Just another fangirl.

"Trust me, this will work!"

I stared straight into the eyes of my best friend, Benedict Bridgerton, willing him to believe what I was saying. He raised an eyebrow, and I could see the doubt in his eyes, but to his credit he was still standing in the small hallway alcove with me.

"...I suppose I've trusted you this long. One more leap of faith isn't too much to ask, with all of that considered."

I grinned at him. "Thank you. And just think about the expression on Anthony's face when my plan goes off without a hitch!"

Benedict shook his head, but he smiled nonetheless. I smiled back, leaning my shoulder into his.

Technically, we were far too close for propriety. But we'd been joined at the hip since we were children, and we were in Aubrey Hall with no one besides his family and the staff. I wasn't about to let my best friend sit out of shenanigans because society had recently decided we weren't allowed to exist within two feet of each other.

In pall mall yesterday, Anthony had completely cheated to prevent me from winning, and I was not about to let that stand. So, I'd come up with a plan to get my revenge, via a bucket full of water balanced over a doorway I knew Anthony would be walking through shortly.

"I hope you have a plan for the moment after the water hits its mark," Benedict muttered, so close to me that I could feel his breath on my neck. I repressed a shiver, and immediately after, repressed any analysis of why I might've felt a shiver coming on.

"The plan is to hide here," I said. "Where we'll see him and he won't see us."

"And if he does see us?"

"Then I'm going to run, at least fast enough to be faster than you."

Benedict scoffed and rolled his eyes, and I responded with a grin. Before either of us could continue our conversation, however, the trapped door swung open with Anthony's typical level of force, sending the perilous bucket of water tipping over and straight onto his head.

He gasped, already scowling, as my hands shot to my face to try to stifle a laugh. Just behind me, Benedict wasn't quite as successful as I had been. A horrible, half-muffled snort escaped him, and Anthony's head whipped instantly in our direction.

All three of us froze for a moment, and then all hell broke loose.

"Run!" I shouted, whirling around and shoving Benedict ahead of me as Anthony bellowed our names, clearly having realized we were to blame.

Just ahead of me, I could see Benedict shaking his head as the two of us sprinted through the hallways of Aubrey Hall, like we had when we were kids. Despite the situation, I couldn't keep a slightly manic smile off my face.

"Come on, Ben! I know you can run faster than that!" I called, putting on just enough speed to pull ahead of Benedict. I heard him huff behind me, and I could tell he wasn't quite as amused as I was.

Of course, to be fair, his brother would probably actually punch him if he caught up to Benedict first. He'd be more likely to pick me up and drag me all the way outside to throw me in the lake in retaliation.

"We need a better plan than just running!" Benedict called, still just a half-step behind me. I hummed. He was right. Luckily for both of us, I'd practically grown up in this house, too, and I'd spent a lot of time exploring these hallways, including after Anthony had to step up and do real work instead of spending time with Benedict and I.

"Just follow me," I huffed, quickly turning a corner and then yanking Benedict after me through a door to a servant's supply cupboard. I knew Anthony had no idea it existed, and honestly, I doubted whether Benedict knew, either.

I tugged the door shut behind us, putting my back to the wall in the small, dark space with Benedict just in front of me. I wished I could pretend that my heart was only racing from the running and the adrenaline.

"What a-"

"Sh!" I hissed, putting a finger to my lips to silence Benedict as quickly as possible. We stood so close to fit both of us in the closet that my finger wasn't far from touching his lips, too.

A moment later, we heard Anthony's footsteps go thundering past outside. Neither of us so much as breathed, staying absolutely still and listening as carefully as we could. Mercifully, it sounded like Anthony had gone right past us without a second thought.

I met Benedict's eyes, huffing a quiet laugh as a small smile of relief pulled onto my face.

"I think we're in the clear," I said, still smiling, although I wasn't totally sure why anymore. It took a concentrated effort to keep my eyes on Benedict's face.

"All thanks to your brilliant quick thinking," he muttered, sounding a little breathless himself, as his eyes roamed my face. My heart kicked up an extra beat, and against the better judgement in the back of my mind, I followed the impulse to let my hands drift up to rest on his arms.

Almost reflexively, like it was the most natural thing in the world, Benedict's hands came up to rest lightly on my waist. Slowly, he leaned forward, until our foreheads pressed together. He'd given me plenty of time to pull back, but I hadn't moved an inch.

"I... am about to say something that will greatly complicate our friendship," he said. I smiled, meeting his eyes as we remained face to face.

"By all means, do so."

He chuckled, a relieved smile growing on his own face. My heart sped up in my chest in anticipation of what I thought Benedict was about to say.

"I have been feeling this way for some time... I've thought about saying this to you for a long time, too. I should be more eloquent, but I'm struggling not to trip over my words..." My smile grew as I huffed a short laugh. Benedict, usually one of the most poetic and well-spoken people I knew, was struggling not to trip over his words. He huffed a little laugh, then continued. "I... have feelings for you. To be more precise, actually, I... I love you. I'm in love with you. And I think I have been for... for longer than I'd realized. You are such a wonderful and important part of my life, and you have been for so long. I can't imagine life without you, I- oh, please tell me I haven't just ruined our relationship."

I laughed, especially at the worried look on his face. He looked slightly more relaxed at my reaction, but not completely. I moved one of my hands from his arm to his chest, just above his heart, and gave him a soft smile.

"You haven't ruined anything, Benedict. I've been feeling the same way for at least as long as you have. I was too scared to ruin our relationship myself, so I never said anything... I'm glad you finally did."

He let out a gigantic sigh, relaxing backwards to rest his head on the opposite closet wall as his shoulders slumped.

"Oh, thank goodness. I can't imagine what I would've done if you hadn't felt the same way."

I giggled a little, leaning into him as he straightened up and pulled me closer. This time, I didn't stop myself from glancing down at his lips, which also meant I didn't miss the way they curved into a mischievous smile.

"...Does this also mean I can finally kiss you?" he asked. My eyes snapped back up to his, and I quickly nodded my head.

"I'll be incredibly disappointed if you don't."

Benedict grinned again, then wasted no time leaning in to close the distance between us. I met him halfway, and fireworks exploded in my chest as soon as our lips met.

I leaned even farther forward, into Benedict, and he pulled me closer as we deepened the kiss. My head spun, my entire world narrowing to the man I loved, who I knew loved me back, who I finally got to kiss. I don't know how far we would've gone before society's hovering rules floated back into our minds, but the door to our hideout swung open before we got the chance to find out.

My stomach swooped, this time with panic rather than butterflies. Benedict and I jerked apart, putting as much distance as possible between us in the tiny space, and I got ready to shove Anthony over if he'd somehow managed to find us. After blinking a few times while my eyes adjusted to the sudden light, however, I found a different Bridgerton sibling staring at the two of us.

Daphne stood framed in the doorway, her hands on her hips and an eyebrow raised. I glanced at Benedict, and found him looking just as shocked and sheepish as I felt.

"I was wondering how long something like this would take the two of you."

Benedict and I both stumbled over a few half-formed words. I had absolutely no idea what to say, and clearly, he didn't either.

"I came to tell the two of you that Anthony gave up. He's due for a visit to one of the neighbors, and he had no choice but to leave a few minutes ago. You two are safe, at least for now."

"...Thank you, Daphne." I managed to choke out. She nodded and then slowly, a grinned pulled onto her face as she glanced between me and Benedict again.

