#benedict x reader

Eloise looked you over carefully, her brow raising as she noticed the way your book was clutched to your chest.

“Are you feeling well, sister? Perhaps being cooped up in this room while hearing men express their freedom so candidly has upset your spirit. A bit of fresh air might brighten you up.” Eloise suggested with her usual countenance, though she seemed concerned enough for you. And had offered you a perfect reason to go outside, something you’d begun to itch for the moment you’d set eyes on Benedict.

“You might just be right, sister.” You answered, walking over to place your book onto the side-table by your settee before crossing the room towards the door.

“Be well,” Eloise wished you, her eyes already back on her book. “And I would be remiss if I did not hope that you humble them into silence.”

Her words followed you on your way through Aubrey Hall, until you were walking down the outside steps leading out onto the green grounds. The brothers’ banter was much clearer now, and you could hear Anthony’s riposte to something Colin had just said. Benedict, much like Anthony, was with his back to the stairs, and so it was Colin that first noticed you.

“Ah, and so our sister has now come to weigh in on this situation.” He grinned at you, putting a hand above his eyes so he could shield his eyes from the sun to see you better.

Anthony turned to see just which of his sisters had come outside, but Benedict did not move, placing his hands on his hips.

“More like berate us, Colin. Likely you have been too loud.”

“Luckily for us, it is neither Eloise nor Daphne who comes our way. You should be quite pleased by our visitor, brother.” Anthony chimed in, giving you a cordial nod. He seemed far too preoccupied by something, and far too overcome with competitive emotion for much else.

Benedict finally turned, and his reaction to you was instantaneous. He smiled wide and took the last few feet between you quickly, reaching for your hands.

“My love, what are you doing here?”

“Yes, what are you doing here, sister? Come to challenge us to a spar?” Colin jested from the seat he’d taken on the bench.

“If I was to relay Eloise’s emotions on the matter, I would say I came here to humble you all, for you were being too loud. However, I am simply here for some fresh air.”

Benedict looked you over, his thumb gently rubbing over your knuckles.

“Do you feel unwell?” His voice was soft, just for you, and then he turned his head back to look at Colin. “Colin, get your arse off the bench, my wife needs to sit.”

“No, darling, I don’t.” You replied, waving your hand to stop Colin from getting up. “I’m fine. I just simply felt…” You took a breath. “Overwhelmed by being cooped up in a room at the sound of the three of you being so… carefree.”

Benedict smiled at you fondly, leaning in to press a kiss to your brow.

“I shall leave them to it. What’s more, Anthony has started to cheat, and so there is no fun in it anymore. You and I are therefore free to go for a promenade.”

“If you are certain,” Benedict nodded at your words immediately, already beginning to pull you away (Colin and Anthony engrossed in their own conversation). “In that case, that sounds lovely, my love.”

Benedict led you away from the ruckus, his hand in yours. He was happy, and he seemed it. The bright sunrays falling on him only made him look more spirited, and you found yourself wishing for some of his paints so that you might try, if even for a moment, to immortalize him like this. A ways away from the house (and the other brothers), you felt Benedict’s eyes on the side of your face, that boyish grin following suit.

“Have I yet told you how beautiful you look today, my love?”

“Yes, you charmer, you have. This very morning.” You reminded him, biting back the full extent of your smile.

“Ah,” He put his index finger up briefly, flashing a grin. “But this morning you were wearing a white nightgown, and now you are wearing a day gown of a different colour. The compliment, nay, the truth, must be repeated, my darling.”

“You are utterly incessant.” You grinned, playfully nudging your side against his. He chuckled, now wrapping his arm around your middle, a most welcome change. “But I suppose I cannot deny that I am appreciating your current outfit just as much.”

“Oh?”

“Do not let it get to your head, husband. I simply mean that it is a noticeable change from the usual dark jacket over your more colourful waistcoats.”

Benedict hummed lowly, amused, and yet playing coy all the same.

“I see. So, you compliment my lack of garments.”

“Do not make me sound so, Ben!” You admonished.

“Whatever do you mean, my love?”

“Like a woman excited by the sight of a simple shirt.”

Benedict laughed openly, squeezing your side.

“I rather think it is the cream pants that are exciting you so, wife.” He teased, wiggling his brows.

You rolled your eyes, pulling away from his hold with a look back at him, beginning to walk ahead of him.

“If you believe this is a punishment, you are sorely mistaken, wife. This is a most enjoyable view, indeed.” He purred from behind you, knowing full well what it did to you.

“You are horrible.” You accused, stopping by a large oak tree, turning back around to watch him approach you.

“So you keep maintaining, my darling.” He smiled, his hands finding their way to your hips, the two of you, like magnets, following the path towards each other, your lips meeting in a kiss.

“Mmm,” You broke the kiss, your mouth against his. “You truly are.”

“You truly must stop kissing horrible men, then.” He replied, leaning in again.

“I want you…” You confessed in a hot whisper against his mouth. He smiled, nudging his nose against yours.

“I know. I could tell.”

“Is that not horrible? That I could not control myself until we found ourselves back in our bed?”

“Not at all, my love. Have I not tried to show you how wonderful it is to live and express our love freely? I find it very damn charming, no, damn arousing, that you have admitted this to me.”

Your mind caught up with you, your eyes moving up from his mouth to look into his.

“You could tell? How?”

“I saw you watching us from the window.” His grin was crooked as he admitted it.

“You did not!” You gasped, disbelieving.

“Of course I did! I adore an audience, especially when it is such a beautiful one.”

“You-”

“-Am awful, yes, I gathered.” He sighed solemnly, grinning, leaning in to kiss you again.

Your hand, previously resting on his shoulder, moved up into his hair, your fingers tangling into the softness of it and pulling him deeper into the kiss. Benedict was quick to take advantage of your expression of passion, reaching down to help you wrap your right leg around his left hip, gently pressing you back against the tree.

“Ben… surely we cannot here?” You whispered after he’d broken the kiss, his lips moving to your neck.

“Why not? We are far enough away, my love. You will simply have to be quiet.”

“So will you.” You pressed your heel into his behind, causing him to let out an unbothered chuckle.

“I will if you will.” He offered coyly.

You rolled your eyes, tilting your head up so as to bare more of your skin to him.

“Now tell me, what do you love most about what I am wearing?”

“Excuse me?”

“What is the specific reason behind your… excitement?” He bit your neck lightly.

“I suppose it isn’t the clothing as much as it is the image of what is beneath it.” You confessed somewhat bashfully.

“Was this morning not enough for you?” He whispered teasingly, now sucking on the very spot he’d just bitten.

“This morning was… unfinished, if you recall, my love.” You panted, rolling your hips against his in what you’d hoped was a subtle way.

“Well, then we simply must make sure we allow it to reach its conclusion now, don’t we?” He pressed you closer, rolling his own hips against yours now. He’d caught on, then. Not as subtle as you would have wanted.

You sighed, daring another look down at his chest, and at the way that the crisp white shirt, something which usually remained well hidden beneath his jewel-toned waistcoats, was now displayed. A personal weakness of yours.

“Do you have something against my shirt, my darling?” He smiled, tenderly rubbing his nose against your cheek.

“I wish you would take it off.”

He made a scandalised face at you, a hand to his chest.

“How bold! You are lucky indeed that I’ve been raised to listen to the orders of beautiful women.”

Your sharp retort died in your throat as you watched his hands move to the top of his shirt, beginning to undo the first few buttons. You watched, enthralled, as Benedict proceeded to undo the buttons of his shirt. Your hands, moving of their own accord, placed themselves atop his, stopping him once he’d undone half the buttons, leaving the top half of his torso bare.

“Enough for you now, is it? Far too indecisive.” He clicked his tongue once, watching you with knowing amusement.

“Kiss me and take me, Ben.” You pleaded softly, pulling him in for another kiss, one of your hands landing on the now bared skin of his chest, the other reaching down to ruck up your skirts. Benedict, now more aroused than amused, reached down with one hand, unbuttoning his trousers and freeing his cock from their confines.

He lifted you up just a bit more, just enough to slip inside of you after you’d helped him by pulling your undergarments to the side.

“Heaven.” He breathed lowly, his brow pressed to your shoulder.

“I thought I was the one who was excitable?” You panted out, feeling him growl playfully against your shoulder, biting at the exposed bit of your heaving left breast.

“You are being quite mouthy this afternoon, my love, and I cannot deny the feelings this inspires in me.”

“The last thing I want is for you to deny yourself anything right now, Ben…” You let the back of your head gently thump against the tree trunk, feeling Benedict begin to move in-and-out of you, the both of you quickly disregarding your banter in order to enjoy the sensations his movements were causing.

“Did you win?” You breathed, your left hand moving beneath his shirt so as to hold onto his bare shoulder.

“Against Colin, yes. Did you not see?” He panted, busying himself with mouthing at the tops of your breasts.

He groaned when you tightened around him.

“I shall win every…” He grunted. “Every time if this is what it gets me.”

Your nails dug into his skin, your heel pressing harder into his behind as you felt your insides coil tighter.

You were both breathless, lost in the beauty and passion of what you were currently indulging in, your hands on each other, and your mouths finding each other more often than not in order to quieten sounds of pleasure. You could feel Benedict’s thrusts growing more hurried, less rhythmic, just as you could feel yourself nearly at your peak. Benedict, insightful as ever, slipped one of his hands between you both, his thumb at your clitoris without you having to ask. His first touches there had your eyes rolling back, and the reactions it brought out within your body had him moaning softly against your breasts.

“I cannot… resist you, darling.” He panted, sounding nearly remorseful.

You shook your head, biting onto your bottom lip to keep quiet. It was answer enough for him; to move his eyes up to your face and watch you take your earnest pleasure from him.

It wasn’t long before his lips were pressing to yours again, keeping your sounds of pleasure for his ears only, as you finally reached your peak in his arms. He wasn’t far behind, moaning your name reverently against your neck before resting most of his weight against you, the both of you catching your breath.

“I was only meant to get some fresh air.” You realized with a start, looking up at the blue sky through the green leaves.

“We all knew that it was not why you came outside, my darling.”

“We did not all know, husband.”

He looked at you with a playful glimmer in his eyes, shrugging.

“As you say, my love. No matter your opinion on the matter, I would not be doing my job as a husband if I was not keeping your every need met.”

“And you claim you have just done that?” You tilted your head.

“Do you not feel particularly refreshed?” He smirked, and you ran your fingers through his hair lightly, making it seem just a bit more well-kept.

“No, I rather feel in the desperate need of a bath.”

His answering grin was how you knew you’d fallen into his trap.

“Coincidentally, so do I.”

You had spent every summer in the countryside together growing up in that easy, dangerous way - your families so intertwined it was hard to believe you were not all related by blood or marriage. You could still remember it so vividly, the cool splash of the lake, the afternoons playing croquet and horse riding, the nights spent giggling in the drawing room.

As you'd grown older, Benedict had still always been there. Teasing you relentlessly, defending you when society belittled you, finding you in every crowded ballroom just to pull a face to make you laugh when society demanded posterity and dignity. You spent afternoons in the Bridgerton drawing room, arguing with him about art and poetry and laughing at the absurdity of society's expectations - much to your parents and Lady Bridgerton's chagrin.

It had happened so gradually, so naturally, your love blooming like a flower under that gentle summer sun. But now, now you felt like you were always meant to love him, like it was etched into your very bones.

Benedict had always been a 'free spirit'. You knew of his partying and debauchery, learnt of it through Lady Whistledown and your parents who shook their heads and tutted with a 'what is Lady Bridgerton ever going to do with that boy?'

But you'd never paid it much mind. Benedict still snuck out by the swings to meet you, indulged your parents by chaperoning you around the lake. Even though you would never say it out loud, you had always naively thought he was yours.

It helped that you had never met any of these people he was involved with. An out of sight, out of mind mentality was a commonly used coping mechanism in your brain.

That was until tonight.

Her name was Lady Arnold, Penelope had whispered to you and Eloise beside the champagne tower.

She arrived like a ripple through still water - new, intriguing, and effortlessly beautiful in a way that demanded attention rather than asked for it. She laughed loudly, spoke freely, and worst of all - she fascinated Benedict.

You noticed it before anyone else did. The way his gaze followed her across the room. The way his laughter changed when she spoke.

She was older than you, which made her all the more intimidating. She was more mature and sophisticated, and knew what she wanted. And right now, you could tell she wanted Benedict.

You watched as he leant down and whispered something in her ear. She laughed, tilting her head back perfectly, her hand brushing against his arm so fleetingly it almost looked unintentional.

Your chest ached with something unfamiliar, sharp and humiliating.

Jealousy was unbecoming.

Jealousy was foolish.

Jealousy had no place when you had never been his to begin with.

The realisation hit you like a landslide.

How gullible you had been, how cruel of you to sit up on your mighty tower of judgement and look down at other women for grappling with such an ugly feeling.

"Are you alright?"

Eloise's voice yanked you out of your spiral.

"Yes, quite." Your words came out strangled as you forced your slightly shaking hand to guide your glass of champagne to your lips.

"Are you sure? Because you've been staring at Benedict for a good five minutes like you want to tear his head clean off his shoulders."

You blinked, forcing yourself to keep your eyes locked on your closest friend.

"He promised to fetch me a drink, but as per usual it seems he's become distracted." The tone that flowed out of you was one of a disgruntled friend, the eye roll the cherry on top for your performance. You'd spent years perfecting it, so much so that you were convinced Eloise had no suspicion you were pining for her older brother.

Eloise followed your eyes to where Benedict and Lady Arnold stood in the corner. Her nose wrinkled up in disgust.

"Typical." She chortled.

"Do not fret, he will tire of her. She's just the new shiny thing to distract him from his downward spiral about art school and his inability to live up to mother's expectations"

You stifled a laugh at her matter-of-fact tone. "Never change, El."

Eloise's grin brightened at that. "Was never intending to."

But Benedict did not tire of her.

Weeks passed, and Benedict's presence in your life thinned like watered down honey. He was always busy now, sneaking out to see her.

Anger slowly began to build in you. You had helped him through his art school crisis, comforted him when he confessed he felt he was not good enough, listened when he bemoaned of his family's expectations. And yet, here he was, discarding you at the drop of a hat.

Jealousy and anger spread further, an idea born of both taking root in your mind.

"I am going to debut next season." You said before taking a bite of your apricot pastry.

The words fell into the breakfast room like a sugar cube dropping into a teacup. Your mother froze. Your father stared. Eloise choked outright.

“You what?” She exclaimed. "But... but the pact!"

"What pact?" Your mother asked sharply.

You shot Eloise a warning glare. "Nothing mama."

You had been fifteen when it was made - knees muddy from the game of croquet gone awry. Eloise sprawled dramatically on the grass insisting marriage was a ridiculous social construct. Benedict half-listening, sketchbook balanced on one knee. You, stuffing your face with plump raspberries fresh from the Bridgerton's garden.

"No marriage." Eloise had declared. "Spinsters and rakes until we depart this godforsaken earth."

"No marriage." Benedict agreed, flashing an amused grin at you that made your stomach flutter in ways you were yet to understand.

"Ever." You added on.

You hadn't really meant it, you were too young to, but you were eager to agree with the boy across from you.

"Unless our families threaten to disown us, then we will have no choice but to simply marry each other."

He was staring directly at you, that crooked smile still on his features.

"Ew, in your dreams brother." Eloise scoffed as she threw a raspberry at him. "You could never be so lucky."

You giggled, ducking your head to hide your flushed cheeks. Benedict faked an outraged gasp and tossed it right back, although his eyes never left you.

You’d clung to that little comment for an embarrassingly long time, that little shred of hope that maybe, if you just waited long enough, you and Benedict would wed.

But now, now you realised just how much of a fool you had been.

Later, you and Eloise said goodbye to your parents before piling into the awaiting carriage. You felt a thrill creep up your spine. You and Eloise were going to Scotland for the summer with Francesca and John to see his family home.

It was a chance for adventure, a chance for a fleeting escape until you returned to the gossip hungry ton.

You tried not to think about the fact that you had not said goodbye to Benedict.

"Are you debuting because of my brother?"

Eloise's words hit you about an hour into the journey, soft in the velvet padded interior. You startled, jerking your head away from the countryside to look at her.

"What?"

"I know."

The way she said your name so softly after was like a punch to your stomach.

"Know what?"

"That you love him."

You tried, and failed, to blink back tears that unexpectedly sprung into the corner of your eyes.

"I- I thought I was good at hiding it." You managed a half strangled laugh as you wiped away at your face.

"Oh-" Eloise moved to sit beside you.

"You are." She insisted, grabbing a hold of your hand. "I just know you so well. I do not believe that anyone else knows."

