#whoooo boy

Which was funny to hear, but also, true, and also, enough for me to know better than to get involved in future gopher battles. 

Which is to admit that I did get involved. But I should've known better. A few hours in, he invited me over, gave me a cold soda, and showed me what he had set up: Two camping chairs, a wicked sharp shovel, a car battery, and a long length of copper wire leading to a pit he'd dug in the middle of the yard. Told me that if I stayed a bit and took a break, cooled down there with a soda in the shade, I'd see something amazing. I asked him if there was even a chance I could get hurt by this "something amazing", and he said "no," which I knew was a bald faced lie. But I believed him because I wanted to believe him. Because I wanted to know what he'd done, and I wanted to sit there in the shade with my grandpa. I also figured, hey, maybe getting gassed taught him a lesson. 

(Never, ever assume that the kind of person willing to break out chemical weapons against gophers is capable of being taught a lesson.) 

So I sat down in my chair and he beamed at that. He loved having an audience. Then I watched him lean forward and tap the ends of the wire against the battery terminals.

And that's where everything went wrong.  

The first thing that hit me was the yard itself. Little bits of sand and grit flying fast enough to hit my skin and bite. It took a year and change for all the little bits to work their way out. But I didn't even feel it at the time, because of what happened after. 

I genuinely think he'd imagined the gophers getting launched out of the holes, disoriented but alive. I think that shovel was there to finish them off afterwards. Which also would've been traumatizing, but probably less so than watching each of those cute little gopher holes projectile vomit bloody piles of tattered critter all over the lawn. 

Which, spoiler alert, is exactly what happened. The sky fell down, and the ground flew up, and the gophers found themselves with nowhere to go. So they did the next best thing and went a little bit everywhere.

I don't think it was actually silent afterwards, but I couldn't hear shit. There was just this long, ringing period of us looking at each other, then the meat piles, then the lawn crater, then the big buckled section of yard that looked oddly like Rockies just behind us, then back to each other. 

I think I did that two or three times before I felt my shoulders start to shake a little. I was crying. Felt weird to cry and not be able to hear it. Like a tic almost, or the way your body seizes up right before you puke. 

And then I looked at his face, and I saw him mouth a single soundless word: 

“No,” her mother nodded, “you’re quite right. But I suppose every mother dreams of her child's wedding at some point and seeing as how you’re my only one…”

“Mama…”

“Just allow me,” Lady Kent dabbed a handkerchief to the corners of her eye, “humor me, even, with the thought.”   

“It will happen,” she assured her mother again, prying the tight grip of her mama off her shoulder. “Perhaps not this season, but surely next season you can worry your mind with wedding preparations.” The modiste pricked her leg with a pin, the flinch shaking her entire body. 

“I am so sorry Lady (Y/N),” the modiste rushed out, her eyes wide as saucers.

“It’s alright,” she smiled lightly, “I was the one thrashing about.”

“Franklin said you had four callers this morning,” Lady Kent eyed her daughter through the mirror, watching her carefully. It was most important that (Y/N) held still, they still had a few more gowns to alter. “Was one of them that Mr. Locke I liked?”

“Mr. Locke hasn’t called upon me since I…” (Y/N) giggled, a hand flying up to her lips to conceal the laughter. “Since a toad ended up in our picnic basket.”

“A toad?”

“Or something toad-like, I truly didn’t have a good look, it was slimy all the same.”

Lady Kent let out a large sigh. It wasn’t a surprise or a mystery how that toad could’ve ended up in their picnic basket, but she was vexed nonetheless. “Dearest, Mr. Locke would’ve made a fine husband—” 

“He smelled so terribly!”

“He knew how to play the pianoforte,” Lady Kent spat, “recited poetry that he wrote for you, and he seemed genuinely interested in proposing.”

“But he didn’t propose.”

“You’ve had two marriage proposals this season,” Lady Kent rubbed her brow, she had begun to get a headache, “four last season and you have rejected all of them for one reason or another.”

“Well,” (Y/N) hopped down from the modiste’s pedestal, the gown was properly pinned. “At some point, I’ll be saying yes, will I not?”

