#benedict bridgerton x oc
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Love is Patience, love is kind
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AN: I'm back! And this time it's a Benedict Bridgerton fic! Don't know if it's good or how long it'll be but I'm hoping it's a slow burn. As always, this isn't proofread.
Also this is soooo long, I'm not sorry :)
The title is still a work in progress.
TW. None I don't think but shoot me a message if you think one applies.
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The servants quarters at the Bridgerton house are never quiet in the morning. It’s a miracle it doesn’t wake the household, Kit thinks, serving tea to everyone crowded at the kitchen table.
Because there are so many servants and maids, they usually do the morning food service in two goes. The Lower servants get first service, because they’re up earlier than the rest, and an hour later, the upper servants come down for their breakfast. Dinner is the opposite, with the upper servants eating first, and the lower servants eating afterwards. It’s only at lunch that everyone eats together while the Bridgertons luncheon upstairs. It’s short and rushed, especially for the Footmen who have to eat between food courses but cook is practised at her art and makes meals the boys can scoff down as they run plates upstairs. Mr Graves, the steward, doesn’t mind, so long as the boys aren’t still chewing on their food when they’re within eyesight of the family.
It’s rare that the staff finds a moment to converse around the kitchen table as a group outside of their respective mealtimes, but everyone tries for birthdays, Christmas and Easter, and, like today, for employment anniversaries.
Despite being the one rushing around, serving tea, it’s Kit’s employment anniversary. She’s been employed by the Bridgertons for seven years today, and it’s gone by in a blur. She started off as a scullery maid and two years ago, moved to kitchen maid. She’ll likely stay there until Cook retires, which might be some years yet. Cook’s no spring chicken, but behind her facade of cute little old lady hides a strength and energy she only allows to be seen when something isn’t to her liking in her kitchen. The kitchen is Cook’s domain. Her kingdom. And she rules it with an iron fist and all the mercy of a dictator.
That being said, Cook really is a kind and caring woman. Which is why, unbeknownst to Kit, she’s been up for hours preparing a treat. She’s had to clear it with Mrs Wilson, the housekeeper, weeks in advance and then hide it before Kit could discover her surprise, but as she finishes pouring tea and passing around the milk, Cook pulls out the plate of hot scones, cream and raspberry jam. It’s still steaming when she sets it out on the table with a satisfied grin at Kit’s surprised face.
The staff cheers but waits patiently for Kit to have the first one, watching with hungry eyes as she smears the jam on first and then drops a measured dollop of clotted cream to finish it off. They even hold off long enough for her to take a bite. As if waiting for her approval, as soon as she smiles, they all throw themselves on the plate to grab their own scone. In the hubbub, the jam spoon flies off, hitting a wall by the staircase that leads upstairs but no one notices.
Then, in less than five minutes, everything has been eaten, and the lower servants down their boiling hot teas as fast as they can before the shift starts. Soon, the merry conversations of the kitchen tables turn into orders and task lists and only the upper servants remain seated. Next to Kit, Cook pulls out her notebook and begins planning the day, and meals.
“Isn’t the new scullery maid supposed to start today,” Mrs Wilson remarks, tapping Mr Graves’ arm in order to get his attention.
He looks at his watch, a present from Edmund Bridgerton some years before, “She should be here in time for the Lunch service,” he replies, turning back to his tea, drinking the last mouthful and then shaking his cup at Kit to signal for a refill.
“Patience, you’ll be showing her the ropes,” he tells Kit, who he simply refuses to call by her nickname, stating that “Your parents put such thought in your first name, I will not show such disrespect as you call you by anything else,” and ignoring her when she tries to tell him that even her parents call her Kit. Only her brother Michael calls her Patience, or Patsy, when he’s cross with her.
Kit nods, until two years ago she’d been a scullery maid herself, and since her promotion, she had been juggling both jobs herself. It was a relief that Mr Graves had finally hired someone else, she’d be able to sleep more, and it would give her skin and lungs some needed reprieve. The cleaning chemicals she used to scrub everything clean were effective, but they were quite harsh on her. Graves’ reluctance to fill the scullery position was a mystery to everyone else too, the Bridgertons’ were more than rich enough to pay another member of staff, and even Mrs Wilson, who usually followed Mr. Graves’ instruction to the letter, had been on his case about hiring someone else.
“You should have --” Mrs Wilson starts
“I will not hear of it,” Mr Graves says, cutting her off, “I have now, there’s no need to harp on about it.”
The housekeeper throws him a look. If Kit didn’t know them as well as she did, she might be tempted to say the two were secretly courting, but as it stood, Mrs Wilson made her opinion of Graves perfectly clear. He was her superior and therefore worthy of respect and blind obedience, but privately, she thought him a self-important little man.
Before Graves could reprimand the housekeeper for the glare, the bells began ringing. Lady’s maids and valet stand up from their chairs, climbing up the stairs to the main house to assist their family member, then, the footmen stand up, finishing their tea to set the table and bring breakfast. Eventually, Humboldt and Mrs Wilson leave their place at the tables too.
After another cup of tea and a specially made jam on toast, Mr Graves bids Cook and Kit goodbye and retreats to his office, a small room to the side of the kitchen.
“I do not wish to spoil the fun of your special day, Kit dear, but we must get on,” Cook says. Springing to action, she tidies the kitchen table, neatly stacking plates, cups and cutlery by the kitchen sink and then, almost automatically, peeling vegetables.
For lunch, the Bridgertons will have asparagus soup, cold meat, cake and fruit. The soup is a special request of Violet Bridgerton herself and Cook wishes to make the Viscountess' soup of her own hands, while she busies herself with that, Kit moves on to the rest.
Then, as they finish up, the new scullery maid is announced by one of the Grooms as he walks in, traipsing mud and horse manure all over Kit’s perfectly polished floor.
Amused by the death glare she throws his way, the Groom introduces the girl, “This is Elaine,” he says, “And this is Cook,” he tells the girl, “And the Kitchen Maid,” he adds, winking at Kit, “Her name is Patience, everyone calls her Kit,” he adds.
“Except you,” Cook says, trying not to giggle
“That’s right,” The Groom smiles broadly, “My name is also Kit, short for Christopher,” he explains, “So to keep things clear, I call her ‘the lesser Kit’. So there’s no confusion,” he adds, winking at the girl. She giggles.
“I suggest you do not try to call me that,” Kit warns the girl.
“I’ll leave you lovely ladies to your work then,” Christopher says, “Happy anniversary. It’s been a pleasure to tease you for so long,” he adds over his shoulder as he walks out. Despite her best efforts, it does force a smile out of Kit.
“I’ll leave you to clean. I must go to market, and Mrs Wilson has asked me to inventory the pantry,” Cook says, taking off her apron and hanging it by the back door, she picks up her basket and then shakes the tea tin she keeps by her prized cookery books over the table and picks up the few coins that fell out. With a wave, she exits the kitchen, leaving the scullery maid and Kit by themselves.
Knowing that the dinner service needs to be prepared in less than two hours, and that the staff will descend upon the kitchen in roundabout an hour, Kit wastes no time showing Elaine where the cleaning supplies are kept and what must be done, how and when. The girl takes it in, asking any question she can think of as soon as she can. By the time Cook is back, Kit is suitably impressed by the girl.
The rest of the day goes by without a hitch, Elaine watching all she does very closely.
“I’ll do the end of day cleaning with you for a week,” Kit says, “And then you’re on your own. You managed the cleaning fine after lunch, so I don’t think you’ll need me much,” she sighs, “Right, let’s get on with it. We start with the counters, obviously, then dusting and we finish with the floor,” Kit says, handing Elaine a brush, nodding towards the chopping block where Cook butchered the pheasant the Bridgertons ate for dinner. As the scullery maid got to scrubbing, Kit worked at the other end of the kitchen, cleaning the remnants of the staff lunch. She then moved on to the fireplace, picking up the sand they had spread to catch the grease and spills of whatever Cook had boiling in her cauldron, and then spreading new sand.
Elaine worked valiantly at the stove, braving the leftover heat of the coals to get everything clean without a word of complaint. And then, right as Kit started the yawn, the two girls set about cleaning the floor. It was the least pleasant job, in Kit’s opinion, worse than cleaning bloody chopping blocks, or sticking your arm in the warm stove. Cook despised mops and insisted that a scrubbing cloth be worked around the floor with bare feet, and that the water must be ice cold, as she thought any temperature above simply wasn’t as effective. By the end of it, Kit and Elaine’s toes were numb, but the floor sparkled, and painful feet were worth avoiding Cook’s wrath.
“Tea before bed?” Kit offers. Elaine happily agreed, taking a seat at the table while Kit pulled out a teapot and two cups.
“If your name is Patience, why are you called Kit?” Elaine asks, halfway through her cup, “If it’s alright to ask.”
Kit grinned, “My mother named me Patience Katherine Byrd,” she says, “I don’t like being called Patsy, so Kit was the next best thing.”
Elaine nods. She’s about to say something else when the door opens and someone starts down the stairs. Kit expects it to be Hyacinth on her weekly trip to the kitchen to wrestle some leftover cake out of Kit with puppy eyes and pretty pleases, but the footsteps seem too heavy.
The person stumbles, missing a step, and catches themselves on the railing with a groan and a mumbled swear. A few steps later, shoes and trousers come into view.
It’s a man. It cannot be Colin Bridgerton, for he is out of town, and it cannot be the Viscount, as he left for his own bachelor house earlier in the evening, taking his valet with him. Sure enough, Benedict Bridgerton soon steps into view. He’s white as a sheet, and barely able to walk.
“I was hoping someone would still be awake,” he says, swaying as he stands two steps away from the bottom of the stairs. Kit and Elaine stand up, remembering themselves.
“Would it be possible to have some warm milk?” He asks.
Kit always liked Benedict best of all the male Bridgerton’s. They’ve crossed paths twice in seven years but he’s always been polite to her, despite her status and in spite of his.
“Please,” he adds
“Perhaps you would like to sit,” Kit offers, pulling out the chair closest to where he’s standing. He nods, holding his hand against the wall for dear life as he walks down the last two steps. He stumbled down onto the chair, crash landing haphazardly onto the seat with a pained moan.
“You can go,” Kit tells Elaine, “Go to bed, we wake at dawn tomorrow.”
She then turns towards the stove, lighting it under Benedict Bridgerton’s watchful gaze. She warms up a pitcher of milk and pours it into a cup for him. Unsure of what to do with herself, she stands by as he sips it.
Kit’s never heard the kitchen so quiet. She could hear a pin drop from miles away but despite the awkwardness, she struggles to keep a yawn from surfacing.
“I’m sorry,” Benedict eventually says, “I am keeping you up.”
“It’s alright, sir,”
“It’s not. I’m sorry. I’m sure you have plenty of work to be done tomorrow and I am keeping you from sleeping. I’m sorry I’ll be the cause of your tiredness,” he says, looking genuinely sorry, “I couldn’t sleep,” he eventually adds after finishing his milk, “I have such a headache, and Andrew couldn’t find the laudanum. I thought I would be okay but it’s too much.”
“If you wait here, I shall fetch you some of mine,” Kit offers, unsure of what the alternative could be. She knows just how painful headaches can get, and because she has no choice but to work through them, she keeps her side of the wardrobe well stocked with homemade laudanum.
Kit opens her bedroom door as quietly as she can so as not to wake Dorothy, one of the lower housemaids, with whom she shares the room. She steps around the bed and opens the wardrobe door, fumbling the keys and almost dropping it. She feels around for a glass flask until her fingers close around its neck. Once the medicine is in her possession, she leaves the room again. Walking to the opposite side of the corridor, passing through the door announcing the male servant’s rooms, Kit makes her way towards Andrew’s quarters. His room is all the way towards the end, as close to the main house as it can get, in case his gentleman were to have an emergency. Kit’s been here before, but never unchaperoned, and the distance between Andrew’s room and the safety of the communal corridor is a curse.
Eventually, she knocks on his door but he doesn’t respond. The Valets have been asleep for hours now, and she imagines Andrew is much the same. Wishing she didn’t have to, she pushes the door open and steps in. She walks closer to the bed, putting a hand on Andrew’s sleeping shoulder and gently shakes him. He wakes with a start.
“Say, Kit, I’ve always wanted you in my bed,” he mumbles groggily, grinning at her, “But I wasn’t expecting it to happen today.”
“Very funny, you incorrigible rake,” Kit grins back, “Your gentlemen is looking white as a sheet in my kitchen, you might want to come with in case we need to fetch a doctor,” she explains. Andrew sighs, picking his trousers off the end of his bed.
“I cannot be seen in my sleepwear, you go first, I’ll join you in a moment,” he adds, shooing her away with a wave of his hand.
Benedict Bridgerton seems to only have gotten worse by the time she is back. In the flickering light of the fireplace, his palour has turned to colouring his face a strange shade of green. Seeing this, and perhaps selfishly afraid for her clean floors, Kit hurriedly pours the second eldest Bridgerton a bit of laudanum. He downs it in one go and coughs.
“Christ, that’s strong!” he says, looking surprised.
“Well, it’s homemade,” Kit explains, “It’s alcohol and opium. The doses might be different to what you’re used to but I promise it will work.”
“Yes,” he coughs, “I daresay I needn’t more than a few sips for this to knock me right out.”
“Well, you did say you had trouble sleeping,” Kit mumbles to herself, not expecting Benedict to hear her but a laugh soon bubbles up from his mouth. It’s delightful but short lived, for merely a second later he coughs again, bends over, and spills the contents of his stomach all over the hardwood floor.
Kit’s fury is immediate, and Benedict knows it. He stands here, green and ill, looking like a deer in the headlights.
“I did not -- I’m awfully sorry --” he sputters.
Her anger doesn’t last, there’s something about Benedict that softens Kit’s heart, much to her dismay, and as much as she would have liked to send him away with a scolding and a glare -- as she would have done with anyone else -- she steps forward instead, placing a hand over his shoulder to place his back against the chair. As she would with her own brothers, she then places the back of her hand against his forehead.
“You have a temperature,” she states, just in time for Andrew to swing the door open, dressed but dishevelled, a cowlick lifting all but one tuft of hair on the left side of his head.
“I see I’m too late,” he comments, ignoring how close his gentleman and Kit are, “I’ll take you back up to bed, sir, and I’ll ask one of the footmen to fetch a doctor.”
“I’m awfully sorry for your floor,” Benedict apologises again, looking greener than ever and as though he might be sick again.
“It’s nothing Kit’s not seen before,” Andrew says, placing one of Benedict’s over his shoulders and lifting him up to a standing position. Gingerly, Andrew walks Benedict back up the stairs and into the main house, leaving Kit to clean the floor all over again.
By the time she’s finished, the sun is shining low on the horizon, the roosters in the courtyard are crowing and Cook opens the door to start her day. She stands on the threshold, surprised.
“Don’t ask,” Kit says, throwing her cloth in the kitchen’s laundry basket, “It’s been a night.”
“I can see that,” Cook says, “Has it been a fun night?” She asks, mischievously.
Aside from cooking, Cook’s only interests are gossip and matchmaking. She has been on Kit’s case about finding her a nice young man since the second month of her employment.
“Andrew’s been up all night too,” she adds with a wink, “He’s a handsome lad.”
“Don’t let him hear you,” Kit groans, “Master Benedict came down for hot milk last night. He was taken ill. I had to fetch Andrew.”
Cook sighs, disappointed, “Well, I was certainly hoping for something else.”
“That makes both of us,” Kit sighed
“Oh does it now?” Cook grins, turning Kit as red as her hair, unaware of how her words could have sounded.
---
Everyone else is already fast asleep by the time Elaine and Kit finish cleaning the kitchen and sit down for their last cup of tea. Swearing her young scullery maid to secrecy, Kit shaves off two thin slices of cake to have next to their drink. They eat it slowly, savouring every mouthful, but much like the day before, right as they finish, the door to the main house opens, and footsteps descend the stairs.
They’re steady today, and confident, but Kit recognises Benedict’s shoes before much of him comes into view.
“Pardon my interruption,” he says, “I merely wanted to apologise again for yesterday.”
Kit can feel Elaine looking to her for an answer. She throws her a look promising explanations later. As a maid, an apology like that can have a range of reasons, from the innocent to the rakish. With the reputation the Bridgerton boys have, it isn’t hard to imagine that Elaine is thinking more on the scandalous side of things.
“I hope you feel better,” Kit says, avoiding any words of forgiveness towards her soiled floor -- after all, she hasn’t forgiven him. She’s been up since the day before at dawn and the sheer exhaustion she has felt all day is nothing she has ever experienced -- and it seems Benedict has noticed. He grins at her.
The three of them stay quiet for a moment until the silence becomes more than Kit can bear, “Well, if it’s all, sir, I think we’ll go to bed.”
“Right,” he says, looking down at the floor, “Of course… Yes. Good night, Miss. Goodnight Kit,” he says.
“Miss Byrd,” Kit corrects him before she can stop the words from leaving her throat. While calling her by her first name is a disrespect, correcting her employer so rudely is a greater offence than anything he could have done. If word of this reacher Mr Graves, Kit is in for a telling off she has never experienced before.
“Pardon me, Miss Byrd. I meant no offence,” he says, “I seem to forget my manners.”
“Well, goodnight,” she says, hoping it will make him leave. Surprisingly, Benedict seems rather unwilling to leave her kitchen despite the awkwardness making her want to run away.
He takes the hint and with a nod in either direction, walks back up the stairs.
Kit stands there, unsure of what to say for a moment, “He vomited on our floor last night. I’m rather surprised he was brave enough to face me, I thought my glare had scared him off,” she eventually says.
Elaine stays quiet.
“You don’t believe me?” Kit sighs
“No, I do,” she eventually says, “It’s just…” Elaine hesitates, “You ought to be careful.”
“How so?” Kit asks, feeling herself blush at the situation. A sixteen year old scullery maid giving her lessons, Kit should like the floor to swallow her whole.
“I have heard things about the masters. Other maids think they’re rakes,” she says, then, casting her eyes on the floor, she adds, “At my last household, one of the Masters charmed a maid. He got her in the family way and it left her ruined.”
Kit remains there speechless.
“I don’t know what I have done to give you such a poor opinion of me, Elaine, but rest assured that I am not that kind of girl. I have no desire to run around with a master of the house and ruin myself,” Kit says, furious, “I think it’s best you go to bed. I’ll finish up here.”
“I did not mean --” she sputters, “It’s just --”
“Leave.”
Elaine nods, leaving her cup on the table. She vanishes through the service door seconds later.
Kit sits there for a while, stewing in her own anger. Partly at Elaine, and partly at Benedict. If anything were to come of this, be it rumour or inappropriate behaviour, she would be ruined and destitute. No household in London would ever employ her, and she could kiss the position of Cook, and its high salary, goodbye.
Still fuming, Kit stands up, washes the teapot and cups and climbs up to bed.
“You’re angry,” Dorothy says, sleepily, “You always stomp around when you’re angry.”
“I can’t believe the little --” Kit starts, “First that spoiled ass sicks up all over my pristine floor, then the new maid suggests he might try to ruin me!”
“Seems like a jump,”
“He came back to apologise,”
“Right,” Dorothy says, “She’s just looking out for you, I’m sure.”
“She’s sixteen!” Kit whispers back, “She’s a child!”
Dorothy sighs.
“Do you know what would happen to me if Graves hears what she said?”
“Kit, that’s enough,” Dorothy says firmly, “Nothing will happen because nothing untowards has happened. Now go to bed, I don’t want to deal with your moods in the morning.”
Kit glares at her.
“You can look at me like that all you want. It won’t change anything,” Dorothy says, tucking herself back into her duvet, “Sleep tight.”
Kit climbs into bed, huffing and puffing.
“I’ll vouch for you if Graves asks,” Dorothy eventually says, on the verge of sleep.
“Good night,” Kit replies, falling asleep as soon as her eyes close.
It seems like only a second has passed before the bell rings in the corridor and Kit must rise again. She shaked Dorothy awake and gets dressed, quickly brushing her hair and pinning it up in a tight bun. Downstairs, Cook had boiled water and made tea. She serves Kit a cup, and then Elaine when she appears a moment later. Wanting to avoid Elaine as much as she can, Kit throws herself in the day’s work, speaking as little as possible.
“Out with it,” Cook orders as soon as they step out to the courtyard after the lunch service. The scullery maid is inside, cleaning up.
“Something’s bothering you,” she adds, “I could taste it in your soup.”
“What?!” Kit asks, confused and wondering what kind of cookery witchcraft Cook knows of.
“You salt too much when you’re cross,” Cook shrugs.
“Oh,” Kit sighs, “It’s nothing. Elaine gave me advice yesterday, I didn’t appreciate it.”
Cook laughs but says nothing.
“Do you think Benedict Bridgerton is a rake?” Kit asks.
“I think he likes ladies, yes,” she responds, “I don’t think he likes maids.”
Kit sighs in relief, “Elaine seems to think --”
“Elaine was previously employed by Lord Berbrooke,” Cook cuts her off, “Give her some leeway, she’s only working off of her own experiences. The Bridgertons are different, they’re a good family with kind hearts. The Viscountess and her late husband raised them right.”
“They seem nice,” Kit replies, “I didn’t like that she was implying that I would be such a… Well, you know. That I would go above my station.”
“I don’t think that’s what she was implying, Kit dear,” Cook says, patting her arm. They stay quiet for a moment while Kit ruminates on what she said.
She’s not completely naive. She knows about these things. Maybe not everything, but she’s been working a while, and before the Bridgertons she worked with another family. She saw things she hadn’t been prepared for, then. But since working for the Bridgertons, she hadn’t thought back on it. She hadn’t felt unsafe, worried or scared that a moment alone or spent with a man might result in something she could never erase from her mind.
She’d taken Elaine’s advice so personally, like an attack on her own character. She hadn’t even thought it might have been a reflection of her own experiences. She hadn’t even thought it might be a warning on Benedict’s character. And strangely, she hadn’t thought, although it felt a little true, that the attack felt so offensive because Benedict had an effect on her Kit didn’t want him to have.
Benedict Bridgerton is undoubtedly a handsome man, but more than that, it was the boyish grin and big blue eyes that charmed her. She wasn’t in love, obviously, but he did have a certain effect on her.
“I think it’s time we go back,” Cook says, grabbing Kit by the arm and gently leading her back in to see Elaine finishing up the kitchen. Just as she throws the cloth into the laundry, they start messing up the kitchen, pulling out flour, vegetables, to start on dinner. As the sauces simmer and vegetables cook, Mr Kingman walks into the kitchen holding a couple of partridges and a hare.
“For dinner tonight,” he says, smacking the birds down on the table so violently it scares Elaine, who looks on dejected at the mess they so quickly created, “And for the family, I have a nice deer coming in. The boys are a little slow with it though,” he says, looking over his shoulder. Three voices argue loudly behind him, trying to wade through the muddy courtyard. Kit leans to see what the commotion is behind him. Carrying the biggest deer she has ever laid eyes upon, she can just about see Edmund, Francis and Frederic, the three gardener’s assistants Mr Kingman has borrowed to bring his prize.
Somehow, they negotiate the doorway and manage to fit the deer inside the kitchen. Elaine and Kit spring into action, removing chairs from the kitchen table so the boys can put it down.
Cook looks on, satisfied, “That’ll do nicely, I daresay,” she says. Then, she picks up one of her best knives and hands it to Kit, “We’ll need the bones for stock, and I’ll make a nice stew out of the organs, so be gentle with it.”
“If you keep the pelt in one piece, I’ll make a nice coat out of it,” Mr Kingman says.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, Kit braced herself. She’d only done this a handful of times, but it never got any more pleasant. Still, under the watchful eyes of the game warden, the three boys, Elaine and Cook, Kit begins to skin and quarter the animal.
Glancing back at her audience, she saw she had gathered a few more spectators. Mr Graves looked on from his office window, arms crossed over his chest with all the concentration of a man trying to keep his lunch inside while being entirely unable to look away.
Turning back to her work, she continues her cuts. She keeps going, asking the boys to roll the animal halfway through so she could replicate her butchering. Then, once she had finished cutting off the skin and quartering the animal, she and Cook moved all the meat to the cold room for safekeeping.
As much as Kit would have liked to take a shower to wash off the grime and blood, there was no time to waste. The leg would take a while to roast, even over the fire, and the kitchen needed to be cleaned, a job which, in light of the deer, Elaine could not complete by herself.
By the time it was time to return to her quarters, Kit could only think of a nice long bath. She drew the water and brought it upstairs, careful not to spill any on the stairs. Then, she undressed and gingerly lowered herself in the copper tub.
Kit closed her eyes, letting herself relax. She breathed deeply in and out a few times, then slipped under the water. Holding her breath, she opened her eyes. From underneath the water she could see almost nothing, just the flickering light of the candle at the side of the tub. She exhaled gently, watching the bubbles rise til they hit the surface, and then pop.