You let her wipe your tears away for you. "I am sorry Eloise."

She frowned. "Why are you sorry?"

"Because I- he's your brother and-"

"We cannot control who we love." She spoke with a maturity you had not heard before. “I have grown to realise that.”

You would have to pry behind those shrouded words later.

"Although, I am seriously questioning your taste."

That managed to get a real laugh out of you.

"If anything, it is Benedict who should be sorry."

This time, it was your turn to frown. "Why?"

"Because he does not know what he is missing out on."

"Oh, El." You wrapped her in a tight embrace, tears flowing down your cheeks once more.

"Are you sure you want to debut? Surely you do not intend to marry just to spite my brother." Eloise asked once you had pulled apart.

"That was the original plan." You confessed. "But I- the more I think about it, I have no siblings and my parents are getting older... I need to do what is right. For my family."

Eloise frowned, the speech she had said a thousand times about expectations on women dangling on the tip of her tongue. But when she saw the grief in your eyes, she resisted. You were a nuclear family of three, she was one of nine that was ever expanding. She could not dare to begin to imagine what that was like.

"Ok." She nodded. "If that is what you truly want, I will do all that I can to support you."

"It's what I truly want." You assured her.

"Well that settles it. We will have the summer of our lives in Scotland, our final summer of freedom, and think absolutely nothing about my dimwitted brother. And when we return, we will ensure the entire ton is at your door begging to call on you."

-

Scotland was beautiful, if not a little secluded. You were lucky that you had Eloise and Francesca to keep you company, and endless amounts of sheep.

You had almost pushed the older Bridgerton brother out of your thoughts entirely, until your handmaiden had arrived in your bedchamber one morning with a letter clasped firmly in her worked hands.

"For you, my lady."

She placed it in your outstretched palm.

You visibly flinched at the familiar looped penmanship on the envelope.

"That will be all Delilah, thank you." You murmured, your eyes never leaving the bomb that had just been placed in your hands.

She nodded, exchanging a look with the footman posted at your door before leaving you to your own devices.

You hesitated for a moment. You could just not read it, you could throw it into the crackling fire and pretend it never existed. But you knew yourself. And you knew that you would spend the rest of your life wondering what was in the prose hidden behind the envelope.

So with that, you delicately opened the wax seal to reveal Benedict's scrawling handwriting.

My darling,

How are you?

I cannot believe you failed to mention that you were galavanting off to Scotland with my dear sisters! I had to pry it out of mother one evening after plying her with a bottle of my finest champagne.

How are you? How is Scotland? I hope you have not had to resort to making friends with the sheep and that you are keeping warm, it gets dreadfully cold there, even in the summer.

The ton is quiet without you and El here. It makes me miss our times spent in the country, when our biggest dilemma was how best to irritate Anthony and Daphne.

Now with Anthony in India I have had to assume his viscount duties which I must say, has made me slightly more sympathetic towards my brother. Do you know how dreadfully boring it is making decisions about mending fences and repainting walls? Torture!

I am hoping you are having a glorious summer, but selfishly, I cannot wait for you to return. I really do miss you.

Please make haste in your reply, so I have tales of your travels to distract me from all of this paperwork.

Forever your partner in crime,

Benedict

You put the letter down, staring out at the Scottish highlands. You had no idea how to think or how to feel. It was a lovely letter, but Benedict had always had a way with words - the poet of the family.

He had failed to make mention of Lady Arnold, could it be because they were never that serious? Or because he did not want you to know of his affair with an older widow?

You grasped his letter and marched towards your desk. He could act like nothing was wrong all he liked, but he had failed to acknowledge his disappearing act he had pulled right before you had left.

You dipped your quill into the ink point and hovered over the parchment. You were angry, but it would not be right to make it clear in this letter, not when you were still away for so many weeks. With that in mind, you pressed your quill into the parchment.

Dear Benedict,

It is lovely to hear from you.

I am sorry I did not tell you of my summer plans, it happened so hastily I barely had time to pack my things, let alone tell others.

Scotland is beautiful. Yes, the winds here chill you to the bone, but it makes you feel as if you could fly on their tails.

The sheep are in abundance, but I do not mind them, they make better company than most of the ton to be frank!

I am sorry to hear your duties are dreary, although I am happy to hear Anthony and Kate are spending time in India.

My days are busy here, we are travelling to a neighbouring town tomorrow to explore, so I will probably not have time to write any further letters to you this summer.

I will see you when I return home. Try not to get into too much mischief while I am gone!

Warm regards,

You signed your name with a flourish and re-read your letter once, then twice, then a third time just to be sure. It was the perfect blend of friendliness and polite distance.

All you could do was hope you had done enough to prevent any further correspondence, so you could enjoy the rest of your summer in delusion, pretending that the man you loved did not exist.

-

"Warm regards." Benedict mumbled. "Warm regards?!" He stood from his desk in the Bridgerton study, pacing on the woven carpet.

Your letter was crumpling in his tight grasp as he re-read your delicate writing once more.

At a first glance, there was nothing wrong with it. It was friendly and cheeky and beautifully descriptive, as you always were. But if you looked a little further, squinted analytically at the swirls, Benedict could tell something was awry.

First of all, you never used 'warm regards'. That was a sign off reserved for acquaintances or business partners, or distant relatives you were forced to write to once a year for their birthday. Not for one of your closest friends.

Secondly, you had told him you were too busy to write letters. Never in your life had you been too busy for him. You were always the first to comfort him, to leap at the opportunity to rile his siblings up, to ditch social functions and create your own party, to spend hours debating eachother and helping the days pass.

And lastly, you had not told him that you had missed him too. That could not be right. How could you not miss him? How could you not be sitting there thinking that Scotland would be so much better if he was by your side, because that is all he had thought all summer.

The partying had been fun for a while, but it soon became mundane and tedious. He filled his nights gambling or sleeping with whoever he first locked eyes with, and his days nursing a foul headache - just to repeat the cycle all over again.

But all he wanted, he had realised, was to spend time with you.

He brought the paper up to his face and tentatively inhaled. He swore he could smell traces of you leaping off the page - a hint of vanilla and sandalwood, the jasmine soap you had used since you were a teenager.

He huffed and threw the letter onto the polished wood of the desk.

"Warm regards... bloody ridiculous." He grumbled.

"Are you quite alright brother?"

Benedict turned to see Colin at the doorway of the study, his brow arched in confusion. Penelope, never too far from her new husband, poked her head in beside him.

"I am fine I-" Benedict cut himself off as he pressed his fingers to his temple, rubbing circles in the hope it might relieve him of his symptoms.

"What does it mean if someone uses warm regards in their letters, do you think?"

"It means.... they are wishing you regards but... with warmth?" Colin suggested, making Benedict roll his eyes.

"But what if, hypothetically of course, they are one of your closest friends who has never used such a... mundane phrase in all their years of living."

Penelope and Colin exchanged glances.

"Maybe they are preoccupied?"

"They might as well have told me to sod off." He muttered, folding his arms across his chest as he stared out the window.

"Maybe you have done something to offend them?" Penelope suggested.

Benedict whipped around in a flourish, pointing accusatorily.

"Why? Has she said something to you?"

"You have not even said who you are talking about, brother.” Colin reminded him.

“But it does not take a genius to figure out who.” Penelope remarked, lips pursed in amusement.

Benedict paused, his mouth agape as he stared at his brother and sister-in-law. They could not possibly be insinuating what he thought they were, could they?

“Children! More letters have arrived!”

The scamper of Hyacinth and Gregory’s feet pounding on the staircase followed Violet Bridgerton’s voice, giving Benedict a reprieve from conjouring a response.

Benedict, Penelope and Colin followed suit, watching as the younger Bridgerton’s gathered around their mother eagerly as she rifled through the stack of envelopes.

“One from Eloise, one from Francesca oh! And another one from Miss Brighton.”

The sound of your family name made Benedict flinch.

“Another one?” Benedict blurted out.

Violet’s brow furrowed at the tone of his voice. "Yes?"

“Implying that she has sent more than one letter?”

Violet glanced at Colin and Penelope behind him who subtly shook their heads.

“Well no uh-“

“I have gotten four from her already this summer.” Hyacinth announced proudly.

Benedict blinked. “Four?” His voice squeaked.

“But she told me that she was too busy to write more letters and-“ He cut himself off when he realised how bad it sounded.

The rest of his family looked at him in shock.

“Oh Benedict.” Violet tutted. “What have you done now?”

He felt a wave of nausea hit him.

There must be some explanation, some mix up. All would be well, he just had to wait until you returned and everything would go back to normal.

You would have another season of shared giggles at the girls and their fretting mamas. Of sneaking out of balls to share a flask. Of afternoons swinging and discussing the best up and coming artists.

But oh, how wrong he would end up being.

-

The announcement in Lady Whistledown sent shockwaves through the ton.

You - the only daughter of one of the noblest families, famously uninterested in marriage - were to debut into society.

Rumours were on the tip of everyone’s tongue, but one thing was almost a certainty, you were no doubt going to be selected as the diamond of the season.

Your mother could scarcely contain her delight. The modiste was summoned. Dresses were selected. Jewels unearthed from velvet boxes long untouched.

And Benedict -

Benedict was blindsided.

He could scarcely believe what he was reading. There had to be a printing error, some sort of horrible prank gone too far.

He tried to talk to you, but it seemed fate intervened at every turn. You were always out at appointments, busy with the modiste, practicing your dance lessons.

Every night, he sat on his swing, staring at the empty one as if he might will you to appear on it. But you never came.

It seemed he would be attending his mother's ball after all.

-

The diamond encrusted mask clung to your face. You could hardly contain your nerves as you stepped out of your carriage and into the entryway of Bridgerton house.

The first ball of the season.

Voices hushed as you descended down the stairs. For the first time you had eyes glued on you at every turn. You knew then that you could not hide in the shadows any longer.

Even with your mask, Benedict could spot you from a mile away, he had stared at your mouth so many times he could sketch it from memory.

His eyes trailed down your figure, lilac silk shaping your body perfectly. Your hair was pulled back in an elegant but simple style. Your decolletage was bare, exposing your collarbones.

You were radiant. Devastating. A masterpiece not even Michael Angelo could replicate.

He stared, openly, forgetting himself entirely.

“Careful brother, you might catch a fly or two if you keep staring like that.”

Eloise smirked up at him.

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

Eloise watched in amusement as he snatched a flute off a passing tray and made a beeline for you without another word.

Your name falling from his lips made a shiver slide up your spine.

He looked unfairly handsome. Dressed in all black, the tie to his blouse hanging loosely, revealing his toned chest underneath. No sign of Lady Arnold.

“Looks like my attempts to conceal my identity have failed spectacularly.” You answered in greeting.

His eyes roamed your face freely. “I would recognise you anywhere.”

Your heart leapt at that, threatening to crack your ribs open.

“I like your costume.” Was all you could think to say.

“Thank you. I- you look-“ For once, Benedict was speechless. He had so much he wanted to say but no way of wording it.

“Miss Brighton.”

Benedict glared at the intruder.

“Lord Helmsley.” You curtseyed politely.

Lord Helmsley bowed in return, his eyes flitting to the man beside you.

“Benedict.”

“Edward.” He spat out.

Lord Helmsley glanced between the two of you. “I hope I am not intruding-

“Actually-“

“Not at all.” You cut Benedict off, shooting Lord Helmsley a radiant smile.

He blushed under your attention. Benedict’s grip on his glass tightened.

“I was hoping to steal you for the first dance of the evening?”

“I would be delighted, my Lord.” You answered, taking his hand.

You did not spare Benedict another glance.

That night unfolded like a perfectly choreographed performance. You smiled, batted your lashes, danced with the eligible suitors in order of your full dance card.

The rest of the ton watched on, transfixed. Who knew Miss Brighton could be so charming, they whispered amongst themselves.

Even the Queen preened at the sight of you.

And all the while, Benedict watched.

He lingered at the edges of the room, drink forgotten in his hand. Brushing off pestering mamas without his usual charm. His usual ease was gone, replaced by something restless, unsettled.

When another man’s hand settled at your waist during a waltz, Benedict’s jaw tightened. When you laughed at someone else’s joke, his fingers curled into a fist.

He had rarely encountered this emotion. Ever the starving, liberated artist - the prospect of jealousy was laughable. He was carefree, bound to no one, forever indulging in the pleasures of liberation from society's expectations of him that only a second born son could afford.

Until now.

He had always known that he had loved you. But he thought it was something he could keep boxed up. You were always adamant you were never going to marry, and he had his rake-ish ways of forgetting about you, at least for an hour or two at a time.

Watching you with other men unlocked something in him, like a dam wall finally bursting. All of his emotions flooded out with such intensity he could hardly stomach it.

Now all he wanted to do was to cave into social norms - to court you, to call upon you, to make it known to the world that you were his, as he was yours.

It was terrifying.

He finally caught you when another suitor went to grab you a refreshment.

"Surely you can spare a dance for me?" His voice was tinged with desperation.

You looked down at his extended hand, then back up at his eyes looking down at you through his mask.

"I- Lord Townsend is just going to go-"

"-fetch you a drink, yes I heard." Benedict shot you a grin that did not quite meet his eyes. "I will only steal you for a few minutes. I have hardly seen you."

You studied him for a moment. You knew that you could not say no. It was not the polite thing to do.

You nodded, "very well."

He took your hand in his and guided you to the dance floor, the two of you finding the rhythm with ease. From the side, your mother, Lady Danbury and Lady Bridgerton watched on with hawk-like eyes.

"You cannot possibly be enjoying this." His next words came low and urgent, throwing you completely off guard.

You tilted your head, ensuring to keep a smile on your features, "I do not know what you are implying."

"This is not you."

You muffled a scoff that threatened to slip past your lips. You were still in public, with eyes everywhere. Your smile pulled tighter, "Why? Because I have put more effort into how I dress?"

"I- no- that is not what I meant." Benedict panicked. "I just meant, well... since when do you care for society's approval?"

Your jaw clicked as you ground your teeth. "Maybe this is about me doing what I want, not about what society expects.”

"But the pact-"

"-was a childish fantasy."

"Best not tell Eloise that."

You nearly stilled in his arms, but forced yourself to keep twirling to the string quartet.

"Was this why you asked me to dance? So you could lecture me?"

Benedict's face hardened. "I asked you to dance because you do not talk to me. You barely wrote to me over the summer, although you seem more than happy to write the rest of my family. Have I done something to offend you?"

"No."

His eyes narrowed. "You are lying."

"I am not."

"You are."

"Do you not have better things to do than to pester me?" You hissed. "Surely Mrs Arnold is around here somewhere to entertain you."

You regretted the words the second they escaped your lips.

"Mrs Arnold?" Benedict's brow creased. Then it hit him.

“Oh, you mean Tilley?" He let out a bark of laughter.

"Good heavens no I have not seen Tilley since last season, she was just-" He cut himself off when he saw the look on your face. Realisation dawned.

"Is this what this has all been about? Because of Tilley?"

You felt a rush of blood to your face as humiliation coursed through you at the incredulousness in his tone. You suddenly felt childish, immature, like you had sunk to a level so low that someone like Tilley would never dare follow.

By some grace, the song finished before you had to formulate an answer.

"Good evening." You mumbled, curtseying quickly before making your escape.

"Wait-" Benedict reached to grab you but you were already swallowed up by the crowd, Lord Townsend waiting dutifully in the wings to hand you a glass of champagne.

Benedict stood on the dance floor, frozen. His mind raced as he tried to process this new information.

-

The dance did not finish there on the floor of the Bridgerton’s home. Not really. The painful dance between the two of you lasted nearly half the season.

You did everything in your power to avoid him. Not that you had to try too hard. You were so busy with callers that you barely had time to think.

Benedict thought of waiting in the line of suitors outside your home, but the possibility of other mamas getting wind that he might be looking for a wife this season was too much to bear. That was what he told himself anyway, the reality was that he was petrified.

Petrified to admit that he was not looking for a wife because he had found the one he wanted to wed already.

The whole Bridgerton family knew something was amiss. You stopped coming by to check in on Hyacinth’s lessons, or to browse the library with Eloise.

Benedict had begun to drink himself into a stupor more frequently, more family gatherings were missed, his usual cheeky grin absent from his features.

Violet Bridgerton is nosy, so nosy that one day she caves and searches through Benedict’s desk.

“Oh my dearest.” She breathed out when she pulled open the drawer to finds stacks and stacks of drawings. Actual real, complete works of art.

All of you.

-

“Something has to be done about that brother of yours.” Violet remarked one afternoon as she anxiously sipped her tea. “He cannot go on like this.”