“Lady (Y/N) (Y/L/N), you are the light of my life,” her mother laid both hands on her shoulders, looking at her daughter square on, “but you shall be the death of me.”

“Mama, if you are suggesting I should have married a man who did not know how to wash behind his ears,” she pushed her mother’s grip off, “just for the sole purpose of getting married? Surely there are other options.”

“There are other options,” Lady Kent sighed again—really, it seemed that’s all she did with her daughter around these days, “it has been nearly three full seasons of nothing but options, dearest.”

“I cannot see myself marrying any man of the ton that I’ve met thus far.” Lie. She supposed that she could possibly—only slightly—see herself marrying a one Mr. Benedict Bridgerton, Colin too if she was truly looking at all her options. Of all the options of the ton, she thought that a marriage with Benedict would be the least painful. With Mr. Locke, her nose would suffer greatly, with Mr. Knotting, her toes would be crushed nearly every dance. But with Benedict? He knew how to bathe properly, dance well enough to get by, make her laugh and damnit, at least she enjoyed his company. He would never agree to a marriage to one of his closest friends, of course, especially considering Lady Bridgerton’s dreams of her children finding love matches. (Y/N) wouldn’t be able to live with herself if she kept Benedict—or Colin, she kept telling herself he was still an option—from finding his true happiness with another.  

“Really? Every man in London?”

“To my knowledge,” (Y/N) snapped out of her trance. She had been staring too intently at a particular patch of embroidery on her bodice—tulips, she recognized, her mother’s favorite. “Unless there is to be some other eligible bachelor that fits your criteria and is suitable for me, I surely haven’t met him yet.”

“Yes, well, perhaps your wishes are our command,” Lady Kent said, smoothing her dress skirts. “Your father has requested I plan a ball in the coming week, he has sent correspondence to a few families outside of London to join us, a few of their sons you haven’t met yet.”

The pieces of the puzzle clicked in her head rather rapidly. “This is why you took me to the modiste today, to get a gown for a ball in which you are to pass me around like a prized pig, is it not?”

“You had to have known that we would plan an event like this if the situation called for it,” her mother played with the purpling dress skirt on her daughter, moving it around until it pleased her, “and, if I may be so bold to say, the situation does call for it.”

She let out a light groan, paying close attention to the intricate designs that were embossed in the ceiling. She knew her mother was right. “When?”

“Just over a week away,” Lady Kent hummed, a small and please smile graced her lips. “Your father tried pushing for this week, but I insisted on the floral decor to include some blooms that are just out of season, they are to arrive a bit later than expected.”

“Is there to be a theme?”

“I thought it would be fun if you were to help me decide and plan the details, dearest,” Lady Kent said as her smile widened. “One day, when you are the lady of your home, you will have these choices to make too.”

“May I suggest a theme of black?” (Y/N) asked in earnest. 

“Just black? It is most common to also include an option for white,” her mother’s brow quirked. “I thought you adored colors.”

“I do,” she nearly sang, “however, I feel it to be fitting for our guests to wear black,” she adjusted the matching bonnet her mother had somehow placed on her head earlier in the conversation. “Seeing as this may as well be my funeral, mourning attire would feel most appropriate.”

Lady Kent simply said nothing, for any words that were to come out of her mouth were most unladylike, indeed.

—

The plan was simple:

Call upon Lady (Y/N) first thing in the morning, even before the family is done breaking their fast. If Benedict was trying to court any other lady, he would wait the appropriate time in the morning for the family to eat, but Lady (Y/N) was no ordinary woman. If he wasn’t quick to the punch, she’d have a slew of callers at her doorstep in no time, and the thought of fighting for her attention in that mess was simply not ideal in the slightest.

His next step was, in the most simple way possible, charm the girl in every way he could. He’d have to make a large and rather romantic gesture for his friend to see him in a different light. Perhaps flowers? What were her favorites? Did he make an  excellent choice in the ones he purchased? This seemed like something Benedict should’ve known at this point, it pained him to not know for certain. 

