Benedict Bridgerton X Reader - Blog Posts

Unwritten Masterlist

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x F!Reader

Summary: Writer and pen pal of Eloise Bridgerton, (Y/N) (Y/L/N) had no plans to come out in society. Her family could hardly afford it after all. And she doesn’t need to marry, not when she can support herself and her family with her writing. But ever the hopeless romantic, (Y/N) embraces London society with hopes of finding inspiration for a new story. Only to find herself the subject of a love story right out of one of her favorite romance novels.

Prologue: The Letters 

Ch. 1: The Wanderer 

Ch. 2: Don Juan 

Ch. 3: Practical Education

Ch. 4: Self Control 

Ch. 5: Vanity Fair

Ch. 6 - coming soon

Ch. 7

how I read the most toe-curling, spine-shattering, nerve-wrecking, nastiest smut ever written in this god forsaken app

Would anyone care if I wrote for Benedict, he's literally the loml-

Portrait-Benedict Bridgerton x Reader

(GIF credit to @gifshistorical​)

Masterlist

Requested by @peoniarose: I was wondering if I could request a Benedict x Reader that is angsty and fluffy.

Characters: Benedict Bridgerton x Reader, Daphne Bridgerton x Reader (sister-in-law)

Meanings: (Y/N)=Your name

Warnings: Angst, arguing, mentions of cheating, lots of fluff

                                        *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

(Y/N) wandered around her new home, still trying to remember the layout and small details within the huge house. It was so different from the home she grew up in. She had been living there for only a week but it still wasn’t settling into her mind. She felt like a stranger, she felt like she was intruding. (Y/N) and Benedict had been married for the same amount of time, they didn’t have a long courting relationship either, there was still so much she had to learn about her husband.

He was a lovely, charming and kind man. (Y/N) could not deny that she liked him, and she did find him attractive, but as soon as her parents saw that she had been conversing with a Bridgerton they immediately sped up the process. (Y/N) also came from a rich family, and Anthony was determined to seal the deal (he saw that his brother could be happy with this woman, he would never have forced him into a marriage). But now that the exciting courtship was over, the rush of emotions was dying down. (Y/N) thought she would feel entirely different to this.

Perhaps it was because they lived with the rest of the Bridgerton’s, meaning it was very hard to find any private time. The only time they had together was in their own bedroom, but even that was an awkward affair. They slept as far apart as they could, not wanting to make the other feel uncomfortable.

However, (Y/N) recently noticed Benedict straying even further from her. She would wake up without him beside her, and sometimes even go to bed alone. He would lock himself up in his study, doing who knows what, slipping in and out, looking suspicious. She had tried to catch him out, but he was too quick for her. Although she didn’t know her husband well, she could spot a liar. Did he really not want to be around her? He would rather lock himself up in a room than speak with her?

“Daphne," (Y/N) broke the silence they had been sitting in as they continued their embroidery,"I don’t suppose you know what your brother has been up to recently?”

“I have many brothers, you might have to be a little more specific.” she joked.

(Y/N) smiled.“You’re quite right. I meant the one I’m married to.”

Daphne set down her work.“You know, I do seem to recall he has been rather reclusive. I can’t remember the last time I greeted him at breakfast.”

“Exactly. I’m worried.”

She looked at her sister-in-law, as if waiting for her to keep speaking.“There’s something else isn’t there? I can tell, your eyes hold a sadness behind them.”

“I do not want to burden your thoughts Daphne.”

“You’re my family now (Y/N),” she held her hand,“you can tell me anything.

(Y/N) wasn’t sure if it was entirely proper to involve her husband’s sister in their personal affairs. It was about their love after all, and she was scared that if she spoke the truth, Daphne may think ill of her; because what if she was overreacting? What if she was seeing something that wasn’t there?

"Please (Y/N), I am concerned for you.” Daphne urged her.

“When I have seen Benedict, I notice that he talks with the maids. And I’ve seen this many times. Then he locks himself away in his study all day. I used to stay awake waiting for him to come to bed, but now I just fall asleep because I know he’ll only leave again in the morning without a word to me. I fear that he detests me. I’m not asking for him to be undeniably in love with me, but I would like for us to at least get along.”

“(Y/N), my brother adores you. I’ve seen how he gazes upon you when you’re not looking. You turn him bashful, so much so that he can’t form a single sentence. I’m sure whatever he’s doing is for good reason.”

“But he’s acting so skittish. One time I saw him talking to a maid they seemed so deep in conversation, and when he saw me he immediately stopped speaking with her and scurried away, as did the maid.”

“That is rather odd behaviour for Benedict.”

“I want to ask him about all of this nonsense but I never have a chance.”

“Have you been to him in his study?”

“No. I’m afraid I will disturb him. What if he gets angry?”

“My brother would never be angry with you. Especially if you were there to express your true feelings.”

(Y/N) had a sudden confidence in her after she spoke with Daphne. She was in her right to confront her husband. She was being made to feel like an outcast here, Benedict was supposed to be their for her and help her ease into this new household and life. Instead he had cowered away. Her head was held high as she walked down the corridors with purpose. This would all stop now. The young woman was going to march up to her husbands study, waltz in and demand he explain himself.

It went differently than she had expected.

She came to a halt in front of the doors, arm raised to knock though she never made contact with the wood. Why was she so nervous? It was just Benedict, he was an absolute sweetheart. She assumed part of her didn’t want to enter in case her fears were true. However, standing there forever wasn’t going to solve anything, and she forced herself to knock firmly on the door.

Benedict huffed at the interruption. He was desperately trying to finish his work, it was taking him far too long to complete. Calling for the person to enter, he panicked when his wife walked in, instantly scrambling to put away what he had been working on. He clumsily stood, bumping back into his chair.

“(Y/N),” he stuttered,“what can I do for you?”

(Y/N) had a slight frown on her face, his nervous composure making her all the more suspicious.“I wanted to talk. I hope this isn’t a bad time.”

He hesitated before quickly shaking his head.“No, no you’re fine darling.”

She hadn’t heard that term in a while. (Y/N) walked further into the room, a sudden air of tension filling the space.

“Benedict, I don’t want to argue." 

He furrowed his eyebrows in confusion.“Well, neither do I. What would we argue about in the first place?”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“No I haven’t.”

“Yes you have! I never see you when we wake, it seems that you’re up before any of the staff! And throughout the day, you go out of your way to not cross paths with me, all the while I see you flirting with the young maids, whispering to them in your charming manner. You know I’ve caught you, because you run away each time. I cannot believe the amount of disrespect you have for me Benedict! And I never see you when it is time to retire for the evening. You leave me all alone in this new house to sleep by myself, it’s as if I’m not even here!”

Both her and Benedict were surprised by her outburst. She hadn’t raised her voice but her tone was snappy. It was clear to see that she was frustrated and upset. Benedict felt a wash of shame and regret come over him, however, he was also angry, and shocked that she would think of him being unfaithful to her.

“I’ve been away from you because I am trying to complete a piece of artwork, and it is taking an infuriatingly long time to complete.” he quipped back.

“I understand your art is important to you, and you know I support you fully in that. But that’s not an excuse to ignore your wife and run around with other women.”

“I have done no such thing!” this time he raised his voice.

In his frustration, he forcefully turned around his easel with had a canvas resting on it. The wooden legs slammed against the floor as he stared at his wife. (Y/N)’s mouth dropped open when she saw what he had been sketching. It was her.

“I have only been able to finish your face.” Benedict was calmer now.“It’s the only thing I knew from memory because I stare at your beauty every day.”

(Y/N) couldn’t believe it. He was going to paint her.

“It was supposed to be a late wedding present. However, I realised we really don’t know everything about each other. And that’s why I’ve been speaking with the maids, because I thought they might know more about you than I, or at least observed you more. I was trying to find out what your favourite dress was, favourite flowers, anything I could add to this soon to be painting so you could understand how devoted I am to you.”

“Benedict…” (Y/N)’s words trailer off. She was in awe at his gesture.

