miss the way you inhale sharply when your eyes finally land on him, his chest swelling slightly with pride as your lips part in surprise before breaking into that winning smile which always seems to brighten every room, tonight being no exception.
As he pulls up to the family, he hears his mother opining to you about the men attending the ball.
“Y/n, I would like to introduce you to Lord Shelton; he is a fine young man with many interests, and he has a lovely estate near Hove,” his mother recounts as you listen intently.
“Oh god, no,” Benedict immediately intervenes, “Shelton has amassed significant debt at the Pudding Lane gaming hell…”
Violet looks up surprised, then raises an eyebrow. “Pray tell dear son, how do you have knowledge of such? Benedict Bridgerton, you had better not be frequenting the hells of the East End,” she threatens quietly, in that stern maternal manner that has any grown man quaking in their polished shoes.
“No, of course not, mother,” he bristles, his eyes cutting briefly to you, not wanting you to think such things of him. “It is an open secret at Whites’, and why he is currently banned from the card room there.”
—
You cannot tear your eyes off Benedict as his mother side-eyes him.
Violet hums sceptically before declaring. “Well, not to worry, there are plenty of other options available for Miss y/l/n…” She steers your attention towards another crowd of young men, all talking and sipping champagne. “Baron Corning, Lord Jennings, Viscount Tewkesbury,” she recounts, nodding subtly to each one. “Any would make a fine addition to your dance card, my dear.”
“We can do much better than any of them,” Benedict chides.
You are slightly taken aback at how very much he sounds like Anthony tonight; apparently very invested in curating who you should dance with. The problem is, with each additional suggestion his mother makes to you, he roundly dismisses them out of hand.
Is no one in attendance up to his standard?
“Benedict, dear, a word?” Violet states pointedly after a third round of his withering opinions. “Get yourself another lemonade,” she smiles at you, patting your hand before looping her arm in her son’s and dragging him away.
—
His mother’s arm is surprisingly strong when she needs it to be.
“Darling, may I remind you, while Miss Y/l/n is indeed a wonderful person, I do not think we can afford to be too picky for her prospects. Her background is rather… unestablished,” Violet points out diplomatically as soon as you are out of earshot.
“We can do better than braggards, bores and philanderers,” Benedict shoots back, raising a pointed eyebrow.
She looks up at him and sighs. “Well, that is true.”
“As I thought, mother,” he winks as she affectionately swats his forearm. “Why not benefit from my knowledge? In fact, perhaps it is prudent I assist in your search for a suitor.”
“Oh, is it now?” Her tone suddenly filled with intrigue, her face entirely too scrutinising for his liking. “And does not my second son wish to join their ranks?” She adds entirely unsubtly.
“I have no time for romance; I have my art. I am most preoccupied.” He waves a dismissive hand, but even he knows his answer is tellingly brusque.
“And yet, you do not seem too busy to assist with the search, dear…” she points out archly.
Benedict has no response to that.
—
The day after the grand ball, you are sat in the dappled shade in the gardens of Bridgerton House, attempting needlework. It's never been your strength, frankly. You would much rather be allowed to partake in more physical pursuits, like archery or fencing, a want to burn off nervous energy as you await the arrival of any suitors. You did end up dancing with a couple of gentlemen, both of whom were…. fine… in your estimation.
After messing up yet another stitch, you throw down the embroidery hoop and emit a deep sigh when a familiar chuckle rings out behind you.
“Not your favourite pastime?” Benedict correctly guesses.
“You can say that again,” you grumble, twisting to smile at him, a little frisson in your belly at his mere presence, alone as you are.
He rounds to take a seat opposite you, across the table.
“So let me guess,” his face charmingly skewed into a thoughtful mien. “You would prefer to be doing something, hmmmm, more athletic?”
You giggle and cast your eyes downwards briefly, abashed he seems to know you so well. “Correct again.”
“I remember you being a crack shot in archery,” he smiles nostalgically before continuing with genuine curiosity. “Why did you not continue it?”
“I was informed ‘tis unbecoming for a lady,” you rue, the mental image of Mrs Parsons deeming such things ‘unladylike’ flitting through your mind.
He scoffs. “Since when did fearsome little Skylark care one jot for societal expectations?” he teases gently, with a wink, as again he invokes the nickname he bestowed upon you a long time hence.
You smile briefly before you become more sanguine. “Since I have been informed I must find a husband…” you sigh.
He frowns a touch. “Any man would be lucky to have a wife who can keep him company on the archery field. I know I, for one, would greatly appreciate a spouse with whom I could share such a pastime.”
A bittersweet twinge in your gut that one day he will indeed be married to some deserving, no doubt elegant, lady.
“I would venture that you are not like most gentlemen in that regard…”
“Perhaps not,” he agrees, looking thoughtful, “but then you are not like most ladies, Skylark.”
“I am not a lady…” your counterpoint softly-spoken, almost ashamed.
“You are more lady than any other member of the Ton,” he asserts, his gaze suddenly intense, as if he is willing you to believe his point. “And you should be free to pursue any pastime you wish.”
You say nothing, just smile wanly, wishing you could believe it was true.
—
How you constantly doubt yourself causes a little stab behind Benedict’s ribs. A sudden burning need to prove that you should do as you please. He slaps his thighs and stands up swiftly.
“In fact, I am going to go set up the archery targets right now,” he nods decisively, making a beeline for the far corner of the garden where he knows the targets are kept, hoping you will follow.
“Coming?” he calls, twisting to look back at you. “I won't tell anyone…” he adds with a conspiratorial wink, seeing from the involuntary bounce of your leg how much you wish to join in.
He cannot help the smile that engulfs his face as you jump to your feet with a mischievous giggle. Nor can he help deliberately aiming badly, letting you roundly defeat him at target practice, basking in the victorious glint in your eye as you tease him gently for losing.
He also pretends not to notice his mother watching from a high window, her expression riveted and so very telling.
—
Later that day, you are reading quietly with Eloise when Violet sweeps into the drawing room with her lady's maid.
“Y/n, Sir Denton is here to see you,” she smiles brightly.
“Oh, I…” you stutter, sitting upright, surprised.
“I can send him away, Miss?” The maid offers, intuiting your disquiet.
“No, no, it is fine… I am just surprised, that is all. ‘Tis almost 4pm. I was not expecting that anyone would be calling, given the late hour.”
Benedict suddenly materialises in the doorway. As ever, there’s that trademark flutter in your chest.
“Any reason Denton is lingering in the hallway?” he inquires airily, grabbing a teacup and pouring himself some.
“He is here for y/n,” Violet breezes as his eyes cut to you, a wave of irritation seeming to cloud his face.
“Well, we should dismiss him,” Benedict sniffs, pausing in his action, his face souring.
“Why?” Violet frowns.
“I had a chance to look into his past since I acquiesced to his dance with y/n last night…”
“Acquiesced?!” Violet scoffs, but Benedict ignores her interjection, save for a curt eyebrow raise.
“I have subsequently discovered he has vastly overstated his assets,” Benedict bristles imperiously.
“Who woke up and made you Anthony?” Eloise pipes up witheringly.
Benedict shoots her a look of irritation. “Anthony has deputised me to run family matters while he is away on business this week, sister,” he reminds pointedly.
“Yes, but you did not have to adopt his personality as well,” Eloise shoots back, disgust evident on her face.
“I take finding y/n here, a suitable match, seriously,” he volleys. “Do you wish to see your good friend married to someone unworthy of her?”
“Well, no…”
“Then kindly permit me to handle matters,” Benedict orders with finality, uncharacteristically forthright in his opinions.
“I do not wish to see her married at all…” Eloise mutters under her breath as he stalks away to dispatch Denton before anyone can argue.
You just sit there mildly dumbfounded, unsure what to make of it all.
—
The following evening, you are attending a music recital with the Bridgertons; Benedict is notably absent, which makes you a touch melancholic in a way you don’t want to dwell on.
However, the evening turns for the better while you are taking refreshments at the interval. A friendly-faced young man strikes up a conversation with you after an introduction from Violet.
“Are you enjoying the music tonight, Miss y/l/n?” he asks genially.
“It is very nice, Lord Glassborough,” you offer politely, trying to stifle your slight boredom. You enjoy music, but a two-hour concert is a little too much for you. You much prefer a short set of songs as they play at balls.
“I find it rather dull myself,” he opines quietly, leaning in. “I much prefer a lively song one may dance to.”
You know your face is a picture of surprise that his opinion is an exact mirror of your own.
“Have I offended you so?” he checks, looking mildly contrite.
“Not at all, my lord. I was actually just thinking the same myself,” you chuckle quietly.
He looks inordinately pleased and breaks into a friendly, toothy grin. He seems like a nice, agreeable sort. A pleasant, if not particularly handsome, face. Over his shoulder, you see Violet looking inordinately pleased you appear to be getting on so well.
—
“I am not sure I can do this...” you sigh as Ms West genially taps the metronome.
“You can, dear; just remember your finger placement,” she encourages as your fingers fall to the cool ivory keys.
And so you begin again. Attempting to master this tricky piece, your eyes tracing the lines of music as you play the pianoforte. Violet is so keen for you to brush up on your skills, given Lord Glassborough’s interest in you yesterday. You could not find an adequate excuse fast enough, and so here you are, in a slightly reluctant music lesson, trying your best to recall how Mrs Parsons taught you to play a few years ago.
“Men do so appreciate a lady who can entertain them with exquisite music,” Ms West nods approvingly as you play.
Mostly, you are relieved when you make it to the end with no mistakes, at least none glaringly obvious.
“I much prefer to sing…” you admit tacitly as Ms West shuffles the sheet music.
She looks at you surprised, then shoos you from the piano stool. “Sing for me then, my dear…” taking a seat and beginning the opening bars to a song that, fortunately, you know well.
You begin to sing along, growing more confident with every note, allowing yourself to get lost in the words, the story of a lady awaiting her true love.
“Exceptional!” she peals delightedly over the sound, and you feel bolstered to continue, her playing the perfect accompaniment.
—
Benedict stops short as soon as he enters the house. The most lilting, beautiful sound echoing gently down the marble hall.
“Who is that Jenkins?” he asks of the butler who takes his coat.
“I believe it is Miss y/l/n, sir.”
He draws inexorably closer, finding himself watching you through the crack in the doorway, listening to you sing a touching tale of love that sounds so hauntingly hypnotic in your mellifluous tones. Your eyes are closed, and you sway to the melody, lost in reverie, in the narrative you weave.
The piano stops abruptly.
“Can we help you, sir?” an elder lady calls crisply.
Benedict realises the door has crept open slightly before him, enough for him to be seen by your music teacher. He watches as you swing around and look horrified that you may have an audience. It makes him take a resolute step forward into the room.
“Do you need us to desist? Is it perhaps too loud?” the lady checks deferentially, likely assuming him to be the head of the household.
“No!” His reply is a touch too forceful. “Please continue,” he modifies. “I was merely drawn by the splendid sound I heard. I am not sure I have ever heard such a wondrous voice,” he adds, keeping his gaze steadfastly upon the lady, not able to look you in the eye as he confesses as such.
—
You are mortified when you realise Benedict heard you singing; you have always managed to keep it private, until now at least. But now your heart is suddenly pounding at his extolling words.
“She does indeed have a most excellent voice,” Ms West concurs with his sentiment, looking at you expectantly as Benedict walks further into the room, his face with the same hopeful expression.
“I am not sure I can…” you stumble, nervous for an audience, most especially him; his is the opinion that would matter to you the most—you would be crestfallen should he not like it.
“Sing more for me, please, Skylark?” His ask is gentle, beseeching as if it were just the two of you alone.
“Skylark?” Ms West sounds enchanted.
“My childhood nickname for Miss y/l/n,” Benedict explains as he takes a seat.
“Skylarks have a wonderful song,” she sighs wistfully.
“Indeed,” Benedict chimes, his eyes still upon you. “I never knew how appropriate it was until this very moment.”
Something warm cracks in your chest at his sweet words, making you courageous. At least enough to nod when Ms West looks to you again from the piano. And so you restart the song for your special audience, heart in your mouth. The words coming easily to you, an extra layer of meaning he will never know as you sing words of unrequited devotion, looking to him in your braver moments. His face is enrapt, leaning forward, his eyes soft and expressive.
As you reach a high note at the end of the song, holding it, Benedict bursts into applause, jumping up from his seat and taking you by surprise, grabbing your gloved hands in his.