The last step was to have her fall for him in the way he truly wanted. He had little plans for an engagement, that was something he felt was important to talk with his beloved about. His beloved. The thought of (Y/N) becoming his beloved was enough to warm his chest better than any brandy that could fill his glass. Perhaps they would be married, if everything went according to his plan. They’d have a happy life, Benedict was sure of this, he’d strive to make her as happy and content as he could, as devoted of a husband as one could be.

“Brother, you look awfully nice this morning,” Eloise said, pulling on the back of Benedict’s coat. Her eyes fell on the rather fancy bouquet of flowers in his hand. “I can only imagine who those could be for…” “Imagine all you’d like, sister,” Benedict fixed his cravat, making it absolutely perfect, “for I am not going to tell you.”

“You must think I’m thick if you do not believe I don’t already know,” Eloise laughed, plucking a tulip from the bouquet. Orange. “Did mother help you pick these out?”

Benedict shook his head. “No.”

“So you purchased a bouquet full of flowers that you do not know the significance of?”

“No,” Benedict turned to his younger sister, “I wrote to Daphne last week to gather her input on the matter. I felt that if I were to ask mother…”

“She’d go mad,” Eloise nodded in understanding, “lest she know one of her sons wishes to court a fine lady.”

“You understand,” he grinned. He truly did appreciate Eloise, although she was a great deal younger than he was, she had the kind of spirit he could connect easily with. “If everything goes well, I plan to tell mother.”

“So she can give you a family betrothal ring?”

“Of course not,” Benedict’s cheeks reddened at the thought. Should he accept a family heirloom for the honor of asking for her hand in marriage? Or should he purchase a ring specifically for her—only for her? “Marriage is not even on the forefront of my intentions.”

Eloise scoffed. “What other intentions could you have with a lady if you are to court her?”

“Perhaps you could think of this less like courting and more of… a romantic intent.”

Eloise blinked once. Twice. “Is… is that not what courting is?”

“I—yes,” Benedict stumbled, “that, by definition is what courting is, but you see…” he glanced at his pocket watch, desperate for a distraction. The hands on the clock read exactly what he had expected, much to his delight. “I must be off, I don’t wish to be late this morning.”

“So early? She may not even be awake, Benedict.”

“No,” Benedict hummed, tucking the watch away, “you may be right, but that also means that there is a greater chance that the other suitors may also not be awake.”

“You’ve gone mad.”

Benedict opened the door to Bridgerton House. “So I’ve been told.”

The walk was an easy one, with Kent House being only a mere ten minutes away—eight if Benedict was feeling sprightly. He couldn’t remember the last time he had called upon (Y/N) at her home. Surely is had been at least a year or more, the last time in his recollection being with Colin and Daphne when they had nearly begged her to join them on some ridiculous outing to Hyde Park. For the life of him, Benedict couldn’t remember the actual reasoning for that call, but knew that Daphne was keen on inviting the earl’s daughter for one reason or another, wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“I suppose I should’ve known the reason,” Benedict mumbled to himself, thumbs rubbing against the stems of flowers in his hand. He had been holding onto the bouquet with such a grip, it’s a miracle none of the delicate stems had snapped. 

Kent House was on the modest side of sizes in the ton—if one could consider a home with nearly seven bedchambers modest—ivy had been grown delicately around the dark brown door leading into their front entryway. The garden out front was well kept, the blooms colorful against the dreary beige of the stone building behind it. Benedict knew that Kent House was just the home that they used whilst they stayed in London, their true ‘home’ was near Tonbridge, but since (Y/N)’s debut the family has spent most of their time in London, unless the earl had to attend to their estate otherwise. 

She never cared for their home in Tonbridge, Benedict recalled. (Y/N) always complained that the halls were much too long, the home too large for any one family to reside in, far too lonely for any one person. She always joked that perhaps the Bridgerton clan would’ve filled their place much more appropriately than just her own. The Tonbridge home was inherited by the Earl of Kent and passed down the nobility with each new earl taking the reins. He supposed that her son—if his assumptions were to be correct—would be the next inheritor of the large manor just south of London, plus any and all other properties the earl was in possession of. 

Perhaps, it would be their son that would inherit such a property, such a title. 