"You know, the two of you are very lucky both Anthony and I have been in similar situations before. And that I'm the one who found you."

"I take that to mean you won't be telling anyone?" Benedict finally managed to ask. Daphne shook her head.

"No. Although I'm sure I speak for everyone when I say I'm relieved the two of you finally realized the feelings you've been ignoring for far too long."

With that, she turned on her heel and walked away, leaving the closet door open behind her. Benedict and I turned to each other slowly, sheepish grins in place as he rubbed at the back of his neck.

"Well..." I started. "I suppose my idea for revenge on Anthony worked out better than imagined."

Benedict snorted, the tension and nerves finally breaking between us. He reached out and pulled me into his side, although with the door wide open, we didn't go farther than that.

"...I'm afraid that if I agree, I'm going to find myself running from my siblings after you've decided to prank them more often than I already do."

I grinned up at him, leaning into his side a little more. "That's a guarantee regardless, Benedict. If we act on these feelings and court, then-"

"There is no if."

I stopped short, the teasing grin falling from my face at the seriousness of Benedict's tone. He met my eyes steadily, absolute sincerity conveyed through his posture, tone, and expression.

"So long as you agree, I intend to marry you. I know we may need to court officially first, and that we can't simply be married tomorrow, but... for me, it's a when, not an if."

I straightened up slightly, smiling at Benedict more earnestly.

"Then you will definitely need to be prepared to run from your siblings with me after I've pranked them, much more frequently as my husband."

Benedict sighed dramatically, throwing his head back and slumping a little. I brought a hand up to my face to hide a laugh, especially as Benedict straightened up again and fixed me with a raised eyebrow and a smirk.

"Well, at least then, we'll be able to do what we want in the closets we hide in without fear of social scandal or violation of propriety."

I laughed, lightly whacking Benedict's shoulder as he grinned. The two of us wandered back into the rest of Aubrey Hall together, lighter and happier than I'd ever felt before.

Not even the looming issue of Anthony's return could change that feeling today.

****************

Everything Taglist: @rosecentury @kmc1989 @space-helen @misshale21 @diego42 @crepuscola

“Perhaps Miss Stowell is the same way?” She offered kindly. “You only have danced with her the once, but have you had a conversation with her?”

Benedict rolled his eyes, tapping his foot in frustration. “I do not wish to speak with Miss Stowell—I hardly had wished to dance with her but Colin was being exceptionally… Colin.”

She laughed. The tall man before her was acting like a petulant child, like a baby without his lolly. “Perhaps you should have said conversation?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“I mean,” she gently pressed his shoulder, turning Benedict towards the crowd behind him. “Miss Stowell and her mother are coming this way.”

He blanched, turning quickly back to his friend, nearly feeling the glaring daggers in his back. “You must help me.”

She held out her wrist, offering her dance card. “I seem to have an extra space?”

“Anything,” Benedict said hurriedly, taking the pencil and scrawling his name against one of the many lines on her card—pointedly ignoring the fact it was entirely empty. She tried her best to not gasp at the way he held her wrist. 

“Mr. Bridgerton!” Lady Stowell said cheerily, her smile anything but. “I say, you are a tricky man to pin down.”

“Lady Stowell,” Benedict grinned, acknowledging both ladies, “Miss Stowell, forgive me, but I fear that was by design—can’t be everywhere at once, can I? Busy man, after all.”

The ladies laughed, a pleasant sort, trying their best to not act offended. “Are you looking for another dance partner, Mr. Bridgerton?” Miss Stowell asked sweetly, laying it on almost as thick as honey, the lady in violet beside him seemingly ignored entirely. “I do think I have it in me for a dance this eve…”

His eyes opened a fraction of an inch, a silent plea.

It was a good thing she was proficient in reading him.

“Actually,” (Y/N) spoke up, gaining a sideways sneer from the mama to the left. “Mr. Bridgerton has promised the next dance to me.” For good measure, she lifted her wrist, as if her words alone would not satisfy the hungry pair. 

“Yes!” Benedict’s shoulders dropped in relief, a chuckle deep from his chest. “I have promised the next dance to Miss (Y/L/N). I fear I won’t be taking any more time on the dance floor this eve after.”

“Surely you have the energy for one more dance after?” Lady Stowell pressed. “It is unbecoming to leave a lady waiting.”

“Indeed,” Benedict nodded thoughtfully. He tapped his fingers against his waist. “Which is why I should take Miss (Y/L/N) onto the dance floor at once—to prepare for the quadrille.”

“I believe it’s the cotillion next—”

“Never matter,” Benedict said, offering his arm. “Miss (Y/L/N)?”

The feeling of her arm against his own, or the look of disgust coming from both of the Stowells, the pride in her chest—she couldn’t decide what felt more victorious. Regardless, she could only focus on keeping her heart rate in check, hoping it kept in time with her clicking heels to the floor.

“Not a terribly smooth exit,” she whispered, daring to get a bit closer to him.

He leaned in equally as close. “Smooth or not, I believe it may have worked,” his ever-famous lopsided grin peeled against his cheeks, “they may be scowling now, but soon enough they’ll put their efforts to some other lowly sucker.”

“You must feel like a right swindler,” she laughed, dipping her head towards the man. The orchestra had begun their first pull at their strings.

He bowed back. “I feel lighter than air, all thanks to your quick thinking.”

“I have been known to do that from time to time,” she teased.

They had danced before, it was only the truth. Ever since her first season, albeit only just last year, Benedict had made good on his promise to dance with her at nearly every ball. 

“I fear I will be a terrible dancer when the time comes,” she expressed, leaning back on the swing, pumping her legs just that bit harder to fly higher. “No one will wish to dance with me, no worthwhile man, anyway.”

“Your tutors are bad at their job, then.”

“Mama said they are the best that money can buy,” (Y/N) said, continuing to swing. “But I still have two left feet and cannot keep count correctly.”

“I was a bad dancer, once.”

“Was?”

“My mother,” Benedict said quietly, matching her pace with the swinging, “she insisted on teaching me and my brothers the proper steps, proper hand placement and the like.”

“Perhaps she could teach me?”

His feet dug into the dirt, halting all movement. “No.”

“What—no!?”

“She is far too busy as lady of the house,” Benedict said, trying his best to balm his friend’s worried heart. “But… I could teach you?”

“You? Teach me to dance?”

“Well, not entirely, we’re getting to be that age where being alone is problematic,” Benedict sighed, his eyes meeting the stars. “Scandal making and whatnot—all before you’ve even debuted! What a mess that would be—”

“Get to the point, Bridgerton,” she said, finally planting both feet back on the ground, though, no malice was in her voice. 

“Let us say this,” Benedict rose from the wooden swing. “When you debut, I will be a faithful dance partner—a dance at nearly every ball until you find yourself a husband. That way, even if you do not have a line of suitors begging to fill your card,” he scoffed, “as if that is even a possibility, I will be there to give you ample practice.”

“You’d do that?”

“Of course,” he said, sincerity in his eyes, his tone, his very being. “Is that not what friends are for?”

It had been the promise of children, in a fit of giggles under the stars. A promise he had so carefully kept—and carefully he did.

Careful with his hand placements, careful with his footwork, careful in the way he held her heart.

Of course, he had not known so much that last part. 

“You’ve gotten better, you know,” Benedict mumbled in the moment she was close enough to hear. 