She resurfaced again a moment later, wiping her hair from her face. Water in her eyes having temporarily blinded her, Kit felt around the side of the tub for the little table she had put the soap and cloth on. After a minute, she felt the soft bar underneath her fingers.
One of the perks of working for the Bridgertons was without a doubt the soap. While other households often stocked soap for their servants, it was rarely of a good enough quality that it was worth using, but the Bridgertons’ or Mrs Wilson, anyway, regarded the staff’s overall appearance as highly important and hygiene most of all. They had therefore stocked each room with decent, scented soap. A treat Kit appreciated greatly.
She rubbed the soap over the cloth to make it bubble and then washed herself with it, breathing in the smell of jasmine on her skin. Then, with the same soapy cloth, Kit washed the top of her head til it bubbled up enough to clean the rest of her long hair. Once rinsed and ready, she stepped out of the bath and dried herself off and blew the candle out. Feeling more human than she had in days, she made her way back to her room.
To her surprise, Dorothy was still up, reading a long letter by candle light.
“From your Pa?” Kit asked, eliciting a humm of agreement from her friend, “How is the family?”
“My sister’s getting married in the spring,” she replied, “She’s marrying our vicar’s son. Ma says it’s a nice match but I get the feeling Pa’s not so happy about it. I don’t see why not though,” she says, “It’s not like she can do any better. He seems nice, and he’ll provide for her.”
“That’s nice!” Kit says, excited. She’s always loved weddings, and while she’s never hoped for a love match herself, finding someone willing to provide and care for her has always seemed just as good. In her books, Dotty’s sister isn’t doing half bad.
“Do you think if I ask Graves he’ll let me go for the wedding?” Dotty asks
“I don’t see why not,” Kit replies, “He’s a pain but not a monster, you know.”
“That’s only because he likes you, Patience,” she replies, emphasising her legal name.
Kit laughs, “Say, have you ever noticed how funny his name actually is?”
Dotty shakes her head.
“His name is Robert Graves. Rob Graves.”
Dorothy grins, “Leave it to you to find that out,” then, she sighs and without a word, goes back to reading. Suddenly exhausted, Kit climbs into bed and falls asleep almost immediately.
She wakes up late for the first time in seven years. By the time she makes it downstairs, Cook is already starting with breakfast. Without a word, but with a disapproving look, she hands Kit a bag of flour, some yeast and a little water.
---
Kit’s outside for a tea break when Michael, her ten year old brother, walks into the courtyard, newspaper in hand.
“Any good news?” Kit asks, pressing a coin in his hand.
Michael shrugs, “I dunno, I don’t read it, I just sell it.”
Kit grins. She takes off Michael’s cap and ruffles the hair underneath it. It’s almost as red as hers, only much shorter and curlier. It suits him, she thinks, and paired with the freckles covering his face, it makes him look younger than he is.
He leans against her in a not-quite-hug. Michael likes to pretend to be older than he is, and very much resists any of his sister’s babying, but occasionally, especially when he’s tired, he’ll still hug her. She holds him there for a moment, savouring it.
“Have you eaten anything?” She asks him
Michael shakes his head. He doesn’t need to say anything, Kit already knows. Their father’s out of work again, and despite all of the children working, money is stretched thin. Kit hates to speak badly of her father, but she hates that he’ll let his children go hungry if it means he never has to go thirsty. For every shilling that goes into food, three go into alcohol.
“Stay there,” Kit tells him. Michael watches her disappear inside, and then reappear a moment later, holding an apple and some bread. She watches him eat it all, and then fetches him some milk to wash it all down. Once she’s satisfied that he won’t drop from hunger, she lets him finish his route.
Once she steps back inside, it’s back to work. The staff having soup for dinner and the family is divided with the eldest going to a ball, and the younger ones staying behind.
Seeing as it’s only the children having dinner, Cook has been bribed by Hyacinth to make tea sandwiches and cakes, and so, Kit spends the better part of her afternoon making cakes and breads.
After dinner, it’s time to clean. The end of her evening clean with Elaine is upon them and after tonight Kit will be able to retire to bed alongside Dorothy. She’s been looking forward to it, she’s even asked Andrew to borrow a book from upstairs for her.
There’s been very little chatting since Elaine gave her advice, and as much as Kit wants to apologise for her reaction, she can’t really seem to find the right words, and by the time she thinks she might be brave enough to try, the cleaning is done and it’s time to go home.
Tonight, though, Kit is determined to do it. She’s been talking herself into it since she woke up this morning and her chance finally appears as they remove their shoes to work the scrubbing cloth around the floor.
“I wanted to apologise,” she says, staring firmly at the floor, “I misunderstood your intentions earlier in the week and I was awfully rude.”
Elaine seems surprised, “I shouldn’t have said anything. It wasn’t my place, I’m sorry.”
“You were looking out for me,” Kit says, “I appreciate it. Thank you,” she smiles at the scullery maid, “I’ll be careful.”
Elaine smiles at her, moving as fast as she can on the cloth before her feet become numb. They’ve done most of it now and the end can’t come soon enough.
“Tea?” Elaine asks, already reaching for the teapot and mugs. Kit smiles and nods, turning around to rummage through the cupboards for jam and a few slices of fresh bread.
She spreads jam on the slices as Elaine pours the tea. They eat in comfortable silence, all awkwardness dissipated by their apologies. Right as they bite into their bread, the front door of the main house opens upstairs announcing the elder Bridgertons’ return home from the ball. They hear them climb up the main stairs, and minutes later, the bells ring for the valets and lady’s maids.
Quick as a flash, Kit hides the teapot, cups, bread and jam on one of the empty chairs. She shoves whatever toast she still had in her hand into her mouth, making sure Elaine does the same, before the upper servants enter the kitchen and file up the stairs to the main house.
As soon as they’re gone, the contraband is placed back up on the table and their chatting continues. By the time the upper servants come back down, the tea is finished, the food is eaten and Kit has washed away any evidence of their midnight snack. Elaine soon bids her goodnight and climbs up to her quarters while Kit stays to chat and gossip with the Lady’s maids.
“I say Master Colin will wed by the end of next season,” Rose says, “And I wager a shilling, he will marry Miss Featherington.”
Kit laughs, “I wager he will not. I hear Miss Featherington’s dowry has already been gambled away by her father. I doubt Master Colin would marry without a dowry.”
“Kit, you sadden me,” Andrew says, “True love will vanquish all. I say he will marry her regardless of the dowry,” he adds, earning oohs and aahs from an appreciative Rose, “But,” he says, raising his index finger in warning, “I say it takes him two more seasons.”
“And when do you plan to wed, Andrew?” Bernard, Colin’s Valet, asks with a grin
“As soon as Kit gives me the time of day,” Andrew replies, shooting her a wink. It earns him a laugh from Bernard and Nicholas, Anthony’s Valet, as they clap him on the back.
“A bachelor forever, then!” Nicholas guffaws
“I’m going back to bed,” Andrew announced, faking grumpiness, “Goodnight!”
Soon after his departure, the rest of them climb up, leaving Kit alone in a quiet kitchen. She’s about to go up when the door above the kitchen opens once more.
Hyacinth chats loudly as she comes down, leaving no wonder as to who is disturbing Kit now, but she’s not alone. Trailing not far behind is Benedict Bridgerton, wearing only sleepwear.
“Hello Miss Byrd,” he says, sheepishly smiling, “We were rather hoping --”
“Is there any cake left?” Hyacinth cuts him off.
Kit rolls her eyes at the girl, earning herself a toothy smile, “I made you three different cakes for dinner and you still haven’t had enough?”
“Please?” Hyacinth begs, putting on her best puppy eyes, knowing very well it’s Kit’s one weakness.
But she holds strong, largely because Benedict is standing right behind, and she feels that if she does not stay stern, he’d get ideas.
“Please Miss Byrd,” he eventually says, “We’re awfully hungry,” he adds, joining in on the relentless beating down.
Kit lasts only a minute longer before giving in with a sigh.
“This cannot happen again,” she says, as sternly as she can. Benedict smiles at her and much to her surprise, Kit’s knees go weak. She lets go of the plate she was holding, and it shatters all over the floor, sending bits of ceramic flying everywhere.
She immediately bends down, grabbing all the pieces she can see. Shuffling around on her knees, she doesn’t see where she’s going. Soon enough, she bumps her head against something hard and yelps in pain. Expecting to see a table leg, she raises her head only to come inches away from Benedict Bridgerton. She stands up as fast as she can, taking as many steps back as she can as he does the same. They look at each other across the room, both trying to catch their breath.
Trying to get a grip on herself, Kit slices two bits of cake and places them on two new plates. She hands them to each Bridgerton, expecting them to take it up to their rooms, but only Hyacinth does. As soon as the kitchen door closes, Benedict puts his plate down and reaches for the broom Kit had left leaning on the door.
Half expecting him to hand it to her, Kit is surprised when he starts sweeping.
“Oh you don’t -- I’ll --”
“Am I not doing it right?” he asks
“No, it’s -- Sir, I’ll take care of it,” she eventually says, “You may go up, you must be tired.”
“I am awake enough to sweep, Miss Byrd,” he smiles
“Perhaps, but you really oughtn’t,” she replies, gently taking the broom from his hands, “Go up, go to sleep. If Andrew finds out you missed out on sleep because of me, he’ll have my head.”
“Goodnight,” he says eventually, seeming unsure of what to do, before turning around and following his sister. His slice of cake forgotten.
“Goodnight, sir,” Kit replies.
---
The morning has been everything but calm from the moment Kit steps out of bed. All the late nights she’s been doing have started to take their toll and she’s starting to make mistakes, from burning the toast to cutting herself chopping vegetables, Kit is visibly perturbed, but Cook doesn’t ask and doesn’t comment. The servants live in close enough quarters that soon enough, she’ll know without needing to pry.
Kit doesn’t appreciate the looks though, and she’s grateful when tea break comes around. Cook’s made it for her, a rare treat, as she’s usually in charge of it. It’s piping hot and very sweet, the kind of cup of tea that fixes everything. They take it out in the courtyard, on a little rickety wooden table soaked through by the previous night’s rain, instead of standing by the back door like they usually do.
Cook takes out her pipe and lights it, alternating blowing big puffs of smoke and sipping her tea. The women stay silent, looking around at the Bridgerton’s garden through a small gap in the gate while a duck and two chickens circle them for crumbs.
Mr Colpher and his boys have done a wonderful job. The grass, the trees, the flowers all look as beautiful as they could be in the autumn colours.
Kit cranes her neck to see more, attracted by voices out in the garden. It’s the Viscount and Daphne, running around with their younger siblings, playing a game Kit doesn’t know. She looks on for a few more minutes until she’s rudely interrupted by the duck. Kit catches him, beak in her pocket, pulling out her handkerchief which she had wrapped around a leftover piece of bread.
“Oh go on, leave me be!” She tells him, “I'll turn you into a roast if you don’t mind your manners!”
Cook chuckles but Kit, unamused, bends down to pick her handkerchief out of a muddy puddle. She picks up the bread too, but throws it away as far as she can to spite the duck.
A few minutes later, Cook stands up, signalling that the break is over and they must return to work. Kit follows suit, energised by the tea and sugar.
When they walk in, Andrew is waiting for them.
“Ladies,” he says, with a dashing smile, sitting back on a chair, his boots on the dinner table, “Looking wonderful, as always.”
“Are you pestering the scullery maid, Mr Fitzwilliam?” Kit asks with a grin, “Feet off, I don’t want to eat whatever you traipsed on here.”
Andrew puts on a look of shock, ignoring her remark about his boots but sitting properly all the same, “Now Kit darling, you know my heart only beats for you,” he says, dramatically placing a hand over his heart, “Say, Cook, mind if I borrow your kitchen maid for just a flash?”
“Only for a flash, Andrew,” Cook says, sternly shaking a finger at him. Andrew stands, knowing that Cook’s soft spot for him means he’ll face absolutely no repercussions for not keeping his word.
Andrew leads Kit back outside and leans against the wall, fishing a pack of cigarettes out of his coat jacket. He lights one, then offers it to Kit, who refuses.
“Bridgerton asked about you,” he says, meaning Benedict, “Asked if I knew you. If you had a special someone,” he continues with a grin, “If you were always so stern.”
“And what did you say?” Kit asks, stomach in a knot for reasons she can’t quite place a finger on.
“I said you had a fiancé,” Andrew shrugs.
“Whyever would you say that?”
“What? Wanted me to tell him you were single?” Andrew laughs, “I thought you’d appreciate me shutting the questioning down.”
Kit sighs, “I suppose I should thank you.”
“Kit,” Andrew says, pushing himself off the wall, “He’s charming and he’s nice, I’ll give you that. But he’s looking to marry well so he can sustain the art career he desperately wants. I don’t want to see you hurt,” he says, putting both hands on her shoulders, “Besides, if Graves finds out, he’ll let you go and I don’t need to warn you of the trouble you’ll have finding somewhere else to work.”
Kit shakes him off, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth and dropping it on the floor. She stomps on it with her foot until it’s thoroughly covered in mud and animal waste.
Andrew grins, “I don’t want to lose my best girl,” he says, “No one makes a cake quite like she does.”
Kit smiles, “Flattery will get you everywhere.”
“Will it get me a date?”
“Sure,” Kit grinned, “Why not, since you asked so sweetly. Where are you taking me?”
Andrew stands there, dumbfounded for a moment, “I thought you would refuse me. I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”
She laughs, and he smiles, a blush spreading over his cheeks, “You better take me somewhere nice, Mr Fitzwilliam. After all, you are competing with a Bridgerton. Apparently…”
#benedict bridgerton#benedict bridgerton x reader#benedict bridgerton x oc#benedict bridgerton fic#bridgerton#bridgerton fic#original fic#fanfic#fanfiction
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Dearest Gentle Reader,
The fallout of Edmund Bridgerton and Thomas Lovelace, occurred years before their respective marriages, before the birth of their children, and long before the first of this author’s society papers was published. Many have, of course, suggested theories as to why the 8th Viscount Bridgerton, and the 13th Duke of Manchester never saw eye to eye, but as neither ever made public comments regarding the issue, we still remain in doubt.
The sins of the father will be visited upon the son, and such is the case for Hector Lovelace and Anthony Bridgerton. From Eton to Oxford, both carried on the grudges of their fathers, and thus became known as deathly rivals.
It causes one to wonder why? And over what? Sadly, dear reader, much like yourself, this author remains in the dark.
It was only after the tragic death of Edmund Bridgerton, that tensions tremendously subsided. Occasionally, during gatherings, one might even notice the exchange of a polite nod between the new Viscount and the Heir of the Manchester Dukedom.
It is a common jape amongst chattering mamas that a Lovelace-Bridgerton marriage would finally put the two families senseless feud to bed. While there had been hope for a match between Daphne Bridgerton and the third Lovelace son, Mister Lewis Lovelace, it was soon eliminated after the announcement of Mister Lovelace’s betrothal to Lady Cassandra Gray. There remains Francesca and Hyacinth Bridgerton, who should by all accounts be considered rather odd matches for either remaining unmarried Lovelace Brother, given their vast age differences, and with Eloise Bridgerton's disinterest in matters of love and marriage, there is little possibility for a union between a Bridgerton Sister and a Lovelace Brother.
This author proposes an alternative; perhaps instead of a Lovelace Brother, we must turn our eyes to the sole Lovelace sister, the newly debuted, Lady Juliette Lovelace, and the second Bridgerton Brother, Mister Benedict Bridgerton, who seemed to by all accounts have become rather smitten with Miss Lovelace, much to the displeasure of his brother, the Viscount.
I am certain those of you who have not had the pleasure of making Miss Lovelace’s acquaintance before, during, or after her debut must have at the very least heard from a matchmaking mama, of her genteel mannerism, and very, very large dowry. Thus far, the only thing standing in the way of gentlemen vying for her hand in marriage has been her rakish twin brother, Mister John Lovelace, and his rather foul habit of publicly mocking her suitors.
Perhaps it must also be mentioned that this season the Duke and Duchess of Manchester have sent their youngest son away on a diplomatic trip, so as to not hinder their dear daughter’s pursuits of finding a husband.
Time is of the essence, bachelor's of Mayfair. I urge you all to try and succeed in winning the heart of Miss Juliette Lovelace before her meddlesome brother’s return from France.
In the meantime, this author continues to ponder if Miss Juliette Lovelace will find her Romeo in Mister Benedict Bridgerton or not. The answer will be one I shall certainly enjoy uncovering ...
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 10 JANUARY, 1814
#oc : juliette lovelace#fc: jenna coleman#ocappreciation#fyeahbridgertonocs#allaboutocs#littleocnation#bridgerton#benedict bridgerton#Benedict Bridgerton x oc#anthony bridgerton#benedict bridgerton oc#oc community#oc appreciation#ochub#toalltheocsivelovedbefore
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magnificently cursed
summary: lost lovers reunited. you love him, he loves you but your hand has been promised to another.
“Oh, goddamn! my pain fits in the palm of your freezing hand, taking mine but it's been promised to another. Oh, I can't stop you putting roots in my dreamland. My house of stone, your ivy grows, and now I'm covered in you.”
pairing: benedict bridgerton x reader
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You were ill of pretenses.
“You should smile more.”
And you were sick of James Brooke's sanctimonious behavior.
“Perhaps, you should keep your unwanted judgment to yourself.”
You saw the glint of amusement in his forest eyes at the malice in your tone. The grip of his fingers on your waist tightens as he spins you around, the luxurious collar diamond around your neck sparkling under the warm undertones of the candlelight - an embodiment of Lord Brook's filial loyalty. The warmth of his broad chest against your back feels suffocating, like a hand gripping your throat, impeding you from freely breathing.
“Smile,” his hot breath tickles your neck, and with every ticking beat the urge to get out of his grip and run away becomes more wanton, regardless, the urgency in his tone keeps you in place. The corner of your lips raises in a practiced charming smile, eyes glinting with false happiness. Somehow there is a sort of trust and loyalty between you.
Two halves of the same farce.
A perfect scheme orchestrated for the woman with the penetrating stare standing in one corner of the grand ballroom.
Lady Laurence has always been a woman of strong character, a widower who gained her reputation and wealth with blood, tears, and sweat.
A childless woman who put all her hopes on you.
Her gaze doesn't waver for you, even when she takes her time to bow to Lady Cowper and other irritating ladies of the Ton - a complete sense of ridiculousness in her behavior. A genuine chuckle escapes your lips. Of course, would Lady Laurence relish in the begrudged stares in a proud stance of chin raised, frail shoulders leaned back, and a pleasing yet mocking smile curving in her thin lips.
A clear portrait of victory.
“Isn't Lady Laurence a force to be reckoned with?” James' deep voice takes you out of your observations, and at the compass of the waltz, you turn around, faces close to each other.
You have to admit that your betrothed is a sight to behold. Underneath the golden shower of the candelabrum, he resembles all the Greek sculptures you are always fascinated to admire in the art galleries around Europe. Your gaze follows with artistic fascination the cupid bow of his slightly chapped lips, the freckles on his tall nose because of all the hunting trips in the countryside, and the strand of rich blond hair falling carelessly on his forehead.
He looks so much like the child who used to chase you around your countryside house backyard. A dear friend. A brother chose beyond blood. A victim of your Machiavellian plans.
“A woman to be afraid of.”
He laughs, yet, an unspoken sadness resides heavenly in his eyes. As if the mere sight of your aunt's watchful stance reminds him of the truth and the unpaid debts of the past - about the tormented heart of the beautiful and elegant woman watching in some place of the ballroom.
Hands fidgeting. Longing gazes.
Two hearts broken. Two hands bloody.
You wish to tell him all your regrets and apologies. You hope that he can see it in the trembling of your hands, the shame you hide in the bow of your head at the end of the dance, and the avoidance of her gaze. The woman he calls out in dreams, the one that has been banished in the eyes of his family. The daughter of a merchant, who is not enough for a man of his position. His true love.
Selfish girl. The voice of your wickedness whispers, but are you that selfish when love is the root of your decisions?
Immediately, you search for the figure of the object of all your affections. Your mother's-tired smile sends a pang of hurt to your heart as she dismisses the help of Penelope's Featherington to serve her a glass of fresh lemonade sitting on the refreshment table. You let go of James' arm, rushing to her side while sending a grateful smile to Penelope. The girl returns it without a single word, and you are more than thankful for her lack of mention of the faltering strength of your mother to do a simple task.
“Mama, let me help you with this.” You say while taking the glass off her hands. Her only response is a gentle touch on your back. Motherly and soothing.
“Mr. Bridgerton has been watching you all night.”
You halt your movements abruptly, a bit of the lemonade spilling on the table, leaving a faint stain on the elegant tablecloth. Still, you chose to remain silent, convincing yourself that the knot in your throat at the mention of him is not the reason.
You extend the glass, and she takes it with fragile and trembling fingers.
For a brief moment, you tell yourself that you don't care if Mr. Bridgerton has been gazing at you all night, that it doesn't matter how the image of his cerulean eyes burns in your mind, how much you long for his touch, and how a single glimpse of him again could set your miserable heart in flames.
There is no more room for foolish dreams and aspirations, or dirtied dresses and paint-stained hands. There is no acceptance for sneaking around in places a lady like yourself never must dare to go, and Aunt Carol pleading your case for you to be in a place where a woman is not meant to be.
No more being an impostor. No more being a failure. No more him.
The fire inside you extinguished at the realization of your mediocrity—the reason for all your endurance in this pretense of shy smiles and lovesick gazes.
As you take a deep breath, you realize that you have been fidgeting all this time with the ring placed on your hand, your fingertips tracing the shape of the jewelry while a bittersweet smile curves on your lips. You remember seeing it in much stronger and larger hands. Rough palms covered in charcoal. Long fingers holding a brush in between them.
You do this for him.
“You know, my dear, Mr. Bridgerton always reminds me of him,” your mother's face melts with love at the thought of your father like it always does when she thinks of him. The memories feel like weapons because, after all these years, the tomb would not close, and the pain is still the same.
His ghost still haunts you to this day. You wonder which is more painful.
“Mama-”
“He is watching you now, dear.”
It takes all the bravery in your bones to raise your gaze. Blue eyes meet yours and for a brief stolen moment, time halts. The chattering and the string quartet playing are replaced by the sound of your own frantic beating heart.
You are foolish. All these months of lying to yourself about that magical summer night, just for the mere sight of him to take all your breath away. In his eyes, you still see the ghost of his desire, the same dark spark full of passion that you saw that warm night in June. It brings all back to motion. The lingers of his touch on your skin, the burning pleasure that consumed you from the insides, and the intoxicating taste of his mouth that keeps you awake on the loneliest nights. So sinful, so vibrant, so sweet.
He has ruined you, is the bitter realization you come to. He has ruined you from other men.
Eloise at his side, dressed in a signature blue sparkly gown, touches his arm, yet, his magnetizing eyes don't waver from you. Does he see it? How his ivy has covered all your stoned heart, covering you.
“Miss Laurence,” you feel the familiar touch of rough fingers on the naked skin of your elbow. You raised your head encountering James's pitiful eyes. His touch is meant to be comforting and tender as if he was trying to pick up a wounded animal, but it only crescents the pressure in your chest. Has breathing always been a difficult task?
He is here with you, but his eyes are not the ones you want to gaze at on your loneliest nights.
“Benedict!”
You heard it before you saw it. The collective gasp of the mama and her daughters. The high pitching of Eloise's voice, the crack of glass, and the soft call of your name coming from your mother's tinted lips. You see the desperation and fury in his gaze. The shredded glass on his feet and the gold ricochet of the champagne mixing with the maroon liquid staining his hands.
How poetical.
Four hearts were broken. Four hands bloody.
He takes a menacing step toward you. A forbidden question in his eyes.
“Excuse me for a second, Lord Brooke,” you know it's time to go, “Mama.”
You don't wait for the answer. Doe eyes and a sweet smile are enough armor for you to flee from the scene in a desperate attempt to bury the past - silhouette disappears behind the open doors leading to Lady Danbury's Garden.
The night sky's dull black, accompanied by the coldness of the air on your flushed skin brings a false sense of peace that you haven't felt in months. You relished in the feeling, even when the murmurs and vivid music coming from inside the ballroom, sounds like a mocking requiem of your misery.
You close your eyes for a moment.
But you should have known better.
Whatever you stray, he follows.
“I knew I will find you here.”
You stay rotten to your spot, helplessly hearing the sound of his footsteps coming closer, the warmth of his body near you followed by the touch of callous fingers, bringing forth a tarnished incandescent glow. “Do you despise me so much that you refuse to see me?”
With words pathetically stuck in your throat, and weak sudden courage running in your veins, you turn towards him. “Mr. Bridgerton,” you acknowledge with a curtsy bow, hands shaking at your sides. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”
Slowly, you raise your fearful eyes to look him in the eye, feeling a sudden shyness engulfing you.