“I’m sorry that I made you feel like I was ignoring you. I just wanted to get this right. And…and you must know that I deeply care for you. Those early mornings and late nights were to ensure I could get this finsihed on time, though obviously that never happened. But every time I woke up or just before I slept, I always kissed your cheek, secretly knowing that it was the only affection I had given you that day.”

“I feel terrible for thinking you would do something like that Benedict.”

“No, you had every right to think like that. When you explained yourself it was easy to see it from that perspective.”

(Y/N) clasped her hands together as she approached the canvas, standing beside Benedict.“Will you…will you finish it?”

She looked up at him, seeing he was already looking at her.“I will certainly do my best to capture your radiance.”

“Do you think I could sit for you? That way we could spend time together. And as you mentioned, we really must know each other better.”

He smiled.“I would like that.”

“Me too. You’re a very caring man Benedict.”

“Only for you my love.”

Mr. Bridgerton and the Baker

Benedict Bridgerton x Reader

Summary: Covered in flour. It is how she usually spent her days, working hard at her family's bakery. She just hadn't expected to have met him in such a state.

Word Count: 11.8k

Warnings: pining, angst, fluff, a small assault (reader gets hit, not by Benedict!), mention of pregnancy (like, literally a line or two),

A/N: Did I write an entire fic barely based on that one scene in Camp Rock where Mitchie is covered in flour? Yes. Do I regret it? No.

With the melting of snow and the promise of new starts, the social season was nearly upon the ton, nearly upon all the potential suitors and debutantes—all waiting with bated breath to secure a match this year. Of course, those in waiting were of high status, usually tied to the aristocracy or drowning in wealth beyond compare.

The others? The ones not blessed with endless funds or pure luck of royal lineage had the privilege, nay, honor to serve those who would be so fortunate. For the many, it included servicing the estates—butlers, lady’s maids, governesses, home chefs and the like. For the patrons on Tilbury Street, it included the less sought after roles, polishers, cobblers, modistes and bakeries. One bakery in particular was the prime choice for the aristocracy, a diamond in the rough as some may say. 

—

“I just simply don’t understand why we cannot have our chefs prepare the pastries for the ball,” Eloise Bridgerton nearly groaned, her arm hooked onto her mother’s. They had been walking up and down Tilbury Street for the better part of twenty minutes, simply enjoying the fresh spring weather. “I’ve never known them to make horrid dishes.”

“It’s the first Bridgerton Ball of the season, Eloise,” the dowager viscountess murmured politely. “Along with it being the first Kate has had the pleasure of hosting, putting an order in here is a fresh foot forward, one that’ll impress our guests.”

Eloise barked back a laugh. “If it is so important, why is Kate not here to make the order herself?”

“That, dear sister, is an excellent point.” Following close behind the two Bridgerton ladies was a rather tall shadow, equally as dashing and nearly as clever—Benedict—the second eldest son of the Bridgerton brood. “Surely Anthony could spare his wife for one afternoon, I can’t imagine it being so difficult to pry them from their bedroom—”

“Benedict Bridgerton!” Violet snapped, turning hot on her heels to face her son. He could only laugh.

“Oh Mother, you must relax,” he said lovingly, patting both hands on her shoulders. “You know better than I that it could have been a far fouler thought—why, I can easily imagine three other ways I could have expressed my way of thinking.”

“Ah, ever the poet, Benedict,” Eloise smiled wryly, pushing her way to the front of their clump. No one had the heart to mention the glaring fact that it was likely she didn’t know the way in which they were headed. 

“This bakery,” Violet continued half-heartedly. “Is a prestigious supplier for the ton—you may recall their exquisite cake that we had ordered for Daphne’s wedding.”

Benedict hummed contently. “It was a good cake,” he practically nodded off at the thought. The decadent sponge nearly brought him to tears—of course, it could have very well been the relief from undue stress of Daphne’s season altogether, having nearly lost his older brother to an unnecessary duel.

“I think it was far too sweet,” Eloise said, scrunching her nose in distaste. “I had to drink nearly three cups of tea to clear out the sugar on my tongue.”

“Ah, but what’s life without a little bit of sweetness?” Benedict nearly sang.

“Perfectly fulfilling,” his younger sister quipped back.

The dowager viscountess could only sigh, her eyes reaching up to the clouds above. While she loved nothing more than being the mother of all eight of her perfect children, their endless bickering and bantering grew vexing. It merely took the Bridgerton siblings another minute of arguing before stopping in front of a quaint storefront—the sickeningly sweet aroma filling the street. “We’re here.”

“I could have told you as much,” Benedict mumbled, rubbing his temple lightly. “The scent is… overpowering.” If he were lucky, the headache that was quickly forming would dull fast.

“But Benedict,” Eloise turned hot on her heels. “What’s life without a bit of sweetness?”

Violet Bridgerton was quick to catch her second eldest's hand before it met the back of Eloise’s head. “If it’s too much for you, dear,” she released her grip. “Please feel free to wait for us out here. It should only take a moment.”

“Like a ‘moment’ at the modiste?” Benedict crossed his arms, his brow nearly touching his hairline. “If I recall, the last time I accompanied you to the dressmaker, I spent over an hour basking in the summer sun.”

“Nothing logical stopped you from coming in,” Eloise drawled. “Of course, if you wanted to managed to stay pleasant with the seamstress, one should have kept it in his trousers—”   

“We’ll only be a moment,” Violet hushed Eloise quickly, grasping the top of her arm firmly. “There seems to be little wait. We’ll be on our way shortly.”

He huffed towards the sun—while there had been little heat near the start of the English spring, the sun was warm against his skin. Benedict enjoyed being outdoors more often than not, it was usually the reason he accompanied his mother on their errands nearly every other day of the season. That, of course, and the fact it got his worrying mama off of his back to be wed. With Anthony finally securing a match, it was only fitting for Violet Bridgerton to be working her way down her list of endless children—having only two of eight married off. “It should only be a moment,” Benedict reassured himself, watching various other families and couples walk by. 

That is, until he heard a rather loud bang coming from the alley beside him. He should have known better—he was taught better—than to investigate outlandish sounds, especially in town, but Benedict Bridgerton was nothing if not curious. He peeked around the corner, holding his breath, preparing to be met with a wild animal of some kind. His view was shaky at best, hardly could see a thing around the bricks. If he wanted a better look, he’d have to take a few steps towards the unusual noise. 

A large white cloud had enveloped the small alley, it was difficult to even see a few meters ahead, let alone what could have caused the loud commotion. Benedict waved his hand through the mysterious fog, trying to clear some air. “Hello?” He heard a soft squeak. An animal, it had to have been, Benedict was sure of it now. “Is anyone there?” 

A cough rang through the alley, startling him more than rogue vermin could have. The cloud had begun to dissipate, the white settling on the stone street below. Flour, if he had to guess, given the location.

“I’m alright,” a voice murmured quietly, another soft cough following quickly after. The shape of a person came into view, the air finally clearing enough for him to make sense of the scene he came upon. It was one of a woman now covered head to toe in the white powder—she had no distinguishable features, the flour was caking every bit of her body and dress. Just striking eyes that made Benedict’s heart jump to his throat. “Just… made a mess.”

“So it seems,” Benedict hummed, stepping over a pile of powder to get closer. “Do you require any help?”

“No, no,” she laughed. “I wouldn’t want you to get dirty. I fear I’ve got quite enough of that for the both of us.”

“I don’t mind getting dirty,” Benedict said quickly, his tongue moving faster than his brain. “But… yes, I suppose it’d be for the best if I refrained from getting any flour on me. May I ask how…?”

“Clumsy,” she uttered simply, the shrug of her shoulders speaking nothing but truth. “I must have the slipperiest fingers in town—I wish I could say this was the first time…”

“Manage to cover yourself in flour often?” Benedict’s lips pulled into a jesting smirk.

“Nearly every other day,” the woman sighed. “We’ve grown accustomed to purchasing an extra sack or two just for situations like these."

“I hardly doubt you could be that clumsy,” Benedict laughed, leaning against the stone wall. “But, I am painting quite the image in my head.”

“Oh I do hope I’m decent in that image, Mr. Bridgerton,” she giggled, curtsying in a near-mocking manner.