Eloise peered over the top of her book.

“Are you trying to ask for my assistance?”

“I am not asking, I am just saying that I would… hypothetically look the other way if one were to… meddle.”

Eloise snapped her book shut triumphantly. “Meddle, I most certainly can do.”

-

You slipped through the hedges into the Bridgerton’s back garden.

You hoped Eloise had not been waiting too long. You had tried not to fret too much when you had received her note asking to meet her here tonight as a matter of urgency, something to do with a matter of the heart.

You could see a figure already sat on one of the swings.

A crunchy leaf snapped under your shoe, making them turn. Your stomach dropped.

“What are you doing here?” You blurted out.

If Benedict was surprised, he did not show it, shooting you a charming grin instead.

“I could ask you the same thing, you are indeed in my backyard after all.”

You stiffened up, cheeks flushing as you crossed your arms in front of your chest. “I will have you know I am meeting-“

“I am meeting my-“

You stopped as you both began to speak, eyeing each other as realisation dawned.

“Eloise.” You said simultaneously.

Despite everything, you both laughed.

“That girl I swear.” You muttered, resignedly taking a seat on the swing beside him.

“She has been hanging around us too long.”

You chuckled again at that, pushing your feet off the ground lightly. Benedict’s eyes tracked your every movement. You stole a glance at him, eyes darting away when you realised his eyes were already on you.

“I am sorry for abandoning you.”

A wry smile appeared on your lips. “You speak as if I am some helpless puppy waiting around to be pet.”

“That is not what I meant I-“ He cut himself, lips pursed. Why could he never say the right thing when it came to you? It was like his mouth was trying to play saboteur.

You skidded to a halt. "I am merely teasing you." You reassured him.

“Teasing or not, I am truly sorry for disregarding our friendship when I was….preoccupied. You did not deserve it and it was not my intention. Please forgive me.”

You sighed, studying the desperation etched on his features. You felt yourself melting at his puppy dog eyes, ones that you had seen a thousand times before.

“You are forgiven. And I am sorry for not telling you I was going to Scotland and not writing to you. I was angry.”

“Thank you.” A small smile appeared on his face. “And Tilley- Lady Arnold and I are finished. Truly. I meant that.”

You picked at the fraying rope of the swing.

“I am sorry to hear that.”

You were most definitely not sorry to hear that.

“Oh pffft no trust me it is fine.” Benedict waved his hand dismissively. “It was never anything serious. Well - she wanted it to be but you know how I am, I cannot be tied down and did not want to hurt her.”

Your stomach dropped at his words. Of course it had nothing to do with you, only his fear of commitment. You bowed your head, nodding stiffly.

“I see.”

He studied you expectantly for a moment, not noticing the change in your demeanour.

“So… we can go back to normal then?”

You finally looked up at him at that.

“What do you mean?”

“Well... you see I did not intend to break the pact so... you need not break it either.”

“I do not understand.”

“I just mean, there is no need for you to carry on with this facade.” His face was hopeful, egregiously naïve. “We can go back to being partners in crime, making fun of mamas and spiking the hideously sugary lemonade.”

You frowned as you stood up from your swing, the energy shifting between you two into something darker.

“It is not a facade, Benedict. I intend to marry.”

He looked up at you in shock.

“Why?”

“Because I am the only heir to my family name. I have an obligation to find a suitable husband. I was just too childish to realise it until now.”

“Well-“ He stood up with a start frantically. “You have time, you do not need to rush these things.”

"I have debuted, I must take a husband this season or risk becoming the laughing stock of the ton."

“But...why can we not go on as we were?” He almost sounded childlike in his question, his eyes brimming with confusion.

“What? Me clinging to walls, hanging around for your amusement whilst you go and bed whomever you like, whenever you like.”

His neutral features faltered. “That is not fair.”

“Is it not? You forgot I existed the second there was a woman you deemed more worthy of your attention."

“I thought you had forgiven me.”

“I thought I had too.” You fired back. “But clearly you do not understand what it means to be a friend.”

“A friend?” He asked quietly, the word rolling slowly off his tongue. “Is that really what this is about?”

His question made you dizzy. You were not ready for this confrontation, for the verbalisation of years of longing and resistance.

You straightened up and stiffly curtseyed. “It is getting late. I must bid you goodnight.”

His name fell from your lips, reaching for you as you stepped out of his reach.

His hand fell to his side as he watched you go. This time he did not try to chase you.

"How could you have possibly messed that up?"

Benedict whirled around to see Eloise marching across the lawn.

"Were you spying on me- ow!" He exclaimed as Eloise smacked him across the arm with a hardcover book.

"Honestly I always knew you were an idiot but I did not realise how much so."

"What are you talking about?"

"Judging by her reaction I am assuming that you did not tell her you loved her." Eloise spoke plainly.

Benedict balked. "I do not know what-"

"Oh brother please, enough. The two of you are so busy pining after one another it honestly makes me ill."

He stared at her, jaw slack.

"Well? Why did you not tell her?"

He let out a defeated sigh. "I do not know."

Eloise's features softened.

"I once told you that you would never be so lucky as to wed someone like her. But she loves you, I know it. I can see it. This is your chance to finally make her yours."

"I just...I just need more time."

"Time is the one thing I do not think you have brother."

The next morning, Lady Whistledown published that a proposal to Miss Brighton from Lord Helmsley was imminent.

Benedict knew then that Eloise was right. He was out of time.

-

The energy felt different at the next ball, charged with something electric - dangerous.

You felt his gaze the moment you entered the ballroom, embossed in sequined silk.

His eyes never left you. Watching as you laughed perfectly, watching the way you tilted your head back, exposing your neck like you were begging for someone to kiss it, watching the way your lips gleamed in the candlelight.

He could not bear it any longer.

As usual, you were surrounded by suitors. Although this time, you'd had not one, not two, but three dances with Lord Helmsley.

You were on your fourth when you met Benedict's eye past Lord Helmsley's shoulder. He was clung to a pillar, looking at you as if you were a painting he had walked past a thousand times and was only now truly seeing you.

You could feel your defences crumbling. Your heart was racing. Your legs wobbled. Could you really go through with this?

Lord Helmsley seemed nice enough, and he had excellent social standing. But you most certainly did not love him. Could you bear to be surrounded by love matches like your parents and the Bridgerton siblings, knowing that you would forever be denied one?

"Are you alright my lady? You look quite palor."

"I-" You pulled away from Lord Helmsley’s grasp. "Yes I just think I need some air.”

"Wait here, I will fetch you a refreshment."

"Thank you, my lord." You watched him cross the room. The second he was out of view you raced for the door that spilled out onto the courtyard.

The summer night air hit you with dizzying intensity.

The sounds of the ballroom dulled instantly - the laughter, the music, the scrape of expectations - all muffled behind glass and velvet.

The estate was sprawling, perfectly pruned hedges as far as the eye could see. The cicadas seemed to quieten around you. Then, the faintest creak of the door opening behind you.

You did curse then, softly, the word lost to the open air as you straightened and smoothed your skirts, schooling your expression into something neutral.

You did not need to turn around to know who it was. You had known the cadence of his footsteps since childhood - the way Benedict Bridgerton walked like he was never quite bound to the ground.

Your name softly leaving his lips was nearly your undoing.

You twisted to meet his eyes. They were shining with an emotion you did not recognise. You gripped the stone balustrade, willing your hands to stop trembling.

"You should not be out here alone."

You laughed humorously. "I thought you liked me better when I did not care for society's rules."

He took a step toward you.

"The Queen could appoint you her royal rule writer and I would like you."

His confession took you off guard.

You took a step back.

Thunder rolled somewhere distant, low and ominous. The air grew heavy, charged. You glanced up just as the first drops of rain struck the stone at your feet.

"I wish to be alone right now."

“Just tell me one thing.”

He took your silence as permission to speak.

"Were you jealous of Tilley? Is this why you have been avoiding me?"

You forced a scoff from your lips. "Jealousy is unbecoming."

"Or it is a product of passion."

The sky split open. Rain bucketed down, drowning out the quiet hum of the ball inside.

You glanced across the garden to see a small pavillion, no more than a few hundred meters away.

“I do not wish to answer that.”

“Why? Because you do not want to admit to yourself the answer and what that means for us?”

Us.

"You cannot keep running from this."

Surely he would not follow you, not in weather like this. Something in you gave way, your senses tumbling out of your body.

You turned and bolted down the steps, straight into the storm. You were soaked in an instant, the cold water seeping into your skin as the heavy fabric of your dress clung to you like a second skin.

You could barely hear Benedict calling out your name through the downpour.

Your slippers slipped against wet stone, hair coming undone as rain plastered silk to skin. You did not care. You could not care. All you knew was that if you stopped, if you let him reach you, you would shatter.

The gazebo emerged through the rain like a pale sanctuary, its white marble columns glowed faintly in the dark. You stumbled beneath it, fingers curling around the railing as you gasped for air.

Benedict stood at the threshold, rain-soaked, panting, hair plastered to his brow. He looked undone - not the charming Bridgerton, but the man who paced around his studio until dawn and destroyed canvases when they did not live up to the image in his head.

The man who had always been yours.

“Have you gone mad?” Alarm broke through his composure, his eyes wild with panic as he stepped into the sanctuary of the undercroft.

"You would seriously rather court death than speak with me. Do you really hate me so?"

"You know that I do not hate you." You snapped. "And that is precisely the problem."

He stepped toward you, his eyes boring into yours.

"Then do not marry Lord Helmsley.”

The words landed heavily between you.

"No." Your voice wavered. "You do not get to ask that of me."

You shook your head, angry tears spilling down your cheeks, mixing with the cold rain drops.

"I have always been there for you. I have been there while you drank yourself into a stupor and threw away all of your hard work, while you discarded our friendship to take lovers, all the while never asking for anything in return."

Your voice steadied as you spoke, your confidence growing as you watched him flinch at your words.

"And now you ask me to turn down a Lord? To throw a way a safe and secure future? And for what?"

A heartbeat passed between the two of you, your chests still heaving as you stared at one another.

“You are right.” He conceded after a few moments.

“But I will be selfish, like I always have been, and ask you for one more thing. Let me say my piece. You do not even have to listen if you do not wish. But just let me speak these words that I cannot carry around any longer. After that, you may go marry Lord Helmsley, and you never have to speak to me or see me again."

You studied him as the cold began to cement itself in you.

"Please." His voice was barely above a whisper, like if he spoke any louder he would come undone.

Your restraint unravelled, pooling in the pit of your stomach. Your lower lip quivered.

"Very well."

"You are my constant." He began. "My safe space. My best friend. My champion. You are everything but the one thing I have always wanted most. It is cowardice I know. I thought… I thought with our pact that I could have the luxury of being surrounded by you without ever risking losing you. But I know now that is not enough."

Your breath stuttered.

"I told myself you did not need me. That you were too bright to tether yourself to someone who did not know who he was meant to be. How could you believe that I could ever offer you a lifetime of commitment? That I was capable of being the man you deserved to call your husband?"

Thunder cracked overhead.

“I tried to quell it, to drown myself in art and drink and women and men, but I was a fool for thinking that I could try to contain such an integral part of my being."

Rain crept across the tiled floor of the pavilion, pooling at your feet. The world beyond it ceased to exist as he spoke.

"I was afraid. Afraid that if I named it, if I looked at you the way I wanted to, I would ruin it, like I always do."

He crossed the space between you in two strides, stopping only inches away, hands fisted at his sides as if afraid to touch you.

You watched in shock as he reached into his suit jacket, producing a faded yellow piece of paper with trembling hands.

Tears streaked your face as he extended it out for you to take.

You hesitated before delicately taking it out of his hand, scared that it might disintegrate.

It was a sketch. The graphite swirls depicted bright eyes, a wide smile, a berry being plucked. A silhouette of a gown that you had worn to death when you were younger.

"I drew this the day we were lying in our garden, when we made that pact."

You remembered, of course you remembered.

"When I made that joke and looked at you, I realised that there was only one person on this earth whom I would ever want to marry. I have kept it with me everyday since."

You stared at him completely dumfounded, unable to form a coherent thought, let alone a sentence.

"You are in every sketch I have ever drawn, every line of poetry I have ever written."

He threw his arms up in defeat. "I love you. I have always loved you."

The words settled between you, heavy and irreversible.

He sniffled, pulling his hands behind his back, glancing down at his feet as if he could not bear to meet your gaze.

"I will go now." He spoke more to himself than to you. "I will leave you and Lord-"

"No." You said adamantly as you wiped fat tears off your cheeks.

You let out a strangled huff as you failed to stem your tears. "For goodness sake, what is it with you Bridgertons and having such a penchant for the dramatic."

He stared at you, trying to decipher your words, not risking even the faintest of smiles in case you were about to unleash hell upon him.

The smallest up curve of your mouth gave him the courage to say his next words.

"Did I misremember the fact that you just ran out into a storm to avoid me?"

You could not fight the smile this time, shaking your head in disbelief.

"I wanted to think I could marry someone like Lord Helmsley, prove that I could unravel myself from a joke made to me when I was a teenager that I had convinced myself to be true."

Your heart hammered viciously behind your ribs.

"But the truth is, I love you Benedict. I have always loved you. Loving you is much a part of me as breathing is. I have loved you from my walls and my shadows and I will love you from the centre of any room we are in. I could not bear to ever be with anyone else, I can admit that now."

He took a step closer, so close to you now that you could feel the heat of his body radiating through your soaked dress.

“Not even someone as rich and gentlemenly as Lord Helmsley?"

You bit your lip. “Not even someone as rich and gentlemenly as Lord Helmsley.”

He laughed breathlessly, relieved.

He reached for you at last, hands trembling as they cradled your face, reverent as if you were something holy. His eyes flickered down to your lips.

“Can I-“

“-Yes.” You breathed out. A wry smile twists up on his lips.

“You do not even know what I was going to say.”

You smiled up at him. “I have always said yes when it comes to you and I always will.”

“Now who is the dramatic one?”

“Just kiss me Benedict.”

Never one to deny you anything, his head finally dipped down at your demand. You let out a small gasp as his lips meet yours and his hands pulled you flush against his chest.

His warmth radiated into you from every direction, making your head spin. Your hand clumsily dragged through his wet hair, pulling him somehow even closer. Your other hand still clung gently to the sketch, not willing to risk letting go.

The two of you only broke apart to finally come up for air, chests heaving and cheeks flushed.

His thumb traced your bottom lip, his pupils blown as he greedily soaks in the sight of your swollen lips.

“Would it be improper of me to say you have the most perfect lips I have ever laid eyes upon?”

You giggled at that, “I think we have gone past improper already.”

His smile widened, suddenly turning mischevious. “Well in that case-“

“Beni!” You shrieked, his childhood nickname accidentally slipping out as he whisked you off your feet and twirled you around.

He chuckled, pressing his lips clumsily against yours again.

“Also, jealousy is not unbecoming." His smirk widened. "In fact, I think it suits you rather well.”

Your eyes flashed up at him playfully.

"Do not get any ideas Mr Bridgerton. That was enough jealously to last me a life time."

Benedict smiled down at you as he placed you back down onto your feet. For the first time all evening, the restless energy that had always seemed to live inside him was quiet.

"I vow that you will never have a reason to be jealous ever again Miss Brighton." He said lightly, brushing a rain-soaked curl from your cheek.

Thunder murmured softly in the distance, but the storm was already beginning to ease, the rain softening to a gentle patter around the pavilion.

"You do also realise." He continued after a moment, his voice low, "that the entire ton will think we have indeed lost our minds if they see us like this."

For the first time, you properly looked at the state of the two of you - soaked to the bone, hair a mess, cheeks flushed.

You shrugged.

"I think they held that view of us long before tonight."

A laugh escaped him then - warm, breathless and utterly boyish. The sound made your chest ache in the most wonderful way.

"Good." He drew you closer, his arms tightening around you as if he feared you might vanish if he loosened his grip. "Then I wish to take you back inside and dance with you."

His smile was not the easy, careless grin he so often wore at social functions, but something softer. Quieter. As though a weight he had carried for years had finally slipped from his shoulders.

"So you can show Lord Helmsley that a proposal would be unwise?"

"No, although that is a perk."

He lifted your hand to his lips. His kiss was soft this time, lingering against your knuckles.

"So I may spend the first evening of the rest of my life dancing with the woman I love."

You looked up at him, heart full in a way that felt almost overwhelming.

"Well then, Mr Bridgerton." Your hand slipped into his, squeezing firmly as you guided him back toward the garden path.

"You had better keep up."

“I am a passing fancy to him and nothing more,” you said, assertive in a way that did not invite further discussion, “To hope otherwise would be foolish and fortunately, I am no fool.”