“At dancing?” She breathed, trying to not make a face. 

“All that practice,” Benedict pulled away, only to swing her back towards him, “you’ve had a fine teacher.”

“I have, haven’t I? Complimenting yourself, in a rather roundabout way, I might add,” she giggled. “Very Benedict Bridgerton of you.”

He furrowed his brows. “Am I to be offended?”

“Not at all,” she twirled. “It was intended as a compliment—should you allow your head enough time to deflate.”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” he shook his head slightly, just enough to catch her eye in the dance. “Surely you’ve danced with other bachelors this season? I cannot be the only one you’ve shared dances with.”

“No, only you,” she quietly admitted.

“Only me?” He nearly laughed. “How do you expect to find a husband if you’re galavanting away with just me every ball?”

She allowed the dance to fill any awkward space—in the conversation and in their space—the twirls and steps far too concerning than furthering their discussion. She had grown increasingly more stiff in her movements, nearly begging to be free of his grasp, of his touch. His brows had furrowed, a fraction of an inch, not enough for anyone looking on to notice, but she did. She always noticed. 

With a triumphant end, the dance ceased. Partners bowed and curtsied, allowing her to quickly duck out of the ballroom. “Excuse me.”

He was quick to follow her exit, nearly two steps behind her at all times. 

Damn his long legs. 

“(Y/N), wait!”

“I need a respite,” she called out, walking quicker towards the staircase. “Please, allow me this.”

He caught up to her by the time she made it to the balcony doors on the next floor, his hand covering her own on the knob. “No, I refuse to leave you.”

“Benedict, go back to the ball, if anyone were to see us alone—”

He turned their hands, twisting the knob with purpose and nearly pushing her out onto the balcony. It all had happened so fast, she hardly realized they had made it outside. “There,” he placed his hands on his hips, “now no one is likely to see us alone.”

“And if someone was in the gardens?” Her gloved hand waved wildly over the edge of the stone railing—a lush canopy of greenery trickled down to the aforementioned gardens below. A true piece of pride for the estate owners, to be sure. “If they happened to look up here?”

“All of the fun is in the ballroom,” he scoffed. “No one is likely to go out to the gardens at this hour, not when Lady Hanover made a big spectacle of their entertainment for this eve. Everyone will be watching that, I hear it’s another theatrical dance of some kind, you know how the ton has been eating those up.”

“Good,” she nodded. “You should go and watch it, then. Envelop yourself in the arts.”

“And leave myself susceptible to the mamas and debutantes once more? Especially after I clearly offended a great friend of mine?” He crossed his arms. “You take me for a fool if you think I would leave you in this moment.”

“Perhaps you should be foolish, then,” she quipped, crossing her arms in protest. “Or, perhaps you should listen to that great friend of yours and leave her be?”

“Not until you tell me why you ran from the dance,” he said matter-of-factly, hands gripping his hips a fraction tighter. “It clearly had something to do with what I said.”

“Again with your ego, Bridgerton,” she laughed dryly. “Not everything is about you—”

“But this is about me, of that I am sure—”

“No!” She exclaimed, throwing her hands down to her sides. “It is not about you! It is decidedly and never has been about you!”

He took a step back, bewildered. 

“You are correct,” she continued, “I have had no other dance partners this season, I fear I have only ever had one other dance partner besides you—and he has been married off. Not that I would have married him anyway, he rather had an unsightly mole and terrible breath—”

“I do not think I understand?”

“It is not for you to understand,” she seethed. “Society is never for men to understand, you just have the pleasure to show up and do what you please while the women must flaunt around and beg for attention, beg for a lowly dance in hopes of securing a match, lest we find ourselves attached to the wall and dying a spinster.”

“You are hardly at that point, you are only on your second season,” Benedict noted.

“My second, leading to my third and fourth and probable fifth—”

“You must breathe,” he placed his hands on her shoulders, raising his own in a mirrored fashion. “Take a deep breath and hold it in.” Against her better judgment, she did as he asked. Deep breath in, her chest rising, holding for just a few seconds before letting it out. “Good, again.”

“This seems foolish—”

“Is it not working?” She shrugged his hands off her shoulders, fighting back her urge to grunt in annoyance. “See?” He smiled, ever-so-slightly. “Now, do you think you can find it in your heart to explain what’s going on in that fascinating head of yours?”

“As I tried to explain,” she took another deep breath, mostly for her composure. “You have been the only suitor I’ve danced with this season.”

“Suitor is a strong word,” he mumbled.

“Is that not what you are? In the eyes of the rest of the ton? Not everyone is privy to our personal lives,” she said plainly. “Sure, a good handful know of the friendship between our mothers, but not of the friendship between us."

“I do not see how that is relevant?”

“As far as everyone else is concerned, you are a suitor,” she said. “At the very least, you have taken pity on me. It is a wonder how Whistledown has not gotten word of this.”

“I would not call it pity,” Benedict said, a bit hurt. “Not for a moment.”

“What other word, then? Compassion? Sympathy?”

“I merely was helping a friend, we had made a deal—”

“A deal that has grown far too close to the sun, as it were,” (Y/N) nodded. “If I am to be dancing with you and no one else, truly, how am I to find a husband?”

“Have you not noticed what attention is brought to you after we dance?” Benedict asked. “Truly?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“After every dance we partake in, you are greeted by a handful of gentlemen—not a swarm, mind you—but enough to take notice and share a few pleasantries.”

“I do not see how this is relevant?”

He laughed sweetly. “My dear, do you truly not see it? Dancing with a Bridgerton gains you intrigue, if I were to see something in you, perhaps there is something that the other men of the ton are overlooking as well.”

“They never ask me to dance, never come calling—”

“We shall work on that, then,” Benedict nodded, hand pulling at his coat. “Take their interest more seriously, make them yearn for more.”

“I do not think I understand?”

He looked up at the stars, groaning in frustration. “How you do not see your own charms is beyond me…”

“Come again?”

“I said you must try harder,” he corrected quickly. “For these men to grow attached, enough to garner a proposal, you must try your very best.”

She blinked. “Right. As if the last year and a half I have been trying my very worst.”

“Flutter your eyelashes,” he pointed. “Lift your voice, make it sound breathy, airy. Men seem to love it when women do that.”

“Are you giving me wooing lessons?” She laughed, realizing the notion of his words.

“If it will help you find a match,” Benedict tilted his head to the side, “yes, I suppose I am.”

“I do think I can keep their interest if I put my heart into it,” she mumbled. “I appreciate the help, Ben, I do, but I think I just need to be in the right mindset.”

Ben. She had called him Ben. When had she called him that last? “Have you not been putting your heart into it before tonight?”

How could I? With you holding it?

It was what she wished to say. 

“I think,” she said instead, “perhaps we continue our annual dance at these events, maybe sprinkling the occasional promenade or two. You said so yourself, it makes me highly sought after—even for a few minutes.”

“And?” He leaned against the railing. “What do I get out of this arrangement?”

“Have you not thought this through yourself?” She nearly laughed. “I was practically repellant to the Stowells, imagine how well you could avoid the rest of the hungry and insatiable debutantes if you were to dance with me every ball?”

“I already do dance with you at nearly every ball?”

It was her turn to look to the stars. “Men…”

“But I suppose…” He thought aloud. “You’re correct, the way the Stowells melted off of me just from the prospect of our dance was thrilling—quite the act.”