He was getting ahead of himself, Benedict knew this to be a fact. He wasn’t trying to court Lady (Y/N) so he could secure a different nobility for the Bridgerton name—though, it would be a rather nice perk, he had to admit—no, he was to court her out of his deep devotion for the girl. He shouldn’t cloud his thoughts with the possible children he would have with her, as wonderful of a thought as it was, he had to focus on the task at hand, getting her to see him as a viable suitor and a possible candidate for her hand.

His knuckles rapped against the wooden door before he even knew what he had done. Benedict stood up straighter, pulled on the edge of his coat and held his breath. An older gentleman—Franklin, Benedict recalled—answered the door. He was not much shorter than the Bridgerton, hair speckled with silver strands against the red locks on his head. He had always been kind to the Bridgertons during their visits to Kent House, even if the children had gotten up to some sort of mischief… and they did. 

“Ah, Mr. Bridgerton,” Franklin mewled, “to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?”

Benedict raised the bouquet. “I wish to call upon Lady (Y/N) this morning,” he coughed lightly, “if she is willing to join me, that is.”

“Yes, of course,” Franklin nodded down at the bouquet, focusing intently on the colorful blooms in Benedict’s hand. “I’m afraid Lady (Y/N) just awoke for the day and will need some time to get ready, but if you’d like, you may wait in the drawing room for her,” Franklin nodded again, “should she see you.”

“Of course,” Benedict felt like a mime, nodding back at Franklin so slowly. The butler stood to the side, allowing the tall Bridgerton to enter the foyer. The house had been decorated rather ornately—more so than Benedict could recall—with silvers and blues adorning the walls. Kent House always felt slightly off, never truly homey and never truly a palace, it was on the fine line of in-between. Franklin led him to the drawing room immediately to their left, bowing once before leaving Benedict alone. 

He wanted nothing more than to sit down on the blue chaise and wait patiently for (Y/N) to appear through the large double doors, but the anticipation and anxiety froze him upright, pacing lightly against the fine purple rug beneath his feet. He tried to focus on anything else in the moment, to get his mind off of the inevitable, so he scanned the walls for anything to stare at—to lose himself to his thoughts. A portrait hung above the ornate fireplace, it looked to be of the (Y/L/N) family. 

The Earl of Kent and his Countess stood gallantly behind a chair, both holding rather serious expressions. The years had shown on the earl’s face, not being as young as Benedict recalled from his childhood, the lines only increasing since his succession to the prior earl—his father. The countess had a hint of a smile against her lips, poised and proper as ever, a glittering tiara adorned her simple hairstyle and made her almost glow against her husband. Finally, Benedict focused on the forefront of the portrait, sitting in front of the earl and countess was their daughter, (Y/N). She looked more serious than Benedict could give her credit for, a similar hint to her smile much like her mother. The colors of the portrait were rather dark, not much light or life to the subjects at hand, which was a terrible shame. Benedict felt that a portrait containing (Y/N)’s likeness deserved to be brighter, to hold the colors that suited her personality so terribly well. He all but wanted to rush home to try and do her justice, to perfect a portrait worthy of (Y/N)’s presence. 

“Father looks rather cross in that,” (Y/N) said, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. As soon as her lady’s maid had informed her of her caller, she got ready with such haste that she hadn’t properly pinned her hair up. “Mother tried to get him to smile, even just a bit, but…”

“He’s the earl,” Benedict turned his head to the side, “such a serious expression conveys power and prestige.” He all but felt his heart tighten at the sight of (Y/N) first thing in the morning, skin practically glowing from a restful sleep, he couldn’t help but fully turn his body towards her. “Anthony insisted a similar stance on his latest portrait.”

“Of course he did,” she giggled—God she giggled—pressing the back of her hand against her lips. “Anthony does seem like the type.”

“Yes, he is,” Benedict choked out, enraptured by the sight. His cravat felt uncomfortably tight against his neck, he felt it difficult to swallow.

(Y/N) nodded politely and took a step closer to Benedict, eyeing the portrait with a casual intensity. “I hated sitting for this,” she recalled, the disdain sitting on the tip of her tongue, “I had sat for much too long, the artist claimed he was working on the details of my eyes, but they still look off. It was agony.”

