#regencyromance

"Yes," Daphne said as she looked at him, "you know the feeling. As if you simply cannot look away at any given moment because the idea of missing even a single second of her existence pains you. When your body and soul feel as if they could burst into flames whenever the two of you are near yet her absence is a far sharper agony still. When all you are able to do in her presence is to fight the urge to lean forward and touch her, hold her to.. perhaps even to forget yourself entirely. If that is what you feel when you are near Nicolette then I am truly happy for you, brother."

There was a spark of realization on Anthony's face but he masked it before Daphne could notice.

"I couldn't describe it better if I tried sister," Anthony said and the door opened and Colin entered.

“Brother,” he said, with unusual seriousness, “I must speak with you.”

Anthony straightened slightly. “Then speak.”

Colin’s glance flickered briefly toward Daphne.

“In private.”

“I was leaving in any case,” Daphne said with a knowing smile. “Good evening to you both.”

With that, she slipped from the room, the door closing softly behind her.

The moment her footsteps faded along the corridor, Colin drew a breath.

“I do not believe you should marry Nicolette,” he said plainly.

Anthony groaned and leaned back in his chair. “Am I to conclude there has been some clandestine gathering of my siblings devoted entirely to the discussion of my future?”

Colin frowned. “Did Daphne—”

“—inquire whether I love Miss Nicolette? Indeed she did,” Anthony replied briskly. “And now, if you will allow me, I have ledgers awaiting my attention.”

“No,” Colin said firmly. “I shall not permit it.”

Anthony’s brows lifted.

“Very well,” he said after a moment. “Proceed.”

"I think.." he paused for a moment, "I think Benedict loves her." As soon as Colin said those words Anthony's face paled.

"This is Benedict we're talking about. We both know our brother is a free spirit with no desire to settle down," Anthony said.

"He loves her Anthony. Anyone with eyes could see that. It is not that long ago when the sparring session seemed to have taken a quite the different tone as soon as you mentioned Nicolette. Did you not notice how he tenses whenever you say her name?" Colin continued and Anthony fell silent. Clearly thinking deeply.

"His breath hitches when she's near, have you ever noticed that? His eyes never leave her. He goes out of his way to be in her presence.." Colin said.

Anthony’s mind betrayed him then, recalling Daphne’s earlier description.

As though one cannot breathe without her. As though absence itself were agony.

He rose slowly from his chair.

“If this were so,” he said at last, “why has he not spoken to me?”

Colin gave a small, humorless smile. “This is Benedict. He scarcely understands his own heart. I doubt he recognizes the depth of his attachment.”

Anthony said nothing, though the truth of it unsettled him.

“I would wager he has loved her since the day they first met,” Colin continued. “They sneak out into our garden together at night. Not for impropriety, but merely to speak. To converse, Anthony. As though conversation itself were sustenance.”

Anthony’s jaw tightened.

“But there was a maid this summer,” he said quietly.

Colin shifted, an uncomfortable honesty settling over him.

“You are aware the walls of this house are lamentably thin,” he replied. “My chambers share one with his. It was during that… association that matters became clear to me.”

Anthony’s gaze sharpened.

“I heard him,” Colin said simply. “And it was not the maid’s name he spoke. And it didn't only happen once. ”

Anthony ran his fingers through his hair.

"Benedict loves her," Anthony said and Colin nodded. "I cannot marry her," Anthony continued.

"Well not unless you want to break your brother's heart," Colin said.

Anthony did not sleep that night. Nor, it seemed, did Nicolette.

While Anthony sought refuge in ledgers and estate accounts, Nicolette turned to flour and sugar, for baking had ever been her remedy against restless thoughts. The kitchens were warm and quiet in the small hours, the only sound the crackle of the ovens and the steady rhythm of her own breathing.

She was placing the final tray of biscuits upon the long wooden table when a discreet cough sounded behind her. She nearly dropped the pan.

Whirling about, she found Benedict leaning indolently against the doorframe, sleeves rolled, hair disordered, a soft smile curving his lips.

“You frightened me half to death,” she whispered.