He is a sight for sore eyes. You decide at that moment as you watch how the strands of chestnut hair fall over his forehead as the wind blows and how his opal eyes seem so vibrant under the moonlight, that Benedict Bridgerton has the air of a true muse. A man incapable of being forgotten. A lover whose memory will always haunt the women who have spent the night in his arms.
“You did not answer my question. Do you despise me so much that you refuse to see me?”
It is almost natural the course of your actions. The soft cloth of your handkerchief goes directly to the open wound in his large palm, crimson red staining the initials of your family's name embroidered in golden thread. The silence is excruciating, but what answer can you give him? So you decide to remain silent, enjoying the glimpse of the unrequited love you gave away.
Benedict's hands are cold against yours. Elegant fingers gripping the ones with the silver gentleman's ring.
“Is this his ring?” The darkness in his tone sends a cold shiver down your spine. “I thought you were going to refuse his hand,” He breathes out, hands abruptly letting go of yours. “That night you told me you were going to refuse his hand, and tonight I found you giving him the privilege of your company. What is the meaning of this?”
You let out a shaky breath, “I changed my mind, my lord.'' The words leave behind a bitter taste. You want to scream how he took the vanity of you and your foolish dreams about his love. “I decided to reconsider, and decided to do the best for my family and me.”
“The best for your family? Marrying him is the best for you?”
The disdain in his voice makes your blood boil.
“I think that is not of your concern.”
He recoils at the aggression in your voice.
“Not of my concern? Do you think it is not of my concern after that night?”
The air around you change for a second. The crescendo when souls intertwine and hearts connect in a way meant to never be separated again lingers in your memories. If he remembers it all too well, why didn't he act when there was time?
You cannot hide the resentment in your answer. “My lips have been shut, Mr. Bridgerton. You don't have to worry about your family's honor and reputation being ruined.”
“And what about you? Your honor? Your value?”
“Soon, I will be a married woman, and I assure you, my lord, my husband will not care about the meaningless whispers.”
You wait for the morbid satisfaction that the fallen expression on his beautiful face would bring.
It never comes.
“So, you would go through this?” the bend of your head and cryptic silence is enough to answer. An expression of incredulity passes through his face before he lets out a deep sardonic laugh. “And what about your art? You cannot simply abandon all your aspirations for this nonsense.”
You raise your head, taking a turn to look perplexed. Something you later will identify as disappointment touches your heart.
“I told you already, My Lord. The big masterpiece will never come.”
“So, this is what you are going to do? Marry that man for his wealth.” there is venom in his tone that feels foreign on his tongue. The burn-in of his opal eyes and the twist of his beautiful factions in a scowl leaves you speechless for a second. “I never thought you would be so frivolous, and cold-hearted.”
You see red.
“You have no right to judge my choices!”
You tell yourself that not a single tear should fall in front of him.
“I am speaking for what I see, Miss Laurence.”
“You speak from your selfishness.”
“My selfishness?” True confusion shines in his eyes.
Of course, a man like him could never understand.
“Yes. You cannot possibly understand what is for me and what is expected.” Your lips tremble as you speak, and you can hear it again.
An invisible clock ticking in your ear. The sound of the sand quickly hitting on the other side of the glass.
“You are making yourself a martyr. You know damn well, as I do, that you are one of the more talented artists I have the pleasure of meeting, so I don't -”
“Talent is not genius, Benedict.” the boom of your voice silences him. The call of his first name appeased the unjust fury burning in his gaze. “I have talent but it is not enough. I want-” you swallow down the knot in your throat, “I need to be great or nothing. I am not going to be an impostor and a mediocre if I could not be the great artist I always wanted to be. I won't do it.”
The resignation and despair in your voice are unable to hide. And you don't want to, because of all the people, you always thought that the kind man with a soul of an artist would be the one to be able to just comprehend.
Benedict doesn't say anything. His eyes are fixed on every inch of your face.
“I am a woman. I don't have the same liberties as you. I don't have the free will to go around and try to take chances if I am not good enough.” The laughter and mocking stares still follow you every time you dare to stand in front of a canvas. “And I just realized that I simply wasn't.” You think back to a trashed art room full of childish dreams. “As a woman, I do not have a way to make my way in the art world, not when I am not the genius, I need to be for me to succeed, and even if I do, the money I could make would never be enough to support myself and my mother.”
Your mother's face flashes in your head. Her pale face, and fragile hands help you to style your hair for tonight's ball. Her false reassurance that she is okay, that you must have seen wrong about the way she barely tries to catch her breath when she walked the short length of the stairs. The weakness of her limbs, and how the simple task of raising a spoon to feed herself seems to exhaust her more and more each day that passes.
“As a woman, I am not allowed the luxury to choose. I need security. I need to look out for the people I love. So don't stand there judging my decision, and calling me cold-hearted when I am only trying to look for myself. Marriage might not be an economical proposition or a place of security for you but certainly is for me.”
You are not able to hold back anymore the sorrow of your soul, sapphire tears finally fall down your cheeks. Benedict's face softens, regrets soaping for his pores at your stance. He takes cautious steps, one hand reaching for your face as tender fingers brush away the salty river. Pathetically, you lean down your cheek against his palm.
“I deeply apologize. I have been cruel in my accusation. I know you are angry and have every reason to be.” You let out a shaky breath the gentleness of his tone. “But I would not retract about the supposed selfishness you accused me to possess. Where does it leave me in your plans? What about what I feel?
Your voice breaks and you whisper. “And what exactly do you feel, Benedict?”
His lips remain shut, even when his eyes reflect the hidden galaxy, he is so desperate to guard. Instead, his attention returns to the silver ring on your left hand.
The words fall from your lips carelessly, offering explanations he doesn't deserve. “This is my father's ring. He didn't have any son to inherit it. He gave it to me the night he passed away.”
A smile of sadness and comprehension draws on his face.
“Do you love him?”
“No, but I could do it if I try.”
Both of you know that is a lie.
“Don't marry him.” The grief is visible in his plea. “Don't submit the both of us to this torture, please.”
“Why?” You take a step back from him, backing away from his alluring scent.
“You know the reason why.”
With the condescending in his tone, you let out a bitter laugh. After all this time and all these feelings, he still cannot admit it.
“I have loved you for a very long time, Benedict Bridgerton. I assure you; you are an unforgettable man. But I would not throw away a secure future for me and my mother for a man who is unable to admit what he feels.”
You see the exact moment your words ignite a dangerous fire inside him, and soon the cold and lonely air of the night is replaced by the fervent heat of his lips. The ardent touch of his hands around your waist, gripping it as if you were his lifeline. You feel again the passion and desire buzzing in every part of your body. The urgency and all the unspoken promises claimed in a starry night where you gifted him your innocence with a heart full of tender love. Unarmed, you surrender to his touch, and just for a wicked moment, you melt between his arms. Hands grasping at his strong shoulders, inhaling his masculine scent, and enjoying the sweet taste of the champagne in his mouth.
For a short moment of loss of judgment, you found yourself praying to the sky for a chance to stay forever in this beautiful lavender haze.
Foolish dreams of a woman in love.
The gold rush is not enough.
You let go of him slowly and painfully, catching a glimpse of disheveled hair and swollen red lips.
He is beautiful under the moonlight.
Benedict notices your intentions, quickly gripping your hand before you slip away from him and towards a place he couldn't reach anymore.
“At least let me have a final dance with you.”
Your heart doesn't allow you to say no.
You will have one last dance with the man you love, even when both of your hands are tied.
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Aphrodite of Old Hall - 07
"The Ton dissipates"
Anthony Bridgerton x F!OC / Benedict Bridgerton x F!OC
18+ MINORS DNI
Word Count: 1.5k
Warnings: alcohol and smut if you squint
It hadn't stopped raining for over two days now and to add to insult, there was a beastly wind blowing through the grimy London streets. Elisabeth sat in front of the fireplace and read a book. It wasn't anything that interested her - Old Hall's libraries seemed only to contain religious and botanical books, much to her chagrin - so she looked up at every little sound, hoping someone would come in and talk to her. As always, her mind was all over the place. The sounds Anthony had made yesterday had turned everything inside of her into a hot, trembling jelly. Sweat dripping down his muscular chest and his strong arms holding her, roughly caressing her... She felt like a lovesick puppy. He was supposed to be the lovesick puppy, not her!
Putting the book down, she wandered over to her secretaire, out of which she pulled some of George's letters. At least he always knew right from wrong, maybe his words would bring her to her senses... Lifting the paper up to her lips, she tried smelling the perfume he had spritzed on it, but alas, it had faded away long ago. Like him, she thought and shook her head, a sad smile on her lips. He would've laughed at her sentimentality. Hearing gentle knocks on the door, she turned around to see a footman holding a silver tablet with a single red rose and a letter. "Milady, hand-delivered by Lord Anthony Bridgerton. He is waiting in the entrance hall." Damn. God damn that man, always coming to her when she thought of him.
She walked over to the footman and took the gifts. "Thank you. You may escort him up here." He went as quickly as he came, leaving her alone again, the wind howling around her sitting room, which Stephane had gracefully given her. Unclipping her pince-nez and straightening the front of her dress, she gave herself a small, reassuring smile and sat down on her settee, pulling her skirts in a way that looked more glamorous. The door opened and a wet, tousled Anthony walked in. "Good morning, Elisabeth, I hope I'm not disturbing you." Grinning, he walked up to her and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. Elisabeth pushed him towards the chair next to the fire, shaking herself playfully like a wet dog. "Good morning to you too, you wet mop. Did you seriously just walk here in this weather? I'm surprised that you haven't been blown away."
Rolling his eyes, he grinned. "I have, just yesterday evening..." She shook her head, blushing. After a few silent seconds he pointed at her decanter of Schnapps. "That is not water, is it? I would strongly discourage you from drinking it. I wouldn't want you to get sick." Elisabeth grinned. "You believe me to be so foolish? Come, try a bit." Pouring him a short glass, she gracefully presented it to him. "Prost!", She said, winked at him and finished her own. Clearing his throat, he raised his eyebrows. "That was... Stronger than I expected." Giggling, she poured herself another one. "You'll get used to it. At least I hope you will - my cook prepares a mean schnapps pudding, which almost dissolves, for it is so drenched."
Anthony just shook his head and took off his jacket, trying to get it to dry in front of the fire. "Have you read my letter yet?", He asked rather impatiently. Sighing, Elisabeth shook her head. "Why-ever should I? You are here with me, you could just tell me!" Rolling his eyes, he gallantly offered to open it for her. "Gestures, not words, that's what you said, didn't you?" She nodded. "Well, then turn away please." He looked at her quizzically. "I wrote it for you, no need to hide anything from me." Bashfully looking down, she retrieved her pince-nez from her bedazzled black reticule. "I... I can't see well..." Damning his wet clothes, he stood up and sat next to her, carefully putting the ridiculously hideous things on her face. "There. No need to be ashamed, my dear. As long as you can see me without them..."
She looked up at him, her eyes bigger than teacups. He gently broke the wax seal and opened it for her, trying his hardest not to look at her. By god, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen and known, but there was no way she would keep those if they were to be married. Surely, he could find someone to make a more agreeable pair for her. Then again, it didn't really matter that much to him. She knew, hopefully, what was best for her. "There you go, dearest."
"Unto my dearest Lady Elisabeth,
Seeing as the majority of the Ton had scrambled away to their country estates, (there shall be no end in sight with this weather) I have decided to take my family and go to mine as well. May I take the liberty of inviting you to come with us? I had a most interesting talk with Benedict, who has told me that the die had been cast and that he shall not be courting you anymore.
As soon as the weather will end, we will certainly return again, for Eloise has yet to find herself a suitor.
Yours ever lovingly, longingly and adoringly,
Lord Anthony Bridgerton
P.S. Oh, might I add that your bedroom has a secret passage to mine that nobody knows of?"
It was most fascinating to watch her read; her eyes darted from one side to the other - she read faster than anyone else he had known. She gasped, blushed and fluttered her eyelashes. Quickly taking off her pince-nez before looking up at him, she beamed, her cheeks reddening gently. "I must thank you... You... you love me! When are we leaving? Are you sure that your family is alright with me coming with you? However might I repay you?" Anthony chuckled and kissed her. Her lips still tasted of (what he presumed to be cherry) schnapps. She looked so fascinatingly beautiful when she tripped over her own words, looking up at him like her life depended on it. Like yesterday...
"One after the other, Ellie. No need to thank me, my love. Yes, I love you... And have to damn myself for not telling you yesterday. We could leave now, if you would want us to, I am completely at your will. I am the family's head so no, they wouldn't mind at all. Do you even need to ask me about the repayment?", He said, whispering seductively at the end. Glancing at the windows, she quickly straddled him and took his face into her soft, gloveless hands. It took a lot of control to not just pick her up and lift her skirts... She did know how to drive him wild. "Anthony...", She whispered, caressing his cheek, "I'd be delighted. I'll tell my servants to prepare a suitcase. Until it is ready, I shall like to come with you to your house, so we could all leave together..."
He slid his hand along her thigh, looking at her face faltering as a look of pleasure had rolled over her. "Really? Looks like you enjoy this a lot more..." Stopping just short of her mons pubis, she took a sharp breath, quickly standing up and flattening her dress. With a sly grin, she shrugged. "We do have a long carriage ride in front of us and, not to mention, the connected bedrooms. Now, as I've said, would you like to escort me to your home?" In his mind, he would've very much liked to just do her on the floor, but having her teasing him was a thousand times better. Standing up and putting on his rather uncomfortably damp coat, he quickly walked up to her and smacked her beautifully plump buttocks. "Then that is what I'll do, dearest. Just you wait..."
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Simon: As your best friend--
Anthony: Benedict is my best friend.
Simon: AS YOUR BEST FRIEND
#simon basset#DUKE OF HASTINGS#anthony bridgerton#benedict bridgerton x oc#incorrect quotes bridgerton#SOURCE: IG#BRIDGERTON
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Portraits When Writing Failed
Summary: In silent company, Benedict and Y/N would work until Benedict found something he definitely was not meant to see. 1.9k
A/N: I’m so slow at writing. I want to start getting at least two posts up a week but please be patient with me until I get there (: I also would love to get some song/lyrics/quotes prompts as requests-- it’s so much easier writing like that imo. if you want to send a request, i listed my preferred fandoms on my masterlist. hope you enjoy reading (:
Words were Y/N’s first love. She spoke in elegance many were envious of and had her head stuck often in the highest quality of novels. She even kept a diary of unspoken words of her devotion: poems of unrequited love and prose of unrealised potential. Those lyrics often fell with a single muse: Benedict Bridgerton.
Together, the two creative minds would sit in comfortable silence—in his house’s drawing room or her family garden, it didn’t much matter where. Sat far apart on opposite benches, there was an unspoken inspiration between the two. Their heads would be stuck in their notebooks or sketchbooks, only looking at one another when certain the other was too focused to notice. When she was not looking at him and her head was down, Y/N’s hair fell to her face in an ethereal halo that Benedict admired so much he couldn’t help but sketch each individual strand and the tip of her nose poking through. He favoured in drawing her eyes, too, letting colourful ink flow between pencil markings just to witness her mesmerising gaze in times he cannot be next to her.
When looking at Benedict, Y/N wrote of the brightest of days that could never be dulled and of conversations that she never wished to forget. She wrote in verse of the lightest of touches as they danced in silent yearning; she rambled of secret glances she swore she’d seen. However, words had failed her in recent weeks. Her diary had become a mess of crossing outs and unfinished sentences. What’s more? Where words had trailed off, sketches had replaced. Many were innocuous—simple tree doodles and night sky scenes; she had filled many of these pages without thought, just as a distraction. Though, hidden between the pages of writing and doodles were possibly Y/N’s deepest secrets. She had drawn portraits of a man where words had failed to describe him. They weren’t good, she was certain, and some even failed to capture his likeness at all, but her hand still drew with absent-mindedness. Benedict was the only thing she could draw when she thought of whimsical love and safe comfort. Those feeling had consumed her more and more each day now that they returned to London for the social season.
In their current session of silent dalliance, Benedict and Y/N sat like they always did with space between. In the Bridgerton’s drawing room, Benedict lounged with his back on the couches’ arm rest while, ever-so-proper, Y/N sat with a straightened back on the blue armchair opposite. Neither had ever dared getting closer, no matter how much they had wished to. Y/N had been told all her life not to get too close to handsome men; Benedict has been taught by his eldest brother that proper ladies weren’t worth his time. Yet, they still kept each other company in their distance.
So, they sat with pencils to paper in the drawing room, trying not to make the other aware of their subject of desire. For some reason though, Benedict seemed to be in much more of a talking mood today. It had only been twenty minutes of quiet working until he speaks. “Y/N,” He gains her attention. “What are you doing?”
She refuses to take her eyes off her page, though she can see him in the corner of her eyes as he puts his own work down. “I’m writing, as always.”
“You’re certain?” He quips his head, a hint of a knowing smirk on his face. His gaze makes Y/N shift uncomfortably. She hums in agreement but feels her face begin to heat under his scrutiny, though surely there was nothing to worry. She looks back down to her notebook and turns the page to a less criminal page. No longer were multiple sketches of Benedict’s face plastered on a two-page spread, but writings of the large tree outside her bedroom window replaced. Y/N eyes him suspiciously, as he seems to supress a mischievous smile. He doesn’t mention her quick page turning but watches her with an intent that seems slightly suffocating.
“Then you’re not too busy, I take it.” He sits himself up, patting the cushion that his legs were just lying on. “Can you help with this drawing of mine?”
She questions, “How would I be able to help?” She didn’t have any artistic knowledge, if she did it was all from Benedict’s mouth. Nevertheless, she closes her book and stands with a smoothing of her lavender day dress.
“Oh, you’ll be most helpful.” His eyes trail her movement as she walks closer. As she approaches the sitting man, she sees the book that had lost his interest only moments ago. However, she realises as she sees the page sitting atop the book, that he had not lost any interest at all. Rather, it was this page of a series of small sketches that piqued his interest when he found it crumbled up during their last silent meeting. Like always, some words and doodles marked the paper, but much of the page was filled with only one sketch: Benedict.
She stops mid-step when she realises just what it is he’s holding. He is sure he hears her curse under her breath, something he had never heard from her before. His eyes widen in surprise, only smiling more with that. She attempts to reach it out his hand, their fingers brush together. There was little contact in their friendship; when their skin touched, every stress seemed to melt away. In that sudden connection, Benedict uses the advantage of their newfound touch to pull the book away with a gloating smile. He puts it behind his head, willing her to reach again.
“Stop your teasing, Ben!” She cries with frustration and lunges for the torn page. “Just give it to me!”
He snaps it away once again. She knew better to fight him and sinks into the seat beside him. For the first time he had seen in many months, her lady persona breaks as she huffs down into crossed arms and a pouting mouth. He chuckles but is met with a grumpy glare that only brightens his eyes more. In fact, he deemed it an adorable face that he wanted to memorise to sketch later.
He could only contain his chuckles for so long to ask, “Why on earth would I tease you?”
“Because it’s horrible! It barely even looks like you!” It wasn’t perfect, of course. His nose seemed a bit too big. His eyes may be looking in different directions, she couldn’t even tell. Yet, she did capture him in all that he is with a mischievous smirk and a suit a bit too dishevelled for his mother’s liking. “And it’s the most mortifying thing I’ve ever done.”
“It’s good, Y/N! Anyway, no, that’s not what I mean.” He passes his own sketchbook to her. He nods to the closed book, willing her to open it up and look at his work. She flips through numerous pages. She was not his only source of inspiration, but enough to shock her. She had known of a few of these sketches; he had asked her, amongst many others, to sit for him numerous amounts of time. The ones that caught her off guard, however, where the ones she was unaware of; the ones she had not seen after he said she could relax her pose. “How can I be teasing you, when I have done the exact same?”
She lands on one particular page towards the middle of the sketchbook. In this sketch that spread across the entire page, Y/N was drawn in charcoal hues as she sat at the pianoforte next to Hyacinth. She remembered that day clearly, their studying interrupted by the Bridgerton youngest, asking for an impromptu music lesson. Her nimble fingers fell on the keys just the same as Hyacinth, but she seemed merely a figure whilst every imperfect strand of hair and line of concentration on Y/N’s forehead were presented. She could not tear her eyes away from the masterpiece that was made in her image. She looked—no, he made her look— ethereal.
“Please, look at me Y/N.” He lifts her chin to meet his eyes with the softest of touches. He could not bring his voice to more than a whisper. “I have spent hours studying those eyes of yours and still find myself lost in them.”
“Ben,” Her breath hitches in her throat. Her heated cheeks are no longer the result of shame and embarrassment, but from being in such close proximity to the man she had spent years of quiet friendship with. “It’s beautiful.”
He chuckles, “I had never thought of you to be so arrogant.”
She whacks him with that very book, her eyes rolling at his failure to stop his teasing. He takes the book from her hands and drops it dramatically to the floor. Y/N watches it fall, worried it would ruin any work, but he keeps looking just at her. Her nervous eyes meet his yearning ones again. He lifts his finger to the fallen hair that he so obviously adored to draw and sweeps it away from her face. “It is not hard to make a drawing beautiful when its muse is the greatest beauty in every room.”
Her pout finally drops from her lips as she processes what he is saying. She tries to bring her eyes down to her fiddling hands but his hand that swept away her hand is now caressing her cheek. He keeps a light smile on his face, but a shaky breath escapes him as the only hint of anything other than teasing. He is just as nervous as she is, just a lot better at hiding it.
“It’s not something I ever wanted anyone to see,” She admits. He swears he could feel her head lean slightly into his touch. “You just always seem so lost in drawing and I got bored of writing one day but didn’t want to leave.”
Her quiet confession makes Benedict smile like he had never before. He didn’t think it possible to grin so hard. “You didn’t want to leave?”
He thinks he’s offended her as she sighs, but she shakes her head. She, for all he could describe, had an eye of a nervous wreck. Though, she was the writer, and he was the artist. “Spending time with you is the best way to spend time in London. And when I’m not with you, I spend every minute I can be alone looking at the sketches I’ve drawn of you. Writing failed to capture you the way I wanted to in portraits.”
He trails his eyes down to the book and page discarded on the floor. He analysed just how he was captured: in between the markings and the erasings, he finally understood. He was drawn with love at the forefront of her mind. It was the same heart-warming emotion he felt any time he would pick up a pencil and think of her. His eyes left the book, trailed to the door that showed the empty hallway. When he was certain no unwelcome visitors would interrupt, his eyes finally landed back to the wonderful woman that seems to melt in his embrace.
“Y/N?” He whispers in quiet staring. “May I kiss you?”
She softly bites her lip and replaces it with a smile. The small tilt of her head signals a nod, and she places the fingers he loved draw on his forearm. Perhaps when writing failed to express her feelings, she could draw his portrait to express the love she sees in him. However, a simple drawing would never replace the feeling of soft lips on his and the slight grip, begging for him to never let go.
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Benedict Bridgerton X OC PART 1
Benedict Bridgerton x Helen Ashford
Warnings - infidelity angst, Colin and his dramatics, Bridgerton siblings banter.
A/N - This is my first time ever writing anything I initially started off with a small idea of imagining Benedict in an arranged marriage and now I have a whole story dedicated to him with two parts. I love him he’s my comfort character
Benedict Bridgerton was a man of many talents, but it was his passion for art that truly set him apart. From a young age, he had a natural talent for sketching and painting, and he spent countless hours lost in his own world, creating masterpieces that would never see the light of day.
He longed to pursue art as a career, to create something that would leave a lasting impression on the world.
But such dreams were not meant for someone of his station. His family had other plans for him, plans that involved a respectable marriage and a career in politics.
As the second eldest son of the Bridgerton family, Benedict had always known that he would be expected to marry and carry on the family line. However, the recent marriage of his older brother Anthony to Kate had made the prospect of Benedict's own marriage all the more pressing.
Benedict's mother, Violet, couldn't help but worry about her son. She knew that he had a passion for art and a desire to pursue a career as an artist, but she also knew that his duty to the family would come first. She feared that the pressure of marriage and starting a family would stifle his creative pursuits and leave him feeling unfulfilled.
Violet had seen it happen to too many women of her own generation, and she didn't want the same fate to befall her beloved son. She had tried to broach the subject with Benedict, but he was always quick to deflect the conversation. He didn't want to burden his family with his own worries and concerns, and he certainly didn't want to disappoint them by admitting that he wasn't ready for marriage just yet.
But as the Bridgerton family continued to socialize and attend events, the pressure on Benedict only grew. He couldn't escape the constant chatter about eligible young ladies and potential matches, and he found himself withdrawing more and more into his art as a way to cope.
Violet watched her son with a heavy heart, knowing that she couldn't protect him from the expectations of society forever. She only hoped that he would find a way to balance his duty to the family with his own desires and passions, and that he would be able to find happiness on his own terms.