“How do you know—”

“Everyone knows your family, Mr. Bridgerton, I’d be a fool to admit I don’t know who you are—though you and your brothers all blur together, so I am merely taking a shot in the dark in which of the four you are.”

“Oh?”

She nodded once, a flurry of powder falling from her hair. A muffled shout from the back door startled her, grabbing her attention. “Ah,” the woman waved the air in front of her face, “I suppose I should take my leave—get cleaned up.”

“Of course,” Benedict said simply. “I won’t keep you.” In nearly an instant, the mysterious dusted lady disappeared from view, diving into the back door. He was taken aback by her candidness—having addressed him so forwardly without the pleasantries of a name exchange. “Damn,” he mumbled to himself, kicking residual flour off of his polished shoe, “I never asked for her name.” Would it be too forward to knock on the back door to ask for her? Benedict Bridgerton couldn’t wrap his head around the interaction—she nearly sent him into a tizzy.

“Brother?” 

Eloise stood at the end of the alley, clutch in hand, face pinched in confusion. 

“Ah, I suppose you’re finished?”

“Hardly,” Eloise scoffed, “Mother insisted on doubling the initial order ‘just to be safe’. She’ll be out in a moment.” 

“Perhaps I should go inside to accompany her—”

“And leave your unwed sister unchaperoned in this part of town?” Eloise pressed a hand to her brother’s chest, stopping him dead in his tracks. His eyes danced quickly to the street in the distance, clearly not paying any attention to his sister. “Benedict?”

“Hm?” He glanced down. “Ah, maybe we should both go back inside—”

“You’re…” she pushed on him harder, nearly sending him backwards. “Acting strange. Not terribly long ago you wanted nothing to do with this place and now, you’re dying to jump into the building that brought you so much strife?” Eloise removed her hand from him, settling it down by her side as she glanced at him up and down. The blues of his outfit were covered slightly in a white power—not enough to really notice, but enough to give the appearance of filth. “And you’re covered in… flour?”

“I don’t wish to share every moment of my day with you, dear Sister,” Benedict said simply, sighing contently. “My business is my business.”

“Business,” Eloise parroted. “Sure.”

Violet Bridgerton had finished the order quickly, mumbling something about the higher prices this time of year—she had gotten a good deal regardless. Benedict was hardly listening, for he was already planning his next trip to this very bakery, hoping to meet the girl in flour once more. 

He never did get the chance, to go back to town. His studies took up most of his free time, any other moment he had was spent with his ever-growing family. Just recently, his sister Daphne brought over her newest addition—another daughter named Belinda—who happened to be yet another spitting image of her mother. Benedict had a theory that every new Bridgerton baby will simply just inherit all the Bridgerton features, so far he had been proven correct. 

“Damn,” Benedict mumbled, violently dabbing a paint brush into his water cup, the colors swirling from the end.

He had been in his studio for the last few hours, mixing endless pigments and oils together, trying to concoct the color in his mind’s eye. It was impossible, he theorized, to create the exact shades and hues of her eyes. It was the most striking thing he remembered about her appearance—save for the copious amount of white flour caking her form—and Benedict Bridgerton had come to the conclusion that her eyes were simply forged by God Himself, a color not meant for mortal recreation.

“Why can I not…” He sighed, slumping back in his stool, paintbrush nearly hitting his trousers. “This is impossible.”

The grand clock beside the door chimed out. It was nearly time to get ready for Anthony and Kate’s ball—an occasion he was most dreading, save for enjoying the few pastries that came from the quaint bakery down in town. Reluctantly, he began to pry himself from his studio and made his way to the washroom, preparing to soak away any remnants of her.

—

“Mother,” (Y/N) chimed out, tying the serving apron to her waist, “I don’t see the reason for my attendance this evening. Surely the hosts of the event will have their own serving staff?”

“(Y/N),” her mother exasperated, throwing a towel down. “Your brothers are ill and bedridden and have been the last few days. Your father and I are counting on you to help fulfill the order, my back isn’t what it used to be, if you recall.”  

The girl sighed, her eyes rolling right up to the cracking ceiling. “How funny, it seems your back flares up nearly in time for deliveries to be made,” the girl mumbled.

“What was that?” Her mother turned quickly towards her only daughter. “I’m sure I misheard you.”

“You must have,” (Y/N) sang. “For I said I’m willing to help with the delivery, mother.”

The older woman narrowed her brow. “Never do I hear such sass from the boys… Perhaps a bit of manual labor will refocus your priorities.” 

“I already agreed,” (Y/N) reiterated. “As if I had terribly too much of a choice…”

“No,” her mother clicked, slapping the a rather large ball of dough that resided on the floured surface. “You do not. Now come, help your mother roll this out.”

She had gotten ready for the ball in record time—seeing as how she’s never gotten ready for one. (Y/N) dug through her mother’s wardrobe, finding an old and somewhat outdated green dress to wear, but it did the trick just fine. It was far nicer than the frocks she had owned anyhow, a light embroidery laced the edges and was sure to be run over by her fingertips endlessly throughout the evening.   

“The carriage is here!” Her father couldn’t have shouted louder throughout the small flat. Their home resided above the bakery, a quaint little thing with only two bedrooms—(Y/N) had the pleasure of sleeping in a rather over-glorified closet. If she reached her arms out, she’d be able to touch two of the walls easily, but like everything in her life, she made do. Unexpected child? Unexpected room. 

“I’ll be right there,” (Y/N) said, tying the now-cleaned apron around her waist, checking herself in the reflection of her water pitcher. “Damned hair,” her fingers moved to tuck a loose ringlet back into position—she had spent the better part of the evening trying to style it. 

“We need to load the carriage and make way to Bridgerton House,” her father repeated, smoothing his formalwear out. He hardly had the chance to wear it, seeing as situations like this happen only once in a while. “We must make a good impression, perhaps we’ll find more business this evening.”

“That’ll be a blessing,” her mother agreed, heading down the stairs to the bakery. “We could always use more business and the dowager viscountess is well liked around the ton, surely she’ll have pleasant things to say about our work.”

“I thought we let the pastries ‘speak for themselves’,” (Y/N) chimed in, carefully picking up a parcel. Her parents simply glared at her, allowing their daughter to silently move along with the loading process. 

The silence continued throughout the lengthy ride to Bridgerton House—the bakers not uttering a word until disembarking to unload all of the sweets. True to her original thought, the Bridgertons had their staff do the bulk of the unloading, carrying each parcel and box into the grand room that was to be the heart of the ball, all that was left to move was the elegant cake specially ordered by the dowager viscountess.

“Do you need a hand?”

“Oh, that would be—” (Y/N) turned around to the mysterious voice, only to find the same Bridgerton boy from earlier in the week standing behind her. “I—Mr. Bridgerton, I’m sure I can find my father to assist, you really don’t need to—”

“I insist,” Benedict held up his hand, effectively cutting her off. “I shouldn’t allow a lady to carry such a thing on her own, it would be most improper.”

“I’m certainly no lady,” she scoffed, readjusting her apron. “I’m not a part of your ‘season’ or whatever it is you lot do during the spring and summer months.”

Benedict barked out a laugh. “Debuted into the Marriage Mart or not, you’re still a lady and I am ever the gentleman, so please, indulge me.”

A blinding heat flushed across her cheeks—she was sure it was visible from down the street. (Y/N) stepped to the side to allow Benedict to grab ahold of one side of the tray, her hands curling around the other. “Thank you… for your help.”

“It’s no bother,” Benedict said truthfully. “I’ve been practically bored out of my skull all afternoon, this is truly the highlight of my evening.”

“Helping me carry a cake?” She asked, turning a corner carefully.

“Seeing you again,” he hummed unabashedly, noting the way her grip stiffened. “Though I must say, I think I prefer you without the flour.”

“How do you know that girl was me? I was covered head to toe.”

“Your eyes,” Benedict said simply. “They’re the most expressive and exquisite eyes I’ve had the pleasure of viewing.”

Benedict Bridgerton. The man who made her speechless.