“You should always be singing Skylark…” he pronounces. “Truly beautiful. Please promise me, no matter what happens, that you will always, always sing…”
You duck your head briefly, unsure how to deal with his effusive praise. Ms West’s face is a picture as you stand there, your hands still trapped in his, feeling a tingle where the warmth of his skin seeps through the layers to yours.
“I-I-I promise,” you reply meekly, a touch dazed as you raise your eyes again to meet his, the intensity making your lungs restrict.
“Thank you.”
Two words have never sounded so sincere or loaded with significance.
III: … And I Do.
A few days later, it is the Trowbridge Ball, a decadent affair that is usually the most talked about of the season, apparently. You share a carriage ride there with Benedict and Eloise, trying your best not to stare at him—so handsomely dressed in a white cravat and black velvet cropped jacket that clings to his tapered shape. But mostly, you fail. Your skin flushes hot the more you look at him. You could swear that his gaze strays to you, too, subtly sweeping the fine teal silk Madam Delacroix has expertly tailored for you.
“You look beautiful this evening, ladies,” he offers politely to both you and Eloise.
“What do you want?” Eloise cuts across your reply, narrowing her eyes at her older brother, instantly suspicious of his flattery.
“Can I not compliment without an ulterior motive?” he frowns, their usual sibling dynamic emerging.
“Not usually,” Eloise sniffs, with another suspicious glance, before looking out the carriage window.
You take the opportunity to mumble your thanks to him. His responding smile warms your entire being, his hazy eyes lingering in a way that makes your skin prickle. And when he offers a chivalrous hand to assist you down from the carriage, you could swear his hand lingers upon yours a few seconds longer than is necessary.
Around an hour later, as you go to partake in a refreshment, a sneering Lady Cowper utters something cruel under her breath as you pass, her sour-looking daughter smirking beside her. You do not hear all of the words, but you do not need to. One sideways glance tells you all that you need to know. It seems so unnecessarily cruel, never having even exchanged so much as a word with you, but even as you feel a lump in your throat, their attention is already elsewhere.
“Ah! Mr Briddgerton,” her entire demeanour changing to oleaginous charm, “my daughter looks particularly stunning tonight, does she not? I do believe you should secure a place upon her dance card before there are none left!”
You watch Benedict blanch at the very words.
“I do not dance, Lady Cowper, but I bid you ladies a good evening,” he responds, polite but firm.
You try your hardest not to giggle at the disdained look on their faces as he sweeps past them, and you feel light as air as, instead, he draws up to you and winks.
“That woman does not realise she is doing her daughter’s prospects more harm than good with her brashness,” he comments dryly as he grabs a glass of champagne from the stand next to you.
“I am not so sure the daughter would do much better without her; she seems perpetually furious about her own hairstyle,” you opine sardonically, making Benedict snort loudly into his champagne glass. A lightness fizzles in your being as he shoots you a look of unmistakable admiration for that remark.
“I daresay you are a much better dancer than her,” he contends, not breaking eye contact, placing aside his drink before leaning in and continuing in a hushed voice. “Perhaps you would do me the honour of a dance, Skylark, to confirm my suspicion?”
There is a vault in your chest as he employs your private nickname in public and, not only that, is offering you a dance when, just a moment ago, he declared publicly that he would not.
You can only nod, heart hammering, as he breaks out into the most handsome smile, offering you his arm and leading you to the centre of the room as you hear a ripple go through the nearby crowd. Apparently the sight of one Benedict Bridgerton taking to the dancefloor is a rare occasion indeed.
—
As he takes your gloved hand in his and curls an arm around your shoulder, he realises this was perhaps a mistake. An impromptu offer, the hollow thrill of petty revenge for the insult he observed the Cowpers sling at you. But now he realises it has rather backfired upon him.
He cares not a jot for the gossiping, people nodding and pointing to you both as you begin to dance. No, the problem is much more concerning than that.
It is how discombobulated he feels having you in his arms.
How your body seems to fit and move perfectly with his. How, when you dare to look up at him, his mouth goes a little dry. He has never truly noticed how striking your eyes are until seeing them this close. Indeed, the evident beauty of your face, the way you seem to glow from within, more tonight than ever. It makes his chest - and somewhere else on his body - feel entirely too tight.
—
Nothing could have prepared you for this.
The feeling of literally being swept off your feet. With Benedict's handsome face smiling down upon you as you seem to float around the dancefloor.
Surely, this is what dreams are made of?
You know it is a flight of fancy, but it seems as though the floor beneath your feet is a shower of diamonds rather than candlelight refracted through chandeliers. The warmth and strength of Benedict’s embrace caged around you, respectful but so close it makes your lungs feel too small to gasp the air you need to keep moving. But you never want to stop. A whirlwind of sensation as you twirl, carried away by the music, the man, the moment.
“Thank you, Benedict,” you breathe, knowing you are likely looking up at him far too adoringly but unable to mask it, a burning need for him to know how grateful you are for this dance, not even noting your over-familial use of his first name at a society event.
His eyes flash and you could swear they dilate a fraction before you must turn your back to him, following the steps.
“I was right,” he rumbles cryptically from behind you now, his large hands wrapped around yours as you hold them aloft together, following the moves of the dance. “It is indeed an honour to dance with you.”
Your belly flares as you turn in unison and realise that you are now dancing right in front of Cressida, her expression murderous. It makes you bolder than you have ever been, tilting your head sideways a fraction so your cheek almost brushes Benedict’s, fuelled by the envy you feel seething from within her.
You could swear he sighs ‘Skylark’ as his hot breath tickles your ear, your chest pounding, a flavour in the air you can taste, a powerful stirring low in your belly.
—
Benedict knows this is a dangerous path and yet is powerless to do anything but walk it. Breathing your nickname into your hair as he inhales your scent, heightened by the movement of your dancing. A light, sweet floral perfume but underneath the smell of you, familiar from many years of friendship but altered now, more decadent, an undercurrent of tart berries that thrills and stirs deep within him. Even while knowing his ever-vigilant mother is watching, an inscrutable expression upon her face.
He is almost grateful when the music ends before he does something foolish. But then you are staring up into his face, all doe-eyed expectant beauty and his tongue feels unexpectedly tied. He is almost grateful when an interrupting hand wraps around his shoulder.
—
You watch Will Mondrich whisper in Benedict’s ear, and before you know it, he is offering apologies to you with a shallow, polite bow before hurrying away. Coming back to reality with a bump, you drift awkwardly from the dance floor, feeling judgy eyes upon you, suddenly flooded with concern your behaviour was entirely too wanton.
Before your thoughts can spiral too far, however, someone materialises at your side.
“I do so hope your dance card is not full tonight, Miss y/l/n,” a newly-familiar, chipper voice cut in.
“Lord Glassborough,” you breathe; your relief at seeing his cordial face is palpable. “I am available to dance right now,” you smile politely, taking his proffered arm and letting him lead you back out to the spot you and Benedict had just vacated.
As the music begins and you move together, the difference is… noticeable. Gone is the frisson over your limbs, that excitement as if your skin could vibrate off your bones. Instead you feel comforted, almost a brotherly presence as he leads you in the dance. He is technically proficient, but it feels lacking—that tension, that heat burning in the space between you. It makes you yearn for Benedict even though he was just with you. It makes your stomach settle with a leaden weight you realise you will have to settle for less than what you truly desire.
Still distracted by your mental comparison, you absently acquiesce to his suggestion to take some air upon the terrace as the dance ends. You sense Violet, ever the vigilant chaperone, follow as he leads you into the cooler air outside.
“Miss y/l/n…,” Lord Glassborough begins cautiously. You sense a nervousness in his being, pulling your full focus to him. “I think us most compatible, would you not agree?”
“We make most excellent friends, indeed, Lord Glassborough,” you hedge, not wanting to appear overzealous.
“And friendship is the most appropriate foundation to build something more… tender,” he argues with a smile. “I do believe I could offer you a most agreeable life.”
There is a strange twinge in your chest as suddenly, you realise what this is. The moment everyone, except perhaps yourself, has been awaiting all season.
“I would be honoured if you would consent to be my wife, Miss y/l/n,” he humbly offers a sincere kindness shining in his eyes.
And there it is. An offer of marriage from a perfectly nice, respectable gentleman done in an appropriate manner.
To one side, you see Violet clutch a hand over her chest, face delighted, even as you form fists within your delicate gloves, wishing this moment were not happening so soon after a truly breathtaking dance with the man of your dreams. Who is not the same man as the one before you, nervously shuffling from foot to foot, awaiting your reply.
“I am honoured, Lord Glassborough,” you answer cautiously, bowing your head demurely. “This is a big decision to make. Please allow me time to give you my proper, considered answer?”
“Of course,” he bows chivalrously, his accommodating nature making this moment all the more bittersweet. He is indeed a lovely man.
He is just not the one you want with every fibre of your being.
—
That night, you cannot sleep. Knowing you have the most significant decision of your life to make. So, in the small hours, you find yourself drifting to the deserted kitchen of Bridgerton House to do what you do best when you need to think calmly—baking.
An activity you have grown up doing with Mrs Parsons. Many hours spent happily with flour dusting your hands, sun streaming into her grand but homely kitchen. A perhaps slightly maverick pastime for a lady of her social standing, with staff to do such things for her should she wish it, but so very enjoyable nonetheless.
Throwing a large, heavy baking apron over your nightdress and robe, you potter around, the flagstone of the basement floor cold underfoot, a grounding feeling that stops your mind from racing too much.
You have no idea how to respond to Glassborough’s proposal. On one hand, he is a seemingly nice man, certainly of a good family. You are sure he would be a perfectly acceptable husband, unlikely to be mean or untoward. It is just… a nagging voice is telling you to turn him down despite him being an imminently sensible choice, your heart wanting, well, the impossible. A man that excites you, not just a safe, practical option.
You are onto your second batch of lemon and rosemary biscuits when a voice makes you jump out of your skin.
“What on earth…?”
There in the doorway is Benedict, looking confounded to find you here. The very man who makes your heart skip, always. He is dressed the most casually you have ever seen him— also barefoot, in a white frilled shirt and dark trousers, brocade braces slung around his hips. You swear you may have to grab the bench before you to stay upright.
“Y/n! We have cooks you can call upon at any time should you need food!” he fusses, instantly concerned, moving to ring a bell on the wall.
“No! Please do not!” You exclaim, rushing to stop him, grabbing his sleeve in your haste. “I-I enjoy baking. It is relaxing; it helps me to think.”
His brow knits and his eyes flick down to your hold on his sleeve, a warm vein pulsing under your fingertips. You snatch your hand away quickly, a blush staining your cheeks, mumbling an apology as you scurry back to your biscuit-making.
“Alright,” he concedes slowly, still appearing confused. “When I saw the sconces lit from the rear stairwell, I assumed one of the staff was still down here.”
You find it bemusing that he seems at pains to justify why he might also be in the kitchen, especially to you, a guest. This is Bridgerton House, and he is a Bridgerton. He may go wherever he pleases, surely? And yet here he is, doing so.
“I was rather hoping for some hot cocoa,” he explains with that soft, crooked smile that always makes your heart flutter.
“Oh! Well, umm, I could make you some cocoa?” you look down, wiping your hands upon your apron and moving to do so.
—
That you would make such an offer, as if seeing yourself as unpaid help, spurs him into action.
“No, you certainly will not!” He decries, moving swiftly towards the larder before you can. “I am perfectly fine with some cold milk,” he assures, re-emerges with a bottle and pouring himself a glass, leaning back against the sink to take a sip.
Despite the lateness of the hour, he finds your heretofore secret pastime strangely fascinating. A lady who bakes. By choice. So he watches as you return to making your biscuit dough, entertained as you begin to beat the mixture quite furiously with a wooden spatula.
“Have those ingredients caused you some sort of personal offence….?” he jests lightly, nodding to the bowl.
He observes a flit of contrition across your face before you answer.
“I, umm, have a decision that I must make; baking helps me think,” you explain vaguely, then appear to rapidly change the subject. “I am, however, sure of one fact - some biscuits are a must to accompany milk. There is a completed batch over there.”
“Genius,” he opines with a wink, enthusiastically moving to grab one from the cooling rack you signalled to, delighting in the blush that darkens your cheeks. But he decides to push the topic you abruptly avoided. Concerned there could be a topic you are genuinely wrestling with. If his opinion on the matter can ameliorate your burdens, he would be most honoured to assist.
“What sort of decision must you make?” he inquires before temporarily losing the power of speech. There is an explosion of tart lemon and earthy herb on his tongue that melts into a buttery sweetness, utterly divine. “Lord alive, these are delicious!!!” he exclaims around the mouthful.