“I think we could be fine actors,” she added. “And by the end of the season, I will have a husband lined up and you will not have to worry about restless mamas—one could hope, anyway.”

He held out his hand.

“Alright, you’ve got yourself a deal.”

She didn’t have to think a second longer to take it.

—

They made good on their promise, keeping up with their dances at the events of the season—(Y/N) charming the trousers off of the now interested gentlemen, Benedict swiftly avoiding all the vying debutantes. She had a handful of callers from this endeavor, though, none of the follow through she had anticipated. 

“I just don’t understand what I am doing wrong,” she said quietly, walking along the lake, arm in arm with Benedict. “Surely one of my callers found me intriguing enough to come calling again?”

“I am just as surprised as you are,” Benedict said just as low, smiling to those passing by. “Not a single one has come back?”

“Save for Lord Hargrove,” she said. “He has danced with me twice, but only called upon me the once. We were supposed to promenade this afternoon, but, I fear he may have forgotten.”

“Hargrove?” Benedict clicked, his face souring. “You are interested in him?”

“I do not have much of a choice,” she laughed politely. “He is seemingly the only man interested in me—and he is a baron, I could do far worse.”

“Baron or not,” Benedict sneered, “he has substantial debts and rather works his way through the brothels. You, Miss (Y/L/N), can do far better.”

“Better to marry a rake than die a spinster,” she hummed.

He stopped walking, effectively pulling her back with her next step. “You must know I am correct? That you deserve better than Lord Hargrove?”

“In the grand scheme of things, it’s probable, sure,” she sighed, enjoying the patch of shade they found themselves under. “But, much like my mama, my patience is growing thin. I need to find a husband this season—if Lord Hargrove is my only option, I will see it through.”

Benedict took a sharp breath. “Fine. If you need any assistance, do not hesitate to ask.”

“Naturally,” she smiled politely. “But, perhaps you could offer your assistance further in the park? I do fear that gaggle of girls is headed your way.”

His blue eyes widened at the sight, pulling her arm rather fiercely closer to him. “Walk. Now.” —

Much like she found him on any other occasion, Benedict Bridgerton was stuck to the wall nearest the refreshments, glass in hand.

“You should smile, you know,” she teased, practically floating over to his side. “Much more handsome that way.”

“You don’t say?” Benedict smiled, not on her suggestion, but purely from her presence alone. “Perhaps I should continue to scowl, then. Dissuade any debutantes to come this way.”

“I fear scowling is more Lord Bridgerton’s style,” she quipped. “Smiling is much more becoming on you, especially when you truly mean it.”

“And how can one ‘truly mean’ to smile?” He crossed his arms.

“It’s in your eyes,” she shrugged, pulling a glass of lemonade off the table. “The way they shine in the light, how they crinkle with joy when your cheeks lift. That is how I know you ‘truly mean it’.”

Unbeknownst to him, the very tips of his ears grew pink. “Practicing your wooing, are we?”

She laughed into her glass. “No? Why would you think that?”

The pink trailed to his cheeks, now. “N-no reason,” he grabbed another glass and downed it quickly. “I just assumed you needed to test a few lines before engaging further with suitors this evening.”

“I’m afraid this is my respite,” she sighed, discreetly trying to stretch her legs. “I’ve been dancing all night if you can imagine!”

“You have?”

“Take a look for yourself!” (Y/N) thrusted her wrist towards the Bridgerton, showing off her rather full dance card. “I had no need to fill the card with false names like I have done in events past—every one is genuine.”

His fingertips grazed the card, holding it closer to the candlelight. Benedict had no reason to doubt her, of course, it was entirely plausible that every name was genuine. “Well, how about that?”

“Lord Green stepped out for a moment,” (Y/N) explained, pointing to the very middle of her card. “Hence my timing for a respite. I cannot say I am entirely too disappointed, Lord Green seems much too attached to his mama.”

It was a polite laugh, the one Benedict allowed to escape his lips, nearly a reflex whilst he was busy reading her card. “I see you have a dance with Lord Hargrove?”

“Oh yes,” she said sweetly. “Lord Hargrove has made much more an effort into a courtship since we’ve spoken last. He has called upon me twice more.”

“Has he, now?”

“I know how you feel about him,” she smiled. “But, I think he’s my best bet to be engaged by the end of the season.”

“You don’t say?”

“Careful with your hand, Ben,” she said quickly, placing her gloved hand upon his. “You’re gripping that glass rather tightly. I’d hate for you to shatter it, lest you end up with glass in your skin."

“You’re right,” he composed himself, “I don’t know what came over me.”

“You should be pleased,” she nearly sang. “Your efforts have proven fruitful—your friend is unlikely to die a spinster now!”

He laughed humorlessly. “Yes, yes, I am so pleased our agreement has succeeded.”

“Have they stopped as well? The mamas and daughters?”

“Mostly,” he said. “Half of the ton assumes I am trying to court you, the other half are wondering why we haven’t made a courtship official.”

“Is that so?”

“Nearly everyone at the Gentleman’s Club has asked me about it once or twice,” he rolled his eyes. “Lord Hargrove was being much too annoying about the entire ordeal.”

“He asked about us?”

“That is what you gathered from my retelling?”

“I think it’s sweet.”

“Sweet?” He scoffed. “He nearly wanted to put my head on a stick!”

“It shows his passion,” she argued. 

“You can do far better than that neanderthal,” he quipped back.

“And who do you suggest?” Her arms had crossed, nearly on their own. “Seeing as you know better than I for my match.”

“Take your pick,” he flicked her dance card. “I’m sure any other man on that list is much more suited for you than Lord Hargrove.”

“What has gotten into you?” (Y/N) took a step back. “What happened to my supportive friend? That is the entire reasoning for our arrangement is it not? For me to find a suitor?”

“You are well suited for other men of the ton,” Benedict explained. “Hargrove will break your heart, amongst other things.”

“I do not believe that is your decision to make, if I wish to see a courtship and potential marriage with Lord Hargrove, that is entirely my choice—”

“A terrible one, really.”

She set her glass down. “I think I am finished speaking to you.”

“If it is coming from the same area in which you also think marrying Lord Hargrove is a good idea, perhaps you should reconsider that too.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Bridgerton.”

He hadn’t had much focus in the duration of the evening, but with the way his gaze was trained on her figure growing smaller from him—storming out of the ballroom? He couldn’t pry his attention away, no matter how much it hurt.

—

As pleasant as a spring rose.

It was what her mother had told her, a phrase to frame her stature and demeanor during this mornings slew of callers. They had dwindled since the falling out with a one Mr. Bridgerton, but Lord Hargrove had redoubled his efforts, calling upon the (Y/L/N) home nearly every other day.

“I think we make a good match,” Lord Hargrove hummed politely. 

“A pleasant one,” she agreed quietly, afraid to say the wrong thing.

“How I missed you on your last season is beyond me,” he laughed, taking yet another biscuit from the silver tray—he had already cleared a dozen since his arrival this morning. “Perhaps it was because you were hiding near the walls?”

“A wallflower,” she nodded. “I do think that is a good reason for your lack of notice—”

“Perhaps it was that Bridgerton fellow?”

Her neck could have snapped with how quickly she turned to look at Lord Hargrove. “I beg your pardon?”