“That, and I made a bold assumption when I saw you and the pastries arrive this evening.” He laughed lightly, afraid to drop the masterpiece. “I assumed correctly, no?”

“You,” (Y/N) tried to allow her cheeks to cool before continuing.“Would be correct. Very wise you are, Mr. Bridgerton.”

“Benedict.”

“Benedict,” she repeated softly, twisting herself to set the cake down on the table. “My apologies.”

The ballroom was grand—much nicer than any place she’d dream of residing in—delicate decorations hung from the sconces, flowers covered nearly every inch of the free space. It was, in every meaning, elegant. “This is… where you live?”

“Ah,” Benedict rubbed the back of his neck. “My brother has been kind to allow me to stay here since he married, seeing as I only have my own property in the country. But yes, this is one of the homes I grew up in.”

“One of the homes,” she repeated back to him. “And here I thought I was spoiled with my broom closet.”

He turned a vibrant shade of red. “Oh! I didn't mean to—”

Her laughter filled the ballroom, the lightness practically lifting Benedict upwards. “I was merely teasing. I’m well aware of your status and wealth, Mr. Bridgerton—” 

“Benedict.”

“Ah! Sorry,” (Y/N) felt the twinge of shame hit her chest, it was small but enough to keep her in line to avoid making the mistake again. “I meant it in jest.”

“Funny girl,” Benedict clicked, waving his finger lightly. “You’ve got quite a sense of humor.”

“Growing up with nothing more than sacks of flour and parcels of sugar allows one to get creative with her jokes,” she explained carefully, treading lightly as to not make it sound completely miserable. “Though, I think they were a better audience anyhow…”

“You wound me,” a hand grabbed his heart, knees buckling towards the ground. “Oh how the lady wounds me.”

“I believe I told you, Benedict, I certainly am no lady.”

“Well, the lady has neglected to give me her name,” he peeked up from the floor—having found quite a cozy position. “So how else should I address such a fair maiden?”

“Fair maiden,” she scoffed playfully, voice barely above a whisper. “Certainly am nothing close to a maiden… but, if you must know,” she paused, “my name is (Y/N), (Y/N) (Y/L/N).”

“(Y/N)…” Benedict repeated it, mostly to himself. He rose from the floor, eyes not leaving her own. “What a beautiful name.”

“I—thank you. I suppose you should give my parents such a compliment, though. I am simply the recipient of such a gift.”

“Well, when I ask your parents for permission to court their daughter, I’ll pass the message along.”

She froze. 

“Ah, what was that?”

“I hate to be so bold,” Benedict sighed, shoving a hand into his pocket. “But I feel the need to let you know of my intentions—my interest in you.”

“Oh you must be mistaken,” (Y/N) shook her head. “You’d want nothing to do with a girl like me. Surely there are other women in the ton who strike your fancy?”

“Nope,” he said simply. “Not a one. You, on the other hand, with your striking eyes and seemingly endless beauty, piqued my interest. If I may be honest, I haven’t stopped thinking about our encounter in the alley—it’s been on the forefront of my mind for days.”

She blinked, the gears in her head trying to keep up with the words Benedict was speaking. “But I am not from your world, Benedict. Even if I was interested in pursuing a courtship—”

“Are you not?” His eyes struck wide open. “I’m quite the catch, you see. Well-bred, scholarly and, if I might say so myself, I’m quite the talented artist. Easy on the eyes, too.”

“Benedict.” He stopped and looked at the woman. She was practically glowing in the candlelight. “While I’m not saying I’m… not interested, I can’t help but feel like you are infatuated with the idea of me and not… me.”

“How do you mean?”

She laughed humorlessly. “You don’t know me, truly. My likes, dislikes, how I take my tea, what weather I fancy—”

“See,” Benedict grabbed her hand, “I wish to know those things. Is that not the purpose of a courtship?”

“I am not from your world, Benedict. I have priorities, a duty to my family and our business—I can’t spend a moment thinking of the frivolity of a courtship with a man of your status.”

“But if I were, say, the butcher’s son it would be different?”

“Yes,” she removed her hand from his. “Of course it would be. I’m surprised you haven’t thought this through.”

“I have been thinking it through since we’ve met,” Benedict nearly spat, feeling anger bubble up in his chest. “I am not the type of man who wishes to court just anyone, you know.”

“So you wish to court me just because you can? Because how ever could I say no?”

“I—of course not!”

“We’re perfect strangers who shared a moment—albeit an endearing one—out in the middle of an alley. We both cleaned up and went about our lives,” she shook her head. “Nothing cosmic or magical about it.”

“I did not expect you to be so against the idea, unless… there’s another man of your affections?”

She groaned, pinching her nose. “No. No other man. Has a woman ever said no to you before, Mr. Bridgerton?”

He paused, clearly taken aback.

“Well,” she smoothed the tablecloth, the wrinkle in the bottom corner was annoying her, “let me be the first, then. No, I am not interested in a courtship, nor do I think I have any interest in a courtship—with you or anyone—so do not take it terribly too personally.” 

“Never? Don’t you plan to have a family of your own?”

“I already have a family,” she said simply. “I have no time for foolish ideas of having an adoring husband, three beautiful babies and a peaceful life out in the country.”

“That seems awfully specific—”

“No matter,” she waved. “Thank you for your interest, Mr. Bridgerton, I am flattered, truly.”

She walked away, hoping to hide in the carriage the rest of the night. Was she a fool? To turn down a courtship from such a sophisticated and notable man of the ton?

Benedict seemed to think so. True to her comment, he couldn’t recall a time in which a woman had rejected his advances—never in the name of a courtship, this would be his first—so to watch her walk away stung deeply, like a thorn to his heart. He was genuinely interested in the girl, he knew it. He just needed to prove it to her.

—

Days had passed since the Bridgerton ball and (Y/N) had successfully faked a stomach ache and ‘rested’ in the carriage until the night was over and done with. She was busy in the kitchen, working hard on a batch of fresh loaves for the storefront. Flour dusted her apron—the humor not lost on her—as she thought more and more about Benedict’s proposal. 

The bell to the shop rang out, her brother’s voice gave a muffled greeting, nothing out of the ordinary for a regular day at the bakery. It was calming, to work with the dough, taking virtually nothing and creating something delicious was soothing to her soul. She continued to knead the dough, working it like clay against her palms before the door to the back swung wide open.

“(Y/N), I do believe you have a visitor,” Harry, her second eldest brother smirked. He had finally recovered enough to help around the shop again, much to their mother’s delight. “One of the gentlemen variety, if you must know.”  

She stopped dead in her tracks.

“Did he give you a name?”

“Only asked for you,” Harry shrugged. “I figured you must’ve been expecting him,” he walked closer to her, taking over the kneading, “brought you flowers and looks rather fancy.”

She wiped her hands off on the already soiled apron, clapping her hands once for good measure. “Don’t over-work those, I’ll shove your face into the oven.”

Harry’s laugh rang out through the kitchen as she braved the door to the store. She knew it was inevitable, to expect him to come and try to woo her again, though she wasn’t expecting it so soon. The door felt rough against her palms, swinging wide open to the storefront. Sure enough, a one Benedict Bridgerton was standing by the counter, eyeing the various loaves on display. 

“Ah, Miss. (Y/L/N),” Benedict said, almost bowing. “I’m delighted you could join me.”

“Mr. Bridgerton,” (Y/N) smiled sickeningly sweet, forced beyond all measure. “What a… surprise.”

“A wonderful one, I presume?” He jested. Her eyes found the colorful bouquet quickly, she was trying her hardest to not make eye contact. It was ornate—fancy, just like her brother said—decked out in a healthy mix of wild blooms and expensive looking flowers. “Ah! My apologies, these are for you,” Benedict said, lifting the bouquet across the counter. 

She reluctantly took them, cradling the bunch as if it were a newborn babe. “Thank you, Mr. Bridgerton.”

He swallowed thickly at the formality of his name, but bit his tongue. “I must say, you looked exquisite at the ball, but I think your natural element suits you more favorably, why, you’re practically glowing.” Benedict pointed to her floured apron and messy frock, having been in the kitchen all morning. “Less flour than the first time.”