“Thank you,” you answer softly.
You are always so modest about your talents; it sometimes makes him want to grab your shoulders and shake you gently. To make you see what he does.
“To answer your question, it is a perplexing matter that needs serious consideration,” you explain, stopping short of detail. It appears you are not yet ready to share the news with him. Something about that makes him a touch sad, but he also does not want to pry if you are reluctant to divulge.
—
Benedict swallows the bite he has taken, and you find yourself staring at the movement of his throat as he does. Knowing one thing to be true—if it were his proposal, you would not even hesitate for a split second. That wistful thought makes you suddenly melancholic, and you sigh, pushing aside your mixing bowl, realising this may be an issue baking will not fix.
“I do so hate to see you doubt yourself, Skylark,” he offers quietly after a beat, mien so earnest. “Trust yourself. You will find the right answer for your dilemma; I am certain of it.”
He is so remarkably supportive that, ironically, you almost want to scream at him.
“I should leave you to your thoughts,” his tone is gentle, reluctant.
“Please, there is no need, Benedict,” you try to assure. “To be honest, in all of this world, yours is the company I enjoy the very most…”
That truth is out of your mouth before you can censor it.
You sheepishly glance over to be met by a surprised look on his face. He takes a few steps towards you, probably without realising it, and suddenly, he is very close, faint wisps of his woodsy, citrus cologne tickling your nose.
“And I, yours, Skylark…” he rumbles, his gaze falling to your lips.
Time seems to stop, and you feel pinned under glass, staring up into his handsome face as he breathes slightly ragged, your body rioting as he engulfs your senses, definitely too close to be considered gentlemanly, polite…
…But then, he takes a sharp inhale and steps back as if coming to his senses. He turns heel with a hastily muttered goodbye, and before you know it, he is gone. Leaving you bewildered, your thoughts scattered.
—
The following day, Benedict is idly reading the paper, partaking in a leisurely lunch of tea and cake, when his mother swans in, reeling off a set of instructions for her lady's maid.
“Oh, and lastly, do not forget, we should secure an appointment with the modiste, in case Miss y/l/n should know her answer today…” Violet concludes breezily as she takes a seat.
“Yet another ball we must suffer, mother?” Benedict drawls drily, folding down his paper and taking a hearty bite of zesty lemon drizzle.
She shoots her son an exasperated look before neatly smoothing a serviette into her lap as she is served her usual afternoon Earl Grey by the butler. “Miss y/l/n will be in need of a wedding dress, Benedict, dear.”
He spits an array of crumbs onto his newspaper, coughing in shock. “She will need what?!?” he wheezes, barely recovering.
“Lord Glassborough proposed to Miss y/l/n last night, my dear, at the ball. She has yet to give her answer, but I am certain she will. They are a fine match,” Violet declares, taking a sip of tea.
“Why did she not mention it to me?” he mutters, more to himself than anyone, his forehead creasing heavily in a frown as he swallows the rest of his mouthful.
“Why would she have?”
“We talked last night…” letting slip perhaps too much in his perplexed state, lost in his own tumbling thoughts.
“When last night? We returned from the ball very late,” a suspicious tone in his mother’s voice, belatedly releasing he should know better than to think aloud; she is sharp as a tack.
“I-I found Miss y/l/n baking last night… in the kitchen when I went for cocoa… she told me she had a dilemma she was wrestling with…” he admits, looking down at the paper, the words now a jumble before his eyes. “Mother do you think it is possible she will say yes??” Benedict's head snaps up, his heart suddenly pounding in his ears.
“She would be a fool not to,” Violet points out, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow at him. “Unless there was another, perhaps more wanted, proposal she could consider. Do you possibly know of one? Son?”
Even he can read between those lines.
“I-I am late,” he abruptly changes tack. “I promised to meet Anthony today to discuss the soil at Aubrey,” he bustles rapidly, standing and fleeing the room before he can allow his mother to see how much of a complete lie that is.
—
Benedict spends the afternoon at White’s, downing perhaps one too many whiskeys as he grills his fellow patrons upon the Glassborough family. Looking for any reason he can find to object to the betrothal while steadfastly refusing to examine why he feels so passionately about the subject. He also spends time checking the hefty tomes of Debrett’s the club holds.
He returns to Bridgerton House just as dusk settles in, the sky streaking red and pink as he enters.
“Where have you been, dear?” Violet asks as he rounds into the parlour.
“Researching,” he gruffs economically.
“What? Or rather whom?” Violet inquires, revealing she already has a firm idea of what she asks.
“I can find nothing wrong with him!”
Benedict paces, an energy emanating from his being as if he is rattled by that very fact.
“That is a good thing, is it not, son?” Violet reminds pointedly. “We want y/n married to a good gentleman…”
Benedict shoots her an exasperated look but relents. “I suppose…”
“Is not your reluctance perhaps for another reason, my dear?” Her question is gentle, if not particularly subtle.
He slumps into a wingback chair with a defeated sigh. “Go ahead. Say your piece, mother.”
“I have watched you, darling,” she begins gently, watching him tip his head back and screw his eyes shut. “I do not know exactly when, but your regard of Miss y/l/n has altered, and I am not the only one to observe it.”
Benedict's eyes fly open, and he tips his head down with a frown as his mother continues.
“Even Colin has marked a change in you. If you feel anything, my dear, then Miss y/l/n has the right to know. Before it is too late. The right to make an informed choice if you are bold enough to give her one. Son, I have only ever wanted my children’s happiness. And if your happiness lies somewhere that perhaps even you have not realised until now…. well then I encourage you to follow it. Follow your heart.”
Her impassioned speech suddenly makes the pieces of a jumbled jigsaw before his eyes arrange into a pattern, a way forward that is suddenly clear and sharply in focus.
It makes him leap to his feet, an urgency thronging in his being.
“Where is Miss y/l/n?” he almost barks.
“I do not know,” Violet confesses, “but I do know she has not yet seen or written to Lord Glassborough,” she adds.
“Good…” he rasps, headed determined out of the room to find you.
—
The verdant lush grass is cool between your toes as you curl them over, sighing heavily, the night now dark, a twinkle of silver among the navy sky, soon to be black. The swing under the big oak, a refuge you have sought many times since staying at Bridgerton House, feels a particularly poignant place to be tonight as an internal war rages within you, your decision swaying back and forth as much as the wooden seat you are perched upon, the rope digging into your cheekbone as you slump against it, flummoxed.
You know what your answer to Glassborough should be. Indeed, what it should have been from the moment he asked.
A resounding yes.
In every practical measure, this is the best possible outcome of your London season. A proposal from a thoroughly decent, acceptable gentleman, way above the station you were expecting, given your less than prestigious certainty of lineage.
And yet.
And yet.
There is a large part of you, your heart, that wants to turn down the proposal, foolhardy as that may be. Wanting to feel akin to what you felt as you danced with Benedict last night. You are not so foolish as to believe he would ever propose, but perhaps there is someone else out there for you that may evoke something similar for you? Even if only half, it would be enough. Enough for you to build a future around and feel contentment in your heart, to not just settle for what your head knows to be a sensible choice.
—
Having searched the house, he rounds into the garden and stops short, heart leaping into his throat as he spies you, swaying gently upon the swing, looking thoroughly lost in thought. It makes his chest ache that you are so melancholic about a decision that should indeed be joyous. The selfish part of him celebrating, hoping that perhaps you are not. His memory recalls with perfect clarity how you have looked as lost as he now feels every time you have been close. The unbearable lightness of hope seizes his legs and draws him inexorably closer.
—
You whip around as you sense company and have to take a deep breath as your eyes fall upon Benedict. His face pinched with a restless intensity.
“I was hoping I would find you,” he exhales.
“You have,” you shrug, still confused by his crackling energy, him seeming in a rush to say something.
“Skylark, you deserve the very best of everything. Sincerely. And part of that includes that you should know the truth in the hearts of those lucky enough to know you…” a slight quake in his voice as he takes a step closer.
“Alright…” you respond cautiously, your brow creasing as you sense the nerves emanating from him.
You gasp as he rapidly drops to one knee before you, a hand clutched to his chest.
“I have been a fool to not see it before now. My own ardent admiration for you, for your talents, for your beauty. I realise now, perhaps too late, that you are truly the most wondrous, precious being in this world. You may not always see it, but it would be my greatest honour to show you, every day, if you will permit me, what I see when I look upon you. What I have always seen if I am honest with myself. A light that shines brighter than any other, a bird that soars higher and sings more sweetly than any other. A soul that it would be a privilege to be bound to. I know it is perhaps the worst possible timing, seeing as you already have a proposal from a perfectly acceptable gentleman. Still, I could not let you get married without letting you know the contents of my heart.”
You are stunned. Speechless.
Your heart pounds in your ribcage as you sit there stupified for what must be an age, Benedict looking upon you expectantly, breath slightly ragged from his long speech. Somehow, convincing yourself this could only be a dream. That the man you have adored since before you can remember has just made the most beautiful poetic confession of love you have ever heard. And it’s to you.
So, you do the only logical thing that comes to mind. Pinch your own leg. Hard.
—
Benedict is momentarily confounded at your actions.
“Owwww!” you yelp. “Not dreaming then…” is your muttered follow-up, rubbing your own knee as his face morphs into the most enormous grin, a lightning bolt of joy tearing through him as he realises what you are doing, that you can scarcely believe this is happening any more than he can.
“It is really me, Skylark,” he chuckles softly, seeing the way your eyes dilate rapidly as he can't help the lopsided grin that claims his face, a warmth behind his ribs that is just for you.
“I realise that now,” you sass back, and there is a stirring in his trousers at the tone you employ.
“I love you.”
It's a reflex; he doesn't even realise he says it. But as soon as it's out of his mouth, it's like an invisible burden has been lifted from his entire being. The truth. Plain. Simple. Honest.
—
You know your face is aflame as you snap back at him, entirely without meaning to, but then he says three little words that tilt your whole world even more.
“I-I-I love you too.”
You are bewildered when you say it aloud.
The truth. Plain. Simple. Honest.
“Marry me? Please. My darling, wonderful friend,” he implores, his bare hands grabbing yours, tingles shooting over you as your skin touches his.
“Yes!! I will!!!” you answer breathlessly, not even a second of hesitation.
He leans in and captures your lips with his. They are warm and soft as they move gently with yours. And when he opens your mouth with his and his tongue rolls delicately over yours, it feels as if all the fireworks you have seen in the sky live now inside you, popping and exploding in a riot of colour. A whole new world of sensual pleasure is promised in that one move.
“Are you certain?” you murmur as you break apart for air, a flash of insecurity that this is happening so fast, even as there is a strong pull inside, a want to keep kissing him over and over.
He smiles, tilting his forehead to yours, a wistful look in his blue eyes.
“To know you, truly know you, is to love you, Skylark,” he sighs, his words a blanket settling over your quaking heart. “And I do. I truly do.”
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🐈⬛ hiii! what do you think of benedict bridgerton x reader, where reader is daphne’s long time friend who’s always been close with the family and has always had a crush on benedict, she doesn’t make it obvious but even he knows and before her big debut she overhears him talking with his brothers about her and how he’d never marry her because he’d never have feelings for you even though you have feelings for him, reader quickly moves on because why would she care about what a man thinks right? so obviously she has to go to the balls looking real good and dance with lots of guys making him jealous (perk but not the goal) and he eventually realizes his feelings and makes it all up to her after finding out she heard what he said
like someone in love
benedict bridgerton x reader
synopsis: you’ve come to terms with the fact that he would never see you romantically, and so you have to find a way to move on
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you audibly gasped, hand clutching at your corset, that your lady’s maid was strapping to your body. she looked over your shoulder and you shook your head, “i am fine, tighter!” you shrieked shrilly, feeling the air constrict in your lungs.
you heard the quick ties of the ribbon and inhaled slowly, “i have to look perfect for tea with daphne.” you admired yourself in the mirror, “if i happen to run into mr. bridgerton, i want to look perfect.” you held your head high, watching your hair fall back loosely, “use the blue ribbon, will you?”
“of course, my lady.” anne, your lady’s maid, always had a small smile on her face whenever she helped you with your visits to the bridgerton household; ever since you became taken with the middle brother, benedict.
you tried to be modest with your attraction, especially since he was daphne’s older brother, and she was your dearest friend. but sometimes, you felt as if the entire ton could see right through you.