Eloise, her heart pounding with both curiosity and courage, confronted her mother about the discussion she had overheard between her and Anthony as they strolled together through the grand halls of their estate.
The words tumbled out of her lips in a burst of audacity, "I just heard you and Anthony talking about Benedict's marriage, but as far as I know, he isn't courting anyone, not even this season."
Violet Bridgerton, her mother, paused for a moment, her eyes holding a glimmer of understanding and a touch of nostalgia.
She gently took Eloise's arm, her voice carrying the weight of experience and wisdom as she responded, "Oh, my dear Eloise, sometimes in life, love takes its own course. It isn't always about falling in love but rather finding love, staying in love, and then realizing you have fallen ever so deeply."
"What do you mean, Mother?" Eloise inquired, her voice tinged with both curiosity and skepticism.
Violet smiled, a knowing glint in her eyes, as they continued their leisurely walk through the opulent estate. What I mean, my dearest, is that sometimes life presents us with unexpected twists and turns. It's entirely possible for Benedict to embark on an arranged marriage, a path dictated by tradition and duty, rather than one fueled by romantic notions."
Eloise burst into laughter, her mirth bubbling forth uncontrollably. The sound echoed through the corridors, startling her mother and causing heads to turn in their direction. Violet stared at her daughter, her expression a mix of surprise and concern.
"Forgive me, Mother," Eloise managed to say between fits of laughter, attempting to regain her composure. "It's just that the idea of Benedict, our dear Benedict, surrendering to an arranged marriage seems utterly preposterous."
Violet's brows knitted together, her concern deepening. "Eloise, this is no laughing matter. Arranged marriages have been a part of our society for centuries, and they have their own intricacies and complexities."
Eloise wiped away tears of laughter, her amusement slowly subsiding as she recognized her mother's earnestness. "I understand, Mother, and I apologize for my outburst. It's just... Benedict, surrendering his heart to an arranged union? It feels inconceivable, given his free-spirited nature and disdain for convention."
Violet's lips curved into a gentle smile, a touch of mischief dancing in her eyes. "Ah, my dear Eloise, that is the beauty of life. It often surprises us, revealing facets of our loved ones that we never imagined existed. Perhaps there is more to Benedict's story than what meets the eye."
As they continued their walk, Eloise pondered her mother's words, her mind filled with possibilities and newfound curiosity. The notion of Benedict, the eternal wanderer of passions, embracing an arranged marriage felt like an enigma waiting to be unraveled. With a mixture of skepticism and intrigue.
As fate continued to weave its intricate threads through the lives of the Bridgerton siblings, it seemed that each of them had fallen into the embrace of classic romance tropes.
Daphne, the eldest daughter, had embarked on a journey of fake dating, her heart entangled in a web of pretense. Anthony, the protective older brother, had found love in the most unlikely of places, as old enemies blossomed into passionate lovers. Colin, the carefree and curious sibling, had discovered the beauty of a slow-burning romance with his dearest friend.
And now, it appeared to be Benedict's turn to dance within the realms of yet another timeless trope – the search for love within the confines of an arranged marriage. Fate had taken hold of his destiny, leading him down a path strewn with the delicate petals of duty and tradition.
In the midst of uncertainty, Benedict sought solace in his passions, losing himself in the strokes of his paintbrush and the whispers of his thoughts. With each stroke, he poured his longing and hopes onto canvas, the art becoming a testament to his desire for a love that transcended convention.
Entering the drawing room, Benedict found Anthony engrossed in a stack of papers, his face clouded with frustration, while Kate stood nearby, arms folded tightly across her chest, a deep furrow etched upon her brow. The tension in the room was palpable.
“Must you always interfere?" Kate's voice carried a hint of exasperation, her words laced with a touch of defiance.
Anthony sighed heavily, his gaze meeting Kate's with equal determination. "Of course, I must. Benedict is my brother, and it is my duty to guide and protect him."
Kate's eyes flashed with a mix of concern and frustration. "But shouldn't you let him be, Anthony? What happened to his dreams of applying to art colleges? You can't simply dismiss his passion."
Anthony remained silent, his lips pressed tightly together, the weight of responsibility weighing upon him.
"Viscount Anthony Bridgerton!" Kate's voice rang out, her frustration reaching its peak as she snatched a paper from her husband's hand.
“Kathani," Anthony finally spoke, his voice measured and controlled. "He is my brother, and I must prioritize what I believe is best for him, regardless of his personal inclinations."
Kate scoffed, her eyes filled with a mixture of disappointment and disbelief, before turning on her heel and storming out of the room, leaving Benedict standing in the doorway, a witness to the clash of wills between his brother and sister-in-law.
Benedict struggled to make sense of their heated exchange, the words and emotions swirling in his mind like an abstract painting yet to be deciphered. He longed to understand what they were discussing, how his art and aspirations were entangled in their impassioned debate.
Benedict sauntered into the grand main hall, where Eloise sat engrossed in her book, Colin and Hyacinth fiercely battling each other in a game of chess. The servants scurried about, setting up tea and cakes with an air of anticipation.
"Didn't Daphne and her little one just bid us adieu?" Benedict mused, his voice filled with curiosity.
Eloise, barely lifting her gaze from the pages, responded with nonchalance, "Oh, indeed! Daphne and her precious offspring, the never-ending tale that keeps us entertained. That THING’S face hasn't changed in moons!"
Colin erupted into laughter, only to be silenced by a stern glare from their mother, Violet. "Eloise, enough of your quips. And Colin, my dear, stop being the instigator," Violet scolded, her tone laced with maternal authority.
Colin gasped, feigning innocence. "Mother, 'twas Eloise who spoke of young Auggie as if he were a lifeless object. Why am I always the one caught in the crossfire?”
Eloise playfully continued to tease Colin, and he retaliated with equal fervor. Benedict contemplated joining the banter, a mischievous glint in his eye, but his mind remained consumed by the earlier events. He was barely aware of the chatter around him.
"Eloise, Colin, enough of your bickering. Lady Danbury might grace us with her presence any moment now," Violet interjected, busy arranging the crockery with precision. "Both of you, vacate the hall. I have an affair of great importance to discuss with Lady Danbury in utmost privacy."
Eloise stubbornly protested, "But I'm at the climax of this novel! Can't you see, Mother? Leave me be!" Violet shot Eloise a pointed look, conveying her wishes through a mere expression.
With an exasperated sigh, Eloise reluctantly closed her book, muttering under her breath, "May the heavens save us from such tyranny," before reluctantly exiting the room.
Violet then turned her attention to Colin and Hyacinth, adopting a commanding tone. "Colin, Hyacinth, must I resort to written instructions to enforce obedience?" The siblings sprang into action, hastily collecting their chess pieces, aware of their mother's unwavering authority.
"Benedict, my dear, one shouldn't expect their aged mother to repeat herself, now should they?" Violet quipped, a playful smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Benedict nodded, a hint of amusement in his eyes, as he made his exit from the hall.
Lady Danbury gracefully entered the room, her presence commanding attention. "Violet, my dear, I believe I have unraveled the reason behind this conversation of ours," she stated, delicately sipping her tea.
“Agatha, my son," Violet began to explain, but Lady Danbury interjected with a mischievous smile, "Ah, the talented artist that he is. Such brilliance is a rarity in this day and age."
Violet, perplexed by Lady Danbury's remark, followed her gaze outside the window, where Benedict sat on a swing, lost in his thoughts. Violet's eyes widened in realization as she turned back to Lady Danbury. "You have someone in mind, don't you?" she inquired, her voice filled with curiosity.
“Lady Danbury leaned forward, a glint of excitement in her eyes. "Indeed, my dear Violet. I know of a young lady named Helen Ashford. She possesses all the qualities that would make her a perfect match for Benedict. Beauty, grace, and a spirit that matches his own. They would create a remarkable union."
Violet's brow furrowed as she contemplated the idea. "An arranged marriage for Benedict? But will he accept such an arrangement willingly?" she questioned, her concern evident.
Lady Danbury chuckled softly. "Ah, my dear Violet, love has a way of blossoming even in the most unexpected circumstances”
Violet's eyes sparkled with intrigue. "You truly believe they would be a good match?"
Lady Danbury nodded, her conviction unwavering. "Indeed, my dear friend. Their shared passions, their complementary spirits, it is a pairing meant to be. With a gentle nudge and a little encouragement, their love story could unfold like a beautiful tapestry.
Helen, my dear sister, you must consider marriage someday," Earl Henry Ashford persistently attempted to engage in conversation with his headstrong sibling, as he had done countless times before.
Helen glanced up from her musical notes, her determination evident as she dropped her quill.
And I never claimed I wouldn't, brother. Find me a suitable match and marry me off if you must. After all, I was born for it, was I not? What I refuse, however, is to seek a love match and hope to find true love within the bounds of marriage," she asserted firmly, making her stance clear.
Henry attempted to explain his perspective, hoping to change her mind. "How can you perceive being in love as a negative thing simply because of one unfortunate incident?" he questioned.
Look at our king and queen, we all aspire to have a love like theirs," Henry argued, his tone filled with conviction, as if hoping to sway Helen's viewpoint.
Helen's eyes narrowed with a hint of pain and defiance. "The incident you so casually refer to was our mother, Henry," she retorted sharply.
“And speaking of our king and queen, have you not noticed the loneliness that engulfs our queen? I would rather enter into an arranged marriage than embark on a path of self-destruction," she declared, her voice laced with bitterness. With that, she abruptly rose from her seat and stormed out of the room, leaving Henry to contemplate her words.
It was a difficult matter for Helen. Her parents had shared a passionate love, a union that seemed unbreakable. They adorned each other with affection, creating a celestial symphony of devotion.
However, tragedy struck when, at the tender age of fourteen, Helen discovered her father's lifeless body in their backyard. He had taken his own life upon learning of her mother's infidelity.
Since that fateful day, Helen had learned that no amount of love could ever fill the void or shield against heartbreak. She held a deep resentment towards her mother, who had abandoned Helen and her brother, leaving young Henry burdened with the responsibilities of an Earl at the tender age of nineteen.
The moon cast a soft glow over the tranquil Bridgerton estate as Eloise sought solace in the hidden depths of the backyard. The late hour and the veil of darkness concealed her secret indulgence—a cigarette, clandestinely lit to calm her restless mind.
Unbeknownst to her, Benedict had noticed her absence from the drawing room and followed the flickering ember of her vice. He found her, a solitary figure enveloped by the shadows, and approached her with cautious steps.
Eloise," Benedict called out, his voice carrying a blend of concern and curiosity. She turned, startled by his sudden presence, and quickly tried to hide the evidence of her forbidden vice. Benedict, ever perceptive, arched an eyebrow but said nothing, extending his hand to take the pack of cigarettes from her. Eloise exhaled deeply, grateful that her brother had discovered her secret rather than their ever-watchful mother.
Benedict sought answers, and he knew Eloise held the key. After all, Eloise Bridgerton always possessed knowledge, an understanding of everything. "Would you care to enlighten me?" he inquired gently
Eloise sighed with a sense of relief, extending the pack of cigarettes to him. "What troubles you, Eloise?" Benedict pressed, his tone laced with weariness.
Eloise feigned confusion, attempting to divert the conversation. "What troubles me? Is it the fact that I will be out next season? Or perhaps the reality that I never had the chance to pursue my studies? Or maybe it's the secret betrayal of my childhood best friend, concealed for who knows how long," she rambled, trying to steer clear of the true topic at hand.
Benedict grew impatient, sensing her avoidance. "You know perfectly well that is not what I am asking," he stated firmly. Eloise let out an awkward chuckle, well aware that Violet would be furious if she discovered their conversation. "Haha, a funny thing indeed. So, Mama intends to arrange a marriage for you. That is why Lady Danbury paid us a visit this afternoon," she revealed.
Benedict's face contorted with disbelief. His mother knew all too well that he desired a love match, to marry for love alone. "Nonsense! What nonsense are you speaking, Eloise?" he protested.
Eloise, weary of the situation, replied, "It was something about staying in love, a string of nonsensical ideas. But Mother is determined, Benedict."
Benedict ran a hand through his hair, his thoughts swirling in a sea of uncertainty. He had always envisioned a marriage filled with passion, a partner with whom he could share his deepest desires and aspirations. The idea of surrendering his fate to an arranged union felt stifling, restricting the freedom he longed for. Yet, he couldn't deny the weight of his family's expectations and the duty he felt to honor them.
As the moonlight bathed them in its ethereal glow, Benedict and Eloise found themselves at a crossroads—a delicate balance between tradition and personal desires. Little did they know that their conversations under the moonlit sky would set in motion a chain of events that would challenge their beliefs, push the boundaries of their comfort zones, and ultimately lead them to uncover the true meaning of love, choice, and destiny in a world where societal norms and personal desires clashed.
Lady Danbury's carriage arrived at the elegant estate of Earl Henry and Countess Caroline Ashford. The grand entrance welcomed her with its intricate marble columns and exquisite floral arrangements.
Lady Danbury, adorned in her finest regency attire, descended from the carriage with grace, her eyes shimmering with purpose. As she was ushered into the drawing room, Earl Henry and Countess Caroline rose to greet their esteemed guest.
"Lady Danbury, what a delight to have you grace our humble abode," Earl Henry exclaimed, extending his hand in greeting. "To what do we owe this honor?"
Lady Danbury's eyes twinkled mischievously as she settled into an ornate armchair. "Ah, Earl Henry, Countess Caroline, I have come with a proposition that might pique your interest," she replied, her voice laced with a hint of excitement.
Curiosity piqued, Earl Henry motioned for his wife to join them, and they sat opposite Lady Danbury, eager to hear her proposal. Countess Caroline's eyes sparkled with anticipation, for she had heard tales of Lady Danbury's matchmaking prowess.
"Pray, Lady Danbury, do enlighten us," Earl Henry urged, his voice tinged with anticipation.
Lady Danbury leaned forward, her gaze fixed on them. "I come with a proposition concerning your sister, Miss Helen Ashford," she revealed, her voice carrying a tone of conviction.
Earl Henry exchanged a quick glance with Countess Caroline, their interest now fully piqued. "Miss Helen? Pray, do tell us more," Earl Henry inquired, his tone politely inquisitive.
"Lady Danbury," Countess Caroline interjected, her voice filled with curiosity. "What could you possibly propose for our dear Helen?"
Lady Danbury's smile widened, and she clasped her hands together. "It has come to my attention that the honorable Benedict Bridgerton, the second oldest of the esteemed Bridgerton siblings, seeks a suitable match," she began, her words measured and deliberate.
Earl Henry leaned back in his chair, a spark of hope igniting in his eyes. "Benedict Bridgerton, you say? A fine gentleman indeed. But what does this have to do with our Helen?"
Lady Danbury's eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "I believe that Helen and Benedict would make a splendid match. Helen's intellect, strength, and unwavering spirit would complement Benedict's artistic soul and free-spirited nature. It is a union that could bring about an extraordinary partnership."
Countess Caroline's breath caught in her throat, her heart beating with a mix of excitement and trepidation. "Lady Danbury, do you truly believe that our Helen and Benedict would find happiness in such an arrangement?"
Lady Danbury nodded, her confidence unwavering. "I have witnessed love bloom in the most unexpected of circumstances, Countess Caroline. Sometimes, the path to happiness lies beyond our preconceived notions. With Helen's resilience and Benedict's ability to see beauty in all things, I am convinced that their union would be nothing short of extraordinary."
The Bridgerton family gathered in the grand drawing room, its opulent walls adorned with exquisite portraits and shimmering chandeliers casting a soft glow. Violet Bridgerton, the matriarch of the family, stood at the center, her gaze commanding attention from her beloved children.
"Dear family," Violet began, her voice carrying the weight of authority and love. "There is a matter of utmost importance that requires our attention today."
Benedict, standing tall with a hint of unease in his eyes, exchanged a nervous glance with his siblings. They had all heard whispers of an impending arranged marriage, but the confirmation from their mother now hung in the air, tense and palpable.
Violet's piercing gaze met Benedict's, her voice steady yet tinged with a hint of sadness. "My dear Benedict, it is with a content heart that I inform you of the arrangement we have made for your marriage. Miss Helen Ashford, a young woman of impeccable character and grace, has been chosen as your bride."
Benedict's breath caught in his chest, his heart pounding with a mix of emotions. He looked around the room, meeting the eyes of his siblings, who bore expressions of both concern and curiosity. Benedict summoned his resolve, his voice firm yet tinged with a touch of defiance.
"Mother, I cannot comply with such an arrangement," he declared, his words echoing in the hallowed space. "I believe in the power of love, and I refuse to enter into a marriage devoid of that sacred bond."
Violet's eyes widened, a mix of surprise and disappointment flickering across her face. She moved closer to her son, her voice laced with a combination of maternal concern and authority.
"Benedict, my darling, marriage is a complex institution, and sometimes love can blossom in the most unexpected of places."
Benedict shook his head, his voice unwavering. "I appreciate your wisdom, Mother, but I have a passion for art that consumes my very being. I have dreams and aspirations that I wish to pursue, to create a life filled with beauty and inspiration. A loveless marriage would stifle that fire within me."
As tension hung in the air, Anthony, the eldest Bridgerton sibling, stepped forward, his voice cutting through the silence. "Benedict, you will marry Miss Ashford as Mother has arranged. It is our duty as members of this esteemed family to honor our responsibilities and uphold our reputation."
Benedict's eyes widened, his jaw clenched with a mixture of frustration and defiance. He locked eyes with Anthony, his voice resolute yet tinged with a touch of rebellion. "Anthony, I understand the weight of our family's expectations, but I cannot enter into a loveless union. I refuse to sacrifice my own happiness for the sake of appearances."
Anthony's gaze hardened, his voice filled with authority. "Benedict, you will do as I say. Our family's honor and standing in society depend on it. Love may be a luxury we cannot afford at the moment, but duty and responsibility must prevail."
Benedict's hands curled into fists, his voice strained with emotion. "Is our happiness to be sacrificed at the altar of societal expectations? Should we not strive for more than mere appearances?"
Violet, the voice of reason, stepped forward, her presence commanding attention. "Anthony, my dear son, let us not make hasty decisions fueled by obligation alone. Benedict's happiness and his pursuit of love are not matters to be taken lightly."
Anthony's expression softened, a flicker of understanding crossing his features. He took a deep breath, his voice gentler yet resolute. "I apologize, Benedict. I only seek what I believe is best for our family. But know this, my brother, love can sometimes be found in the most unexpected of circumstances."
Benedict nodded, his voice filled with gratitude for Anthony's willingness to listen. "I appreciate your concern, Anthony, but I cannot dismiss the yearnings of my heart. I must follow my own path, even if it means defying convention."
As the siblings stood before their mother, the weight of their differing opinions filled the room. It was a battle between duty and individuality, tradition and personal fulfillment.
In the quiet solitude of the Bridgerton family library, Daphne and Francesca found Benedict, his face etched with a mix of worry and defiance. They exchanged a knowing glance, understanding the weight of his inner turmoil. Daphne gently placed her hand on Benedict's shoulder, her voice filled with sisterly warmth.
"Benedict, dear brother, we understand your reservations. But before making any final decisions, would you not consider meeting Helen Ashford at least once? It may bring some clarity to your heart."
Benedict sighed, his eyes searching theirs for reassurance. "Daphne, Francesca, I fear I am destined for a life devoid of love and passion. How can I marry someone I do not know, someone I am not in love with?"
Francesca moved closer, her voice soothing yet resolute. "Benedict, love does not always happen at first sight. It can blossom slowly, like a delicate flower, when given the chance. Please, give Helen a fair opportunity to show you who she truly is."
Benedict hesitated, his fingers tracing the edges of a well-worn book on the table. "But what if I cannot find that connection, that spark of love? What if my heart remains untouched?"
Daphne clasped his hand, her eyes shining with sisterly affection. "Benedict, love is a mysterious and unpredictable force. It may elude us when we least expect it, and yet it can also surprise us in the most unlikely of circumstances. Give Helen a chance, and you may discover a love that surpasses all expectations."
Benedict bowed his head, grappling with his inner turmoil. "I shall meet Helen, for your sake, dear sisters. But I make no promises. My heart is guarded, and it may take more than a single encounter to sway me."
Francesca smiled, her voice filled with hope. "That is all we ask, dear brother. Keep an open mind, and perhaps fate will guide you towards the love you seek."
Helen Ashford sat by the window in the Ashford estate's study, engrossed in a book about astrophysics. Her mind danced with celestial wonders as she scribbled notes with determination. The room fell silent as her brother, Earl Henry Ashford, and his spirited wife, Countess Caroline, entered, their presence casting a lively aura.
"Helen, my dear sister, we have something of great import to discuss," Henry announced, a twinkle in his eyes.
Helen looked up from her book, her interest piqued. "Pray tell, what is it that has you both so eager to share?"
Caroline exchanged a knowing smile with her husband before speaking. "Dearest Helen, we have come to speak of a gentleman named Benedict Bridgerton. It appears he has caught the attention of many, and his accomplishments in the arts are widely renowned."
Helen raised an eyebrow, her voice laced with curiosity. "Benedict Bridgerton? And what of him? Should I be intrigued by his artistic endeavors?"
Henry chuckled, his affection for his sister evident. "Oh, dear sister, it seems you have misunderstood our intention. We do not speak of Benedict as a mere display of talents or a knight in shining armor. No, it is his character, his kindness, that has sparked our interest."
Helen leaned forward, a hint of skepticism in her voice. "Character and kindness, you say? Well, those are qualities worth considering. But let me make myself clear, I am not in search of grand love or a sweeping romance. A kind-hearted man who respects and cherishes me would be more than enough."
Caroline smiled warmly, her eyes filled with understanding. "We understand, Helen. And it is precisely because of Benedict's reputation for kindness that we thought to introduce you. You deserve nothing less than a partner who values you for who you are."
Helen paused, contemplating their words. "Very well, I shall meet this Benedict Bridgerton. But let it be known that my expectations are not high, and I will not be swayed by empty words or grand gestures. If he proves to be a man of genuine kindness and integrity, then perhaps there may be room for further consideration."
Henry and Caroline exchanged a glance, their excitement tempered with respect for Helen's independence. "We appreciate your open-mindedness, dear sister," Henry said. "All we ask is that you approach this meeting with an open heart and give Benedict a chance to prove himself."
Helen nodded, her determination shining through. "Rest assured, I shall approach this encounter with caution and reserve judgment until I have had the opportunity to know him better. After all, in matters of the heart, it is the substance beneath the surface that truly matters."
The Bridgerton siblings gathered in the grand parlor, preparing to depart for the Ashford estate for dinner. Excitement filled the air as they teased and bantered with one another, their playful spirits dancing like fireflies.
Colin, with a mischievous glint in his eyes, couldn't resist poking fun at Anthony. "Ah, dear brother, it seems love is in the air once again. We shall witness another Bridgerton succumbing to the bonds of matrimony."
Anthony smirked, ever ready with a retort. "Indeed, Colin, but pray tell, will it be before or after you find yourself shackled by the bonds of wedded bliss?"
Kate, Anthony's quick-witted wife, chimed in, her voice dripping with playful sarcasm. "Oh, Colin, do enlighten us. Will your heart be captured soon, or shall we wait for another decade of your bachelorhood?"
Colin feigned offense, placing a hand over his heart dramatically. "I am a man of patience and discerning taste, dear sister-in-law. The right lady must grace my presence before I fall head over heels."
Eloise, unable to contain her laughter, joined in the banter. "Oh, Colin, we've been waiting for the day when love will sweep you off your feet. But until then, we shall revel in your charm and wit."
Benedict, the subject of their playful teasing, sighed, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Pray, dear siblings, spare me from your matchmaking endeavors. I am perfectly capable of finding love in my own time."
Francesca, always the voice of reason, chimed in. "Now, now, let's not overwhelm Benedict with our matchmaking schemes. Love has a way of finding us when we least expect it."
The room erupted with laughter, the joyous sound echoing through the halls of the Bridgerton household. They knew that while they may tease and prod, their bond as siblings was unbreakable, and their support for one another unwavering.
Eloise, her cheeks flushed with a mixture of nervousness and excitement, approached the elegant lady engrossed in her book. Her heart raced as she tried to find the right words to initiate the conversation.
Clearing her throat delicately, Eloise caught the attention of the young woman, who looked up, her eyes filled with curiosity. "How may I help you, miss?" Helen inquired, her voice soft and polite.
Eloise, her voice slightly trembling, introduced herself. "I... I'm Eloise Bridgerton, Benedict's sister," she managed to say, her words faltering slightly.
As the realization dawned upon Helen, her face lit up with recognition. "Forgive me, Miss Eloise. How careless of me. I should have known. It is a pleasure to meet you," she replied warmly, extending a gloved hand in greeting. "I am Helen Ashford."