Her grip tightened around the bouquet. “Is there anything I can help you with? Perhaps another order for your mother?”

The man shook his head, laughing lightly. “No, no order. I just wished to see you.” The bluntness of his answer nearly shocked her, but the effect wore quickly.

“Perhaps I wished the opposite?”

“Oh, my dear,” Benedict practically mewled. “If that were true, you wouldn’t have come out here in the first place, now would you?”

Like a gaping trout, she had no reply. Perhaps he was right. She didn’t have to come out to the front of the store, the gnawing curiosity got the better of her and practically pulled her through that door. 

“If you are here to try to get me to change my mind—”

“I wish to spend the afternoon with you.”

She blinked.

“Just one afternoon, allow me to try and prove how serious I am about courting you,” Benedict said earnestly. “After that, if you are still of the same mind, I will never bother you again. You have my word.”

Hesitantly, she lowered the bouquet, her shoulders slumping. She was thinking so hard about his offer, Benedict swore he could see steam rising from her ears. “I… cannot just leave the bakery, it’s my family’s livelihood—”

“I’ll buy the lot,” Benedict said, pressing a handful of coins onto the counter top. “Sell me whatever it is you make in a day—a small price to pay for a moment of your time.”

“You cannot simply throw your money at things and expect it to always work out for you, Mr. Bridgerton,” she said sternly, eyeing the sack of coins longingly. She would be kidding herself if the offer didn’t sound appealing. “I am no woman on the corner, you cannot buy my time.”

“Then consider it a tip,” Benedict hummed, pushing the bag closer to her. “For your excellent service at the Bridgerton ball. Nothing nefarious, nothing expected of you. Just a man buying some bread.”

“Loads of bread,” (Y/N) mumbled, quickly calculating how many loaves he truly was willing to walk out with. The amount of money was unclear, but if she had to wager, he practically bought out the whole storefront. Her parents would be thrilled—they could even take a rare day off, just because their daughter spent the afternoon with a practical stranger. “Fine. One afternoon.”

The glee that washed across his body did not go unnoticed, he practically lit up the room with his joy.

“You won’t regret this,” he said seriously. “Trust that my intentions are pure and—”

“—honest and true,” she droned, finishing his thought. “Yes, yes, I understand.”

Benedict nodded. “Right. Well, shall we?”

“Will you allow me a moment to change? I do not think you wish to spend your day with a girl caked in flour.”

“Funny enough, I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he grinned. She was unamused. “But, if you insist.”

It didn’t take long for her to clean up, a change in her frock and a readjustment to her hair was all that was needed. She found herself staring in her mirror a bit longer than usual, taking in her features. Could he really be interested in her? He seemed so taken by her looks when she herself considered them… so plain. She shook her head, effectively jumping out of her haze and proceeded to head back downstairs to meet her suitor for the afternoon. 

“Perhaps you were right,” Benedict said softly. “This may be your best look to date.”

A heat warmed her cheeks and it wasn’t the summer sun. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Bridgerton—” 

“Ah!” Benedict waved a finger. “If we are to spend the afternoon together, I insist you call me by my given name.”

Her lips pressed together in protest. “If you insist—”

“Oh and I do, my darling,” Benedict nearly sang.

“Benedict,” she corrected. “What sorts of plans do you have for this afternoon? Surely you did not produce such a grand gesture only to leave our day up to chance.”

“I am feeling quite parched,” Benedict said, almost ignoring her comment. “Care for a spot of tea?” In their walk down the street, he had managed to stop right in front of a quaint little tea shop. She hardly noticed.

“And if I do not care for tea?”

“I hear they have excellent scones and biscuits,” Benedict countered. “Surely not sweeter than you, but delicious all the same.”

“Sweeter than my scones, you mean?”

Benedict raised a brow, puckering his lips lightly. She heard him correctly the first time. “So. Tea?”

They sat at a small table near the back of the shop, a hot pot of herbal tea sat between them. It looked entirely domestic, a pot of tea shared between lovers, any onlooker could have deduced as much.

“Pass the honey?” (Y/N) pointed to the small jar next to Benedict’s hand. He nodded and pushed it closer to her.

“You take your tea with honey?” He probed.

“Herbal tea, yes,” she confirmed, stirring a spoonful into her cup. “If it is black tea, a healthy amount of milk is entirely welcomed in my drink, no sugar.”

“Interesting,” Benedict said, watching her intently stir the honey until it dissolved into the hot liquid. “I prefer plain black tea myself, though occasionally my brother Colin will bring exquisite teas from his travels across the seas.”

“And Colin is which brother?” The question slipped out quickly, she hardly noticed she had asked.

“One of my two younger brothers,” Benedict smiled gently. “Not much younger than I, but I do have a few years on him, not as many as I have on Gregory, of course. He’s practically the babe of the family—save for sweet Hyacinth.”

“Eight children…” She thought aloud. “Were your parents working towards a record number?”

“I always jest that they wished to complete the entire alphabet,” Benedict mused. “But, alas, twenty six seems a bit much.” He took a sip of his tea, enjoying the lingering aroma. “So, you know there are eight of us?”

“Everyone knows your family,” she said simply. “Do not flatter yourself.”

“Of course,” he hummed into his cup, a smile brewing from his lips. “You have siblings, yes? I believe I met your brother earlier.”

“Two older brothers,” (Y/N) groaned lightly. “Jack and Harry, the latter being the one you met. They are… oh how do I put this? Exceptionally irritating.”

Benedict laughed into his drink. “Sounds quite a lot like my siblings.”

“My parents expect Jack to take over the bakery,” she explained quietly, her voice lowering. “But he has no desire to bake whatsoever. He can hardly make a sponge cake.”

“And a sponge cake is…?”

“One of the most basic cake recipes a baker can learn,” she continued. “I usually end up being the one who pulls the slack Jack creates.”

“And Harry?”

“When he isn’t galavanting across town with the ladies of the night, he is holed up in his room doing Lord knows what. Certainly nothing that helps the family business.”

“You care a lot about your family and the business,” Benedict said, stating what is clearly the obvious. “Surely your parents see it too?”

“Oh no,” she shook her head wildly. “That is the most asinine part of the ordeal! They simply do not see me as an asset to the bakery—something that should rightfully be mine should the time come.” She sighed, throwing her head into her hands. “But, I am expected to keep my head down and decorate cakes like a good girl.”

“You say that as if you are their pet,” Benedict scoffed lightly. “Do they truly expect such obedience from you?”

“I wasn’t wanted,” she said simply. “My parents merely wanted a son to take over the business—Jack, he’s the oldest. Good for nothing, as it turns out. Harry was to have an extra set of hands around the bakery, but now he’s their prodigal child. Me? I was shacked with an over glorified closet for a room because there truly was no space for me.” She sniffled. “At least they got a decorator out of it.”

Benedict tentatively put his hand on her shoulder, giving her a reassuring squeeze. “You’re more than a decorator. Surely your parents see that too?”

“They’ll see some use of me when I get home,” she said into her cup. “Seeing as you bought out our store just to spend a measly few hours with me. I’m sure that in of itself is worth having an accidental daughter.”

Benedict all but scoffed at this. “You cannot be serious.”

“Not everyone comes from loving families that wish to do nothing more than pop out babies left and right,” (Y/N) deadpanned, placing her cup back on the table. “If it were truly up to my parents, they would’ve stopped after Jack. But, much like the society you come from, an heir and a spare, I suppose.”

“And you?” Benedict almost felt afraid to ask. 

“It’s like you said,” she finished her cup of tea. “I am simply a pet.”

Benedict was never one for fights, but he suddenly had the urge to put his fist through a handful of faces in that moment. “That’s awful.” It was all he could say. 

“That’s life,” she shrugged, picking up a biscuit and examining it closely. Her nose scrunched. “If you were trying to gain my favor, perhaps you should’ve taken me somewhere with better biscuits. It’s insulting to a baker to see such poorly made ones, especially in a place like this.”

He knew she was trying to change the subject. “I shall do better next time.”