“That was hardly my design,” he replied lightly, nodding toward the rows of cooling biscuits. “You are aware that Aubrey Hall employs an entire staff for such tasks?”

“It helps me think,” she said, her voice quieter now, her gaze falling to the floor.

Something in her tone sobered him at once.

“I see,” he murmured.

Then, without further explanation: “Come with me.”

Before she could protest, he had taken her hand and was leading her from the kitchen. She stifled a laugh as he urged her onward, pausing only to shush her when her slippers scuffed too loudly against the corridor floor. They did not stop until they reached the stables, where the air was cool and scented faintly of hay.

There Benedict grabbed his coat and draped it carefully about her shoulders.

She flushed. “Oh heavens… I had quite forgotten I am still in my nightgown.”

His grin deepened. “I shall keep your secret, if you keep mine.”

He led his horse from its stall, and Nicolette’s eyes widened.

“Benedict Bridgerton, what are you about?”

“I wish to show you something.”

He stepped closer - close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, close enough that the world seemed to narrow to the space between them.

“For once,” he said more softly, “do not think. Merely answer me this: do you trust me?”

She regarded him for a long moment.

“No,” she replied impishly.

Her teasing defiance lasted precisely one second before she gave a startled cry as he lifted her neatly and set her upon the saddle.

“Benedict!” she hissed, trying, and failing, to maintain indignation as he swung up behind her.

“Too late,” he murmured near her ear.

With a gentle pressure of his heels, the horse surged forward into the paling horizon, carrying them into the quiet dawn.

He rode until the trees thinned and the world opened into stillness.

The lake lay before them, silver in the earliest light of dawn.

Benedict dismounted first and turned to help her down, his hands firm at her waist, steadying her longer than strictly necessary before releasing her.

“What is this place?” she asked softly, glancing about at the water, the reeds, the hush of morning.

“I came here often when I was younger,” he said. “When the house felt too full. When expectation pressed too heavily. I would swim… or simply sit. It is the one place where my thoughts cease their endless clamor.”

She regarded the water warily. “I have no intention of swimming.”

He laughed under his breath. “I suspected as much.”

From the satchel secured to the saddle, he withdrew a folded blanket and spread it upon the grass.

“But perhaps you might sit with me awhile,” he said more quietly. “We may watch the sunrise. We need not speak at all. And if you prefer I keep my distance so you may have the silence entirely to yourself, you need only say so.”

She studied him for a long moment as though weighing something far greater than his offer.

“No,” she said at last. “I would rather you remain.”

He nodded once, and they sat side by side, the lake before them beginning to catch threads of gold.

“Did you bring the—”

He reached into his coat and produced a small silver case before she could finish.

“I did.”

He handed her one and struck a match, shielding the flame from the faint breeze. She leaned in, and for an instant the light illuminated her features in warm flicker before fading.

“Thank you,” she murmured, drawing in slowly.

He watched her in the quiet that followed.

This was the Nicolette he knew. The one who spoke her mind freely, who slipped from grand dinners to seek fresh air, who laughed too loudly when she forgot herself. The one who would never fit neatly into the image of a viscountess fashioned from duty and decorum.

His thoughts turned, unbidden, to Anthony.

Would his brother still look at her with such certainty if he knew her entirely?

As though sensing his gaze, she turned her head.

Their eyes met.

The moment stretched - fragile, suspended - and for several heartbeats the world seemed to hold its breath with them.

“What occupies your thoughts?” she asked softly, exhaling a thin ribbon of smoke into the morning air.

“You,” he said before he could stop himself.

Her brows lifted slightly.

He cleared his throat. “I mean only that I hope you are well.”

She looked back toward the horizon, where the sun was beginning its slow ascent.

“I have much to consider,” she admitted.

His voice gentled. “May I assist in any way?”

“You already do.”

The sun broke fully over the lake then, bathing them both in light neither of them seemed prepared to face.

"It's beautiful isn't it?" she said as she was looking at the sunrise.

"It is," he said but he was looking at her.

A moment of silence followed.

"Nicolette?" he breathed out.