“this is the last he’ll see of me before i’m game to the rest of london.” you rolled your eyes, “with whatever my mother has planned- i can only expect a surprise.” your mother, constance, had wonderful success in marrying off your three older sisters, to members of high european society.
“i don’t want her to choose my husband, i know who he is,” you inhaled again, “he just has to choose me.” you smoothed down your skirt, and walked over to your vanity, anne following quickly behind.
“oh, y/n!” daphne still felt like a girl whenever you appeared in her doorway. the drawing room had been empty except for her, looking beautiful as ever.
you looked around before greeting her back, smiling brightly as you sat across from her, “where is everyone?” you couldn’t help but feel disappointed that benedict wasn’t sketching away by the window.
daphne exhaled, “mama took everyone out for promenade. i’m rather nervous about tomorrow, and well,” she shrugged, smiling.
you nodded, “i most definitely am nervous. a pit in my stomach.” you admitted, “i understand, daph. that is why when i received your invite for tea, i knew i had to come.”
daphne’s attention shifted to the bustling bodies that were shoving each other through the drawing room doorway. it was all her brothers, with eloise.
eloise smiled at you, and moved over to the seat beside her sister. benedict, colin and anthony all greeted you politely, indulging in small conversation with daphne before excusing themselves to the study.
as they left, you couldn’t help but let your eyes hang on benedict, not bothering to hide your feelings. daphne smiled, “y/n, i do hope my brother marries you, you’d be my sister.” you blushed, laughing off her comment as eloise raised her eyebrows.
your tea with daphne had turned into a private dinner, and it had gotten late. “this was lovely, daph.” you had stopped on your walk by the study with daphne, “i’ll see you tomorrow, be perfect.” you wished her luck, and waved her off as she dashed back up the stairs.
the bridgerton house grew quiet as you took your time exiting. you had hoped you’d accidentally bump into benedict on your way out, but as you passed the last room, you lost hope.
“no!” you heard some shouting, a rancorous laughter followed and you paused by the wall of the last room. it was the three brothers, indulging in conversation. “i would never marry y/n. she’s-“ you heart dropped just as the voice paused, “there’s nothing there. no.” he, benedict, how could you not recognize that voice, had unknowingly shattered your heart with muffled conversation.
you inhaled sharply, and dashed out of the home, walking fast to your carriage as your tears threatened to fall.
your father had been a great man. your mother loved him passionately that even she cried when he died. you cried, but you were a child who knew her father fleetingly. your mother made you promise on his grave that no man would ever make you hurt like this again.
benedict breaking your heart was no different, and you knew you couldn’t dwell. your mother would not let you, you would not let yourself cry for him anymore.
the debut had been the easy part, the hard part was standing out. your first ball and already you couldn’t qualm your nerves. you knew that daphne and her entire family would be attending, you would have to see benedict, have to see him knowing what he said.
your mother had revealed to you that there was a duke and a prince in the waters, and you had to reach for the highest of stars.
your dance card had been filled to the brim, not even an hour had passed before there was a line of eligible suitors waiting for a dance. you were speechless, never did you think you’d get a reaction like that. not when there was daphne in the same pool of ladies.
everyone but the man you wanted had lined up for a dance, even his brother colin, but it was friendly more than anything.
benedict watched you carefully, smiling politely as you and colin danced. you indulged his ramblings about his wishes to travel, your father had been quite the explorer before settling down, so you were as worldly as he had been.
benedict tugged at his collar. seeing his brother with you had left him feeling odd, upset.
“ben, are you okay?” anthony had surprised his brother, and benedict nodded, “ye-yes. i just need a breath.” he spotted the nearest double doors, leading off to a balcony of some sort, he rushed away, his hand clutching into a fist nervously.
his skin felt hot, and he exhaled a breath. you had an affect on him that he had tried to ignore for months now.
when he was confronted about it by his brothers, he denied it fiercely, you were young, beautiful and wildly too good for him. not with your sisters’ husbands being who they were, benedict knew your mother wouldn’t even consider him as a thought.
but he couldn’t ignore the rage he felt at colin, watching his hands on your body, guiding you as you danced.
he knew you had an affection for him, he could see it in your eyes, but you didn’t know him, you couldn’t see why he was the wrong man for you. anthony had claimed that look in your eyes was of someone in love. he encouraged his brother, but benedict grew more reserved about his decision.
you wanted him to see. five balls of trying to capture a glance from benedict bridgerton, and five balls of failure. you had danced with nearly all of the eligible men, many handsome and as rich as you could imagine, but none left you with desire.
benedict was slowly becoming nothing but a dream, an unfulfilled desire that only kept you up at night.
on the night of the last ball of the season, you knew you had to get benedict alone. you had grown restless through the season, upset and frustrated. this was your last chance, because your mother refused to have her daughter end her first season unmarried.
you would be someone’s wife soon, and you had to be his.
benedict needed this. the drag of the smuggled cigarette in his lungs, the exhaling into the pitch black sky. knowing you were inside, dancing your way into someone else’s arms.
he refused to watch it happen, and he refused to admit how much he hated all of the men of the ton. he loathed every single one for having danced with you.
“mr. bridgerton.” he had only heard you address him a few times. not in a long while, and he had made sure of that.
he turned, shocked to see you standing behind him. you were wearing a baby blue dress, cheeks flushed. “miss heathfield.” he seemed breathless, and he dropped the cigarette that had been between his fingers, brushing his hand on his coat, holding it behind his back.
“it is chilly out here, perhaps you would be more comfortable inside?” no one else was outside, and it was inappropriate for you to be out here with him, alone.
you didn’t move, “benedict,” you spoke informally and sighed, “i will be someone’s wife before the month ends, and i just want to know.” he blinked, “why do you not want me to be yours?” you exhaled, feeling a relief off your chest.
benedict watched as you walked closer to him, “i have wished for that since the beginning of the season, y/n.” he looked at you, “you are beautiful, talented, wondrous and intriguing woman, and i absolutely do not deserve you.” his lips went tight, “i’ve seen your sisters’ husbands. they’re dukes and earls, i’m not even the viscount.” he whispered, “you deserve to be loved like a queen, a princess, anything but a mrs.”
you grew emotional, tears brimmed in your eyes and you stomped, “stop it this instance, benedict bridgerton!” you were now face to face with him, you could smell the cigarette smoke more clearly now, “i can see you feel strongly about me, and i want nothing more in this moment than for you to kiss me.”
benedict looked at you, glancing at the parted doorway, light and laughter floated down to his ears before he rushed in to kiss you.
your knees went weak at the kiss, and he gripped you, holding you against him. he pulled away, panting, “i-“ he was utterly speechless.
“i know.” you whispered, knowing the look in his eyes all too well.
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Benedict Bridgerton x Reader – One Last Summer
Y/N is many things: Daphne's best friend, gifted artist, new money, honorary Bridgerton – and hopelessly in love with Benedict. But when she finds herself suddenly engaged to a brutish army captain stationed in India, she is faced with the loss of everything she has grown to adore. With time running out, one last visit to Aubrey Hall will decide her fate.
Months ago I had a random phase of obsessing over Benedict Bridgerton (don't we all at some point) and dove head-first into this – then somehow took an eternity to finish it. It's angsty af, but don’t worry, there’s also plenty of Bridgerton shenanigans and tooth-rotting fluff because Benny is too adorable for this world
Warnings: angst and anxiety
Word Count: ~8400
A warm summer breeze caresses my heated skin as I finally emerge from the carriage and lay eyes on Aubrey Hall. Lush flowers and greenery adorn the inviting front and I am still taking in the sight when I notice Eloise and Penelope rounding the corner, the Bridgerton sister gesticulating in what must be one of her political rants. Behind them, Gregory and Hyacinth emerge, chasing each other and screaming in delight. My stomach swoops at the sight – how I have missed them all.
“Good morning!” I call over to them, waving with an excitement I would scarcely allow myself to display anywhere else. But here, everything is different. Has always been different.
“Y/N!”
They all rush over to me, enveloping me in hugs and chattering over each other.
“Finally! It’s been ages!”
“Daphne has been insufferable without you around!”
“Come play with us!”
I laugh, begging them for a moment to breathe after the journey. Daphne appears in the entryway, closely followed by Violet. I walk quickly towards my best friend, arms wide open.
“Daph!”
“Oh thank Goodness you have made it!”
She hugs me tightly, her familiar perfume mingling with the smell of grass and sun-warmed skin.
“Have you been playing croquet without me?”
“Oh, has Anthony already come moaning to you about his well-deserved loss?”
“I can smell it on you, along with your smugness” I say with a grin. “And your brother has grown quite even-tempered since the wedding.”
“Well, unfortunately he is still the sorest loser I know.”
“Which is a feat in itself amongst this competitive bunch,” Violet says with a twinkle in her eyes before taking my hands in hers and looking me up and down. “Welcome back, darling. You look thin, please do not tell me that you’re trying to fit into one of those outrageous wedding gowns that seem to be made for dolls.”
I wince at the mention of my upcoming nuptials but hastily cover it up with a chuckle.
“Quite the opposite, at the last fitting my seamstress was rather disgruntled that she would have to take in the waist even further. It is just a bit of a nervous stomach, with all the impending change.”
“But as a young bride you should be more happy than nervous, no?”
“Mama,” Daphne scolds softly, while Eloise openly rolls her eyes.
“I suppose I should.”
“Why not at least wait until dinner with such questions?” comes a voice from my right, “Your forwardness single-handedly erodes our renowned British reserve.”
I grin at Colin before pulling him into a hug and ruffling his coiffed hair. Being a year older, I have always indulged in playing big sister with him. He sighs in feigned annoyance.
“I was going to say that it’s good to see you but I am already regretting that sentiment.”
“Liar,” I snicker.
Violet’s glance dances between us. I believe she once suspected a blossoming romance between Colin and me, but while I love him dearly as a surrogate brother, he has never made my heart flutter. Not that I could have ever betrayed poor Penelope anyway, whose bright eyes are locked on him as always. And not that I would ever actually marry a Bridgerton. I may have dared to dream of it ten years ago, when I first met Daphne and immediately became fast friends with her despite our age difference. When her family welcomed me into their home with such fervour and warmth that I could hardly believe my luck. With my mother having died from influenza when I was little and no other siblings to grow up with, the Bridgertons became the family I could have never imagined for myself. And the idea of marrying into it one day, of making my bond with them all official, that was the greatest aspiration I could envisage. But the one brother who has always fascinated me is nowhere in sight and I try to be glad for it.
“Come, let’s get you settled before the rest of the battalion descends upon you.”
Daphne pulls me inside while I give a grateful smile to the servants hurrying after us with my luggage.
“So where is your charming husband?” I ask as we ascend the staircase. “And little Amelia? I have been dying to see her again.”
“Simon was held up by business, he will arrive in a few days. And the little one is in the gardens with her nanny. I will call for some lemonade and once you have freshened up, we shall go out to see her and catch up. You have so much to tell me.”
“I last saw you two months ago and we write constantly,” I laugh.
“But all the things that have happened in those two months! Your engagement first and foremost. I simply must know everything, I certainly require more detail than the few lines from your letters.”
My insides squirm at her eagerness but I manage a somewhat enthusiastic nod. She comes to a stop in front of a door.
“Your usual guest room is having some work done, so I had my old room prepared for you – I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all, it will be nice, I haven’t been in there since your wedding.”
“And Mama has kept it exactly the same, you know how sentimental she gets.”
Daphne sounds teasing yet her smile is nothing but fond. She gives me another hug.
“I am so glad you are here. I’ve missed you. We all have.”
“And I have missed you.”
Once my bags and I are safely inside, I inhale deeply and take in the stillness for a moment. Arriving at any Bridgerton residence always feels like being caught in a whirlwind and as much as I love them all, it can be overwhelming at times, especially after the often stifling silence of my own home. I wander over to the window, letting my eyes trail over the gardens, alive with an abundance of colours that makes my heart sing. Until it stops abruptly.
There he is.
Deeply lost in his brush strokes as he recreates the wonders around him. His vest is unbuttoned, his shirt carelessly gaping open at the top, his sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms. Even from afar, Benedict Bridgerton ignites a well-known fire inside of me.
Whenever I am away from him, I can almost convince myself that this age-old infatuation is nothing but a figment, a silly flight of fancy. Sometimes I can almost forget about him entirely, distract myself with my artistic pursuits, with other friends or travel. But then I notice a piece of melody flowing from my fingers that somehow reminds me of him or look down at a drawing in surprise, having unconsciously once again traced his familiar features. Still I repress it, abandon the fantasy of someone so far above my station. Someone who sees me as a family friend and nothing more.