“Yes, I suppose you—” she stopped. “That was a rotten trick and you know it.”

“I am certainly no magician, (Y/N),” Benedict finished his tea, hiding the most devilish of smiles from behind the cup. “But seeing as we’re finished with our pot, perhaps we can take a turn about the park?”

“You’d risk public outcry and a scandal for being seen with a commoner in the park?” (Y/N) asked, pulling herself from her seat. “What would Lady Whistledown say?”

“You know of Lady Whistledown?”

“Everyone knows of Lady Whistledown,” she scoffs. “I may not have the pleasure to afford her column every time she publishes, but occasionally our regulars will leave their pamphlet for me once they’re finished.”

“Only read the good bits, I take it?”

“As much as I don’t understand the world you come from, Benedict, reading Whistledown helps me fill the gaps I am so obviously lacking. Truly, even if I did grow up in your society, I doubt I’d be able to understand much more than I do now anyway.”

“I reckon you’re right,” Benedict said, a laugh escaping through his nose. “I’m not one for society anyway—never cared much for it.”

“Surely news of this would cause a scandal, though?”

“News that I am simply walking in the park with a friend? Oh how the newsboys will have trouble selling that story,” Benedict mused, leaning down towards the lady. “Perhaps if we were seen doing something less proper, I suppose. Do you wish to be doing something less proper, (Y/N)?”

She didn’t dignify his question with a response, though, the rouge on her cheeks was answer enough.

—

It only took a handful of minutes to walk to the park, the tea shop was so close already. How convenient.

The other ladies in the park, the ones of a more genteel breeding, they were dressed finer than anything (Y/N) could have put on. She felt out of place. She usually did, of course, but something about her outdated frock in contrast to how striking Benedict looked and dressed? It felt rather foolish. 

Perhaps it was the notoriety of the Bridgerton walking beside her, or the self consciousness of being underdressed enough to catch the eyes of anyone walking past, but it felt like she was a spectacle—something in a museum or on display. She was holding bright light, nearly shouting at everyone that she was not enough, not worthy to be in this park, let alone with this man.

“I am tired of walking,” (Y/N) said suddenly. 

“We have only just begun,” he laughed. “But if you require a respite—”

“Let’s sit,” (Y/N) said just as quickly, practically running to the edge of the pond. Perfectly out of sight to everyone.

“How secluded,” Benedict mused. “I daresay, I never thought you’d be so agreeable—”

“Hush,” (Y/N) admonished, holding a finger up. “I am simply in need of a break—away from prying eyes.”

Benedict nodded, not daring to pry further. He watched her slump to the ground, her dress skirt billowing around her like a cloud before settling to the gravity. He continued to stand. “I rather like this park.”

“A park is a park.”

“Have you been before?”

“Here?” She shook her head. “Obviously not.”

“My family, we would come to London during the social season,” Benedict explained. “Our usual residence is out in Kent—anyhow, my father had this spectacular notion to come to the park every week as a family. Looking back, it was probably to save face and show a united Bridgerton front.”

She looked up at Benedict, who was currently plucking a few leaves off of the low hanging branches of the tree. “Sounds wise.”

“He was the wisest,” Benedict agreed. “Keeping the ever-growing number of Bridgerton children entertained became a sport. Anthony, Colin and I were always squabbling, drove my mother rightfully insane, so, my father had a bright idea.”

“Paste your lips together?” She offered. 

Benedict knelt down, close to the edge of the water. “No, but I do not doubt that idea crossed their minds,” he laughed, bringing the leaves in his hands to view, “my father suggested racing.”

“Horse racing?”

He shook his head. “We’d each pick a leaf and follow it to the other edge of the pond—kept us entertained for hours, running back and forth to reset our leaves and chase them down.”

“Smart man,” she hummed, genuinely impressed by the late viscount’s cleverness.

“So, pick your contender,” Benedict said softly, displaying the spare leaves like cards in a deck. 

“You are serious?”

“Dead serious, I’m afraid,” Benedict clicked, pushing his hand a bit closer to her. “Come on, humor me.”

She looked down at the leaves and back up at Benedict, his blue eyes rivaling the color of the pond. Taking an interest in the middle leaf—it was the longest and skinniest—she plucked it from his fingers. “This one.”

“Excellent choice,” Benedict said cheerily, dropping the other leaves. “I am more inclined to a smaller one—seems they move faster down the shore.”

“Size isn’t everything, Mr. Bridgerton,” (Y/N) crossed her arms, resting them on her knees. She would never dare to admit it out loud, but she was having a bit of fun.

“Ah, perhaps not,” Benedict jested with her, her jab not even shocking him in the slightest. “But, I reckon it will be a close match regardless.”

After insuring that the lovely lady in his company was watching his movements closely, he set the leaves down on the surface of the water. “Finish line is by that tree over there,” he pointed, finally letting go with his other hand.

“May the best leaf win,” she giggled. Giggled? Good Lord. A crooked grin cracked on his face, focused too intently at the company rather than the match at hand. “Are you not going to chase them?”

“And leave you?” He scoffed. “Perish the thought.”

“I just thought,” her gaze was caught on the leaves, still floating down the edge of the pond—slower than she anticipated, “well, I suppose I wanted to get the whole picture of your family tradition.”

“Shall I run along the coast, then?” Benedict asked playfully, rising back to his feet, thumb pushed towards the water. 

“Only to humor me,” she shrugged, not even fighting the smile on her face. 

“Well, in that case,” Benedict began to remove his jacket, throwing it beside her. With a light jog he caught up to the leaves, they hadn’t gone very far anyway, perhaps if it were a windier day he’d have a faster time to keep up with. “You are in the lead!” He called out. 

“Brilliant!” Her hands were clasped around her mouth, a cone to help amplify her shout. His smile was like the sun, warm and inviting—she wished she could spend the day in such a warmth. Benedict practically jumped for joy when the leaves made it to the final stretch, crossing to the rocks on the shore. Nearly falling into the water, he managed to scoop the leaves up and jog back to the woman in the grass. “Well?”

“Well, what?” He asked, nearly out of breath, smile still pulling his lips upward. 

“The winner?”

“Ah,” he fell to the ground, sitting comfortably next to the baker’s daughter, pocketing the leaves. “A secret.”

“So you lost?”

“Oh, I assure you, if you won I would be celebrating you until the end of our time together,” Benedict sang. “However…”

“I lost?” She scoffed. 

“A gentleman is humble in his successes,” he explained carefully. “We could go again?”

“No,” she said, humor in her voice. “I think that was more than enough excitement for one afternoon.”

“For once, we agree,” he said. “May I…? Could I ask you a question?”

“If you are proposing marriage, I am afraid I’ll have to decline—”

“No, no,” he laughed heartily. “Nothing of that sort.”

“I suppose I could find it in myself to answer a different question, then.”

“You were cold to me this morning,” Benedict noted, twirling a blade of grass between his fingers. “But not on the day we met. What changed?”

She sighed, pulling her knees to her chest, gaze locked out on the now setting sun. “I… am not entirely sure.”

“Surely it was not the leaves—”

“The leaves may have helped,” she admitted. “Humanized you, in a way.”

“Was I inhuman before?”

“Naturally,” she retorted. “I mean, is it not obvious?”

“You were protecting your feelings,” Benedict finally realized. “All this time. You did not wish to be hurt—truly afraid I was merely stringing you along as an elaborate prank or ruse? Is that right?”

“How could someone like you ever have an interest in a pauper like me? The baker’s daughter and the son of a viscount?” Tears dotted her eyes, threatening to fall. How she came so close to crying was beyond her. “It seems implausible.”

Benedict dropped the grass, fully looking at the lady beside him. She had made herself nearly as small as she felt. He had hit the nail on the head. A gust of wind blew by, bringing leaves down from the tree above. 

“I do not think less of you because of whose daughter you are,” Benedict said softly, removing a stray leaf from her hair. His fingers guided her head towards him, begging for her to look his way. “I care only about you. Getting to know you. Frankly, your father seems like a mostly alright man, but I do not wish to know him the way I wish to know you.”