She was, feeling more at ease now, smiled gratefully and accepted Helen's hand, shaking it gently. "The pleasure is mine, Miss Helen," she said, her voice growing steadier. "I must say, I've heard so much about you from my family. They speak highly of your intellect and wit."
Helen's eyes sparkled with appreciation. "Oh, the flattery, Miss Eloise. Your family is far too kind. I am but a humble scholar, indulging in the wonders of knowledge." She closed her book gently and placed it on her lap.
Eloise, curious about the book Helen had been immersed in, couldn't help but ask. "May I inquire about the book you were reading? 'The Glass Universe,' is it not?
Helen's face lit up with enthusiasm. "Ah, you have a keen eye, Miss Eloise. Indeed, 'The Glass Universe' is a captivating exploration of the unsung heroines who made significant contributions to the field of astronomy. I find it utterly fascinating."
Eloise's eyes widened with genuine interest. "Oh, how marvelous! Astronomy is such a captivating subject. I confess I have only dabbled in it, but perhaps we could exchange thoughts and ideas sometime. I would love to hear more about your studies."
Helen's smile grew wider. "That would be delightful, Miss Eloise. I'm always eager to discuss the wonders of the universe with like-minded individuals.
As they engaged in a lively conversation about their shared interests, the apprehension that had initially enveloped Eloise melted away. She found herself genuinely connecting with Helen, appreciating her intelligence and passion for knowledge.
As Eloise and Helen engaged in their animated conversation, the Bridgerton siblings watched from the doorway, captivated by the sight before them. Colin, unable to contain his teasing nature, leaned toward Francesca and whispered, "Eloise Part 2, is she not?"
Francesca stifled a laugh and whispered back, "Hush, our Eloise is not this polished in her manners."
Their giggles, however, did not go unnoticed by their stern older brother, Anthony, who shot them a disapproving glance, silently warning them to behave themselves.
Meanwhile, Benedict stood transfixed, his gaze fixed upon Helen. She possessed an ethereal beauty that left him in awe, a beauty that could not be replicated on canvas no matter how skilled the artist. Her every movement seemed to possess a grace and elegance that he found irresistible.
Henry, the ever-gracious host, took it upon himself to introduce Helen to the Bridgerton family members one by one. Helen greeted each of them with genuine warmth and politeness, making a favorable impression with her charm and grace.
Violet, observing Helen closely, couldn't help but be impressed. Her keen eyes took in every detail of Helen's refined demeanor and graceful poise. It was clear to her that Helen was not only beautiful but also possessed an intelligence and sophistication that matched her appearance.
"Miss Helen, it is a pleasure to have you here with us," Violet said warmly, extending her hand in greeting. "I must say, your reputation precedes you. I have heard nothing but commendations about your intellect and wit."
Helen curtsied gracefully, her eyes shining with gratitude. "Thank you, Lady Bridgerton. Your kind words are most humbling. I must say, it is an honor to be welcomed into such esteemed company."
Violet's smile widened, and she studied Helen with a discerning eye. "I must say, Miss Helen, you possess a rare combination of beauty and intelligence. It is truly a delight to have you amongst us."
Helen's cheeks flushed with a mixture of modesty and appreciation. "Your words are far too kind, Lady Bridgerton. I am but a humble scholar, seeking knowledge and exploring the wonders of the world."
Violet chuckled softly. "Oh, my dear, humility suits you well. Please, do enjoy your time here. Our family is known to be a lively bunch, and we are thrilled to have you as part of our evening."
The grand dining room of the Ashford estate was bathed in the warm glow of candlelight as the Bridgertons and Helen Ashford gathered for a sumptuous dinner. The table was adorned with elegant silverware, crystal glasses, and exquisite floral arrangements, creating an atmosphere of refined opulence.
As the first course was served, stimulating conversations filled the air. The clinking of fine china and the gentle murmur of polite laughter echoed throughout the room. Violet Bridgerton, the epitome of grace and poise, sat at the head of the table, her eyes sparkling with delight.
"I believe we should leave Benedict and Helen chaperoned to get to know each other," Violet proposed, her voice carrying a gentle yet commanding tone.
Benedict's heart skipped a beat, and he looked up nervously, his eyes meeting Helen's. She swallowed her food harshly, momentarily surprised by the suggestion. Her gaze flickered with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.
"What a good idea," Henry Ashford chimed in, his voice carrying a touch of excitement. "It will give the young ones an opportunity to converse without prying eyes."
Kate, always eager to assist, added, "I shall chaperone after dinner, ensuring their privacy. Colin and Eloise can be quite the mischievous duo, and we wouldn't want any interference."
"I must warn you, Miss Helen," Eloise began mischievously, leaning closer to her. "Our dear Anthony here has a habit of offering unsolicited advice when it comes to matters of the heart."
Helen raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. "Is that so, Miss Eloise? Pray, do tell me more."
Eloise glanced at Anthony with a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Oh, it's quite amusing, really. Whenever Benedict expresses the slightest interest in someone, Anthony appears out of thin air with a scowl on his face, ready to interrogate the poor soul."
Helen stifled a laugh, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "Interrogations, you say? How fascinating. I shall keep that in mind."
Anthony, who had been engaged in conversation nearby, overheard their exchange and couldn't resist chiming in. "I assure you, Miss Helen, it's all for Benedict's own good. Someone has to protect him from the scoundrels and fortune hunters lurking about."
Kate, sitting across the table, joined in the lighthearted teasing. "Oh, Anthony, we all know your intentions are pure, but sometimes your interference borders on comedic grandeur."
The room erupted in laughter, even Benedict couldn't help but chuckle at his brother's reputation. "Fear not, Miss Helen," he said with a playful grin. "Anthony's overprotectiveness is merely a reflection of his devotion to our family. It can be rather amusing to witness."
Helen smiled warmly, feeling the genuine camaraderie that surrounded her. "I appreciate the warning, Miss Eloise and the assurance, Mr. Anthony. Rest assured, I can handle a little interference if it means getting to know your brother better.
Violet, observing the playful exchange with motherly pride, interjected, "Oh, my dear Helen, with this lot, you shall never have a dull moment. But in their own peculiar way, they care deeply for one another."
The conversation continued, peppered with light-hearted jabs and infectious laughter, as the Bridgertons and Helen forged a bond, finding comfort and joy in their shared camaraderie.
Dinner was soon over and everyone was scattered as per their interest Benedict cleared his throat, feeling a touch of nervousness. "Pray tell, Ms. Ashford, what are your preferred pastimes aside from composing music?"
Helen straightened her posture, her gaze fixed on the distant horizon. "I do engage in writing music, Mr. Bridgerton. It is a pursuit that allows me to express my innermost sentiments."
Benedict nodded, his hands fidgeting slightly. "Ah, yes, the language of music. It possesses a unique ability to stir emotions. Might I inquire about the emotions you seek to convey through your compositions?"
Helen's eyes flickered with uncertainty, her fingers intertwining. "I do not actively seek specific emotions, Mr. Bridgerton. Rather, I endeavor to convey a sense of depth and resonance, allowing the melodies to unravel the mysteries within."
Benedict furrowed his brow, his own words stumbling slightly. "I understand. It is intriguing how both painting and music have the power to transport us, to reach beyond mere words and touch the depths of the soul."
The silence that followed was accompanied by the occasional rustle of leaves, an unspoken tension hanging in the air. Both Benedict and Helen were captivated by each other's passions, yet their formal exchange left them grasping for common ground.
Attempting to break the awkwardness, Benedict ventured cautiously, "Do you find inspiration in specific composers, Ms. Ashford?"
Helen's lips curved into a faint smile, a touch of relief evident in her voice. "Indeed, Mr. Bridgerton. The works of Beethoven and Mozart resonate deeply within me. Their mastery of composition ignites a fire within my soul."
Benedict's expression softened as he found a glimmer of connection. "Ah, the classical masters. Their timeless melodies have a way of transcending generations, speaking to the depths of our being."
As they meandered through the gardens, their conversation ebbed and flowed, from discussions of artistic influences to shared admiration for the beauty of nature. The formality began to dissipate, replaced by a genuine curiosity and the gradual unraveling of shared interests.
Caroline delicately maneuvered her fingers through Helen's long, cascading locks, her touch gentle and comforting. The flickering candlelight cast a warm glow upon them as they sat together in Helen's bedchamber, preparing for the night.
"So, my dear Helen, what are your thoughts on Mr. Benedict Bridgerton?" Caroline inquired, her voice soft and curious.
Helen's jaw tightened momentarily, a flicker of emotion crossing her face. She took a deep breath, composing herself before responding. "I find the entire Bridgerton family to be quite delightful. They possess a warmth and closeness that is truly admirable. I would consider myself fortunate to be a part of their esteemed lineage.”
Caroline, astute as ever, detected the underlying evasion in Helen's words. She gently held Helen's hand, her eyes brimming with empathy. "My dearest sister, I come from a large family, blessed with devoted parents who cherished each and every one of us. I experienced a childhood filled with love and joy. But Helen, after all that you and Henry have endured, I believe you deserve this. It is your choice whether or not to seek love in marriage, but my dear, the kind of familial love that the Bridgertons embody is something we all deserve."
Helen's eyes welled with tears, her heart torn between apprehension and the longing for a sense of belonging. She clung to Caroline, finding solace in her sister-in-law's embrace.
“Caroline, you speak the truth. The love of a family is a precious gift, one I never had the chance to experience fully. I do not wish to let such an opportunity pass me by. I promise you, I shall strive to be the best daughter-in-law and a devoted wife to Benedict."
Caroline smiled, her eyes shimmering with pride and affection. "That is all I could ever hope for, dear Helen. The Bridgertons will welcome you with open arms, and I have no doubt that you will fill their lives with light and love."
As she settled into her bed that night, her heart carried a flicker of hope, knowing that she was embarking on a journey that would forever change her life.
Anthony poured himself a glass of fine Irish whiskey, his gaze fixed on Benedict. Curiosity danced in his eyes as he broached the subject. "So, brother, what are your thoughts on Miss Ashford?"
Benedict took a deep breath, furrowing his eyebrows as he contemplated his response. His mind buzzed with a myriad of emotions and thoughts, but for now, he decided to keep his newfound revelation to himself.
“Miss Ashford... she is quite... delightful," he replied, choosing his words carefully. "Resilient and remarkably strong. I believe she would make a splendid addition to our family."
Eloise, unable to contain her excitement, interjected with a burst of enthusiasm. "She's like the woman of my dreams! She possesses that main character energy from a novel. Benedict, you simply must marry her. She's the kind of intelligent woman this house needs!"
Colin, always quick with a witty retort, couldn't resist teasing Eloise. "Oh, Eloise, she's there to balance out your daftness, isn't she?"
Eloise shot back with a playful glare. "Oh, go back to your never-ending travels, Colin. Nobody likes you in this house anyway."
Anthony, weary of the banter, stepped in to restore order. "Enough, Eloise and Colin! Can you two ever be serious?"
“I don't see the need for seriousness, Anthony, especially since you provide enough of it for all of us."Eloise, ever the mischievous one, responded with a cheeky grin
With that, Eloise swiftly made her escape from the study, leaving a bemused Anthony in her wake.
Anthony sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I shall need a physician for my ailing heart during her entire season, I fear."
Colin, sensing the tension, decided it was best to exit the study as well, dodging any potential admonishment from Benedict. "Well, then, let us inform Mother tomorrow and set a date for your impending nuptials."
With a hearty laugh, Colin left the room, leaving Benedict alone with his thoughts.
Benedict found himself faced with a quandary, and yet he had devised a solution that seemed the most sensible. If he were to enter into this marriage for the sake of his family, then why not choose someone who epitomized perfection for the Bridgertons? Helen Ashford embodied all that was desirable—a captivating beauty, elegance, and a refined intellect. She possessed a resilient spirit, a strong voice, and yet remained gentle, polite, and empathetic.
In his mind, Benedict formulated a plan. He would proceed with this marriage before the season's end, and within two months of their union, he would return to his beloved academy. It seemed like a fair compromise, one that allowed him to pursue his own passions while fulfilling his familial obligations.
Deep down, a nagging question arose—what did Helen stand to gain from this arrangement? Yet, Benedict swiftly buried those doubts, reminding himself that if he was sacrificing for the sake of his mother, he, too, deserved the opportunity to follow his own aspirations. For now, he would keep his thoughts to himself, allowing his resolve to strengthen and his path to unfold.
Thus, with a steadfast determination and a masked inner turmoil, Benedict embraced the decision he had made. The intricate tapestry of his life was about to intertwine with that of Helen Ashford, creating a new chapter in both their stories. As the world around him spun with expectations and possibilities, Benedict remained resolute, ready to embark on this unconventional journey that would test the boundaries of duty, love, and his own desires.
#benedict bridgerton x oc#benedict bridgerton#anthony x kate#anthony bridgerton#colin bridgerton#violet bridgerton#eloise bridgerton#lady danbury#queen charlotte#kate sharma#netflix#shondaland#daphne bridgerton#bridgerton series#bridgerton
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Artistic Endeavors
Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x original character AU
Summary: Finding art and love. An artist and a pianist. And an undeniable connection.
Benedict Bridgerton and Original Character. AU
Warning: None. Just fluffy fluffy poetic sweet.
Word Count: 5.7 K
Ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45577693
Author's note: This is a very fluffy and poetic story about an artist and pianist, and their undeniable connection at first sight. Poetic prose. Simple romance. Thanks to @eleanor-bradstreet for her incredible insight, encouragement and beta reading. Additional thanks to @colettebronte for an early read through and constant encouragement. Finally, thanks to my discord mutuals who encouraged me on a daily basis.
*****
Take the jump.
She knew time was running out.
Her laptop had limited power left on it and she had left her power cord at home. Adjusting herself on the piano bench, she opened her laptop, resting it on top of the grand piano.
She closed the online window that held the sheet music for her last appointment of the day. Her young client with her pushy mother had yet to arrive for the practice session. She wasn't even certain they would arrive at all.
As a child, her mother would never allow her to be late for a practice or an audition. Show up on time, know your material and plaster a winning smile on your face.This formula led to a bit of success as a child actress. Her young life was dominated with early morning calls, winning reviews and on set tutoring.
She never realized this type of success was fleeting until reality slapped her across her masked face. Her lackluster television show was canceled quickly, striking a blow to whatever preteen confidence she was able to build. Soon, she was merely a footnote on someone else’s wikipedia page.
After her show was canceled, her mother’s drive to have a famous daughter grew even more intense. Every audition soon seemed like a high stake game to prove to her mother that her younger success wasn’t a fluke.
She grew to hate every line and every performance in the endless sea of auditions she was obligated to attend. Her love for creative expression was choked out of her. Competition for parts and brutal rejections eventually deflated her love for performing.
Eventually, adulthood came and she settled into making ends meet by working as a piano accompanist. Originality and creative expression was tucked away into her past. But recently, even being an accompanist wasn’t paying the bills.
Opening a new window on her laptop, she navigated to a job search site yet again. Deflation and emptiness overtook her by the time the website appeared on her screen.
This is what giving up feels like.
The room grew dark from the gradual sunset. She abandoned her laptop to flip the lightswitch across the room. This also afforded her time to decide what she could possibly write in the search box of the website. Music and acting was all she had ever known regardless of how much disappointment it brought to her life.
Before she could turn on the lights, she heard banging noises in the hallway followed by a cluster of cursing. Oddly, she welcomed the distraction. She welcomed anything that would keep her from thinking about her current situation in life.
She stepped outside into the hallway. Standing at the door of the adjacent studio, a man wearing brand new black Converse shoes was kicking the door with increasing intensity. He wore paint splattered jeans and a white t-shirt that looked a size too small. Balancing an easel, blank canvases and art supplies in his arms, his unkempt chestnut brown hair fell across his forehead. His profile seemed almost too perfect. Even though she was sure he knew she was standing there, he didn’t bother to acknowledge her. His brow wrinkled as he searched his pockets for something.
“What in the hell…?” she asked before she could stop herself. She initially asked this to express her frustration with the noise. However, by the time she got to the end of the question, she realized she was saying it to herself at the sight of him in handsome glory. It took all of her strength to summon her defenses to reappear.
Great. Yet another artist.
She had grown tired of dealing with artistic types with distracted minds and lofty goals. He probably hasn’t figured out the world wasn’t lying in wait for his artistic vision.
“I can’t find my keycard,” he growled as he glared down at the doorknob as if he could turn it using mind power alone. “I just rented this studio and I’ve lost the card already.” he snarled while searching his pockets once again. Having an audience for his disorganization did little to keep his frustration at bay. He pushed on the door in an attempt to open it using only his strength and a few additional curse words.This was not how he had planned for this new adventure to unfold.
“Why didn’t you make two trips from your car? It would be easier to find the key card if you didn’t have so much of your stuff with you.” The man obviously needed a little bit of logic in his life and she was more than happy to provide it.
Feeling the muscles in his jaw tighten, he shook the doorknob again. Her smug suggestions were the last thing he wanted to hear. Drawing a deep breath, he slowly released it in a vain attempt to settle the uneasy feeling in his stomach.
He glimpsed over to her. Taking a double take in her direction, he couldn’t quite believe what he had seen at first glance. He had never seen a woman who was so uniquely mesmerizing, yet he was struck with the feeling he had seen her before. His frustration with her chastising melted away.
His mind was too busy with lightning bolt thoughts of this woman to make room for conversation. But it seemed crucial to hear her voice again. Her youthful face betrayed her tight updo and skirt that was a bit too long for such a petite frame. She seemed like a child playing dress up and pretending to be a part of a grown-up world.
He didn’t take notice he had dropped all of his art supplies onto the floor with a crash. He was awestruck as her face eased into an amused smile.
There she is.
She pulled her own keycard out of her pocket. Stepping over his pile of art supplies littering the floor, she carefully kept her balance while wearing high heels. She jammed herself into the small space between his door and his body. She could feel his toned torso against her back as he didn’t step backward to allow her more room. His uneven breathing with his electric exhales washed over her neck.
She slowly pushed her keycard into his door. It unlocked with a click that startled both of them. Standing silently against his body, she hesitated. They sensed the magnetism between the two of them.
She caught his scent. She couldn’t quite place the essence, but the aura of it seemed to speak to her silently. Shaking her head, she reminded herself, encounters like this are rarely meaningful, usually merely an illusion of something significant. Adhering a smile across her face, she turned to face him. She pushed the door open and held out her arm to invite him into his empty darkened art studio.
“What kind of sorcery is this?” he flirtatiously asked as he gave her a wink. At least, she thought it was a wink. She couldn’t be sure. He pushed past her, pulling his art supplies through the doorway with him. There was just enough light beaming in from the hallway for her to catch his genuine crooked smirk.It beckoned her to follow him into the room behind him. Dropping his art supplies haphazardly on the floor, he looked up to gaze at her through his long eyelashes.
His smile. His chaos. And his captivating eyes.
He was a plot twist she simply couldn’t allow. She abruptly glanced at the floor, folding her arms across her chest.
“Security isn’t great around here,” she proclaimed. “All the keycards unlock all doors. Make sure you don’t leave anything valuable behind in your studio,” she warned stoically. “Welcome to the building” she added to avoid coming off too harsh. She eyed the door leading to the hallway outside of his room.
“Thanks!” he said enthusiastically. She was such a mystery and he felt compelled to unravel who she was. He explored her face. She couldn’t hide her kind eyes.
“Who are you?” he asked.
He stared at her expectedly. The way he leaned in for her answer left her frazzled and unnerved.
“I rent the music studio next to your art studio. I’m sure the building manager mentioned that the building holds both. But as you can tell by the keycard loophole, I can’t be sure of what they told you.” She smiled at him despite herself.
Even though he was frustrated that she didn’t offer her name, her smile left him intoxicated. He decided to change tactics.
“I’m Benedict.” The empty room echoed his voice, stunning her unexpectedly.
”Nice to meet you.” It was the most genuine thing she had said all day.
A sigh of exasperation escaped his lips. “So, music studio, huh? What instrument do you play?”
Pushing a rogue lock of her hair behind her ear, she took a step forward to shorten the distance between them. It felt essential that she moved closer to him. She gave it a second thought and took a step back.
“I play piano. For now.”
“You plan to stop?” He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw her wince at his question. She was mentally playing “hide and seek”. He felt a compulsion to seek. He tilted his head as he asked, “Have you composed anything good lately?”
His rapid fire questions were those she didn’t even want to ask herself.
“No.” She quickly began retreating to her music studio. She blurted over her shoulder. “I’m an accompanist. I don’t write anymore. I have a client arriving anytime now. Excuse me.” She bolted to her studio and closed the door. The dim room was still. She took a cleansing breath as she turned on the lights.
What was that?
The silence was shattered by the cellphone on her piano as it buzzed with a text. Her hands were still shaking when she picked it up to read “Sorry for the last minute cancellation. We can’t make it.”
She felt thankful for the opportunity to recuperate from meeting the charming, chaotic man with the crooked smile and prying questions. Her own feelings suddenly seemed foreign to her.
She walked over to the window in her studio. Pressing her forehead against the cool glass, she attempted to refocus her mind. Replaying every sentence and every look from moments before, she fought to find logic in a situation that defied rationale. Unsuccessful, she pushed up the window from its sill. She needed the fresh night to chill her face.
Turning toward the grand piano in the room, she stared at the piano keys. They seemed like strangers to her. Her mind flashed a memory of her childhood, when they felt like extensions of her own hands and her own soul.
Once upon a time. But fairy tales don’t come true.
She sat down and placed her fingertips on the keys. It had been such a long time since she had played an original song. Maybe it was like riding a bike. Maybe she could get back to it without giving it a second thought. She was growing tired of second thoughts.
*****
Benedict closed the door behind him while flipping on the light switch. He inhaled to focus himself, but his fixation remained on her scent she left behind. Her fragrance steadied his chaotic mind. The rushing current of his thoughts had been stilled by the reminisce of her presence.
He glanced around the empty room, reminding himself that his purpose for renting the studio was to have a place to paint without distractions and without expectations. His hope for no distractions was already dashed by the woman with the magic keycard who pretended to be harsher than she truly was. After experiencing her cold demeanor toward him, he also held no expectations.
He eyed the new art supplies scattered haphazardly across the floor. A fresh perspective required new materials. And a new creative approach was exactly his goal.
From the moment he picked up his first paintbrush as a child, he was driven to create art in order to gain favor with the people around him. He knew he had been lucky to be born into a life of affluence and opulence. He felt the need to earn his given advantages even though no one had ever voiced an expectation for him to do so. So every piece of art came from a place of wanting to prove his lot in life was earned. He had never known what it felt like to create for his own soul.
He placed a blank canvas on his easel and took a cleansing breath.
White. Empty. Barren.
The canvas in front of Benedict reflected how he felt about his art. Preparing himself for incoming inspiration, he gathered his supplies. His crisp paintbrush lingered awkwardly in his hand. Staring down the canvas, he searched his mind for a memory. He searched for colors. For structure. For chaos. For meaning. For anything he could apply to the canvas.
Fade to white.
With a growl, he threw the canvas across his art studio. As the crash echoed against the wall, he was overcome with regret. The thin walls risked disturbing the fascinating woman who was waiting for her client. He had disturbed her enough for one day.
He considered packing the art supplies away. They weren’t going to be any use to him that day.
*****
She silently caressed the keys of the piano without pressing them to make a sound. The keys felt charged. Even though there was no audible music to be heard, she sensed a distant melody in her mind. The air around her hummed. Could it be her mind was creating this song, defying how she had tried to will her creativity into hibernation?
She pressed the keys to play the melody. It was as if she wasn’t playing the song, but it was being fed to her from the shifting air around her.
The inspiration for it seemed to come from nowhere and all she had to do was breathe it in. This song was different from everything she had played before in order to impress others, and every well-worn song she had taught to pupils. This song was hers.
She felt the need to frame the song with words. Frantically, she pulled her appointment book from the top of the piano and tore out one of the pages. She found an empty space and began writing the few words she needed to put the song into context. The words came to her as naturally as the music.
Feeling as though she was risking losing her newfound song altogether, she also jotted the melody and the chords to capture them forever before they flew away as quickly as they arrived.
Placing her hands on the keys, she continued to compose the song. It brought with it a freedom she had never felt. She no longer felt she had to hide behind a smile that didn’t belong to her.
Closing her eyes, she saw fleeting images of his slow grin that gave birth to the smile lines framing his gunmetal gray eyes. They played like a memory from long ago, even though she had just met him.
The intensity of these new emotions overwhelmed her, shocking her as she played. The ballad was a paradox of caution and hope. The dissonance eased into contentment that comforted her into believing that she was enough.
Enough?
She pulled her hands from the keys as if they were on fire. Moments before, she never knew of his existence. And now, he was a key unlocking who she really was in those moments alone with herself. Slamming the cover over the keyboard, she had to get away before she started to believe in the power of her dreams. It was a risk she didn’t want to take. She grabbed her belongings and bolted for the hallway, leaving the studio for the day.