And now that I am engaged to be married I should purge my mind of him entirely, yet especially in these last few weeks I have scarcely thought of anything else, convinced that my longing could not possibly grow stronger. But the mere tangibility of him unravels me completely. I long to rush downstairs to see him and at the same time it is the one thing I fear the most. After a long moment I tear my gaze away and turn to the washing bowl. To my dismay, the cool water does little to calm my racing pulse and thoughts.
Clean and unpacked I head towards the door, but halt half-way. Because as always, when I am in Daphne's room, my eyes fall on the painting of us. It is wonderfully serene, the two of us sitting on a picnic blanket in the gardens. She is engrossed in a book, but I am looking over my shoulder, smiling softly at the artist. It was Benedict of course. I remember vividly how I turned around to find him crouching with a sketchbook in his hand, capturing the scene in quick strokes. His face lit up and he winked at me before deftly outlining my expression. Later he transferred the motif onto a proper canvas, so I never got to see the original sketch. I have always wondered whether I had really looked at him like that. So openly enamoured.
I wander down the halls towards the open French doors leading into the garden when a voice pulls me from my reverie so suddenly I almost trip over my feet.
“There you are.”
I look up only to be met with a dazzling smile, gleaming eyes and a hint of spicy aftershave in the air. My stomach drops.
“Mr. Bridgerton.”
His smile falters briefly. He always insists on me calling him by his first name, yet I have never been able to. When we met he was already eighteen, a grown man at first sight. It had felt only right to address him with the same courtesy as his older brother. And even as we grew closer, as I learned of his boyish temperament, often bordering on immaturity, I never found the courage to simply call him Benedict. If only to keep up the semblance of a wall between us, a desperate attempt at shielding my heart. Not that I have ever succeeded in that endeavour.
“Everyone’s been speaking of your arrival. How wonderful you have found time to join us.”
“The pleasure is all mine, as always,” I reply, ignoring the pull in my chest. “Have you finished your painting?”
I gesture at the art supplies in his arms.
“Not quite, but I’m afraid duty calls. Some business I need to talk over with Anthony.”
“Ah, I too have an enormously urgent appointment with your sister.”
We share a light chuckle.
“I am sure she has scheduled three hours at the least to learn all about your… plans.” The word comes out strangely forced but he catches himself quickly. “Will I see you at dinner?”
“How could I ever miss one of Mrs. Brodie’s delicacies? I have had actual dreams of her rosemary chicken.”
“You are not a true Bridgerton until you’ve had one of those dreams,” he says with a grin but it wavers slightly as the words sink in. He knows as well as I do that no number of dreams will ever make me a true Bridgerton. I swallow thickly before putting on a smile.
“If you will excuse me, I am quite parched after the journey and Daphne has promised lemonade.”
“Oh, of course, yes. Don’t let me keep you.”
“Goodbye, sir.”
“Until tonight, Y/N.”
Something in his tone, in the way his lips curve around my name, sends shivers down my spine. With a swift curtsey I turn and practically run out into the open air.
I manage to ward off Daphne’s inquisition well enough. Yes, Captain Parker will be able to provide for me. Yes, he is handsome. Yes, my father approves of him. Luckily, we are regularly interrupted by the various Bridgerton siblings and distracted by little Amelia who is perfectly content as the centre of attention.
“I am quite certain one day she will be the diamond of the season,” I declare, ruffling her hair.
“Do you really think so?”
Daphne is all too happy to swoon about her firstborn and I gladly steer the conversation away from my upcoming wedding. Eventually, I propose another game of croquet, having missed the previous one, and before long the dinner bell is rung.
Everyone settles into the dining room and I sink into a comfortable chair, Daphne and Eloise on either side, Benedict across from me. I only notice now that we have always been seated like this during my visits and wonder if it was I who once sought out this particular arrangement. He quickly engages me in a conversation about art and music, the topics that have always connected us, and minute by minute I grow more comfortable in his presence. We fall into passionate discussions and light-hearted banter, only occasionally intercepted by the others around us. And I cannot help pondering if he has ever felt it, too. The sparkling potential between us. The mere idea of what we could have been. No matter how unrealistic, as long we were both unwed, a tiny part of my heart remained reserved for that hope. And every time I arrived at the manor to find him seemingly carefree about the future and with no bride in sight, I was flooded with relief, simultaneously blessed and cursed to hope for a little longer. Until a few weeks ago when those dreams were finally shattered.
“So, are you looking forward to India?” Colin suddenly asks. “I would love to visit you there sometime, it must be incredible.”
“Surely it would not be proper to interrupt their honeymoon,” Benedict says, somewhat strained.
“Oh, it’s not for our honeymoon,” I reply. “My… Captain Parker will be permanently stationed there.”
Benedict’s fork clatters onto the plate and we all flinch, the chatter around the table coming to a halt.
“You will move to India?”
He has gone frighteningly pale.
“Yes. Has Daphne not told you?”
“I must have,” she sputters, “when I was last in Lon–“
“No, you haven’t.”
His words come out unusually harsh and my stomach twists. Everyone is staring at either him or me and Daphne’s eyes flicker between us before she forces a casual smile.
“Brother, don’t be silly, I am certain I have. And either way, I shall be the one to miss her the most, no?”
She puts an arm around me while giving a pointed look at Kate who quickly collects herself and pulls Anthony and Violet into a chat about their plans for the nursery. Slowly, the usual bustle recommences and I turn back to Colin.
“Once we are settled in, you are more than welcome to visit. You all are, of course.”
Benedict’s lips are pressed tightly together, his food forgotten.
I find little sleep that night, the image of Benedict imprinted on my mind. He seemed so genuinely upset. I expected him to miss me, of course, but the hint of melancholy I had detected in his features even before the revelation of my upcoming departure to India now haunts me. Losing him was always going to be torture but realising how it might affect him as well has doubled the pain and I start to regret this indulgence of coming to Aubrey Hall for one last summer.
When the first sun rays filter through the half-opened curtains I inhale deeply, trying to infuse a little hope and joy into the beginning of this new day. And when Daphne surprises me with the idea of a relaxed breakfast in bed I almost believe it has worked.
A while later we find ourselves in the parlour, Eloise engrossed in a book after Penelope’s earlier departure, Daphne rocking a fussy Amelia to sleep in her arms, and I sketching absently.
I startle when Benedict walks in, slightly more dishevelled than usual.
“Daph, Y/N. Just the pair I’ve been looking for.”
“Good morning to you as well, dear brother,” Eloise says with a smirk.
He bows excessively in her direction and I cannot help but smile at their antics.
“Good morning, my darling sister.”
They share a grin before he turns back to us.
“I wanted to apologise for my little outburst at dinner. I was tired and the news took me by surprise.” He clears his throat. “I do hope you forgive me.”
“Of course, sir,” I hasten to reply.
“One could have almost suspected you of being jealous of a certain Captain Parker.”
“Eloise!” Daphne chides but she too eyes her brother and me curiously.
Before I can try to decipher either my feelings or his expression, Violet walks in, rubbing her hands enthusiastically.
“Good morning, children! Who of you will kindly join us for a walk?”
Daphne rises as Amelia starts crying once more and Violet immediately offers to take her. While they deliberate on the benefits of a walk for the baby, Benedict settles beside me, merely a few feet between us. I try to ignore the goosebumps forming on my skin at his soft smile.
“May I?”
He points at my sketchbook. I press it shut with hurried force.
“No.”
“Oh.” His face falls a little. “Forgive me, I did not mean to pry.”
There is dejection in his eyes, but also confusion. I have always shared my sketches with him, just as my compositions, needlework and poetry. We have always valued each other’s opinions and advice. So naturally he is taken aback by my sudden reservedness. But how can I explain the shift from peaceful, colourful motifs to the utter gloom that has been dominating my sketches lately? The impending thunderstorms, the dark forests. And possibly worse, the countless drawings of him. Sometimes just his fingers, delicately holding a paintbrush, sometimes his entire silhouette, but mostly his boyishly handsome face that my eyes unerringly find the second I enter a room. If it scares me how much of my waking thought he is taking up – how much would it scare him?
“I– I’m sorry, sir. I have not been feeling very… confident about my work lately.”
“I can hardly believe that to be justified in any way. You have always possessed a raw talent I can scarcely dream of.”
“That is not true.”
“Well then, I challenge you.”
Mischief sparkles in his eyes and an inadvertent giggle escapes me.
“You mean it? We have not done that in ages.”
“All the more reason to do it now.”
“Y/N, are you coming?” Daphne calls across the room.
“She is otherwise engaged,” Benedict grins before I can reply.
“Is that so?”
“Your brother has thrown down the gauntlet and I’m afraid I shall have to pick it up.”
Daphne rolls her eyes, amusement playing on her lips.
“Are you having one of your silly art competitions again? What is it this time?”
“Portraits,” I say hastily. “We will paint each other. Fifteen minutes, as usual.”
I wonder what possessed me to choose Benedict’s face as the subject, of all things. Most likely pure masochism. I do not dare gauge his reaction although I can feel his eyes on me.
“Well, Amelia needs her walk now.” Daphne glances at the crying baby in Violet’s arms. “I suppose we shall see you both later. I’ll be happy to choose a winner then.”
“You’re hardly impartial,” Benedict grumbles.
“Neither are you when it comes to Y/N,” she retorts.
Before I can begin to untangle her accusation she has breezed out the door.
Eloise is as bad a chaperone as ever, engrossed in her book a few yards away in the shade, while Benedict sets up his canvas beside me. Mine is leaning up against my chair. Despite my excessive practice I was not quite able to capture his essence. Perhaps because it felt so strikingly different from the other times he sat for me. I had asked him not to speak, as to not strain my jittery nerves even further, and he had obliged, albeit reluctantly. But with every passing second the silence between us grew heavier, along with his expression. It weighed down my piece of charcoal, making it impossible to find my usual ease in sketching. Just when I feared it might crumble between my tense fingers, Benedict murmured, “Time’s up” with a glance at his pocket watch. Before he could peek at the result I hurriedly asked for a lunch break which we spent with an unusually talkative Anthony. Now we have returned to our previous spot and he sets up his own work.
“May I ask,” he says after the first few strokes, “why the quick engagement? Did you know immediately that he was the right man for you?”
His jaw clenches while he firmly stares at the canvas. My hands grow clammy, clutching his watch tightly.
“I could hardly afford such luxuries anymore. At four-and-twenty my chances of finding the ‘right’ man have been dwindling about as fast as my father’s faith in me receiving a proposal at all.”
“You make yourself sound like an old spinster.”
“Well, in the eyes of the ton I am. I should consider myself lucky to be engaged at last.”
“But you don’t?”
His eyes search mine intently until I drop my gaze, scared of what he might find in it.
“Of course. Very lucky indeed.”
Once more a long silence hangs between us. I suddenly feel impossibly tired. And as much as I want to blame the summer heat and sleepless nights, I know this weariness runs much deeper. The exhaustion of holding up the pretence that I am even remotely content with my lot.
“Look at me, please,” Benedict murmurs and I follow his request without hesitation, taken aback by the deep concern in his features. He thanks me softly before resuming his quiet work.
“Will you not be terribly lonely in India?” he finally asks.
I bite my lip.
“Not for long, I hope.”
What I cannot say is that I am almost glad to go. To miss them all from so far away they will hardly feel real. To not see them fall in love and lead lives I will barely be a part of. To not sit and watch Benedict await his bride at the altar, breaking inside because it should be me walking down that aisle towards him. To not look at the children who have his wild hair and lopsided grin and not find a single trace of me in their faces.
I blink away tears, desperate to change the subject before he manages to poke even more holes into my façade.
“And what of your plans for the future, sir? Anything exciting on the horizon?”
He pauses for a moment, seemingly debating whether to indulge me.
“You will think me foolish, but lately I've been thinking about opening my own academy one day. One where your wealth and sex do not matter, where you are accepted on merit and passion alone. And perhaps when you are a personal friend of the owner.”
He winks at me and I stare at him in feigned indignation.
“Are you saying my merit and passion would not suffice?”
“Not at all. If anything, you possess too much of both, so I would have to keep you in a private class as to not discourage the other students.”
I glance down at my lap, hiding both my smile and the blush forming on my cheeks.
“Well, I think, it sounds anything but foolish. You could grant opportunities to so many people who will never find them anywhere else. Promise you will write to me when that dream becomes a reality.”