"Yes?" she looked at him.

"It will be okay," he said softly, "if Anthony proposes no matter what you say it will be okay."

"Will it?" she asks, "Because I feel like no matter what happens someone will end up hurt. How can I choose?"

"You simply choose the option that will break your heart less," he says softly and hesitates before grabbing her hand to hold gently, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on the back of her hand.

"Even if you and Anthony do marry and you move out here I.. We will write. It will be okay," he reassures her again, "I.. I will love you either way, you are my friend Nicolette."

"I.. I can't marry him Benedict," Nicolette whispers.

"I know," he says and rests his forehead against hers.

"Do you think he will be mad?" she asks.

Benedict exhaled slowly, his breath warm against her cheek.

“He may be hurt,” he admitted. “Anthony feels deeply, though he seldom allows it to show.” A faint, sad smile touched his lips. “But he would never truly hate you. That is not in his nature.”

He paused.

“And if he should be angry… then I shall endure it for you.”

She has noticed the way she has been behaving lately. It would be hard not to when one lives with her. And Lady Danbury couldn't help but feel like Nicolette hardly looked like a blushing debutant ecstatic about the upcoming proposal. In fact she seemed anxious. Which wasn't far from the truth.

Nicolette swallowed and inclined her head. “Of course, Aunt,” she replied, summoning a smile that did not quite reach her eyes.

Lady Danbury’s lips pressed into a thin line.

“Oh! Is that not Her Grace, the Duchess of Hastings?” Edwina said, peering toward the far side of the gardens.

At once Nicolette’s head turned. It was indeed Daphne.

Without pausing to consider propriety, she gathered her skirts and hurried after her. Heedless of Lady Danbury calling sharply that such haste was hardly becoming of a young lady. The pale cotton of her stockings flashed as she ran across the lawn, scandalously visible for several reckless moments.

From the window of his chamber, Benedict Bridgerton saw far more than he ought. He stiffened. It was not a sight unfamiliar to him and that familiarity was precisely the danger. His thoughts betrayed him at once, conjuring memories of that evening at Granville’s party. The freedom of it. The laughter. The way they had danced without watchful eyes. The way he had held her... openly, boldly, for one night only.

His grip tightened upon the book in his hand.

The night before Anthony had ruined everything.

The thought struck him like a blow. Anthony... His brother... Benedict stepped back from the window, his mind in turmoil. Was it jealousy that twisted within him? Or fear? Fear that Anthony would soon make his proposal.

And fear that Nicolette would say yes.

When Benedict dared to look out of the window once more, Nicolette stood safely at Daphne’s side, her lilac skirts restored to their proper place, every scandalous inch of stocking once more concealed. Only then did he find himself able to draw a steady breath.

“I am so very glad to see you, Daphne,” Nicolette said, still slightly breathless from her unladylike dash across the lawn.

“Yes, that much is abundantly clear,” Daphne replied with a soft laugh. Yet her amusement faded as she took in her friend’s expression. “Nicolette… has something happened?”

Nicolette leaned closer, lowering her voice. “I believe your brother means to propose. Soon.”

“Benedict?” Daphne’s face lit at once.

Nicolette shook her head.

“Anthony.”

Daphne’s brows knit together in immediate confusion. “Anthony?” she repeated, as though testing the name. Since when had Anthony entered the picture? What developments had taken place in her absence?

“But Nicolette, I—”

Her protest was gently interrupted by the unmistakable presence of Lady Danbury approaching across the terrace.

“I cannot imagine,” Lady Danbury declared dryly, “that displaying your stockings to the entirety of Aubrey Hall is the most fitting manner in which to express gratitude for Lady Bridgerton’s hospitality.”

Though her tone was admonishing, there was the faintest suggestion of amusement about her eyes.

“Oh, do allow the girl her moment,” Violet Bridgerton interjected warmly as she descended the steps toward them. “It has been months since these two last met. I daresay the halls of this house have survived far greater improprieties than the fleeting glimpse of a stocking.”

A knowing smile curved her lips. “And I very much doubt anyone present shall feel compelled to inform the gossip sheets of the precise shade of Miss Nicolette’s hosiery.”