“You may wish for that,” she sniffled. “But what would the rest of your world think? You, trying to court a woman below your status—”

“The only people who should be caring so deeply about my potential courtship are my intended and me,” Benedict said sharply. “The rest of the ton can frankly kiss my rear end.”

This raised a laugh out of her. It was bubbly and pure, almost like the one of a child. “You truly don’t care what people think about you?”

“No,” he shook his head. “I do not.”

“How freeing that must be,” she said. 

“Being the second son has its perks,” Benedict looked at her, really looked at her. “No one expects me to be proper all the time. I am given the freedom—financially and otherwise—to do as I please. I do not have to worry about inheriting a title, siring heirs, that is my brother’s responsibility.”

“Why me?”

His head quirked. “I do not understand?”

“You could court any girl of the ton,” she said. “And I am sure more than half of them would never turn down a chance to be courted by a Bridgerton—”

“They wished for the title,” Benedict sighed. “To be Viscountess Bridgerton, to marry my older brother and have the notoriety. That ship has already sailed, I'm afraid. You are kind in thinking that many women would be after me though.”

“You are not ugly,” she listed, “you have a great humor about you, a pleasant demeanor and a kindness in your eyes. The women of the ton must be foolish, then.”

“Perhaps the foolish one is you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You truly think those things about me?” He asked, awaiting a response. Her jaw was slack, clearly not about to give him any sort of confirmation to his question. “I believe your words, I do. But perhaps you should look at yourself with such eyes?”

“I-I don’t understand—”

“Our class differences aside,” Benedict said, as if it was easy to just ignore that, “while I was taken by your beauty at first—your eyes are something the Gods themselves forged in the fires, stars rivaling their shine—it was your continuous personality that kept my attention. Granted, it helped you were once covered head-to-toe in flour, it really brought out your features.”

Her cheeks flared at the recollection of their first meeting. “It was not my finest moment.”

“And you were vulnerable all the same,” he continued. “You cared not for who I was, yet, you showed an interest in me anyway. You may not agree with that statement, but you and I know it to be true in some shape or form. The only thing that holds you back is this notion on our classes—”

“Perhaps I am interested in you,” (Y/N) cut him off. “Perhaps I wish to be courted by you, attend balls and dress in pretty gowns, drinking expensive drinks and whispering sweet nothings. But that is all that it is—a wish. I know my place in this world, it is a right shame you have such a fantasy about yours.”

“(Y/N)…”

“No,” she stood up, brushing the blades of grass and leaves off of her skirt. “I hoped that you would understand, Benedict. I agreed to this afternoon because it felt like I had no choice in the matter—you practically bought my time, after all. What I did not expect,” she hiccuped, “I did not expect that I would enjoy such an afternoon.”

“You enjoyed yourself,” Benedict rose to his feet, desperate to match her gaze head on. “Why can you not allow yourself to have that joy? Allow your heart to follow its call?”

“I do not have such liberties to listen to my heart,” (Y/N) said softly. “I must use my head for every choice I make. An afternoon with you allowed my family to have enough money to make it through the end of the season without going hungry—”

“And an afternoon with me has brought such happiness to fill your soul for much longer—”

“Happiness has little importance,” she scoffed. “I would rather see my family healthy and surviving than even think about a notion like happiness or joy.”

“You have said yourself that your family treats you like a pet,” Benedict took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. He needn’t explode in the park. “Why do you care so much about them if they care so little for you?”

“Because it is all that I know!” The candle had finally reached its end, burning out with a sizzle. “All I have ever known is my life in the bakery, rising early to make the dough, peddling samples to those walking by and hoping—praying—that they step in our store and purchase something. Because a sale of a few loaves of bread or cakes meant we could afford to buy vegetables for a soup, something to eat with our days old bread.”

“If you were with me, you wouldn’t ever need to think about things like that again,” Benedict said, his voice wavering on a whisper. “I could support you, support your family.”

“And that is precisely why I do not wish to continue this,” she raised her finger. “I do not need an affluent man to come and save me—”

“But I could help—”

“I do not need your help!”

“You obviously do!”

She took a step back, the tears from before finally reappearing in her eyes. “O-obviously? Because I am of a lower class you believe, in that giant and empty head of yours, that you can simply win my favor by saving me? Offering riches and experiences that I should be grateful and thanking every God that will listen that you are even willing to give me?”

“You know that is not what I meant—” 

“You believe that because you are who you are, and I am who I am, that I couldn’t possibly say no to you,” her gaze flicked with anger, a fire looming. “While the ladies of the ton have their choices, I do not, so it makes it easy for you to pine over someone who simply has no choice in the matter.”

“No—(Y/N)—”  

“This afternoon has been lovely,” (Y/N) spat, looking to the skyline—the sun had finally set, “but I am afraid that the afternoon is over. I shall be taking my leave.”

“Please reconsider,” Benedict begged, willing to try anything to get her to stay. “I wish to know you.”

“A shame, then,” (Y/N) said, turning around. “Wishing for something so foolish.”

—

“Her head is in the clouds,” Jack whispered.

“No, I reckon her head is in the dough,” Harry mumbled back to his brother. 

“I can hear you, you know,” (Y/N) ground out, working hard on a rather unruly clump of dough that simply would not cooperate. “And if I can hear you, you are close enough to be helping.”

“But that is so exhausting," Harry groaned, leaning against the countertop. “Besides, how are you ever going to impress your betrothed if you do not keep such toned arms?”

She threw the dough against the counter—hard. “He is not my betrothed.”

“But you wish for him to be, no?” Jack giggled, playing with a few burnt buns—a mishap of his own creation.

“I say, Sister,” Harry said. “Why do you not pursue that Bridgerton? He clearly is interested in you, or, have you forgotten all of the flowers he has sent?”

The front of the shop was practically a florist’s dream—covering every free inch of counter space with beautiful bouquets. Her mother simply refused to throw out such lovely blooms, even going so far as to fish the first one out of the trash after her daughter made quick work to dispose of it. “How could I possibly forget about the man who continuously flaunts his wealth to get what he wants?”

“He wants you, surely that is not lost on you?”

“Of course not,” she continued to knead, a few hairs falling into her face. “But he is so insistent on getting me to agree to his whims simply because—”

“He has money, (Y/N),” Jack scoffed. “Good money. Christ, you spent half of a day with him a few weeks ago and we were able to finally purchase meat for dinner. Imagine if you married him—”

“So you want your sister to be married off for your own financial gain?”

“What else would you marry for?” Harry laughed. “Love?”

She stopped kneading. “Why do you not go and try to marry a wealthy lady, then? Hm? Surely a woman of genteel breeding would be much taken by the idea of a rugged baker—”

“That Bridgerton is already interested,” Harry shrugged. “At the very least, if you end up with child he would provide enough funds—”

“First you wish to marry me off, now you wish for me to have his bastard?” She couldn’t help but laugh, ignoring her hard work on the counter. “Why can I not make my own choice? I do not wish to be with Mr. Bridgerton, I wish to stay here at the bakery.”

“Fucking stupid,” Jack scoffed. “If I were in your shoes, I would let the gentleman pay for anything my heart desires—forget about this wretched place and move on with my life.”

“And abandon our legacy?”

“You mean my legacy,” Jack corrected. “I am to inherit the bakery, it is my birthright. You? I suppose I will allow you to continue your grunt work here—” 

“Who else will do the baking?” Her voice rang throughout the kitchen. “Mother and Father are nearing the end of their career, both becoming too frail to continue with the rigorous task of this place. I am the only one—the only competent member of this family who can keep this shit afloat! And you want me to just… give that up?”

Jack stood a little straighter. “It was never your place.”

“Harry is set to inherit the bakery now, you know it. Yet someone had to fill the shoes of the family fuck-up instead, no?” 

It was a sharp pain, suddenly and all at once against her cheek. It took her only half a second later to realize what had happened, her other brother’s face was only a confirmation on the fact.

“Jack, what the hell?!” Harry practically screamed. “You hit her?”

“She insulted me!”

“You deserved it,” Harry said, pushing his older brother back. “She only spoke the truth—”

“So I am allowed to be walked over by my baby sister?” Jack scoffed, pushing Harry back. “A woman? No fucking chance, mate.”