I look back up at him, surprised at the soft wonder in his eyes, then let mine travel down to his lips as they curve into a half-smirk.
“When, not if? You flatter me.”
“I believe in you. I always have. And I dearly hope that one of us will be allowed to live his dream.”
Benedict swallows, all traces of mirth erased from his features.
“Y/N, you–”
“Time’s up,” I say, without a single glance at the watch.
He bites his tongue while an entire palette of emotions flits across his face.
“Here you are!”
We both startle when Daphne appears beside me, placing her hands on my shoulders with a wide grin. “Brother, stop capitalising on my dear friend's time. She is my guest after all.”
“And here I thought she liked to spend time with all of us,” Eloise comments and I suddenly wonder how much of our previous conversation she has eavesdropped on while appearing lost in her reading.
The other Bridgertons trail behind Daphne, evidently tired from their stroll in the sun. Colin immediately snorts as he peeks at the canvas.
“You cannot be painting Y/N again. Do you not have an entire portrait gallery of her already?”
“Well, none of you little gremlins ever hold still for even a minute.”
“I've sat for you plenty of times,” Daphne protests.
“Yes, and you look like you'd rather hang every single time.”
“Benedict!” Violet scolds gently.
“Well, let’s see them then. You do need a few judges after all.”
Despite my weak protests, both sketches are propped up beside each other a few moments later. The Bridgertons remain unusually quiet.
“They are both fine works,” Violet says eventually. “But you two seem so…”
“Gloomy,” Kate finishes.
Everyone nods.
“Did Eloise bore you with an excerpt from her book while you were drawing?” Colin quips and ducks as said book comes flying at his head. Within seconds the family is caught in familiar chaos and I let myself be dragged off to another lunch despite feeling so queasy I might never eat again. When I glance back at Benedict he only manages the barest of smiles.
The week and a half of my stay at Aubrey Hall passes in a turmoil of emotions. As much as I love spending time with the Bridgertons and try to fully revel in their company, it unnerves me. Feeling their observant eyes on me, the underlying tension in the air, I have been growing more short-tempered and nervous, increasingly avoiding the presence of the people I love the most to escape their questions, both voiced and unspoken. The portrait of Benedict lies buried in his studio. I could not bear having his charcoal eyes stare at me with the same apprehension as his soft green ones. Being around him has lost all the ease we used to share despite my infatuation.
I am glad when Simon joins us, creating a distraction for Daphne and thus some room for myself. But no amount of wandering the familiar halls and gardens, hiding away in the library or furiously filling page after page of my sketchbook can calm my racing mind. Anxiety has nestled deep inside my chest, constricting my lungs and churning in my stomach.
And then it arrives: My last day at the manor. They surprise me with a picnic under clear blue skies and despite my incessant sorrow it turns out rather lovely. Before long, the little ones are running around and I find myself pulled in all directions, playing and frolicking in the sun. The adults disperse as well, picking up games or strolling through the gardens in deep conversation. Eventually, I sink down onto a blanket next to Daphne and Amelia, out of breath and surprisingly cheerful. My friend looks over at me, a wistful expression on her face.
“I hope you’ve been enjoying your time with us,” she says softly.
“Of course,” I reply automatically. “I always do.”
I let my eyes wander over the scenes around us and the despite the joy in the air, panic and despair once more rise in my throat. Cotton fills my ears, then my entire skin starts to tingle. And suddenly it comes crashing down on me. The intense finality of these last few days with the Bridgertons. The very real possibility that I might never return to Aubrey Hall, never again chatter with Daphne, joke with Colin, debate with Eloise. Never chase the younger siblings across the rolling greens or laugh at a seething Anthony after an eventful croquet match. Never have a single moment alone with Benedict. I have been a fool for believing that distance would make me miss them all any less. Because at this moment I am certain that I will be longing for these days for the rest of my life. Still, the sob that rips from my mouth takes me by surprise.
“Y/N?”
Daphne turns to me, little Amelia on her lap eyeing me warily. I want to reassure her but instead tears start flowing uncontrollably.
“Oh my dear!” Daphne sets her daughter down on the blanket, then throws her arms around me. “Y/N, whatever is the matter?”
I cannot find my voice for several minutes, overwhelmed by the most intense sorrow I have felt since my mother's passing. When I finally speak, the words come out raspy and broken.
“I am going to miss you all so much.”
“Well, how awful would it be if you didn't?” Daphne says, a half-smile on her lips but it fades as she inspects my face. “Is it more than that? Are you truly not looking forward to marriage at all? I know it can be daunting, Simon and I have had a rocky path as well, but now I cannot imagine a life without him.”
“Because you love him!” The words come out rougher than intended and Amelia winces, her mouth curling into a frown. I quickly cradle her in my arms before she can start crying as well. Nuzzling her soft hair I avoid Daphne’s eyes. “You've always loved him, Daph. Even when you could not yet admit it to yourself, even when you did not know that he returned your feelings.”
A tense pause stretches between us.
“Do you truly believe you will never love Captain Parker?” she finally whispers.
I bite my lip, unable to answer.
“Y/N, why on earth did you accept his proposal if you cannot see a happy life with him?”
I want to scream at her, want to rage at her naiveté, her inability to grasp the gravity of my situation. But I cannot. Not at my best friend who does not know and can never know how this engagement came about.
“If you do not want this, I can help you,” she says softly now. “We will find a perfect match for you next season. Who knows, maybe even somewhere along the way until then?”
Daphne attempts another soft smile and my tears start flowing again. If only it were this simple. She reaches for my hand while I am pressing Amelia closer with the other, relishing in her warmth and quiet babbling.
“It pains me to see you like this. There must be something I can do. I realise that Anthony and I have been very lucky to have found our partners, but if it is not love that persuades you to marry, it should at least be mutual respect and fondness. I am certain we can find such a man for you, if only–”
“No,” I say determinedly. “I am grateful to you, Daph, but it is too late.”
“Too late because you're afraid to break off the engagement or because your heart is already taken?”
I gasp.
“Daphne–”
“Is it someone I know?”
“No, it's no one. There is no one.”
I press a kiss to Amelia's head, then place her in her mother's arms. Wiping my face, I rise to my feet.
“I am sorry for my outburst. Do forgive me. I just need a moment to myself.”
“Y/N–”
“Thank you for the picnic.”
Brushing away fresh tears I flee the picture-perfect scene that now only breaks my heart.
Hours later everyone is bustling about in the parlour, impatiently awaiting dinner. I have claimed the piano in the corner and let my fingers wander over the keys, following a soft, melancholy tune. My gaze loses focus in the middle distance as I calculate the number of hours I have left here. There is no clock in the room and yet I can hear an unrelenting ticking.
“Is that your latest composition?”
I flinch before my eyes find Benedict's, his lacking their usual sparkle.
“I– I am not certain...” I clear my throat and Daphne briefly glances over at me, worry in her features. “I'm still working on it.”
“It's beautiful.”
“You do not sound quite convinced,” I say with a weak attempt at a smile.
“No, I mean it. Every piece you compose is beautiful. It's just... It sounds so deeply sad.”
I suddenly sense how the atmosphere in the room has changed. Even the little ones have gone quiet, with everyone stealing looks of concern at me.
“I am so sorry, I did not mean to ruin the mood. Please carry on.”
I chuckle nervously and the Bridgertons are kind enough to return to their antics, albeit slightly forced.
“Y/N, are you alright?”
Benedict's voice is low but strained. I turn back to the keys, once more biting back tears.
“Of course, sir. I am perfectly fine.”
“You do not seem like yourself,” he murmurs. “You are usually.... softer. But also stronger. With such a zest for life. I've never seen you like this, so burdened, so sombre.”
I raise my chin, attempting to look challenging rather than heartbroken at his astute observation.
“And what about you, Mr. Bridgerton? These past few days you have hardly been the carefree man I've come to know.“
“Then you must know that you are the cause.”
We both still. Blood is rushing in my ears as I try to steel myself for something I fear and crave in equal measure. But after a long moment he shakes his head, swallowing heavily.
“I worry about you, Y/N. We all do. I know things have not always been easy for you but until now I believed our family could provide you with comfort. And if that is somehow no longer the case, surely the prospect of starting your own family should excite you.”
I hopelessly rifle through my mind for an answer that might assuage him once and for all.
“Dinner is ready, my lady.”
I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Wonderful!” Violet smiles at the servant who has appeared in the doorway, then claps her hands. Her offspring rises from floor and sofas, muttering about being starved while jostling towards the dining room. I stand up so quickly the piano stool topples over and I reach for it at the same time as Benedict. Our hands briefly touch in mid-air, sending a spark through mine before I can pull away. He stares at me, the ticking even louder than before.
“Y/N, you must know that you can confide in me.”
“There is nothing to confide, sir.”
“Benedict.”
My face runs hot at both the insistence on his first name and the multitude of my confessions boiling so close to the surface. His features soften as he subconsciously draws closer and I scramble to my feet, heart pounding wildly.
“We should go, everyone is waiting.”
Before he can reply I rush out of the parlour, pressing clammy hands to my cheeks to soothe the fire in them.
Dinner is strangely quiet and whenever I glance over at Benedict I find him already looking at me. For the millionth time this week I wonder if I should not have discredited his motives so quickly, should not have dismissed his attempts at forming a tighter bond between us for the fear of falling too far. Is it possible I might have misread him all these years? Too blind in my self-deprecation, too caught up in worries about money and class when he never seemed to care much for these things, when perhaps he could have easily seen beyond them? Should I have rather flown too close to the sun than never have flown at all?
When the children have gone to bed I linger with the others, barely engaging in the conversation over drinks but unwilling to embark on the hours of anxious brooding in the dark ahead of me. Eventually, the yawns become more frequent and one by one the Bridgertons retire until at last Daphne and I make our way upstairs as well. I halt as we pass the library.
“I’m not quite tired enough for bed. I am going to peruse the books for a while.”
Daphne turns to me, deeply mournful.
“Y/N, I so wish you would tell me what is going on.”
I feel my bottom lip begin to quiver and shake my head vehemently.
“I can’t.”
“Why ever not? Are we not confidants? I have always told you everything.”
“And I am so grateful for your trust and friendship.” I envelop her in a tight hug. “I will be alright. Do not worry about me.”
“How can I not worry when my best friend is so clearly unhappy?”
She draws back to examine me once more.
“I have had my happiness. With you, with your family. That shall be enough. Not everyone finds a happy ending.”
“But you so deserve it,” she says, grasping my hand. “Both you and–“
She stops herself abruptly.
“Who?”
“Never mind.”
I want to ask again but nod instead. She seizes a candleholder from a side table and lights it with the flame of her own.
“Take this. And don’t stay up too late. We will speak again in the morning.”
“Goodnight, Daph.”
I slip into the dark library and carefully close the door behind me. After a few deep breaths I walk around the room, lighting more candles, until I am startled by a soft knock. With a sigh I move to open the door.
“Daphne, please, can we–“
The words die in my throat. Benedict stands before me, carrying a grave expression.
“I need to speak with you.”
“Sir, you have to leave,” I splutter. “What if someone sees us? Daphne might still be nearby.”
“She was the one to tell me where to find you.”
“What, why?”
“Because she knows.”
“Knows what?”
A long pause. Then he carefully pushes past me and presses the door shut. I can do nothing but stare at him in disbelief.
“Sir, you–“
“Are you fond of your...”, he clears his throat, “your fiancé?”
“Excuse me?”
“It's a simple question.”
My chest tightens as panic once again seeps into my veins.
“I am hoping I can learn to be.”
His eyes burn into mine, brimming with concern.
“Y/N, are you scared of him?”
“Sir–“
“Benedict, please. Please.”
“No. I– I'm sorry, I...”
I am so tired of crying, so I bury my nails painfully into my palms to hold back the tears. Still, I am shaking before him. He slightly raises his arms, as if wanting to pull me into a hug, and I wish more than anything I could let him without risking to fall apart entirely.
“You must break off the engagement.”
“I can't.”
“Y/N, you're terrified. That is not a life you're entering, it is torture. And it’s killing us to know that you are hurting, that you might not be safe – it’s killing me. Is he choleric? I swear, if he ever laid a hand on you, I–“
“He already has.”
“What?”
“At the midsummer ball. He seized me in the gardens and touched me... Kissed me. Lady Clementine saw us and reported to my father. Father claimed that we were engaged and thus we were.”
Benedict has turned to the nearest bookshelf, lips in a tight line, knuckles white from grasping the wooden board like a vice. He is trembling and my stomach sinks even further.