Benedict looked at her eyes—the portrait’s eyes—rather intently. The color seemed right, he noted, but the light he knew so terribly well that sat behind her eyes was missing. It looked glassy, almost fake. It hardly held the same presence as the real thing, a soulless mockery. “I see what you mean,” he hummed, “though, with eyes such as yours, it would be nearly impossible to perfect.”

(Y/N) sucked in a quick breath. “You flatter me, Benedict,” she mumbled out, cheeks heating ever so slightly.

“I try,” he grinned.

They stood there, for a moment, taking the portrait in just a second longer, the silence almost comforting. (Y/N) rocked on her heels. “You haven’t called upon me for a long time,” she noted, “hardly ever alone. Usually Daphne or Colin would be in tow, dragging you along. When Franklin told me you were here, I nearly rolled right off my bed.”

“Yes,” he drawled, almost stalling, “you’d be correct, it has been quite a while. I don’t think I’ve called upon you alone since your debut.”

“That would make sense,” she nodded, “wouldn’t want anyone to think we were courting, no?” (Y/N) laughed lightly, expecting Benedict to join. He didn’t. It was highly unusual that Benedict didn’t join in their common joke about the nature of their relationship, this being the first that he didn’t laugh with her. She saw a flash of orange out of the corner of her eye, Benedict was holding a—rather large and fancy—bouquet. “You brought flowers,” she cleared her throat, stopping all laughter, “for the countess, I assume?”

“Why would I bring your mother flowers?” Benedict asked as if it were the most simple thing in the world. 

“Because you’ve brought her flowers before,” she shrugged helplessly. “I’m sorry that I assumed—I suppose I didn’t think that you’d bring them—”

“That I would bring them for you?” Benedict raised the bouquet inquisitively, focusing particularly on an orange tulip with ever so slightly yellow tips. (Y/N) nodded—he almost missed it entirely with how small the movement was. He tilted it towards her.

“You’ve never brought me flowers,” she said, accepting the bouquet with open arms—as she’d need both, seeing as the bundle was quite large. Her thumb ran up and down the green stems. “They’re lovely.”

“I’m sorry if they’re not to your liking, I never realized out of our many years of friendship that I don’t know your preference for the sorts,” Benedict all but mumbled, feeling rather shy. 

“I do not think I could ever hate any sort of bloom you’d give me, Benedict,” (Y/N) glanced up at him, beaming with delight. “The notion itself is very kind, the gift is even kinder.” Benedict returned her grin. “Though, I do have to ask, what ever are they for?”

“Ah,” Benedict sighed, he had been dreading this moment the entire morning, hardly getting any sleep because of it. “I thought that they would be a perfect gift to signify my inten—”

“Lady (Y/N),” Franklin said, knocking on the drawing room door rather loudly as he entered. The couple turned hastily towards the butler, both rather annoyed by the intrusion. “Your mother will be here in a moment to chaperone you and Mr. Bridgerton, she is rather busy with ball preparations this morning.” He glanced at the bouquet in the young lady’s hands. “I shall bring a vase for those, crystal will suit them just fine, I should think.”

“Thank you, Franklin.”

“Ball preparations?” Benedict asked as the butler removed himself from the drawing room. “Are you to have a ball soon?”

“Yes, my mother has been planing a ball for the end of the week. Lady Bridgerton should be receiving your family’s invitation this morning, I would assume.” She let out a large sigh. “Apparently my father has invited a gaggle of his friends from the country to bring their sons—second or third sons,” she pointed, “in hopes that I would find a husband.”

“I-I thought that you had another season to find a husband on your own volition,” he rambled rather quickly, “without the meddling of the earl?”

“I do,” she hummed as the placed the bouquet on the table, “but my parents are growing rather impatient with my pursuits—or lack thereof—for a husband. I suppose that forcing me to dance with a number of sons that they’d choose for me to marry is a way for me to possibly fall in love with a choice they would’ve made for me regardless.”

“You couldn’t possibly fall in love with a man from a dance,” Benedict scoffed. She shot him an inquisitive look. “You said so yourself,” he quickly added, “at the Cowper ball, I mean.”