Daphne looked as if she wanted to argue that point, but you pulled her closer and asked about her son instead. If there was one subject that could derail her dearest friend’s thoughts, it was her family with the Duke.

While she spoke, your mind began to wander. Imagining a life where Benedict was not simply entertaining you for the fun of it was a far-off dream, but sometimes it was nice to imagine for a little time. The two of you had known each other in passing for years, with your frequent visits to the house to see Daphne and Eloise, but had only truly spoken to one another at a ball last year.

—

You were with Daphne and Benedict was with Anthony, their dutiful confidantes as they navigated the tumultuous season. When the diamond dragged the viscount away to argue in private, the two of you were left awkwardly stood side by side.

“You are Lord Y/L/N’s daughter, no? Forgive me, I’m sure Daphne mentioned your name…”

“But I’m sure you were far too busy to listen to your little sister when she was a child,” you smiled, enjoying the way his eyebrows rose at your jest, “It’s Y/N.”

“And you are debuting this season too? You seem glued at the hip to my dear sister, for one who could be considering her own prospects,” Benedict was making polite conversation, which was to be applauded, because it looked like the effort was paining him. You decided to take pity, seeing as he was floundering so.

“You do not need to humour me, Mr Bridgerton. I will be fine without Daphne for a few moments I’m sure.”

“I’m not…humouring you.” he said, indignance colouring his tone.

“So you care deeply about my prospects? It is my second season out and I have had two proposals thus far, but have not yet deemed it necessary to accept, if you must know. You truly do not pay attention to the ton at all, do you?”

Benedict now looked completely taken aback. Perhaps it was the fact that you didn’t appear angry with him, simply curious.

“I’m afraid I lack a certain…interest in such matters, yes. I apologise if-”

“Ah, do not apologise. It is refreshing, if anything,” you assured him with a bright smile, “I know how sincere Daphne is about finding a suitable match, a love match in fact, and I am more than happy to help her do so despite your brother’s meddling. My prospects can wait a little longer.”

“You are not worried your prospects may dwindle?” Benedict asked, now seeming genuinely curious himself rather than simply making conversation. When he realised how his question sounded however, he was quick to rectify, “Not that I believe they would dwindle! With a beauty such as yours-”

“Mr Bridgerton, please,” you giggled as you held up a hand to stop him. His eyes were still travelling up your figure, and you wondered if he was taking in your appearance for the first time, just now. The thought sent an thrill up your spine, however unwelcome it was, “You can stop worrying about offending me. To answer your impertinent question, I’m sure my prospects will be just fine. I am not concerned with a love match myself, after all.”

“You do not want love or you do not believe in it?”

“I find it unlikely, let’s say,” you said, “What about you? You have been of age for a number of years now.”

“Indeed,” he grimaced, “As my mother likes to remind me regularly. Please do not let her see us having this conversation or she will ask if I have met my future wife.”

You laughed again and this time he joined you. Whether by accident or not, the conversation had turned into a pleasant reminder of how wonderful the Bridgertons were once you got to know them. Anthony was surely an exception, however, if his conduct with Daphne was anything to go by.

—

That felt like so long ago. There had been more conversations since between the two of you, each conjuring up more longing than the last. Benedict, as he insisted he be known to you, had never made polite conversation with you since. He asked about your hobbies and went into painstaking detail about his. Occasionally he realised how long he had been talking about his latest painting, and the blush that painted his entire face was imprinted onto your mind for the next week. 

But, as you had explained a number of times to Daphne, Benedict showed no interest in marriage and it would be improper to continue to spend so much time with him at balls and garden parties without there being an end goal. Even if you didn’t care for one, your father had made it abundantly clear that even though he wouldn’t interfere in your search for a husband, he expected you to act with the utmost dignity at all times.

You tuned back into Daphne as you walked along the riverbank, just as she was finishing a story about Augie’s latest escapade.

“You will bring him with you soon, won’t you? And Simon. I should love to see them again,” you said earnestly, hoping that such a response would make up for the fact that you hadn’t been listening for a minute or two.

Daphne nodded her assent just as two gentlemen stepped into your path and the two of you came to a halt. You barely recognised the lords in front of you, but you knew that one was married and the other was not, much like you and Daphne. A pit began to form in the depths of your stomach. 

“Your Grace, Miss Y/L/N,” the man on the left greeted you both and you immediately determined he was the bachelor from the way his eyes lingered on you, “Would you look at this view?”

As he spoke he gestured grandly to the lake and gardens, both hands flung out wide. One of these hands narrowly missed Daphne’s head as she flinched out of the way, but she lost her balance doing so. Before you could come to her aid she was toppling into the river with a yelp.

“Daphne!” you shouted, quickly dropping to your knees to help her out once she surfaced. Time seemed to slow down as the seconds ticked by and no Daphne emerged. You glanced up at the two gentlemen but they were clearly going to be no help as they tried to contain chuckles.

The bachelor noticed your horror-struck expression and scowled.

“She will be fine. Surely the Duchess can swim, can she not?”

It had been a number of seconds now and panic was beginning to rise within you. You whipped your head round to find the nearest Bridgerton brother for help, and immediately set eyes on Benedict, but he was too far away. You were acting before you could think better of it.

“Benedict!” you shouted over to him, watching his head snap towards you in an instant. Hoping he would soon come rushing over, you looked back to the still surface of the lake, took a deep breath, and dove forward into the water.

The chill hit you immediately, but as soon as you managed to open your eyes, fear gripped you far more urgently. The river wasn’t deep, but Daphne’s dress had caught on a rock that she was frantically trying to pull free from. With her gown quickly absorbing water, and panic having overridden any sense, she was only becoming more stuck by the moment.

Letting adrenaline guide you, you kicked your legs as hard as you could to get down to her and located the part of her dress that was stuck under a rock. You tried to pull on it but it was no use. Planting your feet on the rock instead, you kicked away from it with another strong effort and it rolled to the side just enough for Daphne to pull free.

You felt splashing behind you and knew that at least one Bridgerton brother had leapt in to help. There were arms around Daphne’s waist pulling her upwards, and soon you felt strong arms around you as well, aiding your journey to the surface. Once you emerged, you gasped for air.

“Daphne, are you well? Are you alright?” Anthony was desperate as he pushed his sister toward the river bank, Daphne unable to answer as she coughed from lack of air.  Anthony’s fussing was soon drowned out by somebody behind you, holding you afloat.

“I have you,” said the voice, not quite calm but not yet reaching Anthony’s level of panic, “Here we are, towards the grass, Y/N, that’s it. Just breathe, my love.”

You and Daphne had been hauled up by both Bridgerton brothers and those that had gathered on the bank for the spectacle, and soon the four of you lay panting in the grass. Daphne reached over and squeezed your hand. When you looked at her, she had tears of gratitude shining in her eyes and you simply squeezed her hand in return. She would have done the same for you.

“My sincere apologies, Your Grace! We must all count ourselves lucky you have such a…heroic young woman for a friend.”

The two young ‘gentlemen’, if they could even fit such a title, still stood idle. The married fellow had the decency to look ashamed, but the bachelor still had something smug in his expression, particularly as he glanced down at your dress as it clung to your soaked form. Still panting, you pushed yourself to a stand and tried not to wobble as you reared on him.

“It is lucky that someone was feeling heroic, my lord. Tell me, were you born a coward or did you become one after each of your younger brothers married before you could even secure an engagement?”

The man blanched at your outburst, his face twisting into a far more sinister sneer. Had you not been accompanied by the entire ton, you perhaps would have thought better than to goad him so.

“I beg your pardon? Why, you insolent little-”

“That’s enough,” came Benedict’s voice as he stood beside you and you felt warmth wrap around your shoulders. His jacket. He pulled the lapels tight around you from the side until you held them yourself to protect your modesty, “Unless you wish to see a different side of me, Maycliffe, I suggest you take your leave.”

His words were polite enough, but Benedict’s tone was murderous. He had stepped up since providing his jacket and was now stood half in front of you, leaving no room for the man to continue his argument.

“It was an accident! Goodness, Bridgerton, what are you going to do? Paint me to death?”

You stepped forward to argue Benedict’s case on his behalf, a hand on his arm, but he gently held you behind him with his forearm and a glance in your direction. However much you wished to put this man in his place, you were a woman in need of a suitable match one day. It would not do to be the one to cause a scene.

“I should imagine the Viscount will have a myriad of things to say to you, once he has ensured Daphne’s recovery,” Benedict said calmly, “Would you like to wait here until he deals with you?”

There was a spark of fear in Maycliffe (as you now knew him) at that. Anthony was to be feared far more than the free-thinking, compassionate artist. Just before he left, Maycliffe’s eyes strayed to you once again, and Benedict took another step forward until the two men were nose to nose.

“You don’t get to look at her,” he murmured sharply, only just loud enough for you to hear. He stood still until the married man took the hint and pulled Maycliffe away, who was shaking his head and cursing as he left. You breathed out your relief. As much as you were loathe to admit it, Benedict’s chest heaving with anger and his calm yet fierce tone had made your knees weak.

“Thank you, Benedict,” you breathed, watching as he turned to face you as soon as he heard your voice. His hands twitched at his sides but stayed where they were, “I should go home, get dry. Can I return this to you at a later date?”

You gestured to the jacket and he reached out to rub the lapel between thumb and forefinger. His eyes bore into yours with the same intensity you’d just seen from him, but none of the anger.

“Come to Bridgerton house. Please. It’s closer and the doctor can check on you as he does Daphne. It would set my heart at ease.”

He placed a hand on his heart and it was impossible to refuse. A carriage ride later, you entered the house as Anthony helped Daphne inside.

“I really am fine now, brother. You do not need to prolong such fuss.”

Anthony rolled his eyes and, for the first time in all the years you’d known him, looked at you to share exasperation over Daphne. You allowed him a small smile.

“He’s right, Daph. Let everyone fuss over you a little longer until we are satisfied you’re well,” you said, “At least until you are clean, dry and checked over by the doctor.”

It was Daphne’s turn to roll her eyes, but she acquiesced and followed the maids into a room to bathe and change. Benedict had sequestered a few maids to aid you and sent you off with them with a reassuring smile.

“Please, call on me once she is well,” he said to one of the maids, who nodding knowingly before hurrying after you.

—

Once you were freshly clean and dressed in one of Eloise’s simple day dresses, the maid Benedict had spoken to took you to one side.

“I can call upon Mr Bridgerton if you like, Miss,” she said, then lowered her voice conspiratorially, “Or I can lead you to his room, if you would like a moment alone. I think after the day you’ve had, you’ve both earned it.”

You felt heat travel all the way up your spine and into your face. Biting your lip, you nodded at the maid against your better judgement and allowed her to lead you to Benedict’s room. Despite trying to save your heart from Benedict eventually tiring of you, your brush with the lake had changed your resolve. Perhaps instead, it would be best to enjoy such attention while it was granted, and worry about consequences later.

You hoped this maid was as discreet as maids could be.

She left you at the door with a wink that made your stomach swoop, and before someone could catch you in the corridor, you knocked.

“It’s me. Can I come in?”

A pause.

“Yes, come in.”

You began to push the door open then abruptly stopped.

“Are you decent?”

There was a pause and you could already see the smirk Benedict would be sporting in your mind’s eye.

“Mostly.”

You narrowed your eyes at him through the door, as if squinting might help you discern whether he was decent enough for you to enter. With a quick glance around to check once again you weren’t being watched, you ducked inside.

You leaned back against the shut door and sucked in a breath. He was mostly decent, though his billowing white shirt was barely buttoned and there was more chest on show than you’d ever be allowed to see in decent society.

“I was going to make a joke about how improper it is for you to be here,” Benedict said, as he stood from where he had been sat and crossed the room towards you. You fought the urge to press yourself further against the door as he advanced, “But I find I am just grateful to see you’re alright. No lasting concerns after your impromptu swim?”

“Not a one. I am fortunate that my family home in the country has a lake. We spent summers swimming there when I was young,” you explained, having to look up at him now that he was so close.

“We are all fortunate, then,” he said and once again you saw the telltale twitch of his hands by his side, “I must say, I would never like to see you call out to me and dive into a river ever again.”

You grimaced.

“I apologise-”

“No. Your heroics saved my sister from a worse fate. The doctor has checked her over and she is perfectly fine, thanks to you.”

His eyes were flickering between yours. However desperately you wanted to, you kept yours trained on him rather than his lips.

“I am so very glad to hear that. If I never see that gentleman again it will be too soon,” you said, then regretted mentioning him when a cloud passed over Benedict’s expression.

“He is no gentleman. He is a scoundrel, unworthy of any lady’s time, let alone yours. The way he-”

Benedict stopped himself and the muscle in his jaw ticked as he averted his gaze to the ceiling to calm down.

“It’s alright,” you said, unable to resist from reaching out to grasp his forearm, “He is unworthy of any more thought from either of us.”

“It was the way he looked at you,” Benedict spat, as if he had not heard you speak, “As if he had the right to do so even though you were…”

He trailed off, but you could fill in the blanks. Maycliffe’s gaze had wandered downward multiple times when your dress was soaked through and likely more see-through than was decent. The idea made you feel ill, and then the idea that Benedict had seen you in the same state filled you with a strange thrill.

“Your jacket was most welcome, in that case. As were your words. Sincerely, thank you, Benedict.”

He waved you away with a small shake of his head, a pitiful scoff. When he looked back at you, the intensity that took your breath away had returned.

“You have been avoiding me these past weeks. I have missed your company. Greatly. Seeing you put yourself in danger for the sake of my sister... If I did something to offend you, I can only apologise.”

“No, Benedict,” you insisted, still holding onto his forearm with a grip you didn’t know you possessed, “Not at all. I am the one at fault. The truth is…”

Adrenaline was coursing through your veins now as it had been earlier. There would never be another time where you felt so brave, so indestructible, that you could possibly have this conversation without cracking.

“The truth is that I have enjoyed your company immensely these past months. More than a friend should. But you have made your thoughts on marriage abundantly clear and I didn’t want to burden you with my feelings. I am sure I will be able to return to our easy friendship once my feelings dwindle.”

Only the last sentence was a lie. You weren’t sure it would ever dwindle, particularly as you thought of his eyes, his wit, his chest dusted with hair, his kindness. But Benedict was looking at you as if you had grown a second head.

“What are my thoughts on marriage then?”

“Come now Benedict,” you took your hand from his arm, “You have never shown interest in the marriage mart. You are a free spirit, free from the constraints of society, you say so yourself. Often.”

“But I have never expressed a distaste for marriage,” he said, still full of confusion, “And surely I have never expressed distaste for you."

“No of course-”

“Y/N. If you are saying what I believe you’re saying, and my feelings for you are returned, then you must know that you are not a passing fancy. I think you are wonderful in every conceivable way. Perhaps I should have been clearer-”

“No, I should have! I simply never believed that your mind could be changed simply from getting to know me-”

“How could I not be changed, knowing you? How could you not know that you had changed everything?”

You stopped talking over each other at that. Gazing at Benedict anew, your eyes flicked downwards to his lips at long last, like an apple finally succumbing to the overwhelming force of gravity. And with the same force, as if destined, Benedict leaned in closer, close enough that your breaths mingled in the still air between you.

“You have changed me. Fundamentally. Irreversibly. I am not going to propose to you in this darkened room, as it is not what you deserve, but if you are agreeable then I am going to propose. To you. If you’ll have me.”

You grinned and pressed forwards, just to see what it would taste like to kiss him. The briefest touch of lips and tingles spread across your entire body. Benedict let out a soft groan at the back of his throat.

“It sounds as if I already have you,” you whispered, before Benedict captured your lips with his own and there could be no more words between you for a little while.

---

In your short time at the ton, you have met every Bridgerton. Eloise in particular is your favorite- her determination to carve her own path despite the vice grip societal standards have on her is nothing less than refreshing and inspiring. Violet, their mother, is the most likeable of all the ones you have met. Anthony is respectable, Colin is nice, and the children behave well enough for their age. That just leaves one left.

Benedict Bridgerton is the least tolerable and easiest to dislike out of his siblings and family. His cavelier disregard for anything of true substance —besides the art he covets so dearly— grates on you. His smirk prickles your skin whenever he flashes it at you (which is, of course, much too often) and his general manner of being make you desire nothing more than to leave whatever party or ball you are at and never return.

And he, no matter how hard you try, does not seem to get the message.

"Ah," He bows slightly as you enter, "The lady doth grace us with her presence."

You give a tiny curtsey —enough to appease Portia Featherington, whom you have arrived with— and a thin smile, which drops the second she is out of earshot.