“It is no secret that you and Mr. Bridgerton share a famed friendship,” he bit into his biscuit. “It is also no secret that he had been trying to court you all season—a failed attempt, I should add.”

She brushed the crumbs off of her skirt, as they had flown from his lips downward. “Oh, I do not think Mr. Bridgerton had any earnest in a courtship with me. Just a rather good dance partner.”

“With the way that bloke looked at you?” He barked a laugh, more crumbs flying down to the ground. Seemingly feeling polite, he took a sip of tea to quench his palate. “He’s a sore loser for getting to you after me.”

Her head quirked a bit to the left. “Well, you didn’t exactly ‘get’ me—” 

“And with the way he spoke of you at the Gentleman’s Club?” Hargrove scoffed. “He’s a bloody poet, alright. Couldn’t understand half of the dribble he was trying to say, I think he was trying to sound smarter than me.”

“That was weeks ago, was it not?” (Y/N) countered.

“What do you mean?” He arched his brow. “This was just the other evening.”

“Oh.”

“Joke’s on him,” Hargrove scooted a bit closer to the woman beside him. “Because I’ve got the pick of the litter.”

She tried to laugh, but the sound was akin to a weak breeze. “Lord Hargrove, I fear you are thinking ahead, we are not—”

“Maid!” Hargrove snapped his fingers, gaining the attention of the lady’s maid. “Grab us another pot of tea.”

“Her name is Ursula—” 

“I should remain here until Lady (Y/L/N) returns, she is but fetching her embroidery tools.”

“There’s no need,” he waved. “Fetch the tea.”

“But, my lord—”

“Now!” He had nearly shouted at the poor girl. 

“Right away, my lord,” Ursula bowed, quickly exiting the room.

“You hadn’t the need to yell,” (Y/N) scolded quietly, “Ursula did nothing wrong.”

“The help was not being very helpful,” Hargrove said pointedly. “Forgive me for allowing her to recall her place.” His voice was filled with anything but forgiveness. “But… now we have a moment alone.”

His fingers tapped on her shoulder, his arm somehow snaking behind her. She hardly felt at ease, her entire body seizing at the contact. “We shouldn’t be alone.”

“If you are to be my wife, it will be fine,” Hargrove hummed, leaning closer to her ear. “I am sure your mother is willing to overlook such a thing.”

(Y/N) pried herself away from Lord Hargrove, nearly jumping out of her skin to get away. “If I am to be your wife, I would expect you to treat me with a little more grace.”

“Dramatic little thing,” he clicked. “No matter, I think we can work this little crease out before we are wed—”

“You keep saying that we are to be wed, yet you have neglected a proposal,” she pointed, taking another step back. “You are making assumptions on my behalf, assumptions that I would accept a proposal—”

“Of course you are going to accept,” Hargrove stood up, matching her eye line. “You have no other offers, no other suitors. I am the only one in the ton who is willing to overlook your downfalls and mold you into the perfect wife.”

“As if I were clay? You are going to mold me?”

“Naturally.”

She stood a bit straighter. “Lord Hargrove, this courtship has been quite the journey, but I am afraid we have reached the end of its course. I do implore you to leave my home at once, your dignity still intact.”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, you think it’ll be that easy?”

She faltered. “Naturally.”

“What if I were to tell the rest of the ton that we had a romantic rendezvous in this very room? That you had been compromised? That you begged me to ruin you?”

“You wouldn’t,” she nearly gasped.

“We should work on that,” Hargrove tutted, pursing his lips. “Because you clearly do not know your future husband all that well.”

“Why are you doing this?”

He shrugged. “You have a pleasant face, seem just smart enough to not grow bored of and, above all else, have a rather sizable dowry,” he looked directly at her. “Of course, that is if your father hadn’t lied about such a number.”

She couldn’t find the words to form a rebuttal, only trying her hardest to set him aflame with her gaze alone.

“You reeked of desperation,” he continued, putting a hand into his pocket, “luckily enough, I was the only gentleman worth his salt to pick up on it.”

Somehow, by all that is good, she had made it to the doorway of the drawing room, her hand already turning the knob. “Leave.”

Lord Hargrove grinned wickedly, like a villain in her stories. “Of course, I would hate to get in the way of your wedding planning.”

She opened the door wider.

“Oh,” he turned, exiting the drawing room, “and do pay mind—I am fond of roses.”

—

Lady (Y/L/N) and the dowager Lady Bridgerton shared tea once a month, a catch-up of sorts. With their busy lives, it was hard to find time to meet and socialize, especially with daughters in the season. This time around, it was all cheers and celebrations with the news of Miss (Y/L/N)’s engagement to Lord Hargrove just the day prior. A future baroness in the making was surely a call for tea. 

“Did you have a good tea, Mother?” Benedict asked absentmindedly, stroking his charcoal against his artist’s pad.

She nodded tightly. “Of course, Lady (Y/L/N) always puts out the stops for our teas.”

“Lady (Y/L/N)?” Benedict looked up. “I thought you were meeting with Lady Danbury?”

Violet removed her gloves, barely paying her second eldest son any mind, a whisper of a smile on her pink lips. “Did I? I must have muffed the names, then.”

“Mother, even I recall you mentioning Lady Danbury,” Gregory said from across the room, having been playing earnestly with Hyacinth. Marbles, all over the carpet.

“If Gregory recalls that,” Hyacinth sat straighter from the floor, pointing at her brother, “it has to be true. You know how terrible of a memory he has.”

“Like I said,” Violet hummed, finally sitting on the lounge across from her son. “I merely mixed the names up.”

Benedict’s eyes narrowed. “Right.”

“How was Lady (Y/L/N)?” Hyacinth said, bounding over to her mother, clearly having grown bored of her game with Gregory. 

“Oh, just fine as usual,” Violet waved, her voice airy. “It is always so good to catch up with such an old friend. We had much to celebrate, as it turns out.”

“Celebrate what?” Gregory chimed in. 

“Her daughter has received a proposal from Baron Hargrove,” Violet said softly. “I am told she has agreed to the proposal and the news will break at tomorrow’s ball.”

A short snap, that was all the sound that came from Benedict, his charcoal cleanly broken in half.

“Lord Hargrove?” Hyacinth questioned. “Oh! That stinky man with the beard!”

“Hyacinth Bridgerton,” her mother scolded. “We do not speak of people in such a way.”

“What? Benedict said he was stinky,” her finger pointed to her older brother, who had been sitting as still as a statue across the room. “He also mentioned his beard.”

All eyes were trained on Benedict.

“He mentioned his occasional use of musk during his hunts,” Benedict said offhandedly. “Hence the stink.”

“I see,” Violet pursed her lips.

“An engagement?” Benedict practically threw his artist’s pad on to his lap. “Truly? They are to be wed?”

“It is a fine match,” Violet said. “After two years in the season, marriage to a baron is quite noble. Lady (Y/L/N) seemed overjoyed.”

“She’s going through with it?” Benedict pressed.

“I—of course she is,” Violet tilted her head. “After two years, she’s unlikely to find a better match than Lord Hargrove.”

“And you would be alright with one of your daughters marrying Lord Hargrove?” Benedict stood from his seat, now towering over his family. “Francesca or Eloise becoming his baroness?”

His mother’s face blanched. “Well, no—”

“My point exactly, Mother,” Benedict scoffed, making a swift exit of the drawing room.