“No, I probably wouldn’t. Though, considering this is to be my family’s ball, I don’t think I can get by with filling my dance card with fake names,” she groaned lightly, “and I’ve come up with so many new ones, too!”

Benedict blinked. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Are you not going to share all of the fantastic new names you’ve come up with?”

(Y/N) laughed, rather loudly. “No, I rather think that would ruin the surprise.” Benedict chuckled lightly beside her. “Regardless, I know that I can count on you for a dance, so my evening is to at least have one highlight.”

Benedict knew his ears were red, they had to be, the burning against his head was too great. “I am to be your highlight?” He tried to mask his bashful demeanor with a playful gasp—she seemed to have bought it. “Lady (Y/N), I’d be honored.” He all but bowed to her.

“Stop it,” (Y/N) batted at his arm lightly, playfully. “With talk like that, my mother will insist on a second dance for us as well—there is a high chance that she’d expect you to dance with her, too, you know.”

“I’m sure Lady Kent is a formidable dance partner.”

“That, I am.” Lady Kent entered the drawing room, her hair hastily done, the bags under her eyes prominent. The planning of a ball was no easy feat, especially with the rushed nature of the event. It was a miracle she even looked presentable in such a haste. 

“I imagine (Y/N) learned all she knows from you,” Benedict nodded to the countess, “and she is a rather fine dance partner, I would argue she’s my favorite dance partner.”

(Y/N)’s breath hitched, just for a moment. Suddenly she could feel her heartbeat—hear it pounding in her ears.

“Yes, (Y/N) had quite a lovely teacher indeed,” Lady Kent hummed. “A few growing pains with her learning, but a graceful dancer nonetheless.”

“Growing pains,” Benedict hummed, “yes, I do think you’ve stepped on my toes once or twice.”

“You’ve probably deserved it,” (Y/N) narrowed her eyes.

“I reckon I did,” he laughed.

“Mr. Bridgerton, I will say, it is a sight to see you here this morning,” Lady Kent said, pressing back a yawn. “Not an unwelcome one, I assure you, just an unexpected one.”

“For that, I am truly sorry,” he bowed to (Y/N)’s mother, “I should have called upon your daughter before this morning. What a fool I am.”

“Oh what lovely flowers!” Lady Kent squealed at the sight of the warm-colored blooms on the table. “Tulips, daisies and carnations,” she noted, running her fingers along the petals lovingly. “What a wonderful selection, Mr. Bridgerton.”

“Ah, I cannot take all the credit,” Benedict waved. “My sister, Daphne, had given me a great list of suggestions, she always had an eye for that sort of thing. I merely trusted the florist to make the final selection from that list.”

“Isn’t it lovely, (Y/N)?” Lady Kent turned to her daughter in earnest. “Why, I think this is one of the nicest bouquets you have received since your debut—”

“Yes, Benedict did bring us a lovely bouquet,” (Y/N) nodded, quickly cutting her mother off. “Very lucky indeed that one of your favorite flowers are daisies, he made a good guess.”

“Oh, yes!” Lady Kent’s eyes lit up in remembrance. “You had brought a bouquet of daisies for my birthday ball last year,” she smiled, “how lovely of you to remember, Mr. Bridgerton.”

“Well, actually, the flowers are for—”

“—the library,” (Y/N) smiled sweetly. “The warm tones would compliment the oak shelves rather nicely, don’t you think?”

“Of course,” Lady Kent nodded. “A lovely gift, indeed, Mr. Bridgerton.”

Benedict didn’t know what to say. He had brought the flowers for (Y/N)—he told her that much, he was sure of it. Why was she so quick to deny the truth of the bouquet? Could she not be interested in a courtship with him? No, all signs were pointing to the possibility that she was at least remotely interested in a potential courtship with him, right? But, if that were the case, wouldn’t she have proudly accepted the bouquet as her own instead of pushing it off as a gift for her mother? His brows seemed to nearly touch in frustration. 