“Did you explain the situation to your father?” he presses through gritted teeth, eyes boring into the volumes before him.
“Of course. But he is deathly afraid of scandal. Our standing in the ton is on such thin ice as is.”
“That's not true.”
“Yes, it is.” Frustration starts boiling within me, one that I have been harbouring since I first set foot into their manor on Grosvenor Square ten years ago. All this splendour, so nonchalantly taken for granted by the entire family. All those visitors so obviously enchanted by the grand Bridgertons, never questioning their rightful place in this world. “You have no idea what it's like. Your father wasn't just barely rich enough to gain some footing in the ton but not to provide you with an appealing dowry. You have never been an only child, never had to be scared that your family's legacy might crumble if you ever step out of line for even a second, even when it's not your fault!”
I am vibrating with restrained anger but quickly run out of steam when his face falls along with his shoulders.
“You're right,” he whispers. “Please forgive me.”
“I have to apologise as well. You have been born with an array of privileges from your sex to your wealth but I know that you do not flaunt them. However, my options aren't as wonderfully unlimited.” I swallow thickly. “So you see, I cannot end this engagement. My already slim chances would be ruined, who else would make me an offer after this?”
“I would.”
His reply is immediate, certain, and it crashes into me without warning. My mouth is dry, every nerve in my body alight.
“That is incredibly kind, but I could never accept.” My voice nearly fails me. “You deserve a grand life, Benedict.”
His eyes widen at the name finally spilling from my lips where I have kept it hidden for so long.
“You will be a renowned artist, a gift for society in so many ways. And you deserve a woman you adore by your side, one who will never leave a stain on your good name.”
“I have already found her.”
His words hit me unexpectedly at first, an instant stab of jealousy in my chest. Then a lump forms in my throat as realisation sets in. A realisation I have never allowed and am not ready for still.
“But I cannot seem to make her see that she has held my heart for an entire decade. That her smile and wit and artistic endeavours captivate me more and more with every passing year. That I could have lived with her romantic disinterest in me, had she found someone whose soul matches the beauty of hers.”
“Benedict...”
“That my name from her lips is the sweetest sound in the world.”
“Please stop.”
He pauses briefly.
“Are you scared of me as well?”
“Yes,” I blurt out, “I have been scared of you since the moment we met because you make me forget myself. You make me forget that you are entirely out of reach, that no matter how much I love you, I–“
My hand flies to my mouth, heart slamming into my ribcage. I stumble backwards while muttering senseless apologies. Benedict is stunned into silence. It feels like years pass between us. When he finally speaks, his words are hoarse and quavering.
“You... You love me? All these years every advance of mine seemed futile because you thought–“
“Please forget everything I have said. Promise me you will.”
“Forget? Forget the most wonderful words I have heard in my life?”
“Benedict, I’m begging you…”
I give into the tears at last. Whether they are born of desperation, frustration or simple pain, I can no longer tell. He walks towards me, a barely-contained storm on his face.
“I refuse to live in a world where I do not hear you say my name every single day. Where I see you but once a year, your light slowly dimming in a loveless marriage. Carrying the children of that... bastard.” Now he is crying, too. “Please do not do that to yourself. Do not submit yourself to such misery. Whether you choose me or not, I will support you. I will do whatever I can to give you a good life. The life of an artist if you want it. That I can promise you. You will always have me.”
He sinks down on both knees, his fingers carefully closing around mine.
“And if you do choose me... I will do the same and more. I will give you everything I've held in for so long. My love for you will never falter.”
I am frantically searching for reasons to deny him because none of this could ever be real, his skin on mine, his unbelievable offer in the air. My mind is reeling, trying and failing to catch up with everything that has transpired these past few moments. Years of dreams and longing, so briskly swept aside to reveal a glimpse at a reality that must be impossible because it always has been.
“What would your family say?” I say shakily. “What would everyone say?”
His hold on me tightens.
“You know my family adores you and would accept you with open arms, no matter the circumstances. And I could not care less about anyone else. The gossip would die, it always does. Lady Whistledown would surely distract them with something else within a week.”
A rivulet of hope trickles across my heart.
“Could this... could this truly be?”
“Tomorrow you will meet him in the city. All you have to do is talk to him one last time. I will be there if you want me to. Heavens, the entire Bridgerton clan will be there if you want us to.”
We both chuckle through the tears.
“You are not alone in this, Y/N.”
I let his words sink in for a long moment.
“And what if I choose you?”
“Then we can go into town right after to pick out a ring and speak to the vicar.”
His thumbs caress my knuckles reverently.
“Will you? Will you do me the incredible honour of accepting my hand?”
My knees buckle and I lower myself onto the floor before him. The blazing anxiety I have grown almost accustomed to has faded into glowing embers. After having wandered through hell for weeks, I find peace in his hopeful gaze, comfort in the soft contours I am so intimately acquainted with. A kaleidoscope of memories flashes before my eyes, all tinted in new colours. It has always been there, right in front of me: He loves me. And all I have ever had to do was say yes.
“The honour would be all mine, Benedict Bridgerton.”
A strangled noise escapes him before his eyes frantically scan my face as if they might find a single trace of doubt there. They could never. Not anymore. His hands come up, hovering beside my cheeks.
“God, I really want to– Is it alright if I–“
“Yes!”
He grins, breathless and blushing.
“I haven't even–“
I lunge forward and press my lips to his. It is clumsy and overwhelming but also everything I have ever wanted. He almost tumbles over in surprise, but seconds later we are completely entangled, seeking each other's mouth over and over. Heart pounding, skin aflame, I am certain this is the happiest I have ever been. Because while my body nearly gives out with the strange exhilaration of it all, I also feel perfectly safe. As if this is exactly where I belong, where everything finally makes sense. In between kisses he whispers my name like a confession of love. It is from his lips.
When we finally part for air we stare at each other with endless wonder, then start smiling deliriously. I reach out to cradle his face in my palm and he leans into it with a sigh.
“Ben,” I murmur, the name unfamiliar but sweet in my mouth. He beams at me.
“Come here, darling.”
Without hesitation I let him pull me into his lap, just as desperate to be close. I no longer care if anyone finds us like this, am no longer terrified of scandal. Not when I know for certain that I will marry the love of my life, unfazed by gossip and propriety. I nestle into the crook of his neck, deeply inhaling his scent, revelling in the warmth and solidness of his chest. His arms encircle me as I feel his heartbeat slow. Knowing it was I who made it race in the first place fills me with a fervent glow.
“Do you have the slightest idea how incredible you are?” I say quietly as I lean back a little to look at him. “I cannot believe you would have provided for me if my father had turned me away.”
“Without hesitation. You're everything to me, Y/N.”
“What would your future wife have said?”
“I cannot imagine there ever would have been a wife.”
My eyes widen.
“Oh Benedict…”
“Never mind that.” He gives me a half-smile. “I would have had my family. And hopefully you in some way still.”
My heart aches for the unhappy people we would have almost become and I pull him in for another kiss, assuring him and myself that will never be us. Then I am hit with one more realisation.
“Wait, when you said that Daphne ‘knows’, did you mean...?“
“About my utter adoration for you? Sweetheart, they all know. Always have. You were the only one who never seemed to see.”
“But no one ever–“
“I made sure they wouldn’t bring it up. Although you can imagine how excruciating it was for them.”
“But why? Maybe one of them could have pulled me out of my head for once.”
He gently caresses my face.
“I wanted you to find your own way. Whether it would lead to me or not.”
My heart swells with love as I lean my forehead against his.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “For waiting. For saving me from myself. For everything.”
“You have always been worth it.”
We once again lose ourselves in a long kiss and I wonder how I would have made it through life without even a fraction of this bliss. Eventually, Benedict draws back, pure warmth in his eyes.
“As much as I would like to stay here forever, I’m afraid we have to leave. Daphne may or may not still be standing guard outside.”
I raise a hand to my mouth, trying in vain to suppress the giggle spilling out. He grins widely, then releases me and lets me pull him to his feet.
“She is truly the best friend one could ask for.”
“Oh, make no mistake, she will use this against us for the rest of our lives.”
I smile up at him.
“And I will cherish every second of it.”
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
MASTERLIST
#benedict bridgerton#benedict bridgerton x reader#benedict bridgerton x you#benedict x reader#benedict bridgerton fluff
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That's my wife! - a drabble
paring: Benedict Bridgerton x wife! reader
warnings: none, cheesy af, fluff really
summary: Reader gets married to Benedict a week ago. He drinks 'special tea' and couldn't believe he really married her.
a/n: gif credit
Dearest gentle reader,
An artist must be free to follow their muse. It appears Mister Bridgerton followed his muse and his heart. The wedding of Lord Benedict and Lady Y/n was was quite remarkable event of this season. Congratulations to Mr and Mrs Bridgerton. This author wishes them well.
Lady Whistledown's society.
You tucked that issue of Whistledown in the bottom drawer of your desk, a hint of smile at the words 'Mrs Bridgerton'. You married the love of your love and you couldn't be more happier.
You finally looked at your reflection in the mirror, before leaving for the family dnner with the Sharmas.
A pair of arms snaked around your waist from behind, "You look lovely". You smiled at your husband's reflection in the mirror. "as always" he added, kissing your neck and your right shoulder blade.
"Charming as always, Mr. Bridgerton"
"Only for you, Mrs. Bridgerton", he turned you around to cup your face in his gentle hands, a warm smile of his own filled his face, eyes crinkling with unhidden warmth and love.
You leaned into his touch, kissing him tenderly.
Benedict pulled your body closer, as if to merge completely with you. He bit your bottom lip slightly and pulling in down, a gasp escaped your mouth. His skillful hand lowered and slowly hiked your dress up.
"Ben" you breathed in, managing to pull away from him remembering your agenda. "We have dinner in an hour, remember?"
"I can think of few ideas to keep my wife occupied"
It's been just a week since you got married, you and him cut your honeymoon short in the events of his Art Academy application. You didn't complain, you knew how important this was to him.
"You know we won't be able to stop" you smiled at him, teasingly. "Besides, i would like to catch up with your mother and sisters, it's been a while we talked"
A groan escaped his lips.
"Alright, alright"
.
.
You greeted everyone who greeted you a smile and a welcoming nod. The dinner began.
"The twinkle of the candle is...it is as if we sit among the stars....", Benedict rambled.
You looked at your husband on your left, he spoke differently, like he was not fully aware the surroundings.
"It is too bright, isn't it Y/n/n?"
You looked at him with absolute amusement in your eyes. He is definitely not sober.
"What is wrong with you?" Eloise enquired her brother.
"I was just telling Benedict how brilliant the stars were in Greece" Colin swooped in before anyone would ask more questions about his brother's behaviour.
Ah. Now you understood.
Now, Benedict moved his hand knocking over goblet of wine.
"Oh, Benedict, dear-" started Violet.
You bit your lip from smiling. You put down your fork and grabbed your husband's hand from knocking more things over, and placed both of your hands over his.
"Benedict" your voice was so soft.
He looked down at your hand, and looking up at your face with gentle expression. "Oh, my sweet Y/n/n, when i look at you, all i have in my heart is you!" he confessed loudly.
Everyone stopped and stared at you and him at his outburst. Your cheeks heated up at the sudden attention.
"I wish to marry you..." he interwined his fingers with yours, "We shall be married tomorrow!" he stated as a matter of fact.
You couldn't help but chuckle. "Benedict, Benedict" you said his name slowly to get his full attention, "Ben, my love, we are already married. Look." you pointed at both of your wedding rings.
His face switched from longing to the utmost love. "We are married?"
"Mm hmm"
"We are married. We are married!"
Mumbling apologies, you grabbed his hand and pulled him away from the table.
"That's my wife!" he yelled proudly as you linked your arm with him, trying to drag him to your room.
"Aren't they lovely" Violet looked at your both with affection. It reminded her of own love with Edmund.
"They are so adorable, I'm feeling nauseous" Eloise made a gagging face.
"You all shall witness my beautiful wife!" he tried to go back and show you off to his family.
You heard everyone's chuckle and laughter.
"Ben!" your face turned red. Laughing even more, you pulled him inside your room before locking the door.
You couldn't help but smile at your adorable husband.
You did really get lucky.
#benedict bridgerton imagine#benedict bridgerton x reader#benedict bridgerton fluff#bridgerton x reader#bridgerton imagine#bridgerton
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Dancing
A short one this time! I just wanted to write a really fluffy piece without drama although, yes there is a very small conflict if you squint hard enough. I wanted to write another fic that made me feel good just cause life's been extra hard lately.