“Since when did he care so deeply about Miss (Y/L/N)’s marriage candidates?” Hyacinth wondered aloud. 

“I think, in a way,” Violet sighed, “he always has.”

—

The rain against her window was unrelenting, an outpouring of her emotions manifesting into the real world—tears she couldn’t bring herself to shed. Not any more, she had decided hours ago. 

“So stupid,” she mumbled into her covers, the sound muffled by the plush pillows on her bed. With not much force, she rolled over onto her back, eyes trained on the ceiling. “I was so alright with marrying him at the start of the season…”

Her fingers ran up and down her blanket, a nervous habit she had from when she was a young girl. It helped her ground herself, keep her thoughts from running wild. With the pouring rain, it was hard to hear herself think, let alone try and figure out her entire marriage predicament.

Tap! Tap! 

She pried her eyes from the ceiling to the window on her left, knowing full well that the rain didn’t sound like that. 

Tap! Tap!

Throwing her covers off, she made haste in re-lighting the candle sitting nearest her bed before adventuring across her bedchambers to the clinking window—which in reality was a door made of windows, leading to a small balcony overlooking the family gardens.

“Perhaps a bird is trying to get in?” She wondered, taking cautious steps towards the glass. Peering into the darkness of the night, she saw nothing but the shadows and rippling rain down the pane. “Odd.”

Tap!

Now with her attention solely on the window, it was clear it hadn’t been a bird or the rain—it was a pebble, no bigger than a coin. Three of them rested on the flooring of her balcony, the rest seemingly were back down on the ground from which they came. She pressed the window open, against her better judgment, to get a better view of the ground below the small balcony. Standing in the dead of night was a face she hadn’t expected to see anytime soon.

“Benedict?”

“Allow me up?” He asked hopefully, one hand on his chest, the other full of small rocks. 

She had half a mind to slam the window—door—back shut. “Why would I do that?”

“I must speak to you.”

“You could not have called upon me?”

“It is a matter most urgent, and I cannot wait until tomorrow to speak to you,” Benedict said, his voice wavering on desperate. 

She had hardly stepped out onto the tiny landing, afraid of the rain soaking her to the core. “Whatever you have to say, I suppose you could say it from where you are.”

“And awake your entire family and staff?” Benedict scoffed. “It will take only a moment, I am rather swift at climbing.”

Her fingers tapped against the knob to the large glass door, buying time. “Fine. But only for a moment.”

He made quick work at scaling the building, a trellis of ivy was his main leverage to get to the balcony. It was funny, he had thought once before, that she even called it such a thing. The landing was not wide enough to consider itself anything of the sort, barely two people could stand on it comfortably. Before he could even leap over the railing, she held her hand out, effectively stopping him. “What is that for?”

“I just—it did not occur to me that you would be wet.”

“It is raining,” he said plainly, arms straining from the position he held. 

“It is.”

“May I still come in?”

“Yes,” she shook her head. “Wait! One moment!” As quickly as she disappeared, she returned to the door with a spare blanket in hand. She held it out towards him. “Spare me the dripping, could you?”

He took it the moment he landed on the balcony floor, gingerly wrapping it around his soaking form. He took three steps into her bedchambers and finally out of the rain, a sigh leaving his lips, a relieved breath taken in “Thank you.”

“Save your gratitude,” she said softly, “at least, for when you are done explaining why you scaled into my bedchambers in the middle of the pouring rain?”

His fingers gripped the fabric around his shoulders, taught and tight against him. “You are marrying Lord Hargrove.”

She blinked. “Yes, I am.”

“You sound uncertain.”

“I am quite certain,” she crossed her arms. “He proposed this afternoon, I would have been a fool to say no.”

“Surely you have gotten other offers—”

“Like a pig for slaughter,” she nodded. “My father nearly had to beat them with sticks to keep the suitors away.”

“Sarcasm is unbecoming,” Benedict said sternly.

“Perhaps then you should say something more intelligent, then?” She countered. “Of course I have no other offers. Lord Hargrove is to be my husband, I am to be a baroness.”

Her words, though speaking the truth of the matter, held much more than that. Benedict caught it quickly, the sadness to her tone, how the ends of her sentences felt too final. Too much. “A baroness…”

“It is not the peerage my mother would have preferred,” she admitted. “I reckon Mother was aiming for me to marry an earl or duke, but we take what we can get, I suppose.”

“And the oaf whom you are marrying?”

“What of him?”

“You will… be happy with him?”

Her head tilted, just a fraction. “Happiness is of little importance in these matters.”

“When your happiness is tied to a man like that, I worry for you,” Benedict said sincerely. “He is drowning in debts, practically spending every other night at the brothels—he will not treat you in they way you deserve.”

“What if he does?” Her eyes were pleading. “Treat me in such a way, perhaps I deserve anything my future husband is to provide for me.”

“You deserve so much more than that,” Benedict nearly cried. “You deserve someone who can bring out the best in you, make you happier than anyone on this wretched planet—Lord Hargrove is not that man.”

“And where do you think I will find that man, then?” She asked, staring at him as if he held the answers to all things. “You say it so easily, as if I will meet a man such as that before the news of my engagement is public and—”

“Perhaps you would find him dripping rainwater in your bedchambers.”

“W-what?”

He dropped the blanket, taking a brave few steps closer to her, needing to be closer to her. “I have been a fool, (Y/N). All this time, I thought—no, I was determined that I had no need for a wife, no need to participate in the season. What good is a wife, anyway?”

“You are making little sense—”

“Forgive me, it is hard to explain,” Benedict shook his head, droplets of water landing on the wood below. “What I mean to say, is what good is a wife, when I already had such a friend who gave me all the fulfillment many men look for in a partner? I took you for granted—a constant in my life since our youth.”

“A-and now you are here to tell me all of this?” She couldn’t decide which of his eyes to look into, flickering between both of them in a rapid fashion. “Tell me how fabulous our friendship was to you, a friendship that seemingly was a placeholder for your potential romantic relationship?”

“You are right, I am making little sense,” Benedict groaned. “I did not see you in such a light, a fool I was for that, before the slightest idea that you would be with someone else came to fruition. And now… you are to be married.”

“I am to be married,” she nodded. “So… rotten timing on that one.”

He laughed. “A bit rotten, certainly. But do you, and I feel like a fool for asking, do you feel any inkling of that for me?”

“You’re dead serious?”

“I am professing my feelings for you dripping wet in the middle of the night,” Benedict said plainly. “I cannot imagine it gets more serious than that.”

“Benedict,” she said his name sweetly, like a hymn. “I have held you in the highest regard since we were children, higher than most. I always said you were a foolish one, perhaps most foolish in the sense that you never truly looked at me the same way I was looking at you.”

“You mean…?”

“I have cared for you, deeply, for a very long time, longer than I believe I will be willing to admit,” she said, her cheeks darkening in the candlelight. “I assumed since you had little want or need from a wife or marriage that it would be silly of me to admit those feelings to you ever.”

“And if I married someone else?”

“We’d still be friends,” she smiled sadly, smiled at a future she tried her best to not think of. “The closest of confidants. I Imagined we’d meet up every now and then and complain about our spouses—I’d give you advice on how to talk to your wife and the like, you giving me the same sagely wisdom on my husband.”

“But now you know I feel the same,” Benedict’s voice was lighter than it had been all evening, he could practically fly. “So there is no need to think of such a horrific future—we are the artists of our lives, we can mold it however we see fit!”