"Mr. Bridgerton," You greet, purely out of formality and however might be eavesdropping, gossip is especially rife in this town, "How... nice of you to leave the comforts of your canvas to charm us ladies at this party. I'm sure there is someone else here in attendance who would wish to speak to you more."

Indeed, there are several ladies eyeing the pair of you. To Benedict, with very obvious heart eyes, and to you, barely contained sneers.

If only you could assure them you are of no threat to their dear Benedict. Not a threat to any gentleman well and truly looking for a wife, to speak plainly.

"But who would entertain you? It must be difficult, being here, so far away from your friends and family in..." He trails off, leaning in to you expectantly.

"Cheltenham," You respond, smile paper-thin.

"Cheltenham," He nods. "I hear they have the most magnificent gardens. We do have some impressive ones here in London, but we are not quite known for them."

"Oh, yes. You must be quite familiar with these gardens by now. I must suppose this is our third time having this exact conversation."

There. Right there, his smirk almost falters. As usual, your sharp-tongue and quick-wit catches him off-guard. It is the easiest way to disarm a one Benedict Bridgerton long enough to make a quick escape.

Except this party is rather boring (even though you have just arrived) and well. With almost no chance of possible suitors approaching you and your usual preference of lingering on the fringes of parties and analyzing what happens in them, there is little better to do than subject Benedict to whatever mood you are in.

"You'll forgive me," he affirms, "It is hard to find topics of conversation when one's partner is adamant on not continuing past formalities."

The usual flame begins to spark in your chest. "Oh? Then let us continue, if that's what you desire. I had believed you would want to save your best conversation for the ladies who are much more... diverting."

"My, my," He tilts his head, smirk widening. "Do you consider yourself plain?"

"I consider myself un-agreeable," You remark, words rolling so easily off your tongue. Something about arguing with Benedict specifically always makes your words easier to find, easier to say. "I think you will find that most, if not all, of the gentlemen here agree. Even Lady Whistledown writes of my abilities to repel any and all suitors."

"So I have heard," Nearly in sync, you both pluck glasses of wine off a passing tray, "I do worry, my dear Lady. You sound almost proud of this feat."

"I am. I have worked tirelessly for the title."

He takes a sip of his wine. "I recall several suitors calling upon you back when you first arrived, at the start of this season."

"Ah yes, well," You take a sip of your own, "Nothing makes a woman think of marriage like being fought over like a shiny new toy."

Benedict chuckles, looking down at his glass and then back at you. "I see now why you and my sister get along so well."

"I believe that was evident from the moment we met. Not just anyone deserves the right of befriending Eloise Bridgerton."

"Ah! There we go," He raises his glass as if toasting. "Something we both can agree on."

The conversation lulls into silence, neither of you bothering to start it up again. You merely stand, an appropriate distance apart, and watch. Benedict, likely watching his brother, who has taken to the dance floor, and you, watching a young lady who bears a rather striking resemblance to your one of your sisters.

A stab of homesickness plunges deep into your chest, so sharp and so quick you almost suck in an audible gasp. You haven’t seen your sisters in quite some time. Each of them married and in love and happy- something you worked so, so hard to achieve.

Even if it meant you yourself are likely to become a spinster.

Benedict notices your momentary grief. He follows your eyeline, and when he speaks next, it is surprisingly soft.

“Do you miss your sisters?”

You sip your wine, at the same time using the glass to cover the slight shine of tears that has risen in your eyes and to take a moment to gather your words.

“Do you miss Daphne?”

“Of course I do,” His voice is firm, almost vehement. “But I gather that the bond between sisters is different than sisters and brothers.”

The wine begins to settle in your stomach, rich and heavy.

“It is,” You say, nearly a whisper, “My sisters and I were all very close. I miss them a great deal.”

You allow your words time to hang in the air before continuing. “But they are all married now, and they are happy. Most of them have children of their own. They’ve all gotten fine lives for themselves.”

Benedict makes a noise in the back of his throat that has you turning to stare at him.

“You are the eldest, yes?” He asks, something you can’t identify in his eyes.

“I am.”

“And you have not yet married,” He continues, “I would think that the eldest would get married first, and her sisters would follow her lead.”

You stare down at your gloves. This topic of conversation has come up several times over the course of your stay —Especially because you’re staying with the Featherington’s, being old family friends of your father, and Portia does love a good piece of gossip— and it never gets easier.

“My mother died before any of us entered society. I was raised by our governess, and my sisters were raised by me. Our father has… little interest in the affairs of match-making and courtship and everything it is young ladies get up to.”

Benedict is silent while you speak, eyeing you curiously.

“And my mother had always spoken of how she wished for her daughters to marry for love. And with her gone, well,” You swallow harshly over the lump in your throat, “Somebody had to ensure that came true. How could I prepare my sisters for society and guide them to their matches if I was busy and married?”

He doesn’t respond for several long moments. When he does, there’s an edge to his voice that wasn’t there before.

“I had not considered you so selfless.” He admits, eyes flicking over your face. “I must say, I am quite surprised. So many layers to the ton’s most infamous suitor-fighter.”

And just like that, all the air seems to return to the room, and whatever momentary tension was there leaves, and you remember that you are speaking to Benedict Bridgerton.

You give him another fake smile. “We can’t all be so one-dimensional, Benedict.”

—

You’re not sure how you have found yourself a seat at the Bridgerton dinner table.

Of course, you are not surprised at all to have found yourself at dinner with the Bridgerton’s. Eloise is always insisting you come to dinner— the dowager Bridgerton has heard of her pleas so often that they’ve almost come to save you a seat- you are there at least once a week.

The surprise falls in the matter of who is sitting next to you.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” You say, voice just loud enough for him to hear, “Your wine glass is a bit close to mine, don’t you think?”

The smile he sends you —that you can barely see from the corner of your eye— is sharp and full of teeth.

“Nonsense. I’ve found that a little proximity is good for things every now and then.”

“Every now and then,” You repeat, voice firm, “Somehow I find myself seeing you more and more.”

“Oh, surely there are worse fates.”

“Hardly.”

“Tell me- are you this sharp-tongued with all whom you meet?”

“Only the ones that deserve it.”

He raises his wine glass to his lips. “And what have I done to deserve such cruel wit?”

“Oh, don’t play ignorant to your intentionally aggravating behaviors.”

Benedict rests a hand over his chest in mock pain. “You wound me. Truly.”

The sip of wine you take is a little too large to be considered a sip. “Somehow, I find that hard to believe.”

“Tell me,” He tosses back a generous gulp of wine, “Were you born this stubborn and sarcastic or did it come naturally over time?”

“Hmm,” You pretend to think, “I suppose I’d consider myself that of a fine cheddar. Only tasting sharper with time.”

Benedict laughs, a private thing, clearly already tipsy. “That doesn’t even answer my question.”

“Why do you even want to know?”

“I want to know what your sisters endured during their childhoods. My word. I can only imagine why you haven’t had any suitors since arriving here.”

Fear races up your spine at his words, a sudden a rather unwelcome reminder of why your father sent you to London.

“Yes, well,” You answer, your mouth suddenly dry and your hands sweating in your gloves, “They should know there is no accounting for someone’s personality.”

He’s silent for a few moments. It makes you nervous his silence, so you turn your head, just a little, to see what expression he’s wearing.

Only when you turn, he’s already staring. Not even the half-head turn that you’ve done. He’s staring. Right at you.

His brows are furrowed, little creases on the skin in between them, and his eyes are bright and searching.

“Are you alright?”

You have been in London for two months, one week, and three days.

Benedict Bridgerton is the first person to ask if you’re okay.

“Fine,” You say, smoothing out your features with force, “Wine does not always agree with me.”

He doesn’t believe you. But he doesn’t pry, either.

“Shall you be giving the wine a thorough lecture, then?”

“Wine does not have ears. A lecture would be wasted on it,” You pause, “However, if we can track down the winemaker…”

Your words have their desired effect. He laughs, this time a little louder than something just for the two of you to share, garnering a couple glances from Anthony and Eloise, so you sip your wine and pretend you did not just make Benedict laugh. A real laugh, not the fake one he does when you’re arguing.

You suppose there are worse ways spend an evening.

—

It is an almost pleasant day in London. Almost being that the temperatures are fair, but the weather overcast.

You find garden parties the most interesting of all the parties to be had by the high society families because it means you get to escape to the gardens. Of course, there are others milling about in them, but they offer much more privacy than a ballroom and have the added bonus of reminding you of your home in Cheltenham.

“What is it liked to be overlooked by society?” Eloise asks, ever lacking decorum. It is, honestly, refreshing. She does not beat around the bush or sugar-coat her words.

You think on her words before responding, taking the time instead to eye some rather nice roses. “Honestly? It is not as terrible as you might think. Everybody always says that spinsterhood is a fate worse than death, but if it’s anything like this, I can’t think it to be that painful.”

She nods, thinking over your words. “But didn’t you want to marry? You must be lonely.”

You elbow her side as you walk, arms entwined. “How could I ever be lonely with such incorrigible friends?”

You both laugh, raucous and cackling and nothing close to lady-like.

“Is there a pack of hyenas roving about the gardens?”

You hear the rush of footsteps swishing across the grass, then feel the brush of fabric on your arm.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” You sigh, cutting him a glare, “What are you doing here?”

He loops his arm through yours, the same way that Eloise has done to you.

“Mr. Bridgerton.” You warn, tone sharp

“Oh relax,” His smirk is in high form, today, “I am protecting you ladies from those hyenas. We haven’t found them yet, have we? It’s the gentlemanly thing to do.”

“Eloise,” You pause, craning your neck about the garden, “Do you see a gentleman around here?”

Eloise snickers behind her glove. “I can’t say that I can see any.”

Benedict rolls his eyes. “Humor me, then.”

You continue walking. “I suppose we will. It’s good to engage in charity, dear Eloise. You must not think yourself above those less fortunate.”

He scoffs. “Since when do you consider yourself charitable?”

You flap your fan a few times. “I have a great many qualities. Do not fault me because you are so caught up in yourself to notice anything other than what you want.”

His fingers flex. “And what is it you think I want to see?”

You shrug plainly. “Me as I present myself. Unbecoming and, probably by the standards here, vile.”

“No.” He says, the word more of a sound, sort of ripped from his chest.

You look at him in alarm and he meets your gaze evenly. “You are a great many things- stubborn and irritating, but never vile.”

His words and the vehemence in which he said that stun you into silence. You’d never imagined Benedict, of all people, to take such an issue with that word. Vile. You’ve been called vile often over the course of your life, by mothers and suitors and other debutants and even on occasion your father. Its meaning has been mostly lost on you, the cruel nature in which it is said no longer barbed and painful. It is just a word, like every other word.

He’s staring at you, an almost pained expression on your face, so you figure you should say something.

“I see,” Eloise’s arm tightens on yours, “I suppose I should take your words to heart. I am glad to know that there is at least one gentleman who does not think me a vile woman.”

Benedict smiles, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes for a moment, something you don’t manage to place before it is gone.

“Ah! You called me a gentleman. Have I won you over?”

“For now, at least.”

—

You miss dancing.

Since you are the most un-agreeable lady in the Ton, you are seldom asked to dance, and since a partner is a requirement for the activity, you tend to spend most parties on the fringes, either talking with Eloise or merely observing.

Or arguing with Benedict. But you’ve found it a little harder to truly poke at him with any real malice or criticism since he defended your character so passionately that day in the gardens.

“You’re watching the dancers like they personally offended you.”

He always finds you at parties. Actually, he always finds you no matter where you are.

You gaze at him out of the corner of your eye. “I’m envious. Pay me no mind.”

He snorts. “Envious of the dancers? Whatever for?”

“I miss dancing. The only problem with scaring away all your suitors is that you also scare away all of your potential dance partners.”

You both observe them quietly for several moments, eyes tracking the flowing and sweeping movements.

“Do you,” he pauses, clears his throat when his voice cracks over the last syllable, “Like to dance?”

“Yes,” You admit, a tad embarrassed, “I always have. Most of society’s expectations for women are quite sedentary or still. But dancing is… its movement and passion. And sometimes, when your partner is agreeable and the music fair, it can almost feel like you’re not dancing at all. That there is no one else there, just the two of you.”

Your face heats, the realization that you’ve been talking so long about something you really do care about striking you. “Or so I’ve heard. I haven’t actually experienced that last bit.”

He inclines his head. “Where did you hear about it?”

“From my mother, as she regaled me on the day she met my father.”

You both stand, shoulder to not-shoulder, more like mid-upper arm, observing the spins and steps of the pairs of dancers.

“Would you dance with me?”

You snap your head to him. “Dance?”

“Yes,” He says, voice a little breathless. “I have yet to do my duty dance for the evening and it would be unfair to keep a lady from the dance floor.”

He extends a hand. “Especially if she longs for it.”

You stare down at his hand. “People will talk of you dancing with me. I would not want to bring reproach—“

“Dance with me,” He says again. “Please.”

Who are you to deny such an earnest request?

He marks a spot on your dance card- your first and only of the night.

As the next song comes a close, he leads you onto the the dance floor, and for the first time in awhile, you feel… conscious, of the eyes on you.

Everybody always watches for the who the Bridgerton’s dance with. Except now Anthony has Kate, and he is much less interesting than the second Bridgerton brother taking a partner to dance. Especially a partner with the reputation you have.

The song begins, and you glide your way through the steps.

“You didn’t have to dance with me. I’m sure we’ll—“ you pause, spinning, “—appear in Lady Whistledown’s review in the morning.”

He grasps your hand tightly. “Let them talk. I have never been the brother anyone is well and truly worried about.”

You begin to feel more and more alive and the song plays on. Movement— real, fluid, passionate movement thrums in your veins, the music jumping through the air.

But all good things must come to end.

Eventually, the music comes to a close, and you must curtsy, and allow Benedict to leave the dancefloor.

“You dance well,” He praises, eyes alight, “I see why you miss dancing. You glide like a swan.”

The smile that tugs at your lips is entirely involuntary. “You are too kind. I do not dance that well. I just have a passion for it.”

He raises a brow. “Oh come now, accept the compliment.”

You shake your head, chuckling a breathy laugh. “Then I must pay you one in return. Not once did you step on my toes or lose your way. Color me impressed.”

His face lights up, joy evident. “And the night grows better! A compliment from our dear spinster.”

“I have always proclaimed myself a fair judge, have I not?”

Benedict’s expression is alight with amusement. “You have. But that doesn’t mean I’ve been all that inclined to believe you.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes. “Well, there’s no accounting for opinions, even if they are wrong.”

“I thought opinions above being right or wrong.”

“Only sometimes.”

Benedict looks all together too pleased with himself as he gazes at you, lips quirked up and cheeks still a little flushed from the dance.

He extends a hand.

“Care for another dance?”

You smile down at your gloves. “I couldn’t possibly. Dancing with me once could be forgiven, but twice? What would your mother think?”

“My mother happens to like you a great deal,” He says smoothly, “And I think I might enjoy dancing with somebody who actually dances.”

How could you refuse?

You place your hand in his.

“I’d be delighted.”

—

As has become a particular habit of yours recently, you’re lying away, staring at your ceiling and pondering Benedict’s actions.

Why did he ask you to dance? Why did he allow you the joy of two dances?

Why did he care?

Why can’t you stop thinking about it?

In your heart, and probably your mind, you know why. The warmth of his hands through the gloves and the dappling of the candlelight on his flushed cheeks is stuck fast in your mind for the exact same reason you’ve hated him since the moment you met:

You love him.

You didn’t love him when you met, but you know yourself. You know he is the type of man that you would love- the type that would break your heart because he is charming and kind, and he will never choose you. And why should he? You’re sharp and sarcastic and nowhere near the shining qualities and perfection of this season’s diamond- any of the season’s diamonds, really. You’re a spinster in the making with an attitude and standards.

It is a most unfortunate combination. For your upbringing to have made you so hard to love and have also instilled such a deep want for love and romance in your heart. You know you were not made for it, not for the kind your father sent you to London to get.

He wants you married to whoever will take you- only problem is, now no one will. Especially not Benedict.

But… could he?

You turn over in bed, smushing your face into the pillow.

No, you tell yourself, Don’t go down that road. Don’t even think about it.

You barely sleep a wink, that night.

—

The morning brings the post, and the post brings a letter from your father.

Not even Portia Featherington’s threats of grounding stop you from racing into a carriage to Bridgerton house.

You enter through the back entrance and upon seeing your disheveled appearance and tear stricken face, a servant rushes inside to fetch Eloise immediately.

The girl herself looks harried and concerned as she meets you in the back garden, a million questions etched in her face and streaming out of her mouth.