*****
The silence of Benedict’s studio was interrupted by a delicate distant melody. He froze in place as he strained to hear the song. The notes danced over his head, and he couldn’t be sure he wasn’t imagining it inside his own mind.
Closing his eyes, he attempted to heighten his sense of hearing. It seemed as though he was breathing the song into his lungs, melting into his flesh and blood.
Without hesitation, he retrieved the empty canvas from its haphazard grave against the wall. He couldn’t place the paint on his palette quickly enough. Taking his pristine brush in his hand, he mixed the colors without forethought or plan. The music offered to paint the picture for him. And so he let it.
Her kind eyes.
He had no idea how much time had passed since the music began. The music and the paint seemed to blend as one. Blues, purples, whites, pinks, yellows. The colors blended as if to form colors that hadn’t yet existed in his world.
The music stopped and so did he.
The silence was agonizing. He dropped his brush to his side as stillness overtook the room again. Taking a step back, he inspected what the painting- the music- had created. One word came to mind.
Lavender.
The painting was a different style and color palette than he’d ever painted before. The color palette was abstract just as his sudden feeling for her was abstract.
Benedict hungered to feel what he felt just a few moments before. His stomach tightened at the possibility he would never feel the melody again. He dashed from the room to find that music.
To find her.
Her door was left ajar and he charged into the room without knocking. Scanning the room, he saw she was gone, and she had taken her melody with her. All that remained was a grand piano with the keys shut. On the floor, he found a ripped piece of paper. It was a calendar sheet with a list of appointments for the day. He read the word written at the top of the page.
Jasmine.
Further down the page, he saw music notes written on a staff. The written music notes looked like artwork to his creative eye. He didn’t know how to play the notes on the page, but he could see the art in them all the same. Below the music notes in a decidedly feminine handwriting, he read:
His scent came to me as night blooming jasmine
awaking just beyond my sill
Bringing inspiration unseen with eyes
An unknown destiny to fulfill.
He scanned the empty studio again as if he could will her to reappear. Holding the paper, he dashed across the studio and peered out of the window. Perhaps he could call to her to keep her from leaving. As he searched the parking lot illuminated with glaring lights, he realized he wouldn’t get that chance. The only car in the parking lot belonged to him.
He studied her music and words written on the page. He breathed in its scent. He caught her essence mixed with the jasmine blooming outside of the window. Suddenly, he understood the awakening in his soul. She was his lavender. And he wanted to be her nighttime jasmine.
He folded the paper and put it in his pocket as it slipped next to his keycard.
*****
She spent a sleepless night trying unsuccessfully to escape from her emotions. His airy nature had stirred something within her she couldn’t identify. She wanted to borrow his lightness. Her heart had grown so weary of maintaining her facade. Some intangible essence in him reminded her of the person she truly was.
As the sun rose, she searched for her haphazardly written music and lyrics. It was the only concrete evidence to remind her that she didn’t just imagine the song and her effervescence. But it was gone and her fears of losing her creativity returned.
Throwing on jeans and a purple t-shirt, and pushing her hair into a casual ponytail, she rushed to the studio building in search of her notes.
In her frantic rush down the hallway to her music studio, she went to the wrong studio. His art studio. She smiled to herself when she realized he hadn’t locked the door. The day before, she would have rolled her eyes at his irresponsibility. Suddenly, she now found it endearing. She chuckled as she remembered she had left her door unlocked the day before as well.
Her eyes were drawn to a painting resting on his easel next to the window. The painting that was illuminated by the light flooding in from the window was compelling enough to make her stop in her tracks and get lost in its colors. The structure. The lack of structure. She couldn’t form words in her mind to describe it because she felt ill equipped to do so. Even though it wasn’t overtly obvious or apparent, it reminded her of lavender.
And jasmine?
Looking closely at the painting, she felt safe in its world. Even though the idea seemed foolish, she wanted to live in the painting. She impulsively reached out and touched the canvas.
The paint wasn’t completely dry and the colors landed on her fingertips. It made her want to be a part of the painting even more. She secretly hoped the paint would somehow absorb into her skin and become a permanent part of her. A need grew in her that she needed to blend that painting into every song she wrote.
Could it be that the handsome artist she had sneered at yesterday was capable of creating such a masterpiece? She glimpsed the bottom of the painting.
Benedict.
She knew it was reckless, but she had already made peace with the fact that newfound irrational behavior had now become a part of her makeup. She took the painting with her to her studio. She wanted to play her song in the company of that painting hoping it would spur her own creativity and help her finish the piece.
When she arrived back inside her studio, she searched for the sheet music. It was gone. Even with the spellbinding painting resting against the wall in front of her, her confidence waned. Would she ever get the melody -the feeling- back?
She carefully placed the painting on the floor where she could see it from her piano bench. Taking a deep breath, she uncovered the keys on the piano. She dove into the song and let the wave of the notes carry her.
For the first time, her eyes were wide open as she played her music. She wanted to take in the energy promenading breezily from the canvas. Staring at the painting, she was overcome with its beauty. As she finished her song, she remained lost in his masterpiece.
*****
He arrived at the studio not even noticing the door was unlocked. The deafening silence disappointed him as he strained to listen for the music that inspired him so deeply. He needed her song to finish his painting. He needed her.
The empty easel next to the window mocked his desire for contentment. He frantically searched for the painting in the pile of blank canvases. It was gone. He should have remembered to lock his damn door, just as she had warned him. Now someone had taken his work and he didn't know if he would ever get it back.
He shook his head, as he sauntered to the window. Leaning his head on his forearm against the glass, he remembered searching for her through her window the night before. Would he always be searching for her as she continued to hide her true self behind those kind eyes?
The frenzied mourning of the loss of the painting and his inspiration invaded his mind. His stomach tightened as it layered over his yearning for her, the absent feeling of not being with her in that moment.
Turning back to his empty easel, he picked up his palette. He touched the slightly wet paint on the palette, coloring his fingertips with its hues.
Suddenly, he heard the whisper of the song. Tentative at first, it grew stronger with each line. He thought he was imagining the song just as he thought he had imagined painting the picture the day before.
Contentment and passion found a way to coexist in his heart. Placing his hand over his mouth, he held his breath in an irrational attempt to silence every minute sound in the room. He turned toward the open door. Knowing that he couldn’t face losing the music again, he darted toward her studio.
As she replayed the song, it was as if she was hearing music for the first time. And it was coming from her. It was coming from her and Benedict.
The door swung open, startling her. As she stopped playing, her fingers still tingled from the memory of their creation.
She felt his tender gaze as his hand gripped the door frame. Her contentment in his presence overtook her desire to hide herself. His breezy charm released her from that ever present shield.
She searched for something to say. He seemed so expectant. She wanted her response to his stare to be meaningful. Searching for words that could possibly describe her overwhelming feelings, only one word escaped her lips.
“Benedict.”
The sound of her voice had somehow changed. His name sounded like a melody when she spoke it.
“I’m so sorry,” she stammered.
“Why?” The distance between them amplified his longing for her. He had to close every space between them. Without breaking his gaze at her, he slowly walked toward her as she spoke.
“Your painting.” She continued, “The sheet music is gone. I wasn’t able to find the song again.” Glancing downward, she added, “until I saw your painting.”
As he glimpsed toward the painting, it felt like a distant memory that had leapt into that very moment.
He couldn’t divert his eyes from her for very long. His yearning stare accompanied by his knowing smile awakened a newborn passion in her. She felt an unspoken love letter in his gaze.
Her mask had been tossed away just as the constricting clothes and pinned up hair were now a memoir of who she used to be.
The confession from her seemed genuine and pure. “This is so new to me. The music, your painting, and..” she took a cleansing breath as she unveiled her new truth to the two of them, “you.”
He felt as though she was speaking his thoughts through her lips.
Her mouth.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the sheet music.
“I’m sorry I took your sheet music. I can’t explain why I felt like I needed to take it.” He took her hand in his and placed her music into her open palm. “Will you play it?”
“Of course,” she smiled without any sense of the hesitation that had once made its home inside her for so long. She gazed into his attentive eyes as she placed her fingers onto the piano keys. Taking a moment to center herself, she gave into his watchful eyes.
She felt him in her heart even though she had never touched his skin. The spark in his gaze inspired her as she placed her fingers onto the piano keys. The light from him gave her life as the sun gives life to a flower.
She began to play their song as he watched her fingers dance across the keys. As she played the ballad, the melody seemed to play across his heart strings. He fought the urge to reach out to her and pull her to him, but he didn’t want the music to stop. Her body was untouchable while her music was accessible.
She took her hands from the piano and looked at him, unafraid of his reaction.
“How did you do that?” His question was accented with his boyish smile. “It must be wonderful to have that living in you.”
“It hasn’t been living in me. It has been dormant in me.” She confidently added, “Until now.”
“I wish I could play piano so that I could be a part of something that beautiful.” His yearning was for both her song and her spirit.
“Come here,” she said as she reached for his forearm. “Your painting inspired it. You should be a part of it.” She pulled him to stand behind her as she played, feeling his tall frame crowd around her back.
She reached back, and took his hands and placed them over hers on the keys of the piano. As she aligned his fingers, he flipped her hands over so he could see her fingertips.
“You have paint on your fingertips.” He looked at the keys. “It’s on the piano keys from when you were playing the song.”
Pulling her hands into fists, she tried to hide the colors that had landed there.
“I saw your painting. I couldn’t resist touching it. I didn’t know the paint wasn’t completely dry. I’m afraid I left my fingerprints on your painting.”
He reached to her clasped hands and unfurled her fingers to once again reveal its colors. He gently stroked her fingers while inspecting the colors from his painting on her skin.
“Your fingerprints were all over the painting before you ever saw it.”
He squeezed her hand and noticed the paint from his art palette on his fingertips was tinting both of their hands.
“You too?” she whispered as she traced her fingers across the colors on his hands. A subtle smile found its way to her lips as she once again conformed his hands over hers.
She began playing the song with her painted fingertips as he placed his long fingers over hers. She closed her eyes as his body enclosed her from behind. Her breaths quickened as she felt his head resting into the curve of her neck. As the stubble on his face rubbed against her skin, his exhales found their way into her ear.
As soon as the song ended, he stood upright, trailing his hands up her arms and resting them on her shoulders. Overcome by an urgent need to erase the space between them, she stood and walked around the piano bench into his waiting arms. His breathing became ragged as he traced the curve of her face leaving a path of color in its wake.
His pulse quickened as her face softened into a contented smile. As he looked into her eyes, he knew he had found her. Open and trusting. He knew he belonged to only her.
Unable to resist her lips, he leaned down and brushed a sweet and feathery kiss onto her mouth. Her body arched toward him and asked him to caress her lips again and again with his kisses. Kissing her seemed instinctual, as if his desire for her was written into his DNA.
Cradling her head, he released her ponytail, freeing her hair. As he brought his hand to stroke her hair, he gave her the kisses that her lips craved. A cold shiver went up his spine contrasting against the warm flush of her face.
The rhythm of her breathing pushed her passion toward him and his desire to kiss her became more insistent. The touch of her fingertips pressing into his back invited him to court her with his affectionate kisses.
She pulled herself from his kisses resting her cheek against his chest. She seemed to be giving them a respite from the passion that had overtaken them. He breathed in the clean wafting scent of her hair that somehow seemed familiar. He lingered in the moment with the anticipation of watching a distant wave as it made it way closer, crashing onto the shore.
When his kisses could wait no longer, he guided her face upward. The two of them were thunder and lightning and wind and flooding all at once as they gave into their passions for each other.
Catching her breath, she murmured into his mouth, “Thank God I kept a place in my music for your magic.”
He pulled away to afford a better look at her face. Her paint smeared gaze was music to his soul. He couldn’t help but smile and shake his head to revel at his good fortune.
Leaning forward, he huskily murmured into her ear, “I want your hues in everything I paint.”
He nuzzled his stubbled cheek against her face. “Let's start with this,” he said as he motioned toward the painting and the piano without releasing his easy hold that held her. “What should we call the song?” He pulled back to witness the smile that he sensed was dawning across her face.
She laced her fingers around his neck and countered, “What did you call your painting?”
“Lavender. And your song is Jasmine?” She gave him a questioning look. “It was written on the paper.”
A flash of an idea appeared across her face.
“Lavender and Jasmine?” she giggled.
“Same title for both of them? The song and the painting!”
For both.
For the first time, she no longer felt a dissonance in the pit of her stomach. He had led her to a place where she could discover what she had to say with her music. She could now lean into the creativity that brought her true happiness.
He glanced over at the painting and realized that it was the first time he had painted something for himself. The perceived judgements, and obligations toward his family’s fortunes were now out of the picture. Their respect and admiration didn’t need to be earned. It was art for art’s sake.
Turning away from the painting, he planted a sweet loving kiss onto her forehead.
“So, do you think we should talk to the landlord about fixing the keycards?” he teased.
“Absolutely not!” she smiled as she reached up and smoothed his tousled hair.
He leaned forward pressing his forehead against hers. They both glanced over to the piano and the painting. The rhythm of their breaths harmonized as the colors of the painting sang to them.
The music and the paint merged into one masterpiece encompassing both their souls.
@eleanor-bradstreet @colettebronte @faye-tale @broooookiecrisp
@queen-of-the-misfit-toys
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In the glittering world of Regency England, a captivating tale unfolds beneath the layers of opulence and tradition. Princess Theodora, the youngest child of King George III and Queen Charlotte, finds herself ensnared by the expectations that come with her royal lineage. Longing for a connection that transcends societal constraints, she yearns for something more profound amidst the grand preparations for the Season.
Fate has a peculiar way of intervening, and a fateful encounter changes everything. As Theodora's path crosses with Mr. Benedict Bridgerton, a charming and enigmatic gentleman, she discovers a kindred spirit.
Amidst the splendour and intrigue of high society, Benedict finds himself irresistibly drawn to Theodora's warmth and authenticity. Little does he know that this chance meeting holds the promise of an extraordinary connection that defies the rigid conventions of their time.
In "Blossoms of Serendipity," immerse yourself in a tale of courage, authenticity, and the delicate dance between duty and desire. Will Theodora and Benedict's bond withstand the pressures of tradition and expectation? In a world where responsibilities weigh heavily on their shoulders, can they find solace and understanding in each other's company?
Join Theodora and Benedict as they navigate the treacherous waters of high society, where blossoms of serendipity unfurl in unexpected ways. In this tale of self-discovery and unlikely connections, the allure of the Regency era comes alive, revealing a story of love, friendship, and the delicate balance between duty and desire.
COMING SOON
#bridgerton#bridgerton fanfiction#benedict bridgerton#benedict bridgerton fanfiction#benedict bridgerton x oc#blossoms of serendipity#romance#regency#slow burn#major slow burn#royalty#fanfiction
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Princess Regina of Austria x Benedict Bridgerton
If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more
Tag List: want to be added?
#princess regina#ocappreciation#fyeahbridgertonocs#regina x benedict#benedict bridgerton x oc#my work#my edits#my gifs#my ocs#bridgerton oc
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Chapters: 4/?
Fandom: Bridgerton (TV), Bridgerton Series - Julia Quinn
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Benedict Bridgerton/Original Female Character(s)
Characters: Benedict Bridgerton, Original Female Character(s), Penelope Featherington, Colin Bridgerton, Eloise Bridgerton, Violet Bridgerton, Anthony Bridgerton, Kate Sheffield | Kate Sharma, Henry Granville, Lucy Granville
Additional Tags: Bisexual Benedict Bridgerton, Bisexual Female Character, AU, Angst, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Summary:
To his credit Ben only looked mildly surprised when he realised that she was in fact a woman.
“This is usually when the fair lady gives me her name.” He joked, looking down at her, jovial smile still in place.
Biting her lip, she looked up at him. Lizzie had two options, run, or give Ben a fake name and hope to God he does not frogmarch her to the nearest police station for trespassing. Eyeing his ever so long and strong legs, option one seemed like a non-starter, he would without a doubt catch up to her with ease.
“Call me Viola.”
“Apt, like in Twelfth Night, Viola who dresses up as a man.” His face alight with amusement. “You haven’t been ship wrecked and are now working for a Duke by any chance?”
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𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 | aesthetics
FIND MY WATTPAD HERE
Description: Kiara Sheffield lost all hope of falling in love, convinced her own mother doesn’t love her but her theory is about to change when she shares a kiss with her childhood best friend, Benedict Bridgerton.
#bridgerton fanfiction#bridgertonedit#benedict bridgerton x oc#kiarasheffield benedictbridgerton#bridgerton wattpad#aesthetic#moodboard#invisible string
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Aphrodite of Old Hall - 01
“Soiree at Lord de Gressy’s”
Anthony Bridgerton x F!OC / Benedict Bridgerton x F!OC
Word Count: 1.6k
Warnings: none :)
Glancing at the thick, dark clouds above, Elisabeth shuddered and wrapped her coat tighter around herself. "Damn you, Stephane, for bringing me here. Why must you live in this abominable cold country?", She grumbled and guided her horse through the park, trying to avoid it splashing up any grime.
"I'm charmed to see that you have not changed, my dear," mused her brother. "I shall not even answer your question." He paused and grinned. "Can I count on your presence at today's soiree? Sarah has been planning it for over a month and after today's callers I am confident that you will have all of the attention you could get."
Steadying herself, Elisabeth sighed and glanced at the trees which had tried hard to cling onto their freshly grown leaves. "I guess, thank you. Now, if there's a soiree, don't you think it's high time for us to return?", She said. Seeing her brothers' questioning look, she shrugged and pointed at her crumpled riding habit. "Would be improper of me to come like that, don't you agree?"
Not wanting to get more involved in female fashions (Stephane avoided the topic like the plague, for there was usually no end in sight when it came up in conversation) he agreed and guided his horse, an auburn stallion called Brutus, towards the parks' exit and furthermore down to 'Old Hall' - his lavish mansion.
The footmen helped him and Elisabeth descend and opened the front door, where they parted ways. Before she could go upstairs into her chamber to get changed, her lady's maid Mary hurried towards her with a letter in her hands. "Lady Elisabeth, oh, I thought you'd come too late! I shall get you ready at once, by Her Ladyship's orders, of course." Completely out of breath, the elderly lady held out a helping hand to Elisabeth, which she held as they ascended to steps. Hurrying into her chamber, she opened the letter and let Mary undress her.
"Thank you, Mary. We wouldn't want to disappoint her Ladyship, would we?", She said with a grin, shivering. Mary, slowly regaining her usual breathing pattern, tried to suppress a broad smile. "Never, Lady Elisabeth." She switched her corsets and guided a stunning crimson dress over her Lady's shoulders. Opening the letter with a knife, Elisabeth motioned Mary to bring her her spectacles, for if there was one thing Elisabeth could not do - except for anything musical, but that was common knowledge - that was seeing anything clearly without those beastly things.
"Unto Lady Elisabeth de Gressy,
I am more than truly sorry for not visiting you in the morning. Business called. I can assure you that you shall have my undivided attention this evening. My family will also be attending - have you been introduced? If not, I shall definitely see to it. You have placed me under your spell yet we haven't exchanged more than three words - I want to get to know you, if you'll allow me to.
Awaiting your gracious presence,
Lord Anthony Bridgerton"
Putting the letter away, Elisabeth grinned and folded her spectacles. Mary closed the last buttons and guided her towards the dressing table. "An admirer, Lady Elisabeth?" Glancing at her through the mirror, Elisabeth waved it off. "Hardly spoken to him." Mary smiled and removed the ribbons from her long black hair. "Only you know what you want and need, my Lady. You're wise. Now, diamonds or pearls, my Lady?"
The chattering of the ton stopped as soon as Elisabeth stood at the top of the stairs. A young man with blond hair and a wide smile ran up to her and gave her his arm, so that she could lean on it, which she did. After he had escorted her down the stairs, he bowed and kissed her hand. "An honor to meet you, Lady de Gressy. Hopefully we'll get introduced soon.", He said, glancing up at her, not daring to come up from his bow. "Thank you.", She said coolly and made her way to her bemused brother. The blond man nervously looked at her and retreated to where he came from.
"I never knew that grand entrances were your kind of thing”, Stephane said and took her hand. She smiled and looked into the sea of guests, who by now had resumed their activities. Her dark eyes twinkled in the candlelit hallway as she discreetly winked at him. "How else would I make my presence known? Lady Whistledown herself had speculated if I would attend, so I decided to literally and figuratively show her." Stephane rolled his eyes and started walking towards the drawing room, which was where the refreshments were.
After a servant had provided them both with a flute of champagne, he leaned closer to her and nudged her. "I heard that you had received a letter from a certain Bridgerton. Need to get acquainted?" His moustache wiggled as he spoke, resembling a running mouse. Elisabeth, wondering where he had gotten the information from, nudged him back. "Do what you think is wise. I've yet to find out if he or his brothers are to my liking. His sister is the Duchess of Hastings now, isn't she?"
With a nod, he walked towards a gaggle of men and women dressed in similar shades of blue who were standing near the fireplace. As soon as they noticed them coming their way, they turned around and the last few mutterings between themselves had stopped. Stephane bowed and Elisabeth curtsied. "Lord Bridgerton. What an honor it is to have you and your family here with us this evening.", He said smoothly and gave his best smile towards an older lady, presumably the late Lord Bridgerton's wife.
Lord Bridgerton was the only one that Elisabeth had known (from sight alone; the others had been mentioned in Lady Whistledown's scandal sheet) and his posture straightened right away. "The honour is all mine, Lord de Gressy. Lady de Gressy, may I present to you my mother Violet, Viscountess Bridgerton, my brothers Benedict and Colin as well as my sister Eloise." He pointed towards each of the mentioned people; a man with curly brown hair that nodded respectfully with a small smile, a man with slightly less curly brown hair and a wide smile and a young woman who gave her a forced smile and a small wave.
Stephane straightened his cravat. "Lady Elisabeth, I had not known that you were acquainted with Lord Bridgerton. What a delight!" He said smoothly. With a quick glance at his wife, who was currently eating a few grapes, he bowed again and excused himself. Seeing the slight discomfort of the small young woman being left alone with all of them, Lord Bridgerton took the chance of asking her to take turns around the room. Elisabeth accepted, very demurely one might add, and told the rest of the Bridgertons what a delight it was to meet them.
"My brother intercepted your letter, so it seems.", She said nonchalantly and looked up at his well-groomed face. His jaw muscles clenched and unclenched again, after which he also looked at her. His facial expression was practically unreadable. "Hmph." That was, for more than a minute, the only thing he said, while constantly looking at the woman on his arm. There was something about her, something about the way her left side of the mouth always seemed to be curving up, as if she found something to be terribly funny.
"Are you waiting for me to say something?", He growled. She fluttered her eyelashes and gave him a sweet smile. "Have I done something wrong, my Lord?" He slowly exhaled and glanced at her lips, which she was slowly wetting with her tongue. Unbelievable! "Of course not, my Lady. I just- you- Um, I did not expect you to be as... Astonishing as you are. I should have called on you this morning."
Elisabeth smiled and fanned herself. "You flatter me, my Lord. Tomorrow's another day... Carpe diem, as learned people should like to say." Her eyes fell upon a figure that was quickly approaching them from the side. Covering her mouth with her fan, she lightly touched Anthony's hand. "Lady D's coming." His hand tried reaching hers again, but it was too late; Lady Danbury's cane had already thundered down inches from his foot.
With a sly grin and a wink, she dismissed their bows and curtsies. "I've been searching for you, my dear Incomparable, but it seems like you have already found a man that won't turn into a lapdog in your presence, eh?"
Elisabeth tried her hardest not to giggle and blushed, whereas Anthony gave her a forced smile. "Thank you for thinking so highly of me, Lady Danbury." She tapped his shin and looked him in the eye. "She's a woman, not a girl, my dearest. Remember that. Now, I'm off, toodeloo my dearest..." And with that, she was gone.
'Woman, not a girl...' Anthony thought and saw the blush on her pale face, looking at him with her coquettishly innocent-yet-not brown doe eyes. "So, where were we... Flattery?", She said and continued walking, where they were slowly approaching the Bridgertons again. He cleared his throat (and hoped it should clear his head too, but alas...) and took her round, gloved hand, bringing it up to his lips, looking her in the eye. She was a Venus, an Aphrodite, standing there with her flushed pale face, strikingly dark eyes and slightly parted raspberry-like lips... "My Lord?", She breathed, barely audible. "People are watching, it is unseemly."
Flustered, he pulled back and released her, bidding her a good night. "Shall we see each other soon, my- erm, Lady Elisabeth?" With a gentle smile, she shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not... You'll always find me somewhere."
And with that, Anthony's night had ended - he walked home, lost in thought, Elisabeth danced until her shoes fell apart (literally) and Lady Whistledown's paper was hot off the press, as always.