“Ben…”

He reached out to grab her hands, holding them tightly in his own. “You do not need to marry Lord Hargrove. Call off the engagement—we can begin a courtship in earnest, a real one.”

“I cannot.”

Their hands fell, still entwined. “You cannot or will not?”

“Cannot,” she repeated, a bit lowly. “My engagement is practically set in stone, I cannot refuse Lord Hargrove’s engagement. He…” (Y/N) knew she could trust Benedict with the truth—she could trust him with anything, including her heart. “He has made it clear that calling off the engagement is not an option.”

“Well, it hardly is ever an option by the ton’s standards,” Benedict scoffed. “But I think after some time the rest of Mayfair would overlook such a thing, given both of our family’s high standings…”

“No,” she shook her head. “You do not understand, Benedict. Lord Hargrove has made it abundantly clear that if I do not marry him he will claim that I had been ruined, that I urged him to ruin me.”

Benedict heard her speak, heard the words that she shared with him, but his entire mind went blank, the pale blue of the room suddenly had turned a violent red. “He… what?”

“I did not think him such a vile man,” she admitted. “But he had been hunting, and I was his prey. Meek and mild and ready for the kill, a perfect choice for his wife, apparently.”

“You are not meek and mild—”

“But I am!” She nearly shouted. “I cannot stand up to him, I will go along with what he says, he is entirely in control.”

“I have never known you to simply go along with anything—he clearly does not know you, truly.”

“But with what he is holding over me?” She pressed a hand to her chest.“What it would do to my family? We’d be practically exiled to the countryside in shame—no matter my marriage chances after the fact, which would be slim to non-exinsistant.” 

He reached out for her—to grab her hand or otherwise, he did not know. All he did know was that he needed to be close to her, comforting her in any way he could. 

“As terribly as I wish to pursue a courtship with you,” she smiled sadly, “and I do, I have wished for nothing more in my life, it is not possible. Not with the way Lord Hargrove has me in his grimy claws.”

His smile matched her own, wistful and forlorn. “I feel like a fool, for not realizing how I felt about you sooner. I fear we are like ships passing in the night…”

“You are no fool,” she assured him, trying to stand a bit taller, a bit more composed. “If it is anyone’s fault, it is entirely my own, I should have—could have said something sooner.”

Benedict placed a steady hand on her shoulder, still chilled from the rain. “No. Do not blame yourself—”

“Who else do I blame? I was desperate for a husband this season, and now I will have one,” she laughed to herself. “Even if he is loathsome and cruel…”

“Things no one deserves, but especially not you—”

“On the bright side, I will be a baroness, so, that is a balm to a rotten situation.”

“His baroness,” he corrected.

“What do you wish me to do Benedict?” (Y/N) said, a bit exasperated. “I have no way out of this, no way for us to explore a potential courtship, one that certainly could lead to nothing—”

“As if I would let you go so easily,” Benedict said. “If you think our courtship would lead anywhere but us at the end of an aisle, you are sorely mistaken.”

Her breath hitched. “You would be so keen on marrying me?”

“You think so little of yourself, it pains me to hear you say such things,” Benedict said. “Of course I would. I hardly think trying to get you to break off an engagement to another without plans on eventually marrying you is… idiotic.”

“Idiotic…”

“Entirely so,” Benedict beamed. “If I had half of a mind I’d take you to Scotland now, marrying you as soon as our carriage would allow.”

Her breath hitched. “You’re not seriously suggesting we elope, are you?”

“It was mostly in jest,” Benedict assured her, sighing softly. He took a moment of pause, recollecting his thoughts. “Although, it would be difficult to have you marry Lord Hargrove if you were already wed…”

“We’d come home to scandal,” she said quickly.

“Nothing our families can’t fix,” he shrugged. “Besides, I rather think the ton would appreciate such a story. Childhood mates fueled by love and desire, desperate to be married so quickly—”

“So quickly they couldn’t wait for a proper license,” she added. “Wouldn’t that add to whatever Lord Hargrove is surely to put out there, though? That I’m a ruined woman, marrying you so quickly seems to align with his lies.”

“And at the end of the day, you will be married off,” Benedict shrugged again. “Any scandal to come of his musings will be squashed by that fact alone. We do run the risk of being scorned from society for a bit…”

Her mind recalled a less-than-quaint cottage Benedict had mentioned once or twice, his personal escape from society. 

“But a year in the country could do us some good too…?”

Benedict smiled, his heart feeling light.

“Pack a bag. We leave at dawn.”

—

Much like their hypothesis, their mothers, were in fact, enraged with their terribly thought out plan. Anthony even had some choice words to share with his brother upon their return, most of them not a proper choice for pleasant society.

But, simply put, what’s done was done, she now had a new ring on her finger and was promised to Benedict in every way that mattered.

Lord Hargrove took as equally kind to the news as their mothers did, as Benedict had expected. But, when (Y/N) offered half of her dowry as a consolation, Hargrove found it reason enough to let her go, to trap another poor debutante into a marriage. Seemingly enough, as the timing would have it, Lord Hargrove had no need for the dowry after all.

It turned out the debt collectors seemed more keen on escorting the baron out of the country than hearing his pleas for help.

What was the most shocking of the entire endeavor was Whistledown. By the stars above, she nearly seemed accepting of their sudden elopement. Whilst the rest of the ton gossiped about the true nature of the Bridgerton’s sudden marriage, Whistledown made it clear that she believed nothing untoward may have happened before the couple fled to Scotland.

“She says, ‘The passions of love are a fickle thing. Friendship, though as arduous as it may be at times, is the best foundation for a marriage. This author hopes the newlyweds are truly at peace,’” (Y/N) smiled softly, looking across her new drawing room, hoping to find the gaze she had been longing to see. Instead, she found her husband still hunched over his easel has he had been the last few hours.

“Whistledown seems like a fan,” Benedict hummed, peeking over his canvas. 

“Clearly,” she giggled, placing the leaflet on the table beside her. “Everyone loves a happy ending.”

Benedict tutted. “I told you to not move! You were perfectly in the light, and now there is an unfortunate shadow…”

“I have been sitting like this for hours,” she sighed, trying her best to regain her posture from before. “I think we both deserve a respite from this daunting task.”

“You believe that I shouldn’t finish the first portrait of Mrs. Benedict Bridgerton with the utmost haste?” He gasped, sidestepping away from his easel. “I have finally found my muse, and now she wounds me so…”

Purposefully forgetting his instruction from before, she rose from her seat to walk over to her husband. He had been covered in paint, a habit she knew he tried very loosely to kick—but if she were honest with herself? She found him rather handsome when mussed with the pigments. “I wound you?”

“In the deepest way,” he nodded dramatically, placing a hand on his hip, pallet hooked in his thumb. Splotches of blue and green were the latest addition to the mountain of paint in his hand. “I was finally getting the shading just right.”

“I do fear we have all the time in the world for you to finish your painting,” she placed a hand on his shoulder, trying her best to sneak a peek at the half-finished product. He was insistent on her not seeing it, claiming it would be a belated wedding present. “Besides, it has only been a month since we’ve been out of the city, were we not planning on staying out here for a year?”

He nodded at that. “A year to allow the gossip to die out, a year for me to enjoy my wife.”