“Mr. Bridgerton?” Lady Kent asked gently, touching his arm lightly. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes,” Benedict shook his head, “I’m pleased you enjoy the flowers, Lady Kent.”

“I do apologize for getting us off topic with the flowers,” Lady Kent laughed lightly. “I just couldn’t help myself once I saw them. What do we owe the pleasure of your call on my daughter this morning, Mr. Bridgerton?”

Benedict blinked, thinking for just a moment. “I simply wanted to bring over flowers,” he turned to (Y/N), “for both of you, it seems.” He paused, letting the words linger for a moment longer. “It felt only right to deliver them in person then through a postboy.”

“What a thoughtful young man you are,” Lady Kent grinned widely. “Isn’t he just thoughtful, (Y/N)?”

“So thoughtful.” (Y/N) forced a smile, uncomfortable by Benedict’s sudden coldness. What happened to the man she was laughing with earlier? Had she said something wrong?

“Well, seeing as that will be my only reason for my visit, it seems,” Benedict patted his coat, “I shouldn’t keep you from your ball preparations.”

“At least stay for breakfast,” (Y/N) interjected quickly, afraid Benedict would flee if given the chance. “Our chef is known quite well for his omelets.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose—”

“It’s not an imposition if you are invited, Benedict,” (Y/N) tilted her head. “And I am inviting you. Surely you haven’t broken your fast this early in the morning? With it being only,” she glanced at the grand clock across the way, “just a little over seven.” 

“I’m afraid I will have to pass,” Benedict smiled sadly, though he felt anything but. He wanted nothing more than to escape the horrid drawing room where he nearly felt his heart break in two. No, maybe not in two, but his heart felt heavy in his chest, his feet nearly glued to the floor from the weight of gravity against him. “Eloise is in need of a chaperone and Anthony seemed to have a prior engagement, so I must take the reins of the older brother and keep a watchful eye on her.” It was so easy to lie, Benedict found. Shockingly easy.

“Oh,” Lady Kent sighed, “I suppose it would be unwise to leave Miss Bridgerton unchaperoned. You’re a wonderful brother to her.”

Benedict bowed, taking his leave rather quickly. He needed to exit hastily before he could say anything, fearing the worst if he allowed himself to speak any more. He was so close to the front door, he could almost feel the brass cool against his fingertips, but his grasp was just short. He had been held back, caught, from exiting. Benedict didn’t need to turn around to know why he couldn’t take another step. 

“Let go, (Y/N).”

“What happened in there?” she asked, not releasing her fist of his coat, her fingers gripping the fabric tighter. “We were having such a lovely conversation, surely my mother couldn’t have ruined our chat—”

“Your mother,” Benedict nearly spat as he turned around, “didn’t ruin anything.” 

He had never spoken to her like this before. The tone of his voice was enough for (Y/N)’s grasp to drop completely in shock. “Then,” she gulped, “what happened?” 

“You happened, (Y/N),” Benedict said honestly. 

“Me? What could I have possibly done?”

“The flowers.”

“What about the flowers?”

“I brought the flowers for you.”

“Yes, I know,” (Y/N) said as if it were obvious. “But I did not want my mother to think that you were wishing to court me, I’ve had quite a few suitors bring me flowers—”

“Why is that?”

“Why is what? Why do suitors bring me flowers?” (Y/N) asked rhetorically. Benedict didn’t say anything. “You’re not thick, Benedict. Suitors bring young ladies flowers to show their intent, to convey their interest in courting said lady.” She laughed humorlessly. “My mother would’ve thought—” 

Benedict’s posture deflated, just for a moment, eyes not daring to meet (Y/N)’s. She took a sharp breath.

“My mother would’ve thought that you… that you… Benedict…”

“You’re not thick, (Y/N),” Benedict’s gaze finally met her soft one, turning away from her touch. “I know for certain that you absolutely hate the idea of anyone thinking we were courting—you always have, I think.”

“Ben—”

“No,” he raised his hand, “you’re right. It’s foolish, really.” 

(Y/N) didn’t know what to say. So she didn’t.

“Good day, Lady (Y/N).”

Benedict Bridgerton left Kent House at exactly a quarter past seven, his day already ruined. 

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