Next => "Queen of Hearts"
#Bridgerton#anthony bridgerton#benedict bridgerton#anthony bridgerton x oc#benedict bridgerton x oc#regency#bridgerton fanfiction#fanfiction#asa writes#asas fics#bridgerton smut#anthony bridgerton smut#benedict bridgerton smut
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It made his wife furious. But he did not care. After all, how could a man say no to the apple of his eyes?
“Benedict . . . Don’t!” Y/N said shaking her head. “Don’t you dare. She has enough ribbons.”
Benedict lagged, “Do you really expect me to say no to her?”
“So instead your plan is to say no to me and yes to her? I am your wife.”
Benedict looked at her, “How about we get you ribbons as well? Mother and daughter with matching ribbons!”
Y/N sighed.
“Darling Y/N, don’t dare to interfere. He learned it from his father.” Lady Violet Bridgerton laughed, “I feel as if I have traveled in time and before me I have dear Daphne and my beloved Edmund doing as she wants.”
“Every week.” Y/N said, “when we married we both said that we very much wanted our children to not be spoiled. Yet, look at him . . . look at them!”
“Is that a yes from you Mama?” Said Y/N’s seven year old daughter.
“Okay fine. But also get ribbons for you and your cousins. Would love to have the lot of you matching for your grandmother’s Easter celebration at Aubrey Hall this spring.”
“You see her mother?” Benedict asked, “At the end she just spoils her as much as I do.”
Benedict kissed the top of his wife’s head before reaching for his daughter.
“Come little one. We might as well get some ice flavors!”
Y/N looked at Lady Bridgerton with a laugh , “You failed to warn me about this side of him when you and my mother set us up.”
“He gets it from his father.” Lady Bridgerton said proudly.
#benedict bridgerton#bridgerton#Benedict Bridgerton x OC#benedict bridgerton headcannons#sophie beckett
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A Fateful Inheritance
Only truest love could move Arabella Amberton to give up the freedom she enjoys as a wealthy heiress – that is until her rich aunt's will names Benedict Bridgerton as the main beneficent instead of Arabella and quite suddenly, her world is turned upside down.
A number of absurd conditions are tied to the inheritance Benedict has recently and surprisingly come into: spend a fortnight at the family estate, copy a painting, participate in a charade, and attend a masquerade, to name a few of them. He does not even want the money but there is something about Arabella Amberton, his dead benefactor’s opinionated niece, that provokes him to accept the challenge anyway. A fateful decision.
#fic: A Fateful Inheritance#oc: Arabella Amberton#benedict bridgerton x oc#Benedict Bridgerton fanfiction
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Benedict Bridgerton X OC PART 2
Benedict bridgerton x Helen Ashford (OC)
Warnings - Character death, mentions of pregnancy
A/n - This concludes their story I’m in love with Helen and Benedict they’re my babies. It has the same energy as Fix you by coldplay.
Benedict and Helen had been wedded for a week, and though their time together had been somewhat awkward, they found solace in their individual pursuits.
Benedict would often retreat to his art studio, engrossed in his paintings, while Helen sought the company of the Bridgerton siblings and Kate, who graciously guided her through the intricacies of her new life.
Eloise, in particular, was enchanted by her sister-in-law. The two would engage in spirited conversations about literature and their shared distaste for societal conventions.
Eloise, ever inquisitive, inquired of Helen, "Have you perused the recent theories on gravity, dear sister? I would relish a further elucidation from you."
Helen, with a gentle smile, replied, "I possess a modicum of knowledge concerning the origins of said theories, commencing with an apple's descent and culminating in a comprehensive equation."
Their discourse was momentarily disrupted as the spirited young Hyacinth bounded into the room. "Ah, Hyacinth, do come hither," Helen called, retrieving an item from a nearby table.
"Behold, I have completed this for you. inspect the design, and should it displease you, I shall make suitable alterations."
Hyacinth's eyes gleamed with delight as she held the intricately embroidered handkerchief in her hands. "I adore it, Helen! Truly, I do," she exclaimed, marveling at the artistry. "The colors are most pleasing to my senses."
Eloise, eager for more of Helen's attention, playfully intervened, drawing her away from Hyacinth's side. A light-hearted banter ensued between Eloise and Hyacinth, each claiming Helen's exclusive company.
Sensing the need to restore harmony, Helen interceded, her voice gentle but firm. "cease this quarrel, dear sisters. Eloise, fear not, for I shall gladly elucidate the topic of gravity to you presently. And, Hyacinth, my dear, why not prepare the chessboard? Once our discussion concludes, we shall indulge in a pleasant game."
As the lunch hour arrived, the family gathered around the table, their eyes wandering in search of Benedict and Colin. Helen couldn't help but wonder where her husband had disappeared to, especially as Colin's absence was equally peculiar.
"Pray, where have the two young gentlemen ventured?" Kate inquired, her curiosity piqued. Eloise, unable to resist a teasing remark, chimed in, "Ah, Helen, do enlighten us about the whereabouts of your dear husband. It seems he has chosen an intriguing path of seclusion."
Before another word escaped her lips, Eloise felt a sharp pinch from Anthony, a silent reprimand for her audacious jest.
Helen, embodying grace and poise, rose from her seat and cleared her throat delicately. "If you would all kindly excuse me, I shall embark on a quest to locate our elusive gentlemen," she announced with unwavering composure. With a polite nod, she made her exit, leaving the Bridgerton siblings to exchange furtive glances.
Violet, the matriarch, took notice of the unfolding situation. Determined to maintain order, she commanded, "No one shall leave this table, do you comprehend?"
Her words carried an air of authority, prompting the family members to feign nonchalance, suppressing their desire to investigate further.
"But, Mama, one cannot deny your yearning for a glimpse into the private dynamics of their relationship," Francesca mused mischievously, hoping to lighten the mood.
Violet, catching on to her daughter's playfulness, responded with a hint of wry humor, "Indeed, my dear. However, it appears we must grant the couple some precious time for personal interactions."
Anthony, unable to resist a sardonic retort, interjected, "Ah, yes, because clearly they have been starved of such moments thus far."
His remark elicited laughter from the assembled family, their mirth filling the room.
Helen embarked on a mission to find Benedict, starting with his art studio. She traversed the grand halls of the Bridgerton estate, her steps echoing in the silence.
As she approached the studio, she knocked thrice, but there was no response. With a sense of anticipation, she pushed open the door, only to be greeted by an empty room adorned with scattered palettes, papers, and canvases. Benedict was nowhere to be found. Perhaps he was in their chambers.
Sighing, Helen made a mental note to admire the paintings later. She reached their chambers and, before knocking, heard muffled sounds of commotion within.
Determined to uncover the source, she knocked once, then twice, but each time, she was met with an eerie silence. Frustration began to brew within her.
Without further ado, Helen boldly barged into her bedchambers, only to be met with a disheveled and perspiring Benedict, accompanied by a concerned Colin. Both Bridgerton brothers turned to face her.
Surveying the room, Helen's eyes fell upon a scattered sketchbook and a few charcoal sticks strewn across the floor.
Two cups of tea sat abandoned on the table. Benedict, looking rather unwell, attempted to muster a playful tone:
“If I must, what is happening here?" Helen asked, her gaze sweeping the disarrayed room.
Before Colin could utter a word, Benedict interjected, his words laced with a touch of mischief. "Colin, my dear brother, do enlighten me. I fear this lady is a stranger to my acquaintance."
Benedict squinted his eyes and giggled, maintaining a distance as Helen approached.
Just as she was about to inspect his countenance, he took a step back, declaring, "No, no! I shall not permit you to touch me! I am a respectable married man, and I refuse to engage in anything that might displease my wife."
With a sullen demeanor, he retreated to a corner near the window, resembling a sorrowful child.
Helen was taken aback, her heart swelling with a glimmer of hope. She hadn't expected Benedict to acknowledge their marriage so openly or exhibit such integrity towards her, especially within the second week of their union, when they still knew so little about each other.
Turning to Colin, Helen adopted an elder sisterly tone, despite their similar ages. "Colin Bridgerton, pray tell me what has befallen my husband. I am certain you possess knowledge of the matter."
Colin sheepishly ran a hand through his hair, attempting to alleviate the tension in the room. "Well, you see... he was under considerable stress, so I thought a small amount of my traveler's powder would alleviate it."
Helen scrunched her nose, unimpressed. "I highly doubt that is its proper name."
Benedict continued to gaze out of the window, discontented by the unwelcome intrusion of an unknown lady attempting to touch him. How dare she? What about his loyalty to his wife, regardless of love or friendship? Loyalty must prevail!
Colin cheekily whispered, "Opium," as he explained the true nature of the powder. "He was meant to take a pinch, but he ended up consuming the entire quantity," Colin confessed in his defense.
Helen, resting her hand on her hip, eyed him with mock annoyance. "Colin Bridgerton, do not think you shall escape the consequences of subjecting my husband to such misadventures. Once this ordeal is over, you shall be in for a most amusing retribution, my dear brother."
Colin looked at his sister-in-law sheepishly, realizing the predicament he had caused. "Very well,Colin, now properly chastised, glanced at Helen with a mixture of guilt and amusement. "I shall leave you both now and join the others for lunch. But I must inquire, what of the two of you?" he asked before making his exit.
Helen flashed a warm smile. "Fear not, dear Colin. We shall manage just fine. Inform your Mama that Benedict is feeling under the weather, and I am attending to him. Rest assured, we will join you soon."
As Colin left the room, Helen took a deep breath, preparing herself for the task of dealing with her high-as-a-kite husband.
Helen's delicate hand came to rest upon Benedict's shoulder, causing him to turn around in confusion. As he looked into her eyes, a spark of recognition flickered within him, and he whispered her name, "Helen."
"My lord," she spoke with grace, a smile reserved solely for her husband adorning her lips. "I have brought you lunch, for you have not partaken in any sustenance."
Benedict furrowed his brow, his mind slowly piecing together the puzzle before him. "There was a lady here, was there not? Where has she gone? Did Colin escort her to his chamber?"
His words spilled forth in a mixture of confusion and concern, while Helen silently grimaced at the mention of Colin taking her to bed.
“Yes, my lord," she replied, playing along with her husband's musings. "She departed when I arrived. Fear not, for you need not worry. I assure you, all is well."
Relief washed over Benedict's features, and he fervently grasped Helen's hands, smearing charcoal upon them. "I pushed her away, Helen. I promise you, I did." His urgency conveyed his sincerity, and Helen understood the importance of loyalty and integrity in her life. It was the foundation upon which true love could flourish.
Helen gazed at Benedict, her voice a mere whisper. "Benedict," she spoke softly, using his name rather than his title, as he had requested. "I believe you, my dear. Now, let us proceed. I shall accompany you to the bathing chamber."
With gentle guidance, Helen led Benedict, the disheveled artist, towards their private sanctuary.
There, amidst the flickering candlelight, she began the tender process of undressing him, her movements both delicate and awkward.
Benedict's words tumbled forth, his gaze intense as he expressed his admiration, "Have I ever told you how exquisite you...look?"
Helen held her breath, her heart fluttering at his words. Countless men had uttered such sentiments to her, but the intensity and proximity of Benedict's gaze had a profound effect, melting her resolve like a puddle of mud. "I do not believe you have, Benedict," she replied, a teasing smile playing upon her lips.
Benedict gasped dramatically, as if he were a a lady wronged. "How incredibly rude and inconsiderate of me," he lamented, drawing a giggle from Helen. She found his antics endearing, and gently she removed his hands from his beautiful face.
"Fret not, dear. There is always a first time for everything," she reassured him, her voice filled with tenderness.
Helen sat beside Benedict, the room filled with the faint scent of opium as the effects of the drug lingered in his mind. She held a spoonful of soup to his lips, her eyes brimming with concern and affection.
"Open wide, dear," Helen coaxed gently, her voice filled with tenderness. Benedict, still under the influence, opened his mouth like a child eager for a sweet treat.
Helen carefully guided the spoon, ensuring he swallowed each mouthful.
"Goodness, Benedict, you are being quite the handful today," she remarked playfully, her fingers brushing against his cheek as she wiped away a stray droplet of soup.
Benedict's eyes sparkled with a mixture of confusion and childlike innocence. "Am I, my lady? I cannot seem to recall."
His words were laced with a touch of mischief, despite the clouded state of his mind “Shall I sketch you? Capture your beauty?” He offered
Helen let out an awkward chuckle, her laughter slightly nervous, yet filled with genuine affection. "Oh, Benedict, you always find a way to surprise me. But, I must warn you, my face might not be the most captivating subject for your sketch in this state."
Benedict's brow furrowed, his cloudy mind struggling to comprehend her words. "Nonsense, Helen! I... I want to capture your... um, beauty on this paper. It's... part of being a married couple, right?" He scratched his head, a touch of uncertainty in his voice.
Helen couldn't help but blush, feeling the weight of their arranged marriage in the air. She hesitated for a moment before responding, trying to find the right words. "Well, yes, I suppose it is. But let's not put too much pressure on this sketch, shall we? It's just... a friendly attempt at art."
Benedict nodded, his eyes flickering with a mix of determination and self-consciousness. "Right, just a... friendly sketch. Nothing more." He picked up the sketching stick, his grip a bit unsteady, and glanced at Helen, his cheeks turning a faint shade of pink.
Helen sat still, her posture slightly rigid, as Benedict started to draw. His strokes were hesitant, his hand shaking slightly as he tried to capture her features.
The resulting lines on the paper were far from perfect, but there was an endearing quality to the sketch—a rawness that mirrored their newly formed connection.
The night grew late, casting a serene ambiance over the Bridgerton estate. Helen, finally finding a moment of respite after a demanding afternoon caring for her husband, sat at the pianoforte, her fingers delicately dancing across the ivories.
Lost in the melodies she composed, she sought solace in the harmonies that flowed from the instrument.
Just then, Kate entered the room, carrying a dainty cup of tea. With grace, she approached Helen and extended the offering. Helen accepted it graciously, her eyes filled with curiosity. Taking a sip, she relished the delightful warmth that caressed her senses.
"My dear Kate, this tea is truly remarkable. Pray, may I inquire about its origins?" Helen inquired, her voice tinged with intrigue.
Kate chuckled softly, settling into a nearby seat. "Why, my dear, this tea is brewed in a manner reminiscent of our Indian traditions. Back home, after long and arduous days, I would prepare a cup for myself, finding solace in its comforting embrace."
"How do you find it, my dear?" Kate inquired, her voice gentle and curious. "Well, as I mentioned earlier, it is quite refreshing and unlike anything I have experienced before,"
Helen replied, setting the cup aside with a delicate touch. "But pray, Kate, I believe we both know you are not referring to the tea. You speak of my marriage to Benedict. How has it fared?"
Helen took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts before responding. A faint smile adorned her lips, revealing a touch of awkwardness. “It has been... good. Benedict is a truly remarkable man, one with a kind and gentle spirit." Her words held a mix of sincerity and uncertainty, as if trying to navigate the complexities of her emotions.
Kate observed her sister-in-law closely, attempting to decipher the emotions that danced across her features. "I know that a love match was your heartfelt desire, as it is for many in our family. While your marriage may not have sprung from romantic love, I do believe that you and Benedict complement each other. He is a free-spirited soul, a ray of sunshine who lives life on his own terms. Trust me, in due time, he will come to truly love and cherish you, treating you with the utmost care you deserve."
Helen's smile grew slightly more genuine, her gaze drifting to a distant memory. "Of course, with time, I shall strive to know him better," she replied, recalling a recent incident that had left an impression.
Kate nodded, her smile warm and understanding. "Helen, it would be unjust to ask if you are in love with him, for we all have our own beliefs and paths to tread. But tell me, how do you truly feel? You can be honest with me, dear Helen," she gently encouraged.
Helen paused, contemplating her response. She spoke with a quiet certainty, "Kate, I have always viewed marriage as a duty, a means to bear children and foster a certain level of companionship. Love, in the romantic sense, has never been a concept I hold dear. So, I would be content if our relationship remains as it is, devoid of passionate love. I have no secrets from you,Kate. You are dear to me, and I bid you goodnight," she concluded, gracefully stepping away from the conversation, leaving Kate alone, caught in her own thoughts.
Kate was left astounded, realizing that perhaps she had underestimated Helen's true nature.
She considered the similarities between Helen and Eloise, both strong-willed and resilient in their own right. In different fonts, they were cut from the same cloth.
How could she have expected anything less from Helen
Soon the next day Colin couldn't resist sharing the amusing tale with Benedict, recounting how Helen had come to his rescue.
Benedict, torn between avoiding Helen and expressing his gratitude, realized it was time to have a conversation with her. As the evening grew late, Benedict searched every nook and cranny of their home, determined to find his elusive wife.
"Look at him, scouring the house like a lost puppy in search of his wife," Anthony chimed in, unable to resist a teasing jab.
Colin, quick-witted as ever, couldn't help but add fuel to the fire. "Oh, dear brother, do you recall your own escapades with Kate, our dear sister-in-law? You're hardly one to lecture about following wives like loyal puppies."
Kate, always one to join in the banter, interjected with a playful smirk. "Colin, are you suggesting that a husband's devotion to his wife is a dreadful thing?"
The words hung in the air, leaving Colin momentarily flustered. Before he could respond, the conversation took an unexpected turn.
"Would someone please enlighten me as to the whereabouts of my wife?" Benedict exclaimed in frustration, his patience wearing thin.
Hyacinth, ever the mischievous one, couldn't resist poking fun at her brother. "Seems like everyone knows more about your wife's whereabouts than you do, Benedict," she teased, a mischievous glint in her eye.
Benedict, growing more exasperated by the minute, snapped at Hyacinth. "Silence your tiny mouth, Hyacinth! Aren't you the one attached to her like a leech at all times? Now, tell me where she is!"
Anthony, always the charmer, interjected with a smirk. "Oh, dear brother, what happened to the free-spirited Benedict who once lectured me endlessly about loosening up and learning to take a joke? Has marriage tamed you, perchance?"
Francesca, adding her own tidbit to the conversation, joined in with a knowing smile. "Ah, the yearning of young love. I happened to see Helen heading towards your art studio, Benedict."
Benedict, fueled by a newfound determination, scurried off towards his art studio, eager to reunite with his beloved wife.
Helen was engrossed in her scribbling, her eyes filled with a passion as she observed the ethereal sky. Benedict, silently admiring his wife's presence, couldn't help but appreciate her uncommon interest in astrophysics.
It was an enchanting trait, for it was not often that one found a woman during this era with such a fascination for the moon, stars, and the vast night sky.
Benedict longed to know more about her, but he lacked the courage and opportunity to delve deeper into her world.
"Helen," Benedict called out, his voice filled with awkwardness as he cautiously approached her in his studio. Helen, too absorbed in her thoughts to notice his presence, simply hummed in response.
Benedict took a few steps closer until he stood directly behind her. Helen turned, inadvertently meeting his chest, and when she looked up, she found herself face to face with her husband, his baby blue eyes locked with her own.
Helen's brows furrowed in her classic frown, but before she could utter a word, Benedict impulsively reached out and smoothed the line on her forehead, as if fixing a stroke on one of his paintings.
It was the closest they had been in the two weeks of their marriage, except for the incident when she had cared for him, but she disregarded that moment.
The tranquility was interrupted by the rustling leaves, and Helen took a step back, leaving Benedict fidgeting awkwardly with his hands.
"You were searching for me, my lord," she stated matter-of-factly.
"Helen, how many times must I tell you, I am Benedict," he sighed, a hint of weariness in his voice. "But forgive me, it has become a habit for you, I suppose."
She forced a smile. "Benedict, tell me, how may I be of assistance?"
Benedict cleared his throat, struggling to find the right words. "I was hoping we could discuss the events of the other day when, well... you know..." He trailed off, finding it difficult to express himself.
"You were quite high and behaving like an adorable little child," Helen Questioned, her voice filled with amusement.
"I had no idea you found me adorable," Benedict replied, a playful tone in his voice.
"I find children adorable, Benedict, and that's exactly how you were acting," she retorted, continuing her teasing manner.
"Ah, yes, I apologize for burdening you with the task of caring for me in such a state. I should have been more responsible. Nonetheless, thank you sincerely for looking after me," Benedict expressed his gratitude.
"I will always take care of you," she responded with a smile.
The lack of communication between them had led them to play a dangerous game. While Helen fulfilled her duties out of sheer obligation, disregarding matters of the heart, Benedict felt a glimmer of happiness. Perhaps, slowly, he could foster a genuine friendship with her.
“Well, I would love to hear you talk about how navy blue should only be mixed with Prussian blue because, as you once said, they understand each other. Now that you are sober, of course," she laughed, attempting to keep the conversation flowing.
If she were to make any progress with Benedict, to move beyond the awkwardness she needed to engage in normal conversation.
“Then, dear, you are in for a treat. But first, tell me, why do you constantly fixate on everything you gaze upon in the sky?" Benedict playfully inquired.
"Come, let me show you," she said, turning around excitedly to peer out of the window, her hand still clasped in his.
“You see, I spot one star, and then the adjacent stars create a precise spacing here," she explained, showcasing the paper she had been scribbling on.
“Finally, I attempt to connect them to form constellations, understanding them better in the process." She pointed out of the window.
"You see right there? These stars together form Orion, the hunter from Greek mythology. Its brightest stars are the blue-white Rigel and the red Betelgeuse," Helen informed Benedict.
Benedict, a man of passion who had always sought solace in his art, resonated deeply with the concept of having a true passion.
He understood the sparkle in his wife's eyes, even if he didn't comprehend the details of her explanations. What he knew for certain was that Helen Bridgerton's eyes shone the brightest, even more so than the blue-white Rigel and red Betelgeuse.
After that encounter two days later, Benedict stepped into his art studio one evening, a playful grin adorning his face. "Ah, my dearest wife, it seems you have taken a fancy to invading my sacred artistic haven," he jested, arching an eyebrow in amusement.
Helen's eyes twinkled mischievously as she turned away from the window, meeting Benedict's gaze. "Well, my lord, if you do not guard your territory diligently, I shall have no choice but to claim it as my own," she retorted playfully, a soft laugh escaping her lips.
A routine had formed between the newlyweds, where after their evening meal, Benedict would immerse himself in painting, and Helen would gaze at the night sky, finding solace and fascination in the celestial wonders. She had discovered that the view from Benedict's studio offered a remarkably clear panorama of the heavens.
In the tranquil embrace of the studio, their companionship flourished. Benedict cherished the calm presence of his wife, finding solace from the boisterous energy of his siblings.
He relished the moments when she offered feedback on his art, expressed admiration when prompted, and engaged in delightful conversations on various subjects.
Helen, having grown accustomed to solitude, found joy in the presence of another. While Benedict may not fully grasp her passion for the stars like Eloise did, she treasured the instances when he would pause his brushstrokes and stand beside her, gazing out the window at the vast expanse of the night sky.
It was during those moments that he would listen intently to her passionate musings, even if they were mere fragments of her thoughts.
It was a tranquil morning within the Bridgerton household, seemingly filled with serenity. Benedict and Helen had gradually developed a budding friendship over the past week, slowly unraveling the layers that separated them.
As they savored their morning tea, Benedict alongside his brother Anthony, and the rest of the family engaged in their respective activities.
Kate had taken Eloise to visit the modiste, Colin was out with Gregory, imparting his equestrian knowledge upon the young lad, while Violet and Fransceca engaged in the art of embroidery.
Meanwhile, Hyacinth and Helen found themselves absorbed in an intense game of chess, their minds focused on strategic moves. However, their tranquility was abruptly shattered by the arrival of Earl Henry Ashford, Helen's brother, who stormed into the household unannounced, leaving the family members stunned.
Helen's heart skipped a beat upon seeing her brother, her face initially lighting up with delight at the unexpected visit. But before she could even extend her arms for an embrace, Henry delivered the shocking news.
His voice trembled as he spoke the words they never anticipated. "It's mother... She is... she is no more," he announced, his voice heavy with grief.
The sudden revelation left the Bridgerton family in a state of disbelief. While the family had known of their mother's absence, with the Dowager Countess Ashford choosing to reside overseas following her husband's death, they were unaware of the true circumstances.
Helen's world stood still, her throat constricted with a mix of emotions she struggled to comprehend.
In the midst of her overwhelming emotions, Benedict swiftly moved to Helen's side, his touch gentle as he clasped her hand while providing support at the small of her back. His presence was a grounding force, offering solace amidst the storm.
Anthony, ever the gracious host, extended his condolences to Earl Henry, exhibiting his empathy for their loss. Violet, concerned for her daughter-in-law, sought to offer comfort, inviting the earl to take a seat and partake in some tea.
As the room enveloped in a tense silence, Benedict softly whispered Helen's name, cautious not to startle her fragile state.
She slowly lifted her gaze, her expression revealing a complex amalgamation of emotions. It was not sadness that etched her features, but rather an unexpected anger simmering beneath the surface.