“My father,” You half-sob, “Has found me a husband. Baron Dunsmoor. He is— he’s horrible. He has had two previous wives, and then all died in childbirth. He is disgusting and revolting and treats women like, like cows.”

Eloise’s expression crumples. “What is, what can be done?”

You shake your head, pressing the back of your hand to your mouth. “It is too late. He’s ordered me to come home at once so the proposal can be made official.”

The younger Bridgerton girl grasps your shoulders. “What if you were to get a proposal? Here? Now?”

“Eloise!” You say, “Who are we going to find to marry me before tomorrow?”

Her eyes shine when she answers. “My brother. Benedict.”

The cruel, twisting stab to your gut that hearing his name, now, here, gives you is nothing short of agonizing.

If you were not crying before, you certainly are now.

“How could you say that?” You ask, breath hard and stuck in your throat, “He would— He will never marry me. That is, it’s cruel to even suggest that.”

“No, no I promise, he loves you, I am sure of it—“

“Eloise, please do not—“

“He has painted you, drawn you, I swear he must have illustrated your likeness more than—“

“Eloise!” You snap, patience thin and tears thick, “That is enough. Benedict will not marry me. I cannot—“

“Marry me.”

You snap your head up at the sound of a familar, rich voice, eyes meeting Benedict’s as he marches over to you eyebrows drawn tight and lips set.

He looks… distraught. Utterly wrecked.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” You gasp, “You—“

“Benedict. Please. You never call me Benedict.”

His words come out like a dying man’s wish, despite you being the one stuck in a hopeless situation.

“Benedict,” You start, “I cannot marry you.”

“Why not?” He snaps, words and expression immediately becoming sharp and confused, “You would rather live a life with that wretched man?”

“Of course not,” You retort, “But it’s not that simple—“

“Yes it is!” He cries, throwing his hands up and taking another step towards you, “Tell me, honestly, if you wrote to your father and told him I had proposed and you had accepted, would he not choose my proposal over the baron’s?”

“Yes, but—“

“But what?”

“But I cannot accept!” You shout, aware of Eloise standing only a few feet away and servants no dough crowding to watch from the door, “I can endure a loveless marriage to a loveless man. I could not endure a loveless marriage to a man that I love.”

Benedict sucks in a gasp, and you refuse to meet his gaze. How can you, after saying that?

Birds chirp overhead. There is the distance noise of carriages moving about in London. Somewhere distant, a dog barks.

“Do you truly think our marriage would be loveless?” He says, voice scraped raw and quiet, “How could you not know the depth of my affection for you?”

You look up, taking a half step forwards, searching his face for any hint of a lie, for deception.

You find open, painful, vulnerable honesty.

“What reason would I have to believe that I had a chance?” You ask, voice hushed, “All we do is argue. I have been cast out by society and you are a Bridgerton.”

He reaches forwards, grasps your hands in his. Your breath hitches.

Neither of you are wearing gloves.

“I am so in love with you it makes my chest hurt and my bones ache. Eloise was right. I have drawn you hundreds of times because there is just so much inside of me and it has nowhere to go,”

His lips quirk up a little, almost sad, “I loved it when we argued, because it meant you looked at me. It meant I held your attention. And you are remarkably smart and so, so much more wonderful than you give yourself credit for. I would sooner burn everything I’ve ever drawn than let you marry that man, than let you believe that you can never marry for love.”

He squeezes your hands once.

“Please, marry me.”

Your eyes are burning with a fresh wave of tears, but there’s something warm and alive unfurling and beating in your chest, something that glows with every word he says.

You laugh a strange noise, somewhere between a chuckle and a sob.

“Yes,” You gasp, your smile practically splitting your face in two, “Yes. I will marry you.”

Benedict’s smiling too, the both of you looking like fools, smiling and laughing in his garden.

Eventually, he turns to Eloise. “You’d better go tell mother she has another wedding to plan.”

Eloise scoffs. “Oh, please. She’s been working on this one for ages. I’m absolutely positive everybody knew this was only a matter of time except the two of you.”

He looks baffled, and you note in the back of your mind that he’s still holding your hands, “What? I wasn’t that obvious.”

“You danced with her. Twice. In a row.”

“So?”

Eloise rolls her eyes. “You don’t dance with anybody, especially more than once. You’ve been making love eyes at each other over verbal spars for ages. It’s been disgusting to watch.”

You snort. “Then look away.”

“Absolutely not. You insult my brother too well.”

You laugh again, then look back to Benedict.

“My father, and the Baron—“

“I will write to him today,” he soothes, “And have the letter sent with the fastest post carrier. You’re my wife now. I’m not going to let anyone else have you.”

Your cheeks heat. “I’m not your wife yet.”

He shrugs. “Only a matter of time, my love.”

Eloise retches in the background, and Portia will be an absolute nightmare to deal with when you get back, and part of you still wonders if Benedict is serious, but none of that seems to matter.

Not with how he’s looking at you now. Not with your hands in his.

You’re really looking forward to that first kiss.

✧˖°.

──────────────────────

The sun was setting over Mayfair, its golden rays casting long shadows over the well manicured townhouses of the neighbourhood. The evening air was alive with the sounds of carriages and the distant hum of a society preparing for another evening of balls, dinners, and dances. Amidst this world of propriety and tradition, a young woman walked with purposeful strides. Y/n Harrington had returned to London after many years away, having been sent away to France after her mother died. As her father said, for lessons in propriety and manners. Her hair curled softly around her face, framing her delicate features, and a soft touch of rouge added colour to her complexion. Her gown was a fashionable dark emerald silk, the fabric billowing slightly around her figure with each step she took. She carried herself with an air of elegance and confidence, a stark contrast to the rebellious girl she had once been. As she strolled through the bustling streets, heads turned discreetly. The young men who passed her by did so with subtle admiration, their gaze lingering just a tad too long on her curvaceous form. Some whispered to each other as she passed, her return to society was certainly a topic of interest. Y/n approached the familiar town house of her childhood, a feeling of nostalgia washed over her as she took in the familiar facade. With a deep breath, she ascended the steps and rang the bell. It wasn’t long before the door opened, and her father stood before her. His eyes widened slightly as he regarded the lady standing on his doorstep. She had grown into a stunning young woman, her features delicately framed by her curly locks, and her gown hugged her curves in a most admirable way.

"Y/n..." he managed, a mixture of surprise and relief in his tone. His gaze swept over her, taking in the changes that years apart had brought. "It's good to have you home." His words were simple but heartfelt, and the warmth in his eyes spoke volumes of the years he had missed her presence. "Father." Y/n replied with a soft smile, her heart swelling with a mix of emotions. She reached out for him, her slender fingers grasping his hand. "It's good to be back."

He pulled her into a tight embrace, and despite her time away, the familiarity and comfort of her father's arms brought a sense of belonging she hadn't realized she had missed so much. After a few moments, her father drew back, his grip lingering on her shoulders. "You've grown into such a woman, my dear." He said, his gaze studying her face. He took in the subtle changes, the hint of French sophistication that now danced in her eyes, and the way she carried herself with a newfound confidence. "I trust your time in France was... enlightening?" He inquired, a knowing glint in his eyes.

Y/n chuckled softly, a familiar playful glint lighting up her eyes. "Enlightening, indeed. I've learned many things, including proper dances and how to wield a fan with the precision of a dagger."

Her father chuckled, shaking his head indulgently. "I should have known you would find a way to turn propriety into a weapon."

Y/n's mischievous smirk widened, and she shrugged her shoulders delicately. "One has to add a touch of entertainment to the rigors of etiquette lessons, Father. Otherwise, I might have gone mad with boredom."

Her father sighed, though the corners of his mouth twitched upward. "And yet somehow, I suspect you still managed to scandalise your tutors and your cousins more than once."

Y/n pressed a gloved hand to her chest in mock offense. "Moi? Scandalous? Jamais.” The French word rolled off her tongue with effortless charm before she grinned. "Though I may have convinced a certain Comtesse that fencing lessons were an essential part of a lady's education."

Her father groaned, rubbing his temples. "Mon Dieu, child. What am I to do with you?"

"Love me unconditionally?" she teased, looping her arm through his. "And perhaps escort me to call upon the Bridgertons? I do owe them a visit after all these years of letter tedious writing" Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "I’d hate for Anthony to think I’ve forgotten how to trounce him at Pall Mall."

Her father chuckled, patting her hand. "Very well. But please try not to send Violet into palpitations within the first five minutes."

Y/n's laugh was bright as she adjusted her gloves. "No promises."

Benedict’s POV

The Bridgerton drawing room was alive with its usual lively chaos,Hyacinth and Gregory debating the merits of raspberry tarts versus lemon cakes, Francesca calmly embroidering, and Colin stealing bites of said tarts when Hyacinth wasn’t looking. Benedict lounged near the window, sketchbook in hand, idly tracing the curve of Eloise’s scowl as she argued with Anthony over something trivial. And then, a sharp rap at the door. The butler’s voice, slightly perplexed. “The Harringtons,to see you”

The Harringtons?…Benedict’s pencil snapped between his fingers.

Y/n.

Before anyone could react, the doors swung open and there she stood. Her gown was demure in cut but daring in color,a deep emerald that made her eyes glow like mischief incarnate. The faintest hint of a smirk played on her lips as she surveyed the room, as if she’d been waiting for this moment for years. Which, of course, she had.

Violet gasped. “Y/n Harrington!”

“In the flesh,” she replied, dropping into a curtsy that was technically perfect but carried just enough irreverence to make Benedict’s chest tighten. “Though I do hope you’ll forgive my absence. France was lovely, but it sorely lacked” her gaze flicked to Benedict “adequate company.”

Anthony choked on his tea. Colin grinned like a fool. And Benedict? Benedict realized, with dawning horror, that he was smiling like an idiot. Benedict's heart leapt into his throat. Y/n was here, and she looked... different. Gone was the rebellious young girl from his memory, letters over the years didn’t quite picture… well this. She was replaced by a woman who commanded attention without even trying. The way the green fabric hugged her figure, the way her hair fell softly around her shoulders, it was enough to make a man lose his composure. He forced himself to stay seated, his grip on the sketchbook tight. He couldn't let her see how much her sudden reappearance affected him.

His mother’s eyes welled with tears as she rushed forward, arms outstretched. “Y/n!" She pulled her into a crushing embrace, her voice thick with emotion. “Oh, my dear girl,look at you! A vision! And just in time for the upcoming season”

Y/n laughed as she was passed from one sibling to the next,Francesca’s polite but warm hug, Anthony’s gruff, but Try not to start a scandal before supper hug and Colin’s enthusiastic lift off the ground before she swatted his shoulder. Then came Eloise,who seized her hands with wicked delight. “Finally! Someone with sense. Do you know how unbearable it’s been? Anthony married, Colin insufferably smug about his marriage, Francesca practically won’t shut up about her engagement”

“Eloise," Mother warned.

“…and Benedict," Eloise finished pointedly, “who still scowls at debutantes like they’ve personally offended his paintbrushes. I mean at least we can count on Benedict to scare off any potential suitors”

Benedict bristled at the mention of his name, his attention caught despite himself. He wanted to protest, to defend himself against his younger sister's teasing. But it was difficult to argue when she was entirely correct. He'd spent the last three years, gosh more, dodging every debutante that came his way, using his art and free spirit as both shield and excuse. The idea of marriage, of settling down with someone who wasn’t… her. Well it was all just suffocating.

And now here she was. Y/n, standing in his drawing room again,with her infuriatingly perfect smirk.His fingers tightened around his ruined sketchbook. "Scaring off debutantes is a sport at this point," he drawled, forcing nonchalance into his voice as he rose from his seat. "Though I suspect you might still give even give me a run for my money this season."

Her eyes,God, those eyes locked onto his, sparkling with mischief. "Oh, Benedict," she sighed dramatically, pressing a hand to her heart. "You flatter me. But I promise not to steal all your thunder."

His mouth quirked despite himself. Her banter, their easy back and forth, it was like no time had passed at all. Without thinking,he crossed the room to stand in front of her. Up close,the differences in her were even more pronounced. The way her dress hugged her curves, the faint scent of flowers that clung to her skin. He fought down a wave of unwelcome desire and, instead, opened his arms.

"Come here, troublesome”

She quirked an eyebrow questioningly, that damned smirk still in place. But she stepped forward all the same, her slender frame fitting against his like puzzle pieces. Benedict's arms wrapped around her, pulling her close. He inhaled deeply,his chin hooking over her shoulder. She felt both familiar and foreign at the same time. The scent of her hair, the warmth of her body against his, it was both comforting and excruciating.

"I missed you" he murmured quietly, the confession slipping out before he could stop it. Her hands slid up his chest, settling lightly on his shoulders. Her touch, even through layers of fabric, was like a low simmer in his blood. He could feel her chuckle more than hear it, the vibration of her chest pressed against his. "Benedict Bridgerton, confessing he actually missed my company...the world must be ending."

He pulled back slightly, his grip remaining on her waist. "Don't let it get to your head," he retorted lightly, his eyes roaming over her face. "Too late. I can already feel my ego inflating by the second." she chuckled. He rolled his eyes, but there was no real heat behind it. His fingers traced a path from the curve of her hip to the small of her back, his touch almost involuntarily possessive.

"It'll be a nightmare having you around again," he grumbled. "Causing trouble, driving my siblings mad..." His hand stilled on her waist. "Driving me mad, you sure it’s not too late to send her back Mr Harrington?”

Benedict barely had time to react before Y/n’s gloved hand swatted his arm with mock indignation. “Benedict!" she gasped, though her eyes sparkled with amusement. "One would think years might have softened your tongue or at least your terrible manners."

Her father chuckled, shaking his head. "Oh, she shouldn’t be as much of a troublesome lady, she has certainly changed, my boy." He paused, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "...Well, that is yet to be seen at least, France looks to have done her the world of good."

Benedict’s gaze flickered back to Y/n’s face, lingering on the sly curve of her lips. Changed? Oh, she was different,softer curves, sharper wit, that maddening air of French elegance draped over her like silk. But the mischief? That glint in her eye? That was still there, simmering beneath the surface, waiting to erupt. He leaned in, voice low enough for only her to hear. "If you think I believe for one second you’ve turned into some docile debutante, you’re sorely mistaken." His thumb brushed her waist,once, twice, before releasing her. "But by all means… prove me wrong."

Eloise groaned playfully. “God help them all then."

Violet clapped her hands together. "Well! Now that you’re back, Y/n, you simply must attend the Danbury’s ball tomorrow night. I insist!"

Y/n offered a gracious nod, her smile never slipping. "I'd be delighted."

Benedict's hand clenched at his side. Danbury's ball. Of course. It was the perfect opportunity to display London's newest “diamond” to society. Or she would be once the Queen sets her eyes on her again. And he'd have to watch every desperate man in the ton tripping over themselves to secure her attention, like bees to honey. He hated the thought of it, of all those other men, circling her like vultures, trying to impress her, to claim her. But he had no right to the possessive heat crawling through his veins. She wasn’t his. She never had been. Not in the way he wanted at least. His gaze flicked back to Y/n. She was chatting with his mother now, laughing at some whispered confidence. Something inside of him clenched tightly at the sight. Bloody hell. This season was going to be the death of him.

Y/n’s laughter echoed through the drawing room as Francesca and Hyacinth dragged her toward the sofa, already demanding a full account of her French fashions. “Oh, but you must let us see your gowns before the ball!” Hyacinth insisted, bouncing slightly in her seat. “Oh you will look a beauty and I heard the French cuts are scandalously low..”

“Hyacinth!” Violet gasped, fanning herself, though her eyes sparkled with amusement.

Colin, ever the charmer, leaned down to press a quick, brotherly kiss to Y/n’s temple. “More of a beauty than she already is? Impossible,” he teased, winking before straightening. “But alas, duty calls,Penelope awaits”

Y/n rolled her eyes playfully at his comment, swatting his shoulder. "Go on then, you rogue, say hello to pen for me"

Benedict watched the exchange with a frown, his jaw clenching. Colin’s easy affection, the way she giggled at his teasing, it was all perfectly innocent. She was like this with everyone. Always had been. But it didn’t stop the possessive, irrational part of him from wanting to step forward, to yank her away from the others, to keep her entirely to himself. Benedict tuned back into his sisters’ conversation just in time to catch the direction of it. Oh.

It was inevitable, really. With Y/n back, the topic of her suitors or lack thereof he hoped. It was bound to come up eventually. But that didn’t make it any easier for him to stand there, feigning nonchalance as his siblings grilled her. Francesca, ever the diplomatic one, began the inquisition.

"So, have you met any…interesting gentlemen in France, do you plan to here?"