Although I have a ton of ideas for this one so a sequel if people really enjoy this. I briefly wondered making Y/N be Lady Whistledown and pairing her up with my favorite Bridgerton brother to see what would happen.
TW: People being mean. Gossiping mamas. Cressida Cowper mention.
The ball, as most balls tended to be as the night waned, had grown stale and boring. The dancing had ceased despite the wonderful string quartet that played their music and people had broken off to their own parties. As the guests become accustomed to the taste of alcohol, words began to flow with reckless abandon.
“Did you hear? Viscount Dotsfield has a bastard with a scullery maid!”
“The Earl of Blackfield is said to engage in… relationships with Sir Lockling.”
“There are rumors going around that one of the Colton daughters has a French paramour whose name is Ravilli. An ambassador of sorts…”
Gossip is what fueled the ton, the very lifeblood that had men and women of varying ages coming to these balls in the first place. No one in the ton wanted to be caught unaware and one could never be too careful of the rumors that could be fabricated about you. According to Y/N’s mama, the only people who didn’t come to balls and to the gatherings hosted by members of the ton were those of them whose reputations were in ruins. You were either gossiping or you were the one being gossiped about.
So she came and endured even if she was bored out of her mind.
It wasn’t anything she wasn’t use to anyway. She was a woman and women were seen and not heard. Not only that, but she was a wallflower. Wallflowers were hardly seen at all.
“Lady Y/L/N.”
She knew that familiar voice, smooth and deep yet somehow still bright. If sunsets could speak, Y/N imagined they would have his voice.
“Mister Bridgerton,” Y/N said as she spun around, hiding her smile behind her bejeweled fan. “I half expected you to have taken your leave by now.”
“Under usual circumstances, I might have. But I have yet to dance with the most beautiful girl in the room.” Benedict said with a crooked smile. “And my mother has always told me that dancing is one of men’s greatest assets to encourage affection.”
“There’s hardly anyone dancing,” Y/N said bashfully.
“All the better reason to do so.”
Y/N wasn’t naive. She knew Benedict was only speaking to her because his mother asked him too. She’d always rather liked Lady Bridgerton and she had a penchant for forcing her sons to dance with the wallflowers. At every ball Y/N attends, her dance card, though usually empty, always had three names: Anthony Bridgerton. Benedict Bridgerton. Colin Bridgerton.
And there was no man who made he heart beat faster than Benedict Bridgerton himself. Because it was Benedict who offered to fill up all of the other spaces in her dance cards even though he didn’t have to.
All the Bridgerton brothers were kind to her but Benedict was more than that. Anthony and Colin were polite but Benedict laughed with her and conversation flowed between them like water from a fountain. And though she knew Benedict was unlikely to return her feelings, she occasionally let her delusions run wild. She often spent her days imagining what their future would look like. Would their children have his eyes or hers? Their hair would probably be different too. And their noses—
“Y/N?”
Blast! What a bloody idiot! She shouldn’t have let her mind wander like that! And now Benedict was looking at her expectantly with those luminous blue eyes and she couldn’t focus her mind to remember what it is he’d asked of her.
“Yes?” She asked, fighting to stop herself from sounding so breathy.
“Excellent,” Benedict grinned with an outstretched hand.
The dance. She’d forgotten about the dance!
She briefly wondered if she could find a way out of it. Getting on that dance floor would shift everyone’s focus on to them and she already knew what people would say.
“The Bridgerton charity case.”
“Of all of the young ladies, he chose her?”
“He deserves better.”
She glanced around nervously. Everyone else was too engrossed in their own conversations to pay them any heed but those conversations would instantly stop the moment she and Benedict stepped on the dance floor alone.
And she knew that if she were to reject Benedict’s advances, her mother would kill her. Though Anthony was but a Viscount, his fortune was considerable large. His father before him had managed their estate well and Anthony was known to make cunning investments that grew their already large fortune, a fortune that would also provide cushy lives for the rest of his brothers. Perhaps not the large estate of a Duke but certainly nothing to scoff at. And Y/N didn’t doubt for one second that the rest of the Bridgerton brothers weren’t as smart as Anthony was when it came to their finances.
It’s why Y/N had constantly heard her mother’s say, “you will marry a Duke or a Bridgerton. Anything less is unacceptable.”
Luckily for Y/N, her mother wasn’t around to see her reject Benedict.
Still, with the way Benedict looked at her, it was hard to say no.
“Just one dance,” Y/N ceded with a sigh, slipping her gloved hand onto his.
His smile widened considerably. “You mustn’t be nervous.”
“Easy for you to say,” Y/N huffed. “You look perfect everywhere you go.”
“Oh?”
Damn. Damn damn damn. Damn the world. Damn herself. And damn Benedict Bridgerton.
“You think I look perfect?” He asked, cocking a brow in question.
“U-uh, I m-mean, that is to say, I don’t—“
“You truly must calm your nerves, my lady,” Benedict said with a chuckle as he pulled her to her feet and led her to the dance floor. “I am only teasing.”
Y/N could hear the stream of gossip stop as members of the ton watched them. There was a pregnant pause and then the chatter began once again. She couldn’t hear the full conversations but she heard enough.
“…fat…”
“…ugly…undeserving…”
“…he is too kind…”
It made Y/N want to curl up into a ball so that the earth may open up and swallow her whole.
“Pay them no heed,” Benedict muttered as he pulled her close, his hand resting on the small of her back as his other hand found hers. “Focus only on us. And tonight, you look beautiful.”
“Only tonight?” Y/N joked in a bid to ease the coil of tension tightening around her core.
“Every night.” Benedict’s tone was too serious to be called teasing.
Soon the new music started, washing away the ton’s horrible words. She could still feel their watchful eyes on her skin, felt the way they judged her.
“Focus on me,” Benedict muttered before he began their dance by swaying them back and fort.
She let the music fill her, weaving through the muscles in her body. Their dance was a complicated one and though she wasn’t an accomplished dancer by any sense of the word, with Benedict leading it was hard to fail.
In and out, push and pull, with complicated lifts and turns yet somehow always finding their way back to each other. It was as if their bodies were magnetized, attracted only to the other. As the music swelled, she forgot all about the gossiping ton and their prying eyes. Instead she only felt Benedict’s body heat, the hard chords of muscles hidden beneath his jacket, his hands steady around her waist.
His gaze on her felt soft, like staring at the afterglow of of dusk. She was never much of a drinker but Benedict always had the ability to make her feel drunk, as though each of her inhibitions left her the moment his luminous blue eyes landed on her.
When the last notes of the song echoed between them and Y/N and Benedict detached from each other to curtsy and bow at one another, the entire ballroom erupted into applause.
A soft gasp left Y/N’s lips. She’d completely forgotten about the ton watching them with Benedict commanding all of her attention.
She raised her head, meeting Benedict’s eyes once more.
“You were marvelous,” Benedict muttered with a grin as he took her hand and placed a chaste kiss against it before leading her out of dance floor. The ton’s eyes had grown less hostile and more appreciative on and, for the first time in a long time, Y/N felt exhilarated.
“I would like to call on you tomorrow, Ms. Y/L/N.” Benedict said, letting his voice be carried throughout the ballroom. His words brought on another wave of whispers. “If you would let me?”
Y/N was absolutely sure she would be the center of gossip tomorrow. Perhaps until the end of the season if Benedict’s intentions are what she thought them to be.
To call on her would mean Benedict would like to get to know her better, to suss out if she would make a good wife or not. And with him a Bridgerton and her a lowly Y/L/N, they would make waves with the ton. She could practically feel Cressida Cowper glaring daggers at her back.
But she didn’t care about that right now. She was still riding the high of their beautiful dance. She was no great beauty, that much was true. But with Benedict, she felt beautiful. And his opinion mattered to her more than the Queen’s and the whole ton’s combined.
“Of course you may call on me, Mr. Bridgerton,” she said graciously, ignoring her fast beating heart. “I’ll have the cook prepare that raspberry marmalade you enjoy so much.”
Benedict grinned. “I am much obliged. I shall see you tomorrow. I hope you have a good evening.” He took her hand again, placing another gentle kiss on her knuckles before he straightened and walked away.
#bridgerton#bridgerton netflix#king george#violet bridgerton#anthony bridgerton#benedict bridgerton#colin bridgerton#daphne bridgerton#eloise bridgerton#francesca bridgerton#gregory bridgerton#hyacinth bridgerton#benedict bridgerton x reader#benedict bridgerton x you#benedict bridgerton fluff#benedict bridgerton imagine#bridgerton fanfiction#bridgerton x reader#bridgerton x you#bridgerton oneshot#bridgerton imagine#benedict bridgerton oneshot#anthony bridgerton x you#anthony bridgerton one shot#bridgerton season 2#bridgerton season 1#bridgerton series#lady danbury#regency era fic
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𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐔𝐌 || 𝐁.𝐁. (PART III)
summary: you’ve been receiving love letters from a secret admirer and you’re desperate to reveal his identity.
contains: benedict being fucking adorable, fluff n' angst!
a/n: third part of this multi-chapter fic. PART I, PART II
You hung your coat up on the rack, your cheeks flushed and your chest heaving. You made your way into the parlor, lifting a hand to dab the sheen of sweat on your forehead. Your mother and father’s muffled voices could be heard from one of the rooms, but you had no time to eavesdrop.
You scurried up the stairs to your bedroom, anxious to read your letter, to hold it close as if holding your admirer’s hand. He (whoever he was) was your comfort, a safe place. You swung the bedroom door open and rushed to your bureau, your eyes widening in disbelief. It was gone. You searched through the drawers, beneath your pillow, in the pockets of your coats, but it was nowhere to be found. But it wasn't until you heard your mother's displeased call for you downstairs that your heart sank entirely.
You fled down the stairs to meet her. There she stood, fire in her eyes and your letter crumpled in her fist. “Tell me, what is the meaning of this?” she demanded.
“I, I-”
“I tire of begging that you see suitors, that you find a suitable gentleman to marry. But no! You’d much rather waste your youth away on meaningless words scribbled across a parchment!” she cried. “Well, I’ll have you know that this nonsense will go on no longer!”
“Mama, please!” you begged, tears now streaming down your crimson cheeks.
“I won’t hear it, young lady! You will forget about this mystery man who delivers only false promises and pretty prose. You will go to the Bridgerton ball tomorrow night and you will dance with whichever gentleman will have you!” she yelled, and with that, she tore the letter in half before letting it fall to the floor. It was as if you had felt the tear straight down the middle of your heart, and you sank to your knees by the foot of the staircase.
After a moment, you both caught your breaths. Your mother placed a shaky hand upon your head and spoke with a more empathetic tone now. “I only wish the best for you, you must know that. You deserve a good man, something real and tangible that will give you peace of mind and a worriless life.” You nodded. You understood, but you couldn’t bear the thought of a life without love. It pained you so to envision one for yourself. “Breathe, child.” she cooed.
Your father’s voice boomed from the far end of the hall, calling for your mother. She gave the crown of your head a chaste kiss and ran off to your father. You were still on the floor, a creamy white pristine as your future if you could find someone to court you tomorrow night. Pristine and so incredibly dull.
You wiped the remainders of your tears away, your cheeks sticky from where they had poured like two waterfalls. How would you go on without your letters? Without the breathing, living proof that true love did exist. But your mother was right. It wasn’t proof. It was an illusion, a trick of the light; pretty prose and nothing more. You knew this, yet you couldn’t help collecting the two large scraps of parchment by you on the floor. You held them up, pieced them together.
My Dearest,
I wish I could find the words to express just how much I wish to be with you. I wish mine to be the last face you see before bed and the first you see in the morning when you arise. When I see you, a fire burns deep within me. A desire to reach out, stroke your cheek, to scream “‘Tis I who sends you these letters! ‘Tis I the fool who does not dare approach you!” Well, I’m done with that. Truly, I am. This is my last letter to you. I will not torment you any longer. I will be there, at the Bridgerton Ball. I will find you and reveal myself. If my feelings are unrequited, worry not, darling. One word from you and I shall leave you be. But, if the opposite is true, I would be the happiest man alive. Until then, my love.
tagging: @velvetcloxds @oweninadaydream @holdthegirrrl @i-padfootblack-things @sublimepenguinpeach-blog @enchantedbytomandhenry @dd122004dd
#benedict bridgerton#benedict bridgerton x reader#benedict bridgerton x you#benedict bridgerton x y/n#benedict bridgerton fluff#benedict bridgerton angst#bridgerton
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