Benedict couldn't fathom the object of her ire, but he knew that she was grappling with a storm within.
In a voice tinged with an undercurrent of resentment, Helen finally found her voice amidst the turmoil. "You could have conveyed this news through a letter, dear brother. There was no need for you to make the arduous journey," she uttered, her words laced with bitterness, leaving those present bewildered by her uncharacteristic response.
Earl Henry, expecting such a reaction from his sister, composed himself before continuing. "I have come to invite you to the funeral, which is to take place at dawn tomorrow," he informed, his voice carrying a tone of finality.
A defiant spark ignited within Helen's eyes as she firmly stood her ground. "You know very well that I refuse to attend. I want no part in mourning and offering empty prayers. Excuse me," she declared, abruptly releasing Benedict's hand and making her exit from the room, leaving her loved ones stunned and searching for answers.
The anguished atmosphere lingered, heavy with unanswered questions and the haunting absence of understanding. Helen's unexpected response to her mother's death shattered the family's perceptions, leaving them to grapple with their own emotions while trying to comprehend the turmoil that resided within her.
"I beg your forgiveness for my sister's uncharacteristic behavior," Henry offered a sincere apology, his voice laced with concern.
Violet, the ever-understanding mother-in-law, quickly reassured him, dismissing his need for remorse. "Oh, no need to apologize, dear Henry. Each of us grieves in our own way. Let us grant Helen the time she requires."
With his apology acknowledged, Henry took his leave, departing from the household.
Benedict, torn between his longing to seek out his wife and the counsel of his brother, found himself at a crossroads.
Anthony, sensing his brother's confusion, placed a hand on Benedict's arm, imparting his wisdom. "Give her the space she needs, Benedict. Allow her to confront her emotions in solitude."
Benedict nodded reluctantly, his heart aching to reach out to Helen, yet understanding the necessity of granting her time.
He couldn't comprehend the depth of her turmoil, for he had never witnessed her in such a state of wavering emotions. As the family gathered for dinner that evening, an oppressive silence filled the air.
Helen, noticeably absent from the table, sought solace in her solitude. The family, ever empathetic, respected her need for distance during this trying time.
Later that night, as the hour grew late, Benedict retired to their shared chamber, expecting to find Helen still awake, her mind plagued by restless thoughts.
To his surprise, she lay in peaceful slumber, her countenance serene like that of a contented child. The familiar furrow between her brows, an almost constant companion, had disappeared, granting her face an uncharacteristic tranquility.
Benedict's confusion deepened, his mind flooded with a multitude of unanswered questions. He had an overwhelming desire to be there for Helen, to provide her with the support she so clearly needed.
The morning sun cast a gentle glow upon the room as Benedict entered, his worry etched upon his face. His gaze fell upon his slumbering wife, her form peaceful yet troubled. He hesitated, hesitant to disturb her rest, but the growing concern within him outweighed his reservations.
Helen needed to awaken from her prolonged slumber, for the consequences of such continued isolation could be detrimental to her well-being.
Approaching the bed, Benedict leaned in, his voice a hushed whisper. “Helen," he gently nudged her arm, hoping to rouse her from her deep slumber.
She remained unresponsive, lost within the depths of her dreams. With a tender touch, he ran his hand through her tousled hair, calling her name once more. Startled, she stirred, her eyes fluttering open.
"Hey, hey, shhh," Benedict murmured, his voice laced with reassurance. "It's me. You're safe. You're okay." He offered her a soft, comforting smile, his presence a soothing balm for her startled soul.
In that moment, she whispered his name, and he nodded, conveying his understanding and support.
Benedict extended a glass of water to Helen, her trembling hand accepting the offering. Concern laced his voice as he asked the inevitable question, aware of its futility. "How are you feeling now?"
Helen's response was swift and dismissive. "I'm fine, don't worry. My mother's death doesn't concern me. I just needed time to process. I'll return to my usual self from today." The words held a hollow ring, a façade that barely masked the turmoil within her.
Sensing the walls she had built around herself, Benedict reached out, his hand enveloping hers. He understood the hollowness that resided within her, the grief that silently consumed her. He yearned to break through those barriers, to be a source of comfort and solace for her.
"Helen, that's precisely why I am here," Benedict spoke with earnestness, his voice carrying a gentle plea.
“People often speak when something affects them, but shouldn't we also talk more when something doesn't, particularly in moments like this?"
Helen's gaze fixated on his captivating features—the mesmerizing blue of his Bridgerton eyes and the softness of his lips. He was undeniably beautiful. "I have nothing to say to you," she responded, her tone devoid of hostility yet resolute. Adjusting her nightgown, she prepared to face the day.
Unwilling to let her retreat, Benedict grasped her wrist firmly. "I know you may not wish to discuss this with me, but..." Before he could finish his sentence, she abruptly tore her wrist from his hold, her voice now laced with frustration.
“Then don't say it. What do you gain from forcing me to acknowledge my mother's death?" Her words pierced the air, leaving Benedict stunned.
"Helen, she was your mother. It is clearly weighing on your heart," Benedict stated, rising to his feet. "Yes, she was MY MOTHER. It's BOTHERING ME. But what does it matter to you? How does it concern you?" Helen retorted with simmering anger.
"I just want you to have someone to talk to, Helen. I'm your husband," Benedict expressed, his eyes filled with a multitude of emotions. "And even before that, I want to be your friend. I want you to know that you don't have to face this alone. I refuse... I refuse to let you bear this burden alone." Tears glistened in his eyes for his wife.
Helen met his gaze, her spirit shattered and vulnerable. Benedict's touch on her cheek sent tremors through her, breaking down her defenses.
A loud sob escaped her lips, a dam of emotions finally giving way. She crumpled to her knees, bringing Benedict down with her, and unleashed a torrent of tears.
Benedict held her tightly, cradling her in his embrace, his gentle hands soothingly stroking her hair and back. Whispers of reassurance escaped his lips as she wept in his arms, the weight of her anguish finding release in his steadfast presence.
“I loathe... I despise her... I have harbored this deep…de..deep hatred towards her my entire life... and now that she's departed, she has no right to inflict this anguish upon me," Helen whispered amidst her sobs, her words muffled against Benedict's chest.
Benedict held her even tighter, providing a steady anchor amidst the storm of her emotions. "Darling, it's alright. You have every right to feel whatever you feel. Let it all out. I'm right here by your side, and I'm not going anywhere," he reassured her, his lips planting tender kisses upon her trembling head.
As time went by, Helen's cries began to subside. Gently, Benedict lifted her from their embrace and placed her on the bed, his hands delicately wiping away the tears that stained her face. Reluctant to let go, Helen clung to his hand, seeking solace like a lost child in his unwavering presence.
Helen slowly composed herself, clearing her throat to reveal the hidden truth behind her intense resentment toward her mother.
"During my childhood, I bore witness to the profound love shared by my parents," Helen began, her voice trembling with memories as a faint smile graced Benedict's face. "Their union seemed destined, as if crafted by fate itself, spanning every realm and transcending lifetimes," Helen continued.
Benedict couldn't help but be captivated by her beauty, even in her nightgown, with flushed cheeks, a runny nose, and sorrowful eyes, she resembled a model in a painting depicting melancholy.
"As children, my brother and I were regaled with tales of our parents' love, straight out of fairytales. We were the epitome of a perfect little family, the four of us," she recalled, her voice laden with sorrow.
“My parents shared a true love, a love match, and they were utterly smitten with each other. It was all like a beautiful dream," Helen said, her voice breaking as tears welled up in her eyes once more.
"And then I was fourteen, I wandered into the backyard one day. Usually, my father would teach my brother and me fencing in the afternoon, but not that day. Instead, I stumbled upon my father's lifeless body. He had taken his own life," she choked out between sobs.
Benedict, all too familiar with the pain of losing a father, pulled her closer, his embrace a shield against the anguish.
“He discovered my mother's infidelity and could bear the weight of it no longer," Benedict listened in stunned silence, his mind reeling with the weight of this new revelation.
“And when she arrived at the scene, not a single tear fell for the man she professed to love, her husband, the father of her children," Helen muttered bitterly.
“No guilt, no shame tarnished her face. That wretched woman," she spat. “Within a week, she disappeared, running away with her lover,"
Helen continued with a scoff. "Leaving my brother and me to fend for ourselves," she said, clutching Benedict tightly. "I want nothing more than to erase it all from my memory.”
Benedict held her close, his protective arms encircling her. "My love, I am profoundly sorry that you had to endure such pain. And look at the remarkable woman you have become. I am immensely proud of you," he whispered, coaxing her to find strength.
“It is not easy to bear this burden and speak of it as you have done."
Helen gazed up at him, still clinging to him with unyielding determination. "I am proud of you too," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
“And I promise, I will never allow you to feel even an ounce of the suffering I endured. If you do, I will be here to shield you, to hold you close," Benedict vowed, gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
In that moment, Helen felt an overwhelming surge of gratitude for the stars that aligned to bring Benedict into her life, to be her husband. Benedict's presence filled her with emotions she had long suppressed, burying herself within his comforting words.
He seethed at the injustice suffered by Helen's father, the cruelty thrust upon a young girl at the tender age of fourteen, and the strength with which Helen had fought to become the remarkable woman she was.
From that day forward, Benedict vowed to be the husband she truly deserved, to offer her every moon and star she gazed upon in the sky, placing them upon her very brow.
Weeks passed by, and Helen found herself moving beyond her grief, or whatever it was that had consumed her.
She and Benedict grew closer, though Helen insisted there was nothing romantic about it. Their interactions became filled with simple gestures of affection—holding hands as they strolled together, playfully splattering paint on each other, and Helen effortlessly fixing Benedict's collar or shirt.
Benedict would peck her forehead with contentment or before he set off somewhere. It was the regular stuff, but it meant the world to them.
Helen found solace and comfort within the Bridgerton household, unintentionally falling in love with not just Benedict but with the entire family.
She felt her walls crumbling as she slowly opened up, allowing herself to feel safe and protected.
Violet shared stories of her own love with Edmund, and Helen listened intently. Anthony and Kate playfully argued over how they fell in love, their banter filling the air with laughter.
The family even teased Simon about his fake dating ordeal. Helen couldn't help but think that maybe, just maybe, the Ashford bad luck was fading away, replaced by the fortunate embrace of the Bridgerton name.
And perhaps, amidst it all, Helen entertained the notion that falling in love wouldn't be such a bad idea. After all, she had her best friend by her side, ready to catch her, to hold her close.
The possibilities seemed endless, and Helen allowed herself to dream of a future where love bloomed and happiness was within reach.
Benedict Bridgerton was utterly and irrevocably smitten with his wife, much to everyone's amusement—everyone except his oblivious wife, that is.
His eyes would light up like a thousand suns whenever he laid eyes on her, his enthusiasm rivaling that of an overexcited golden retriever.
She brought a perfect balance to his life, and it had only been their second month of marriage. So much could change, but what he adored about Helen was her profound understanding of things, her delightful sense of humor, her unwavering courage, and her unmatched compassion.
And he couldn't help but be teased mercilessly about how he melted into a puddle whenever she was near.
Helen, on the other hand, was discovering more of herself within their relationship.
The couple found themselves engrossed in conversation in a cozy corner of the room. "Do they even talk to anyone other than each other?" Colin groaned, earning a mischievous smirk from Francesca.
“Well, news is, Colin Bridgerton has taken a fancy to Penelope Featherington. If we discuss that, perhaps Helen and Benedict will join us," Francesca remarked, causing the ears in the room to perk up.
“I don't think I've ever heard someone say so many wrong things consecutively in a row," Eloise chimed in, disapproving of the idea of her brother and best friend together.
Helen and Benedict laughed at the duo's banter, with Helen gently brushing off biscuit crumbs from Benedict's shirt.
“You eat like a child," she playfully scolded him. Benedict responded, grinning mischievously, "Well, lucky for me, you find children adorable."
Eloise couldn't resist joining in the teasing. "Benedict, you're always hogging Helen," she remarked, whining about her.
Benedict replied, matching her tone, "Eloise, Helen is my wife." Eloise shot back with a same teasing tone.
“Legally and socially, perhaps. But emotionally and mentally, Helen and I have a connection." Helen giggled and added, "Absolutely, we do, Eloise," making a heart shape with her hands.
The rest of the family burst into laughter Benedict's expense.The butler interrupted their banter, entering with a letter in hand. "For Mrs. Helen Bridgerton," he announced.
Helen instructed her maid to leave the letter with the others in her bedchamber, and the family continued their playful banter.
Late into the night, while Benedict was engrossed in conversation with his brothers in the study, Helen retired to their bedroom.
She found herself surrounded by piles of letters, both opened and unopened, scattered about. "Goodness , Benedict really needs to find a better place for his opened letters," she muttered with a sigh, a hint of exasperation in her voice.
As she rummaged through the letters, Helen searched for the one she had received from her sister-in-law, Caroline. "Ah, there it is," she exclaimed, finally spotting it.
But before she could open it, her eyes fell upon another letter—a fresh one—neatly tucked underneath. Its bold lettering revealed it to be from the Royal Academy of Art. Helen didn't need the keen observation skills of Sherlock to deduce what was going on. It wasn't an old letter; it was recent.
She glanced at the date and realized it was from two weeks ago. Curiosity piqued, Helen took the letter and began reading it aloud.
Her heart swelled with joy as she discovered that her husband had been accepted into the most prestigious art school in the world.
The realization struck her—this was the same day Benedict had experienced his opium episode. Suddenly, everything started to make sense.
He was planning to leave in a week's time. But when was he going to tell her? Did anyone else in the family know? And if they did, why hadn't they told her? After all the closeness they had developed in their marriage, was Benedict really going to keep her in the dark? The audacity of not informing her! She had believed they were truly building something meaningful in their relationship as husband and wife.
Helen refused to give Benedict the satisfaction of seeing her sad and disappointed, especially when he was the cause. She needed answers, and she needed them soon. "I should have known better," she reproached herself.
Just as she heard shuffling outside the door, Helen quickly placed the letter back in its rightful spot, swiftly breaking the seal of Caroline's letter and beginning to read it.
A radiant smile lit up Helen's beautiful features as she devoured every word of her sister-in-law's letter. Just then, Benedict entered the room, his eyes falling upon his beaming wife.
"Ouch! Whatever the reason, I see that it's not me who's responsible for putting such a joyous expression on my wife's face," he exclaimed with his usual flair for drama.
Helen looked up from her letter, her gaze meeting Benedict's handsome face. "You give yourself too much credit, Mr. Bridgerton," she teased playfully, her eyes dancing mischievously.
Slowly approaching the mirror, Benedict began removing his jacket and waistcoat, leaving him in a simple white shirt. Feeling Helen's gaze on him, he couldn't resist a playful remark. "It is improper to stare," he quipped, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
Without missing a beat, Helen strode over to him in just a couple of steps, gently smacking him with the letter she held in her hand.
“Oh, hush! Caroline is with child! Finally, after trying for so long, they are blessed with such wonderful news. I can't express how overjoyed I am," she exclaimed, her smile radiant and her eyes shimmering like Venus herself.
"Wonderful news indeed! Congratulations, Auntie Helen!" Benedict beamed, his hand gently cupping her cheek. Helen blushed at his touch, the warmth spreading through her.
That night, the couple retired to bed with a sense of peace and contentment. Helen made a silent vow to herself that she would confront Benedict.
the morning sun illuminating her radiant features, Helen turned around to find herself face to face with her husband, who was already up and gazing at her. "Good morning," she hummed, her voice filled with warmth and a hint of uncertainty.
"A very good morning indeed," Benedict sighed, his eyes fixated on her. Helen found herself lost in his mesmerizing blue gaze, which held the depth of an ocean. Her own hazel-brown eyes resembled the sand upon the beach, constantly drawn back to the captivating allure of the sea.
It was a beautiful metaphor, made even more poignant as the morning sun streamed through the window, their hands brushing together as Helen tenderly held his.
Gently running her hand through his light brown eyebrows, Helen couldn't help but leave Benedict smiling.
He leaned in slightly, a spark of anticipation igniting within her. But suddenly, Helen's protective walls rose around her, reminding her of the pain she had experienced before.
Acting quickly, she planted a soft kiss on Benedict's forehead, then rose from the bed, leaving him in a state of adoration and confusion.
"Eloise must be waiting for me. We are starting a new novel today," she explained, teasingly chuckling at his slight frustration towards Eloise.
As the day progressed, Helen searched for the right moment to talk to Benedict, but it seemed elusive, slipping through her fingers like sand.
Finally, she thought she had found the opportunity when Eloise ran off to join Penelope, leaving Violet and Francesca to admire the dresses delivered by Madame Delacroix.
Helen inquired about Benedict's whereabouts from one of the household staff, who pointed her towards the outside.
With a nod of gratitude, Helen walked outside, only to be met with the unexpected sight of her husband engaged in conversation with the modiste.
It seemed peculiar—what business could Benedict have with a dressmaker? Madame Delacroix appeared remorseful, while Benedict appeared awkward.
The conversation abruptly halted as they noticed Helen at the door, her husband arching an eyebrow and the modiste fidgeting nervously.
She despised being subjected to such a scene. After the incident with the letter yesterday and now this encounter, it was clear to Helen that every man in the ton was the same.
Benedict called out to his wife, his voice tinged with curiosity. Helen straightened her posture, her tone cool and distant as she replied, "When you're finished with whatever this is, I would like to discuss something with you." With that, she stormed inside without waiting for his response.
Thoughts suffocated Helen, her mind plagued with self-criticism. Of course her husband was involved with other women.
She had entered into an arranged marriage with a Bridgerton, an artist no less. What had she expected? Declarations of love? She berated herself for lowering her defenses and allowing him to enter her heart, even if only a little. She knew her purpose, her goal was clear, yet the foolish woman she was had succumbed to this vicious cycle of emotions.
Benedict hastened after his wife, his explanation trembling on the tip of his tongue. "Helen," he breathed out, opening the door to their room. As he entered, he found Helen standing by the bed, her gaze fixed upon him, her expression filled with concern.
Taking her hands in his, Benedict frowned at the sudden distance he felt from her. "What you witnessed downstairs," he began, but Helen, ever straightforward, interrupted him.
“I do not wish to know. You are a man, and whatever you do is deemed acceptable by society," she stated, pulling her hands away, leaving him with closed eyes, consumed by eagerness.
Helen continued, her tone formal and distant, "However, if you had at least informed me of your departure in a week's time, I would have appreciated it. I extend my congratulations and offer my best wishes for your pursuit of art." She smiled politely, the formality of her words echoing in the air.
Benedict despised this distant treatment from his wife, as if she regarded him as a complete stranger.
Furthermore, the fact that she believed he could be disloyal to her stung him deeply. Helen started to walk away, but Benedict held her wrist, “Hear me out, plea..”
She forcefully pulled her wrist free, her words laced with bitterness. "What could you possibly have to say? Empty apologies and sugar-coated expressions?" she retorted sharply.
"I am your husband, Helen. I would..." Benedict began, only to be cut off once again. "I know all about it. I'm sure being my husband is hindering your path, and I am sorry, but there is nothing I can do," she hastily replied.
Benedict's frustration reached its peak. "My God, woman! Do you ever listen?" he exclaimed, his voice resonating with exasperation.
"Helen, I am your husband. I would gladly take a bullet rather than entertain thoughts of disloyalty," he declared, holding her shoulders firmly.
“I know we began with an arranged set up, but what kind of monster do you take me for? Madame Delacroix was a mere thing from the past, offering her congratulations. But every word she spoke, I despised because it was not you," Benedict confessed, tears welling up in his eyes.
Helen stood there, utterly perplexed, as she attempted to process his words. "Because I hate anything anybody says these days, unless it's you," he continued, his voice trembling with emotion.
“And yes, initially, I had contemplated leaving any wife I might have and attending art school. But now, the mere thought of being away from your side, even for a moment, feels like divine punishment. The reason I didn't tell you is because I am considering not going. I couldn't care less if it's the most prestigious art school in the world. I would abandon every art school in the universe if it meant spending every second of every day with you," he professed, his gaze locked onto hers.
Tears now streaming down both their faces, Helen vigorously shook her head. "No, no, don't... don't say it. Don't do this to me, Benedict," she pleaded, her brow furrowed with the familiar frown that Colin liked to call "the Helen frown."
Slowly, Benedict cupped her cheeks, his touch gentle yet filled with determination. "No, you will not bury your feelings or keep them bottled up, hurting yourself more than me in the process, Helen," he asserted, his forehead gently resting against hers.
“I refuse to believe that a woman as extraordinary as you would live a life devoid of love, especially when I have the opportunity to give it to you."
They cried in each other's arms, their tears mingling, as Benedict whispered, "Helen, I love you. I am in love with you. You have made me feel emotions I once escaped and expressed.
“And I know you feel the same way. If uttering these words makes it all real, then, Helen Bridgerton, I will provide you with the most magnificent reality imaginable, within the universe that you explore." He continued
Helen clung tightly to Benedict, her walls crumbling beneath the weight of his words. Only he had the power to accomplish such a feat.
“And until you can finally admit that you are in love with me, I will do so on behalf of both of us. I promise," Benedict vowed.
In this dramatic moment, their love blossomed, and fear mingled with longing. "Ben... Benedict, I am scared. I don't know... all my life, I have prepared myself for a loveless existence. Why... why would... you..no," Helen struggled to form coherent sentences, her voice choked with emotion.
Benedict, anguished to see his beloved wife in such a state, held her tightly, his voice trembling with sincerity. "Helen, I refuse to let you go through life without experiencing love. I am here, and we shall both fall in love together, stay in love together, and grow in love together," he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.
“Just know that even if I fail to hold you, I will be there, falling alongside you."
With tears streaming down their faces, they embraced, their hearts entwined in a love they both longed for.
In that moment, the world faded away, leaving only their profound connection and the promise of a future filled with unwavering love.
As they reluctantly parted, Helen delicately removed her silk gloves, using her bare hands to tenderly wipe away Benedict's tears.
A radiant smile graced her lips, causing Benedict to mirror her expression. Cupping his cheeks, she gazed into his eyes and spoke with heartfelt sincerity.
"Benedict, I could never bear the thought of you sacrificing your passion for me. I would never wish that upon you. You must follow your dreams, and I am incredibly proud of you. You deserve this opportunity and so much more," she whispered, her forehead gently touching his.
Benedict, the always second in line, had never before heard such words of pride and admiration directed at him, particularly not with such genuine love.
Overwhelmed with emotion, he tentatively brushed his lips against hers, testing the waters. Helen responded fervently, pulling him closer as their kiss deepened.
They reluctantly broke apart, their lungs gasping for air, but Benedict couldn't resist the allure of her lips and chased after them, eliciting a joyful giggle from Helen as she playfully evaded him.
In that moment, she realized she was exactly where she needed to be, and she silently expressed her gratitude to every star in the universe for granting her such a remarkable husband.
"Come with me," Benedict whispered, his voice laced with longing. Helen furrowed her brows in confusion, and he gently ran his finger along the crease, smoothing away the lines of uncertainty.
“Come with me. I refuse to leave your side. We will find a place near my art school," he proposed, a hint of excitement in his eyes.
Helen's heart fluttered, and she couldn't contain her delight.
“Yes, yes, I would love that," she beamed. Perhaps, against all odds, Benedict had indeed discovered love, and Helen relished the idea of love blossoming within their marriage.
A year later
Impatience etched across her face, Helen straightened her posture and addressed Benedict with a sense of urgency. "Benedict, how much longer must we wait?"
"Stop fussing, my love. We are almost there," Benedict reassured her, his brush gliding across the canvas. "You must learn to be patient."
Helen couldn't help but fidget, her swollen belly a constant reminder of the precious life growing within her. "Tell that to your little one here. They keep kicking me," she said, gently rubbing her protruding belly.
A smile graced Benedict's face as he set aside his palette and brush, making his way towards his wife.
Helen stood before him in her nightgown, a vision of beauty, while Benedict wore a plain white shirt with the first four buttons unbuttoned, tucked into black trousers. The simplicity of their domesticity was a scene worth adoration.
"It's just that they want to express their love for their mama, just as papa loves their mama," Benedict mused, his hands caressing her belly as he leaned in to place a tender kiss on her forehead.
Leaning down to address the precious life within, he whispered, "Well, hello there. I hope you're doing well. Go easy on mama, for we already love you so dearly. We cannot wait to welcome you into our lives. With all my love, papa."
Helen ran a gentle hand through Benedict's hair, her voice barely above a whisper. "I love you, and I love them so very much."
In that moment, their hearts were filled with a love that knew no bounds. This was their happy ending, the beginning of a life they longed to share together, forevermore.
#benedict bridgerton#anthony bridgerton#bridgerton#daphne bridgerton#eloise bridgerton#colin bridgerton#colin x penelope#bridgerton series#benedict bridgerton x oc#benedict x reader
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