She reached Nicolette and placed a gentle hand upon her elbow.

“Welcome, my dear,” Violet said kindly. “We are most delighted to receive you all at our country home.”

“We are most delighted to be here, Lady Bridgerton,” Nicolette said, inclining her head in respectful greeting.

“Oh, pray call me Violet,” Lady Bridgerton replied with a warm smile. “Indeed, I believe it is quite time you did.”

Lady Danbury’s brows rose ever so slightly at that familiarity, though she offered no comment. Nicolette merely nodded, uncertain whether she felt honored or suddenly very exposed.

Violet looked around, noticing the wickets and furrowed her brows. "Oh surely not this," she murmured.

“What is it?” Nicolette asked.

“We must introduce them to pall-mall,” Daphne declared at once, her eyes alight with dangerous enthusiasm.

“And here I had hoped matrimony might have bestowed upon you a measure of wisdom,” Violet replied, pinching the bridge of her nose in resignation.

“Forgive me,” Edwina interjected politely, “but what precisely is pall-mall?”

"The rules are simple... The game itself is hardly about the rules though. You have to get your ball through each wicket. The first to get their ball through the last wicket, wins. My goal of course, is to rile up my brothers, Anthony especially," Daphne chuckles.

Nicolette scarcely heard another word. Her gaze had drifted toward the entrance, where footsteps echoed faintly along the stone floor. Her breath grew shallow, her pulse quickening. She did not permit herself to consider that it might be anyone other than Anthony… or Benedict.

When Benedict at last rounded the corner, her breath caught entirely.

Their eyes met.

He did not look away.

Not as he crossed the terrace. Not as he approached the group. Not until he came to a stop before them.

Only then did he turn his attention to Lady Danbury with deliberate politeness, offering her that familiar, boyish charming smile.

“Lady Danbury,” he said with an elegant bow, “what a pleasure it is to see you again.”

“Hm,” Lady Danbury replied, a note of skepticism coloring the single syllable.

Nicolette pressed her lips together, suppressing a smile.

Daphne leaned subtly closer to her.

"Benedict is a solid shot but he avoids conflict. Colin is crafty. He will strike when you least suspect it so always suspect it. Eloise is too taken by defeating her brothers that she won't even notice you're playing as well," Daphne whispers as the rest of the siblings approach, "and then there is Anthony..."

"Ruthless, cutthroat player?" Kate says.

"Not without honor of course," Daphne says more to Edwina than to anyone else, "but yes. He usually forgets all about honor once he grabs the mallet."

Benedict lingered at the edge of the lawn beside his siblings, who were already quarreling over the choice of mallets with predictable fervor. He scarcely heard a word of it. His attention had strayed entirely. Drawn, as ever, to the sound of Nicolette’s laughter as she leaned toward Daphne.

Ever since the unwelcome realization that he feels as though Anthony had ruined everything, Benedict’s thoughts had refused to settle. It was as though he required someone to interpret his own mind for him.

“The only fair course,” Daphne declared, cutting cleanly through the noise, “is to allow our guests first selection and first strike.”

“Pray, Miss Nicolette, the choice is yours,” Anthony said with a courteous bow.

Benedict suppressed a groan, though he did not manage to prevent the faintest roll of his eyes, a gesture Colin noticed at once, if the twitch at the corner of his mouth was any indication.

Nicolette stepped forward and selected a pale blue mallet. Anthony launched into an earnest discourse on the merits of its balance and weight, as though he himself had carved it from the ash tree.

Kate, meanwhile, claimed the black mallet - the very one Anthony traditionally favored.

“The mallet of death,” Benedict muttered under his breath, unable to contain a quiet laugh.

The bickering ensured as Nicolette kept giggling in the corner. In fact the bickering didn't stop until the end of the game. Or at least the moment when both Anthony's and Kate's balls ended up somewhere in the forest and they both went to retrieve them.

Left behind, Nicolette stood gazing toward the trees, her expression thoughtful.

Benedict approached quietly.