“So? You have a year to finish the painting,” she snaked a hand around his waist, pulling him closer to her. (Y/N) tried becoming more accustomed to touching him, allowing herself the pleasure to enjoy the feel of her husband under her fingertips. Benedict never found a reason to complain about it. “Perhaps it can be an anniversary gift?”

The feeling of her touch set him ablaze, nearly forcing him to throw his pallet aside to embrace her properly. “An anniversary gift?”

“Yes. I can think of a few things we could rather be doing than having me sit in this chair, still as a statue…”

“Oh?” He grinned devilishly. “And what sorts of things are bouncing around in my pretty wife’s head, hm?”

“Lunch plans, mostly,” she said honestly, watching his face fall in disappointment. “But I suppose I could be more creative in my thinking?”

“I urge you to be more creative,” he nearly growled. 

It was no secret that the last month had been filled with the enjoyments a husband and wife could partake in—both in and outside of the bedroom. It took them some time to christen every room in My Cottage, as the newly appointed Mrs. Bridgerton underestimated how not quaint the cottage truly was. 

“Maybe if my husband asked me nicely?”  

“Please think more creatively,” he pleaded. “You did marry an artist, after all.”

“Perhaps I will think more creatively in the bath,” she said, poking his nose, revealing green pigment on her fingertip. “Somewhere I think you should join me this afternoon?”

“Oh love,” he grinned, dipping down to press his forehead to her own. “You do have such great ideas.”

His lips met her own, as they had hundreds of times over the last month. Benedict claimed he was making up for lost time, an oversight on his late realization of the true depth of his feelings for his missus. Every time they kissed, it felt like the first time, the promise of love between every labored breath and muffled moan. 

To think his current happiness began with a promise, a promise to dance. A promise that allowed Mr. Bridgerton to, in fact, have a reason to dissuade debutantes from bugging him.

But Wayne wasn’t simply finding himself in a situation where his kid left open the kitchen window and accidentally invited some critters in for some Fruit Loops - no no no, not his boy, not his Eddie - because the damn raccoons were wearing goddamned small custom-tailored-denim vests. With small patches.

For a second, Wayne - who always has had an open mind for the supernatural too - stopped before he went to shoo the raccoons out of his house because they did look an awful lot like Eddie and his fellow agent of chaos.

It took him some time to escort the unusual guests out of the trailer and their little puzzled faces when he finally closed the door on them stung him in the chest a little; they were still wearing those silly vests and it wasn’t beneath him to admit that it was a little sweet.

Wayne sidestepped the chaos, closed the window on his way to Eddie’s room and knocked hard enough to make his knuckles sting to be heard over the screeching of guitars. “EDDIE?” he knocked again and the music dipped down to a murmur.

‘You heard that?”

‘Heard what?’

“Heard ya uncle knocking at the door!”

‘Oh, shit… COME IN!’

Wayne braced himself, took a deep breath and— still wasn’t prepared for the scene he stepped into.

“Hey, old man,” Eddie grinned, sitting on his floor, a sleeping raccoon in his lap, cutting out pieces for another little vest from an already pretty shredded denim jacket.

“Hi, Wayne,” you said, lying on your stomach on Eddie’s bed, not even looking up at him because you were so engrossed in hand painting a small patch that - Wayne had no doubt - would go on that vest once it was finished.

Wayne rubbed his face with both of his palms hard enough to make his teeth dig into his cheeks and groaned.

“What the hell are you two doing?”

“Uhhm,” Eddie started in his isn’t that obvious-voice, “we’re supplying the neighbourhood fauna with bad-ass merchandise?”

“You’re—“

“Made by hand, with black hearts and from recycled locally sourced materials,” you added, looking up at Wayne at last after sharing a conspiratorial grin with Eddie.

Wayne blinked a few times and put his hands on his hips. “And why are you doing— that?”

Eddie and you shrugged in unison before you suggested: “Supply and demand?”

“And it’s pretty adorable,” Eddie added.

“How much demand can there possibly be for raccoon-vests in the first place?”

“So far,” Eddie said and looked at a notepad next to him, “we had three customers!”

“And have a waiting list of five.”

“No!” Wayne said, shaking his head and waving a finger. “You don’t bring any more raccoons into my house! Do you hear me?”

“But—,” you tried to argue.

“No!”

“We still have—“ Eddie started.

“I said: no!”

It was like Wayne was talking to two eleven-year-olds all over again instead of two Seniors who were about to graduate in a few months. He asked himself if this wasn’t another case of derailed economics homework.

“And may we know why you’re shutting down a flourishing business?”

“Eddie, stop the act now. There were two raccoons looting our kitchen when I came in just now and we won’t be able to leave a damn window cracked when you keep pampering those critters!”

“Shit…”

“We didn’t mean to…”

“Sorry, Uncle Wayne…”

“T’ was just a little fun…”

“Yeah, we didn’t mean to…”

Wayne lifted his hands and the murmuring stopped. “I know, I know… you two get carried away like that, just… no more wild animals in the house! Do you two copy?”

“Loud and clear…”

“Affirmative, Wayne, soooo affirmative…”

“Sorry again— did anything break?”

“We’ll replace it—“

Again, Wayne lifted his hands. “You owe me a box of fruit-loops and a mug.”

Eddie’s eyes went wide and you buried your face in a pillow.

“They… broke a mug?”

“Nah,” Wayne grinned. “But I have to get something nice out of this mess, don’t I?”

And with that, Wayne started pulling the door close behind him, enjoying the quiet that followed. Then he remembered something and lurked back in, pointing at Eddie’s lap.

“You sure that’s not dead?”

“What?”

“You guys were blasting the whole trailer park when I got home.”

Eddie looked down at the motionless creature in his lap. “Yep, still breathing.”

“A connoisseur of the hard'n'heavy arts,” you giggled and it immediately spread to Eddie.

“Get that fellow out of here. Clean-up and replacing food afterwards.”

“Can’t we finish this last vest?” you pouted.

“No puppy eye’s this time, kid, I’m puttin’ my foot down,” and he slowly closed the door again.

‘Can we move the business to your place?’

‘Sure…. my mom works until nine…’

‘Can’t believe I have to wake Misses Snuggles now…’

Wayne shook his head and went to make some coffee when he met another well-dressed raccoon on the kitchen counter, chewing on some bread.

“Right,” he rolled his eyes, “three customers so far.”

Part 1: Game Night

Part 2: Gossip

Part 3: Normal

Part 4: Smokes

Part 5: Cuddles

Part 6: Roses

Part 7: Note

Part 8: Exhale

Part 9: Employee of the Month

Part 10: Backyard bonus convo here

Part 11: Relieved bonus convo here

Part 12: Four Days

Part 13: Oil Change

Part 14: Not the First Time bonus convo here

Part 15: Porch

Part 15 part 2: Porch Convo bonus convo here

Part 16: Smooth Sailing bonus convo here convo with Steve and Chrissy here

Part 17: Police Escort

Part 18: Downstairs

Part 19: Open Spaces bonus convo between Eddie and Wayne here

Part 20: Five? bonus convo here

Part 21: Practice Date bonus convo here

Part 1: Hurry Up

Part 2: 3 Years

Part 3: Spoiled

Part 4: Bet

Part 5: Ouch

Part 6: Part of the Job

Part 7: Luke

Part 8: Smiles

Part 9: Jealous

Part 10: Space

Part 11: Idiot

Part 12: I’ll Wait