Y/n's lips curved into a slow, knowing smirk as she settled against the settee, fan flicking open with practiced ease. "Interesting gentlemen? Oh, dozens," she mused, tapping her chin. "One who recited poetry...terrible poetry under my window and a rather persistent man who insisted fencing lessons required very close instruction." Her eyes slid to Benedict, glittering with challenge. "Though none quite as stubborn as the Englishmen of my acquaintance."

Eloise snorted into her tea. Hyacinth, perched on the armrest, gasped. "Were you courted?”

"Flirted with," Y/n corrected lightly, snapping her fan shut. "There's a difference. Besides...," she added, tilting her head slightly as if it all bored her. Benedict's eyes narrowed, irritation stirring at her nonchalant attitude. She'd flirted with other men. Of course she had. It was Y/n. But hearing it, so casually tossed out as if it were nothing, it stung more than he cared to admit. He wanted to snap at her to cease, but what right did he have?. She was free to do as she pleased. His jaw ticked as he shifted, trying to mask his irritation. "Oh, of course, just some light, meaningless flirtation."

Y/n's smirk deepened at his sarcasm. "Jealous, Bridgerton? and what about you hmm?”

Benedict's jaw tightened. Jealous? Who, him? Of some faceless French fools she'd toyed with in Paris? As if. Eloise, ever the provocateur, chimed in with a sly smile. "Mother's been quite insistent that our dear Benedict finally step into society, to stop the rakish behaviour this season...." she glanced her way at him. "remember that Benedict? our own mother calling you a rake?”

Benedict shot a sharp look at his sister, his eyes warning her silently to shut her trap. But she merely continued. Benedict groaned, raking a hand through his already unruly hair. "Eloise, must you…”

But Y/n was already grinning, that wicked gleam in her eye that he knew all too well. "A rake?" she repeated, leaning forward slightly, her fan tapping against her knee. "Oh, Benedict, do tell how many hearts have you broken this season?"

His nostrils flared. "None," he bit out.

"Liar," Eloise singsonged under her breath.

Benedict shot her a glare before turning back to Y/n, his voice dropping into a lower, rougher register. "you have no room to judge by the sounds of it”

Y/n arched a brow, unimpressed. "Oh? And why is that?"

"Because," he countered, stepping closer, the space between them crackling with something unspoken, "you've been off in France, charming poets and fencing instructors, while I've been stuck here enduring my mother's matchmaking schemes."

She tilted her head, studying him with those infuriatingly knowing eyes. "Poor Benedict," she teased. "So tormented."

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a murmur meant only for her. "You have no idea."

For a heartbeat, she looked genuinely startled,then her lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. "Then perhaps," she whispered back, "you should listen to your mother, maybe it is time to settle down”

Benedict's eyes darkened at her words, a sharp retort teetering on the edge of his tongue. Settle down? As if it were that easy. As if some proper debutante with her perfect manners and her simpering smiles could ever hold a candle to-

He bit back the words. No, he couldn't let her see the effect she had on him. He forced a shrug, his voice deliberately nonchalant. "Easier said than done. I have... particular standards, you see."

Y/n chuckled, her fan snapping open with a flick of her wrist. "Oh, of course. I imagine your list of standards must be quite long."

Benedict shifted, leaning against the bookshelf behind him, feigning nonchalance. "You have no idea," he drawled, his gaze roaming over her. "but when you do find a woman worth settling down for.. come find me”. Benedict watched the delicate arch of Y/n's brow lift at his words, her lips pursing in that way he knew meant trouble. Before she could volley back with some razor sharp retort, he pushed off the bookshelf and strode toward the door with purposeful ease.

"Alas," he said, tossing the words over his shoulder like a challenge, "I've pressing matters to attend to today” His fingers paused on the doorframe as he glanced back, letting his gaze trail deliberately down her form before meeting her eyes again with a slow smirk. Y/n's expression remained infuriatingly unreadable, her head tilting slightly as she studied him. But he didn't miss the quickening rise and fall of her chest, the way her fingers tightened ever so slightly on her fan. He lingered for a moment, waiting for a witty retort, a spark of annoyance. Something. But she merely offered a nonchalant wave of that blasted fan. "Run along then, I'm sure you have many hearts to break."

Benedict's grin widened at her dismissive tone. She was good, he'd give her that. "Au revoir." And with a final, mocking wink, he slipped out the door, the sound of his sisters giggles echoing faintly behind him as he disappeared down the hall.

Y/N POV

Y/n watched Benedict's broad form disappear through the door, her heart racing a little faster than she cared to admit. The nerve! That damnable smirk, the way he'd looked at her... She forced a deep breath, smoothing a non existent wrinkle from her skirts. She couldn't let him get to her. Still, his words lingered in her mind. Find me woman worth settling down for….

Eloise let out an exaggerated sigh, flopping dramatically onto the sofa beside her. “I for one am so glad to have you back," she muttered under her breath, throwing Y/n a knowing glance. “I have very much missed having someone to torment the ton with”

Violet Bridgerton, pointed a look at Eloise as she sat with your father. She was ever the picture of composed grace, merely fanning herself with an air of practiced serenity,though the twinkle in her eyes betrayed her amusement at Eloise’s comment. “now now Eloise, there will be none of that.. Though I must say, my dear, it is quite… refreshing to see Benedict so thoroughly engaged in conversation again."

“Yes, well," Y/n replied smoothly, fluttering her fan, “I suppose he finds it entertaining to spar with someone who doesn't swoon at his every word."

Eloise snorted. “Oh please, Benedict hasn’t actually tried charming anyone in years. like mother said.. Rake”, darting a glance at her mother. Violet cleared her throat delicately. “Benedict has been rather… selective for quite some time."

“Selective?" Y/n repeated, arching a brow. “Is that what we're calling his perpetual avoidance of marriage now?"

“Avoidance implies he has a choice," Eloise muttered under her breath. A slight hint of a tease In her voice. Francesca, ever the peacemaker, smoothly intervened. “What matters is that you're back now, and the season will be infinitely more interesting for it."

Y/n smirked. “Oh, I plan to make it very interesting."

Hyacinth leaned forward eagerly. “Does that mean you'll be flirting with all of potential matches of the ton?” Violet gasped. “Hyacinth!" But Y/n merely laughed, the sound bright and unrestrained. “Oh, my dear Hyacinth”

Hyacinth's eyes widened, clearly eager to hear more. But Y/n chuckled, shaking her head. "a true lady never reveals her secrets."

Eloise smirked, unable to resist adding, "And since when have you ever been a true lady?"

Y/n feigned a gasp of mock shock. "Eloise, you wound me." She pressed a hand to her chest dramatically. "I'll have you know, I have the manners of a proper lady now”

Eloise raised a brow, crossing her arms over her chest. "Oh, yes. I’m sure”

The sound of Y/n's laughter was cut short as her father cleared his throat pointedly from his seat beside Violet. "Yes, well," he interjected with a look that promised a lecture later, "let us focus on proper topics, shall we?"

Y/n batted her eyelashes innocently. "Of course, Father. We were just discussing... the weather."

Hyacinth snorted into her lemonade. Violet swiftly changed the subject, steering the conversation toward Francesca's upcoming engagement dinner,but not before casting Y/n a knowing glance. Y/n merely grinned behind her fan, her mind already racing with plans for tomorrow’s ball and the infuriatingly handsome Bridgerton who’d be there to witness it all.

______________________

You were about to return to your polishing when you heard the thud of a platter hitting the carpet. Turning around, your eyes stared at the dropped plate and cake that had crumbled into pieces. “Oops.” Lady Cowper said with an insincere smile. 

“No worries, Madam.” You said, approaching to kneel down. “Responds as quickly as a dog.” Lady Cowper said, looking over at her daughter. Laughing manically at her own sneer. Biting your lip hard, you collected the crumbs onto the plate.

“Only a dog is more enjoyable than her.” Cressida added, looking over at her mother. Curling up a smile as her mother laughed even more wickedly. Slowly you rose, curtsying for your departure. Making your way over to the kitchen.

Distraught by their laughter. Setting the plate on the table in a haste, it barely touched the surface. Tipping over the edge as it came clattering down on the stone floor. Startling you with a loud sob. Lowering your head, grabbing for the table while crying. 

Sniffling loud, you dabbed your cheeks dry with the back of your hand. Kneeling down to carefully collect the broken plate pieces. Sniffling more, you put them away. A soft knock on the door, made you dab your tears more away. Wiping your hands down on your apron, perfecting a smile like nothing had happened.

“Oh, Gus.” You spoke, relieved it was only Gusten, one of the working-men. He softened his gaze with worry at you. Not needing to be a cleric to see you are in distress. “Miss Y/n…” He said approaching you with a comforting hand. “I am not a miss, Gus.” Correcting him. “I am a maid. Not a noble girl… not anymore.” 

Thinking back about your late father, made you swallow hard. Gus looked back at you with pity. It made it even harder for you seeing it reflect in his eyes. “I don’t want your pity, Gus.” Wiping your hands nervously on your apron. Turning around to set yourself at some tasks to occupy yourself.

“It’s not right, Ma’am.” Gus pleaded, coming at your side. “You should be up there with them. Attending the season. Finding a husband… a better life.” Gus placed his hand on yours, giving it a soft squeeze. You inhaled softly. “That is a fairytale.” Removing your hand from underneath his. Turning away from him, you went to the sink, filling it with water. “Y/n…please…” Gus begged coming at your side once more. 

“Gus!” You called out in frustration. Batting your gaze up to the heavens. “I should be grateful, she is providing me a roof over my head.” Mindlessly you began to wash some cups. “She could’ve put me on the street, but she didn’t. She allowed me to stay. I should be thankful.” The words tasting bitter in your mouth.

It felt wrong hearing you say it out loud, but that had become your reality. Despite her cruelty, she had kept you around, even when she didn’t need to. Gus picked up a cloth, helping you do the dishes. “They’ll be out any moment now. You could sneak in…” Gus suggested. “Gus.” You groaned out. “This could be your only chance of being out. Of leaving these cold four walls and be out in society.” He went on. 

You laughed childishly back at him. “It is a masquerade ball, Y/n.” Planting the idea in your head. Sighing loud, you hated to agree that the offer seemed tempting. Perhaps this was your only chance of getting a glimpse of what was out there. “How would I even get there? I do not even have a dress. What if Lady Cowper recognizes me?”

Panic started to rise as the dangers of going out made you warningly take a step back again. Gus sighed loud, putting a hand to his hip. “You are a liar, Y/n Y/l/n. I know for a fact that you have been working on a dress for several weeks now.” Gus moved a spoon up and down at you. 

You gasped loud, moving your hands to your mouth. “How…how do you know that?” Lowering your voice so the walls couldn’t hear along. Gus smirked proudly. “A gentleman has his ways.” He spoke, holding both his braces, giving them a proud tug. “I even so evidently took it down for you.” He continued. Shocked, you slapped him playfully against his arm with his cloth.

Gus hurried over to the cupboards, moving some things aside. Taking out a box, placing it down on the wooden table. Carefully he took the dress up, holding it up to you. “Fitted for a princess.” He commented with a smile. He searched more in the box, holding a mask up with the dress. “I even made you a mask.” 

Smiling with tears in your eyes, you rushed up to him. Moving the dress aside to hug him. Gus patted you gently on your back. “I am very acquainted with a needle.” He chuckled out as you squeezed him even tighter. Taking a step back, you smiled giddy back at him.

“I should, shouldn’t I?” Perhaps still needing some approval. “Yes!” Gus called out with a sigh like any tiresome brother would upon their daddling sister. The choice locked in your mind, there was no room for going back.

“When I am gone, everything needs to be in order. Lady Cowper's bed needs to be made. Cressida’s jewels need polishing. You cannot forget Lady Cowper’s night tea.” Listing your chores up, Gus sighed loud. “I know what to do.” Shoving the dress in your hands. 

Smiling back at him, Gus felt like the closest thing you had to a family. Sort of like an older brother you never had. Squealing exceedingly, you left to go change. Returning a moment later with the dress on. Gus needed to do a double-take to be certain it was you. Taken back by your beauty.

You walked over to him, showing your back to him. “Do you mind helping me?” You asked nervously. Gus shook his head, lacing your dress tight. Excited, you turned back at him. He offered you the mask with a nod. Accepting it, you placed the mask on. Hiding your identity. Allowing you to be anyone else. Even when it was just for a night. 

Gus helped you sneak out after the Cowpers had left. Helping you in the carriage. “Now my girl, take in every moment and have fun.” Gus was holding your hand, giving it a soft pat. Nodding, you watched as he closed the carriage door on you. He took a step back. “I’ll be here when you return.” Bowing.

Waving at your departure as the carriage got in motion. Suddenly the carriage lost its charm. Alone, the fears settled in. Charting unfamiliar waters. If only Gus could’ve chaperoned you. You might not feel so frightened. Dabbing some upcoming tears away, you knew you should be enjoying this night rather than cry over it. That is what Gus would’ve wanted. 

Nervously your hands brushed over your skirt. Hoping it would calm you. You gulped softly when the carriage came to a stop. The coachman coming at the door. “There is a large group entering now, Ma’am. You could enter with them.” Saying reassuringly. Nodding, you waited for him to open the door.

Thanking him before hastening over to the group. Keeping a close foot so it appeared you entered with them. Whispering to yourself all would be alright and that you wouldn’t be discovered. Whispering stopped as you gawked at the dazzling ballroom. The chandelier that lighted like diamonds in the sky caught your eye the first. 

Hearing a throat clear, made you look down. Staring confused at a man holding a tray. “Your dance card, Miss.” He offered. “Yes…I am a Miss…that is me…a Miss.” Answering nervously. Ending with a nervous chuckle, seemingly making him smile as well.

Awkwardly you took a dancing card, nearly crushing it in your grip once your hand was lowered. The working-man took his leave. Exhaling deep, you were once again left alone. Wanting to move forwards, you stopped in your tracks. Seeing Lady Cowper and Cressida amongst the crowd. Even with their masks on, you could easily recognize them. 

Turning jumpingly around, you hastened to the other side. Finding refuge in a moving crowd. Following along their stream of movement. Escaping from the flock once you found a presentable place not too open. Nervously you stared at all the masked quests. Not recognizing anyone. Fidgeting with your fingers.

Feeling rather out of place. Fearing this might have been a wrong choice. That you shouldn’t have agreed to such a reckless thing. Already half deciding to take your leave again, a person bumped against you. Shaking you up a bit. Quickly apologizing, your gaze caught something shimmering in a glass of lemonade. Gazing at it for a moment till you slowly tilted your head upwards to the side.

Catching the dazzling chandelier once more. Shining like a thousand diamonds in the sky. Gasping softly by its beauty. The light reflecting in your eyes. Moving your hands behind your back, swaying your posture slightly to the side. Caught in a dream.

Benedict groaned loud, pushing a way through eager debutants wanting his attention. Avoiding them left and right. If this was not a requirement, he might not even be here. Rather spending his night with a good drink and lonesome company. He managed to keep smiling politely with declines at them. Forcing a way through the crowd to escape the flock of lions. 

Quickly turning his head, he nearly bumped against a passing gentleman dressed in a peacock mask. Leaning back, he avoided impact. Exhaling deep at a successful avoiding of an awkward bumping. Once the man had cleared his view, Benedict’s eyes fell upon a woman standing further away.

Unlike any other, her gaze was drawn elsewhere. Curiously, he followed her gaze, breathing out a soft laugh, astonished by the ladies' admiration of the chandelier. His smile dropped when he saw a gentleman approach. Seeing how the lady turned herself around to engage with the gentleman. Furrowing his brows as he noticed the subtle hiding of her dance card. 

Benedict’s attention caught a passing tray of dance cards, snatching one of them. Approaching with firm steps. “I have lost my dancing card.” He heard her say upon nearing. “There you are.” Benedict called out with a cheeky smile, coming at the man’s side. “I found your dance card. As you promised, I am owed the first dance.” Dangling the dance card in the air.

Shocked, you barely could utter a word. Feeling in your hiding place, fearing you might have dropped it accidentally. For where this gentleman could have picked it up. Benedict hummed loud, still waiting for an answer. You nervously looked upon the other gentleman. “Indeed.” Settling for a shy smile. The new gentleman offered you his hand. 

Shuddering out a breath, you allowed your hand to slide in his. His fingers clasped over yours. Smiling tauntingly at the other gentleman whilst taking his leave with you to the dance floor. “I did not require your saving, my lord.” You shout-whispered to him.

“Have I misread the situation? For you did not seem eager to dance with him.” Ending his sentence with a snort. He led you to the dance floor as you quickly pulled your hand away. The last thing you wanted was to be out in the open for all to see. For Lady Cowper to see. 