“Your thoughts seem far removed from the game, Benedict,” she said softly.

He gave a low scoff and stepped forward to stand beside her. When he looked down, she was already looking up. Their eyes met properly for the first time since he descended the stairs to join them in the garden.

“I have applied to the Royal Academy of Arts,” he said. He did not add that the prospect of her becoming his sister-in-law had plagued him more thoroughly than any artistic doubt.

Her face transformed at once. Whatever troubled her vanished, replaced by unfeigned delight. She caught his arm in both hands, forgetting herself entirely.

“That is wonderful news, Benedict.”

The brightness of her smile did not go unnoticed. Across the lawn, Colin observed with the mild interest of a man who has been putting the pieces together for a while.

“Do not offer congratulations prematurely,” Benedict replied, though his voice softened. “Admission is extended only to a select few.”

A faint crease appeared between her brows.

“Even so, it is an extraordinary prospect. And I have every confidence they shall see what I already know.”

“And what is that?” he asked, almost wary.

“That you are immensely talented.”

He exhaled slowly. “Perhaps I shall at last distinguish myself.”

Her expression faltered. There was something in his tone she did not like.

“Benedict—”

“Wait,” he interrupted gently. “You have never seen my sketches, have you?”

She regarded him with that disarming honesty that was uniquely hers.

“I do not require proof in order to believe in you,” she said. “My faith does not depend upon evidence.”

For a moment, he found himself without reply. Then she released his arm and turned toward the terrace, where Violet, Lady Danbury, and the Sharma ladies sat beneath a canopy, refreshments laid before them. She had taken only a few steps when Colin hastened to her side.

“Miss Danbury,” he said with a courteous inclination of his head as he fell into step beside her.

She smiled warmly. “Please, call me Nicolette. Everyone does.”

His answering smile was measured. “Very well… Nicolette. Might I have the pleasure of escorting you? It seems we are rarely afforded the opportunity for proper conversation.”

“That much is true,” she replied lightly. “I should be most pleased.”

Behind them, Benedict remained where he stood, watching.

“From what I gather,” Colin began with deliberate casualness, “we are soon to be siblings.”

He watched her closely as he spoke. Her smile faltered, only slightly, yet it was enough. He had struck something true.

“Oh… that,” she replied, lowering her gaze to the gravel path beneath their feet, "rumors are always swirling I suppose."

Colin hummed. "Indeed they do. But rumors are scarcely important.. The truth is...," he said as they neared the canopy and with a nod of head he ran towards the house leaving her alone with her thoughts.

Hours later, Nicolette found herself strolling beside Anthony along the sweeping grounds of Aubrey Hall. The late afternoon sun cast a golden glow across the lawns, lending the estate an almost storybook grandeur.

“How do you find Aubrey Hall?” Anthony asked, his tone measured, though his gaze lingered upon her.

“It is exceedingly beautiful,” she replied with a courteous smile. “Very… grand.”

“I intend to make my permanent residence here once I marry,” he said, watching her carefully as he spoke.

She glanced up at him. “You do?”

He inclined his head. “Aubrey Hall has ever been the place I feel most myself. My duties as Viscount will often demand my presence elsewhere, I should wish for my wife to reside somewhere sufficiently lively that she might not feel my absence too keenly.”

He paused only briefly before adding, “And for my future children to have space enough to roam.”

She nodded, though she offered no immediate reply.

“And what occupies your leisure, Miss Nicolette?” he asked after a moment. “What gives you pleasure?”

She looked at him, amusement flickering in her eyes at the fact that he does not know.

“I am fond of reading,” she said. “I find books most restorative.”

She did not mention the small leather-bound journals hidden carefully among her belongings.

“Ah,” Anthony replied. “I must confess the only volumes I read are ledgers.”

A soft laugh escaped her. “That sounds perfectly dreadful.”

“It is,” he agreed dryly, and for a moment they shared an easy laugh.

“Then I shall consider it my duty to relieve you of such monotony,” she said lightly. “I shall tell you all about my stories.”

Anthony regarded her with a gentler expression than he often allowed himself.