“I…I did not come here to dance.” You told him. The gentleman furrowed his brows. “At a ball? Did you only come here to admire the chandeliers, pity that would be.” Speaking teasingly with half a smile. Smiling sheepishly back, rubbing your fingers over each other. Staring frightened at the forming pairs in the centre of the room.

The gentleman offering you his hand. “I…I…I can’t dance.” You blurted out, lifting your skirt a bit up. Making a run for it. “Wait!” Benedict called out. Groaning in frustration as he pursued you. Noticing him following you, you hoped to shake him off. “Stop following me!” Saying over your shoulder. “Please…wait just a moment.” He begged not giving up. 

Forcing your way through the crowd. You made an escape for the outsides. Quickening up your pace in the hopes to get rid of him there. Reaching a pavilion out of breath. Grabbing for the railing to catch your breath. Upon hearing footsteps, you turned with a frightened gasp. “There you are.” He spoke.

You moved lost around, unsure which direction to take for an escape. “I have to say it was bold of you to think you could out-smart me at my own home.” Adding a chuckle. His response made you stiffen. “This…this is your home? You…you are a Bridgerton!” Exclaiming in shock at the identity of the man. “Benedict Bridgerton.” With a slight point of your entangled fingers to him. 

“The lady has discovered my identity, May I know yours.” He required to know. “No!” Came out before you could properly think of an answer. “No?” Benedict responded with half a smile. Still trying to uphold the amusement of it up, despite it hurting a bit that you refused so harshly.

“I…I…I mean… is it not the entire point of this masquerade to be in hiding?” Saying in a more gentle tone. “Perhaps…” He responded. Making you step back when he approached. “Were you sincere about not knowing to dance?” He wondered.

Nervously, you smiled sheepishly. Glad most of your mask could hide your flushed cheeks of shame. “Or is that a charade to your character of tonight?” He so easily filled you with an answer. 

“Yes!” You exclaimed. “That it is, you have caught me.” Adding a bit of humour to your words. “Then my character is a dance teacher.” Benedict filled in, making you gulp softly. Offering you his hand. With shaking knees you stared at it.

Meeting up with his charming smile that invited you to accept his hand. Slowly you raised your hand up, sliding it in his. His fingers clasped around yours once more, taking a closer step to you. You remained still, watching him in silence.

Benedict chuckled, taking another step to you so that he was close enough. Delicately he took your other hand, placing it on his shoulder. “Now we dance.” He spoke, looking down at your eyes. Focusing on the colour of your eyes and the tiny specks of different shades he could find. 

You carefully moved the tip of your foot forwards, feeling his shoe underneath you. Seeing him shake his head, you withdrew your foot from him. “Follow my feet.” He whispered. Glancing down at his feet. You copied the movement of his foot with yours. Moving back as his foot came approaching yours. Then you stepped to the left.

“That’s it. Now repeat it.” Benedict said. Copying the movement a few more times, you started to feel confident in it. Feeling him lift your head up by your chin. Wanting you to look at him. Gaze locking with yours. Studying the way his eyes stared back at you. “You are unlike any other debutant.” He spoke softly. “Is that so?” You responded. 

Benedict let go of you with one hand, moving his hand upwards. Giving your waist a small tug to twirl underneath. Slowly you stepped in a circle underneath his arm. “You are here not to dance and not to find a suitor.” He continued. “I never said that.” You answered, stepping away from his dancing. Benedict furrowed his brows.

“I…I…if I am being honest I would like that, but I can’t. Not everyone gets to live in fantasies.” Looking away, you held your hands together, rubbing it nervously. “You could make it real.” He responded, taking a step closer to you. Captured by your beauty within as without. Laughing softly, you found him a liar. “Not everyone can do that.” 

Hearing a sudden bell made you gasp startled. “What is that? What is the meaning of that?” Eager to know as you did not understand. Benedict chuckled softly. “That is the sound of midnight. The time for masks to fall off.” Slowly making his way over to you. “Even yours.” Whispering as his hands moved up to your mask. Feeling his fingers at the side, made you panic.

Pushing him back. Benedict looked defeated back at you. “I…I have to go!” Ushering out. Picking up your skirt, you started to make your way away. Only to pause. Returning to him. Placing a hand against his cheek. “You have been most perfect.” Whispering as you withdrew your hand. Ready to take your leave again as you impulsively kissed him as a last goodbye. 

Benedict’s eyes widened at your kiss before slowly closing them. Moving his hands to your cheeks. As quick as it came, it went. Leaving him wanting more as the mysterious girl took a run for it. Jogging up to the edge of the pavilion, looking down as a single glove caught his hand. With a huff, he picked it up. Looking back up, gaze searching for you.

Seeing you flee from within the house. Clenching his hand around the glove, he hurried inside. Hastening, shoving people aside that were in his way. Desperate to find the owner of the glove. Everyone unmasked yet one remained. Racing to the front of the house, he caught his breath. Standing alone in the night for there was no sight of his mystery girl.

Inside the carriage, you touched your lips. Stunned that you dared yourself to kiss a gentleman so easily. Perhaps it was the thrill or the sense your only night was coming to an end. You perhaps wanted something in life, you could never have. To live in a fairytale even for a moment. Arriving at the Cowper house, you hurried inside. Knowing you would have little time before they came back home.

Gus was already waiting for you. Helping you unbutton your dress before you hurried out of sight. Getting back into your normal attire. Holding the one glove in your hand, you stared at it for a moment. Remembering the fond memories you had made. Hiding it along with the mask. Returning just in time upstairs to greet the Cowpers. 

Benedict barely caught any sleep. Mind filled with the mysterious girl. Drawing her over and over again. Not wanting to forget her. Countless times he tried to capture the colours of your eyes so he could hold onto the memory. Sketch your lips over and over again with a masked face. For those were the features that were visible to him.

Not knowing the hour, he must have fallen asleep for he awoke in the morning in a strange position. The glove clutched in his hands like a stuffed doll. With a hung-over feeling, he forced himself up. Tugging the glove away in his pocket. Tormented with the idea of needing to find her. At first Benedict tried to search for himself. Going for walks more often than ever. 

Chatting with countless ladies as he observed their lips and eyes. Searching for those he would hope to recognize. The walks became more forced as he started to fall in despair. Not sure if he would ever find her. Wallowing in self-pity, taking refuge in Anthony’s study.

Staring at the glove. He jumped out of his skin when the door opened. Making him hide the glove away in the drawer. “Mama.” He spoke in a high pitched voice. Clearing his throat, he tried to settle for as neutral as he could.

“I am busy.” He finished, taking a paper to look at. Pretending to be so. “I can see that.” Violet answered, taking a seat. “Whose glove were you just hiding? Benedict, do not tell me you have been improper towards this lady!” Her motherly panic rose. “No!” He exclaimed. 

“I simply found it at the ball and wish to return it.” He sighed out defeated. Violet’s eyes twinkled with curiosity. “You met someone at the ball.” Unable to hide her excitement. “Yes, but I cannot seem to find her.” Tossing the glove upon the desk.

Violet took the glove, examining it. The glove had buttons as she opened them. Staring at a family crest sawn into the glove. “Well it might have been more helpful if you came to your mother first.” She spoke, holding the glove up to show him the crest. “It’s the Cowper’s.” She revealed to him.

Benedict let out a disgusted sound. “Cressida? No way was that Cressida I met at the ball. I would’ve known.” He responded. Disgusted by the possibility he could’ve felt a connection with…Cressida. The thought alone made him shudder. 

“Perhaps there are other Crowper’s at the household? A distant relative, a friend?” Violet filled in. Hoping it wouldn’t be Cressida either. Benedict looked at her with a new set of fighting lust. Pondering long over it, the next morning he called upon the Cowper’s home.

Forcing a smile at Cressida and her mother. “Now that is a surprise, Mr. Bridgerton.” Lady Cowper spoke. “Finally a good sense, seeing how wonderful my daughter is.” Gesturing at Cressida. Cressida smiling her best at him. Benedict sat down, clearing his throat.

“May…may I ask as to what you were dressed at the masquerade?” Barging right in with the right question. “Why…why do you wish to know?” Lady Cowper answered. “A goddess." Cressida answered happily. 

Benedict’s smile faltered a bit, trying to uphold it amongst the awkwardness. Slightly relieved his mystery girl was not Cressida. “Are…are there perhaps any other ladies in your house? A relative perhaps?” He dared to ask. Lady Cowper laughed loudly.

A sudden presence at your side, made you jump slightly. Gus shushed you as you stood peeking at the door through the small gap. Your gaze went back to Mr. Bridgerton. “There is only my daughter.” Lady Cowper answered.

Benedict smiled defeatedly back at her, taking a sip from his tea. “He’s looking for you.” Gus whispered at you. “He is not.” You responded. “I doubt he came here for your step-sister. Y/n this man is here for you.” Gus made clear, gesturing at you. 

Sighing soft, you reached for the handle. “I can’t.” Lowering your hand. “Y/n, you must. Open this door please and reveal yourself to him.” Gus begged. “Lady Cowper.” You stated that it was a dangerous thing to open that door.

“The hell with her. Once he sees it is you. She can do you no harm. Y/n, this is your happiness. This is your fairytale.” Gus kept pleading, hoping you would do so. Reaching for the handle once more, you almost felt like doing it. Gaze lowering as your hopes shattered.

“He is not looking for me… he is searching for a fantasy. One I cannot give him.” Taking a step back. “I have duties to attend to.” Taking your leave. Gus sighed defeated, his gaze falling on Mr. Bridgerton before taking his leave as well. 

Benedict’s gaze went to the open crack of the doors. Furrowing his brows. Yet quickly dismissing the feeling there might have been someone. Benedict finished his tea and politely excused himself. Perhaps his mother was mistaken. There was none other than Cressida at the house-hold. She couldn’t have been it. His mystery girl might have been an entire lie. 

Devastated, he wandered to a drinking house to drown his sorrows. You had rushed downstairs, moving your hands over your mouth to deafen out your screams. Tears streaming over your face for how close you had been to your fairytale.

For a moment, even if it was just brief, you actually believed you could live in paradise. To escape this torment of a home. A home you could no longer call yours. Not after your father had passed away, leaving you in the care of Lady Cowper. A woman who never accepted your presence since her first arrival. 

The season progressed as Benedict lost hope. Having many balls and soiree’s crossed off. Never a sight of his mystery girl. Falling in old habits of drinking and despair. Finding himself laughable he thought he’d be marriage material.

Thinking he could actually find happiness with one, yet once again needing to face his hard reality of it being not. The imposter out of all his brothers. The most sorrow-full and esteemed rake for he seemed to never be anything more than that.

Already wanting to have given up on gatherings, his mother forced him to go anyway. A gathering at the Cowper household. Festivities for all of the ton and their families. Since they hadn’t been granted yet with hosting a ball, useless gatherings like these it were. 

Lady Cowper stood sternly before you. “I do not want your face around here, Cinder girl.” Pointing firmly with her finger at you. “Can you imagine the scandal if I have one of my maids outside with the festivities.” Her laugh makes you feel even smaller.

“Yes, step-mother.” You addressed, quickly covering up your mistake. “Madam.” Yet the smack with the back of her hand had come in faster. “You will address me properly.” Her words cold as ice.

“Yes Madam.” You repeated with a curtsy. Her gaze fell outside upon hearing children’s laughter. “And do something about these children!” Shouting in frustration. Curtsying again, you kept your gaze low upon her departure. 

You hurried outside, gathering up the young children to come and play inside. Knowing Lady Cowper did not wish little children running around mindlessly to bring havoc to her perfect gathering. With five children now in your care, you hummed thoughtfully at them. All five of them staring back at you.

“How about a game?” You suggested. They exclaimed in happiness. “Tag! Tag!” Some of them started to chant. “Alright, who shall be it?” Asking with your hands on your hips. “You Miss!” One of the boys said with a giggle. “Blindfolded!” Another boy called out. “Oh, al…alright…” Responding a bit nervously. 

You accepted the blindfold, tying it up. Blinded, you moved your hands beside you. Feeling a bit naked without your sight. Taking careful steps around the room. Swaying your hands around in the hopes of being able to tag a child. You could hear giggling and movement from all around. Curling up a smile, you had to admit the game was exciting and a change of chores. 

Benedict noticed Cressida and her mother make their way over. Perhaps thinking they still have a chance with him since he came to their house. Benedict tried to hide behind his sister Eloise. She laughed, stepping aside to reveal him. “Traitor.” Benedict hissed at her. Straightening his posture, he cleared his throat nervously.

“Is that my mama calling? Yes mama?” He called out, upon their arrival. Quickly taking his leave. Feeling like outside wasn’t safe anymore, he rushed inside. Exhaling deep at the close call that was. He was nearly stuck with Cressida for hours. Hearing sudden children’s laughter, made him pause.

Going to find the source of the laughter. Instantly smiling himself upon the feeling. Nearing the sounds as they became louder. Peeking around a door, seeing the children move around. A woman blindfolded amidst the room. Her hands forward, approaching slowly. 

Benedict’s smile dropped. Staring at the blindfolded woman making her way to him. Unaware of her surroundings. His gaze fixated on her lips. Expression settling with recognition. He entered the room, walking up to her. Stopping as the woman smiled. “Am I getting warmer?” You spoke, feeling around.

Fingers coming in contact with a person. Settling your hands down on someone's chest, feeling something was wrong. It couldn’t be a child you were touching for their height would not reach yours yet. Slightly panicking, you moved your hands to the knot on the back of your head. “It is you…” The voice spoke, making you pause your untying. 

Gasping soft in recognition of the voice. Undoing yourself of the blindfold. Blinking a few times for your eyes to settle on the light. Staring surprised back at Mr. Benedict Bridgerton. “You’re her.” He expressed. Denying his presence, you shook your head.

“You are mistaken, I do not know you.” Taking a step back. Benedict searched his pocket, pulling out the glove. Your missing glove. “This is yours!” Shaking the glove in front of you. It made you gasp loud that he had it. That he had kept it this entire time.

Benedict took a step closer to you, watching your eyes. “It is you…I am not mistaken…” Holding on to his truth. “But why…why are you here? Why have you not come to any more balls? I have been searching every part of mayfair for you.” Desperation slipping through his words. 

You were unsure what to answer as the children around you, called out in awe. “Y/n!” A new voice made you straighten your posture. Cressida entered the room with a firm pace. Surprised upon seeing Benedict. Benedict glared at her.

“You lied to me that there was no one else in your household.” He called out to her, clasping tight to the glove. Cressida’s eye fell upon it, then looking up at you. “She is but a maid. A nobody.” She spoke with a sneer.

Benedict turned back at you as you took a step back. Unable to witness the hurt in his eyes. That his fairytale girl was nothing but a maid. “She is not of any significance.” Cressida added knowing just where to hurt you. “I am sorry.” You spoke, curtsying before him. 

Brushing past him, wanting to leave the room. “That is not true!” Coming to a stop, you gasped at Gus in the door opening. “Y/n Y/l/n is not a maid.” Gus called out. Benedict’s eyes widened upon hearing your last name. Recognizing it.

“Y/n and Cressida are step-sisters. She is as much a noble lady as Cressida.” Gusten went on, glad to finally rage out. “You shut up!” Cressida shouted at him. “I will not!” Gus yelled back. “After the death of the late Lord Y/l/n, the Cowper’s doomed Y/n to be nothing but a maid. Stripping her of her birthright.” 

“She has no right!” Cressida pointed firmly at you with her fury. Screaming loud, she wanted to launch at you. Benedict stepped in front of you, blocking you from her rage. “Keep your hands…off her.” He said with composed fury.

“I will take Y/n with me and you will not stand in my way!” He looked over his shoulder at you. Wrapping a protective arm around you. “You will pay forever for your cruelty. I want you to apologize to her!” Demanding her to be on her knees.

“Apologize to her? Never.” Clenching her jaw tightly. “Apologize!” Benedict shouted. You tugged him on his suit. “It’s alright.” Stepping away from him. Coming to stand before your step-sister. “I forgive you.” You spoke with such kindness it enraged her. 

Benedict took your hand, guiding you outside upon the clapping of the children. Gus followed a pace behind you. Proud you had finally found the happiness you deserved. Near the front door, he paused you. Cupping your cheeks.

Staring into your eyes, smiling that it was confirmed to him it was truly you. “Please…don’t have someone waiting on you. I’d want to know every bit of you.” He spoke. Curling up a smile, you nodded in agreement.

“Where do I even begin…” Answering a bit nervously. “At the beginning.” He whispered back. Leaning down to kiss your lips. Lips he had yearned for ever since his first touch with them.

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