Her hand had covered her cheek, already feeling warm to the touch. Everything was too much, too loud, too bright. She had to get out of there, had to forget all about the dough on the counter, forgetting all about the brother who had just smacked her silly. The back door wasn’t locked—no surprise as Jack was the last one to use it—making it easy for her to push into the alleyway and into the rain. 

Rain. 

Pelting like bullets, the wet drenched her clothing in a mere instant, making it harder to escape. Where had she planned to run anyway? She had nowhere to go, her entire world was contained to the four walls of the bakery, never daring to explore the rest of it, not when her world was already so encompassing, so inviting. 

In theory, anyway, it seemed.

So, she ran. A mix of running and walking, she kept moving forward. By the time she left her part of town, she knew her brothers would not bother coming for her. The rain alone was a deterrent, even Harry, the one who loved her more, wouldn’t dare to brave the elements just to reel his sister’s whims in. 

A splotch of purple entered her vision. How long had she been moving? Did she even expect to come here? Did her subconscious send her in this direction for a reason?

She knocked on the bright door before she could find out.

“Good evening, ma’am,” a butter said politely. “What business do you have?”

“I am here to call upon Benedict Bridgerton.”

—

His quill had soaked the parchment below with ink, having left the tip upon it for far too long. He had been lost in thought, contemplative, especially the last few weeks. Benedict knew he had hurt her, had insulted her very being, yet he still tried. Every other day he’d send a fresh bouquet to the bakery, a new poem attached to the stems. Perhaps she read them? He knew it was more likely that she burned them, in the ovens or otherwise. 

At the very least, he knew that the blooms were being displayed at the shop. Hope. That is what it had given him.

“Mr. Bridgerton, you have a caller,” a butler knocked, opening his door a crack wider.

“A caller? In this weather?”

“She seemed rather insistent,” the butler shrugged. “She is waiting in the drawing room—I already sent for tea and towels for the lady.”

“A lady is here to see me?” Benedict quirked his brow.

“A Miss. (Y/L/N),” the butler said. “No calling card, soaked to the bone and she seemed a bit… out of sorts.”

Benedict had already risen from his desk, practically pushing past the staff member to reach the stairs. Missing a step or two, he made it to the drawing room and shoved the door open. In the center of the blue room was (Y/N), dripping onto the wooden floor, shaking like a leaf.

“(Y/N)…” 

“I-I had nowhere else to go,” she began to explain. “I did not even realize I was here until I knocked on the door. It was foolish—”

“No,” Benedict shook his head, reaching to take her hand in his own. “It is quite alright. You are more than welcome to be here.”

His hands were warm, or perhaps she was just that cold, making them feel like a fire. “I am so sorry, Benedict.”

“For what?” He asked genuinely. 

“Everything?” She offered. “I-I am not sure of what, exactly, but I feel that I need to apologize.”

“You needn’t apologize for anything,” he said. “Not with me, not ever.”

She looked up at the ceiling, afraid to make contact with his blue stare. “I needed to get away. My brother he—Jack hit me.”

Benedict froze, his entire body went rigid. “I’ll kill him.”

“I suppose I deserved it,” she shrugged, now looking at the ground. “Talking back to him, assuming things that could never be—” 

“A man has assaulted you,” Benedict squeezed her hand tighter. “Brother or not, he put his hands on you. You did nothing of the sort to deserve such a thing.”

“I don’t think I can go back there,” (Y/N) said softly. “Perhaps this was just the moment that gave me clarity. Opened my eyes, so to speak.”

Benedict took a good look at her face, red and splotchy, whether it was from the smack or the tears, he could not tell. “Tea is on the way, I shall request a cold compress for your cheek—”

“I do not wish to impose.”

“You shall wish for nothing here,” Benedict said quietly, firmly. “You will stay until the rain lets up, or, you provide me with a suggestible plan for your next steps.”

“I cannot go back,” she finally looked up at Benedict. “As much as I would like to, I simply cannot.”

“If you do not want to go back, I will support you. If you want to leave town, the country even, I will support you,” he said seriously. “Please allow me to support you.”

“I could never ask you for that—”

“You are not asking, I am offering,” he clarified. 

“Benedict…”

The rain seemed to lessen, if the pelting against the window had anything to say about it. The noise had dimmed, not as violent as before. “To know that you are safe, that you are cared for, that is all I care about.”

So, in the center of the blue Bridgerton drawing room, soaked to the bone and dripping all over the floor, she kissed him. It was a sudden thing, pulling him down towards her lips, the contact much quicker than she had expected. He returned the favor in kind, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tight, kissing her in a way he had yet to truly experience. 

If his hands were like a fire, his lips were an inferno. Fighting for dominance, it was all encompassing. How had she gone so long without a feeling such as this? The burn was coming from inside, not a superficial one atop her skin as she was quite used to, but this burn, this feeling, she could find herself craving this. 

“I-I am sorry—” she pulled away.

“Never be sorry,” Benedict shook his head. “Not for that, not ever.”

“I should not have done that…”

“No,” he agreed, a chuckle leaving his lips, “but how exhilarating it felt, regardless.”

His thumb ran lazy circles on her jaw. She leaned into the touch. “I do not know what to do, where to go…”

“But you cannot stay here…?”

She smiled sadly. “You know me scarily well, Benedict.”

He thought for a moment. “So… leave.”

“Excuse me?”

“Leave town, leave the country—”

“I do not have the means to do such a silly thing.”

“I will pay your way.”

She scoffed, trying to pull out of his embrace. He wouldn’t release his grip. “Benedict…”

“I told you, I wish to support you. Emotionally, financially, I want to be there for you,” Benedict said. “Even if we are not—if you do not want to be together romantically, I want to ensure your safety and your health, your well-being. A friend.”

She tried to find the lie in his eyes, in his tone. Coming up empty, she had no excuse to not believe him. 

“France,” he said, as if struck by lightning.

“France?”

“I hear only the expert bakers study in France—I have no doubts you could go to learn,” he explained. “I could pay for your travel, housing, you name it. Ask for it, and it is yours.”

“I doubt anyone would want to teach a woman, no matter how lovely a thought it might be.”

“I have a cousin,” Benedict explained. “Her and her husband own a café—I am quite certain that they would love to hire an expert baker to add to their inventory and menu. You could earn your own income, make your own way. A fresh start.”

“A fresh start…” she repeated. “That sounds too good to be true.”

“I shall write to her in the morning,” Benedict said, holding her hands again. 

“And you…?”

“I will only come with you if you want me to join,” Benedict said slowly. “I will not trap you. I want your happiness, your freedom.”

She nodded, understanding.

“I think France sounds nice,” she smiled. “Will you write to me?”

“Every chance I get.”

“Even if you are vexed with me?”

“Especially if I am vexed with you.”

She kissed his lips again, sweeter and softer than the first time.

“Sounds perfect.”

—

A year. An entire year had passed and she couldn’t recall a happier time in her life. The only time that something could have rivaled it was a visit to a tea shop followed by a respite by a pond—in handsome company all the while. 

They kept correspondence, just like they promised. Every week came a new letter, a new story to be told by the poetic Benedict Bridgerton. She tried to rival his words, explaining every detail about France, about her new life, but something was nagging. She missed him. They had grown close over the correspondence, leaving her heart wanting more. But, she knew when she left for France it was to fulfill her dreams, leaving a foolish notion like love on the back burner.

“(Y/N),” Marie, the Bridgerton cousin, called out behind her. “We are in need of more buns.”

“I just restocked the buns,” (Y/N) giggled, turning to the blonde. “What? Has someone mysteriously bought the lot?”

“Oui,” Marie said with a jest, heading into the storage room, “perhaps you should go bring more out?”

“You are in luck, the last batch just finished resting from the oven,” she said, carrying a tray on her shoulder, “I will bring them out with haste.”

“I am sure he will appreciate it.”

(Y/N) faltered, hand already pressed to the door leading to the front shop. A tingle ran through her spine, her heart picking up to a freeing flutter. 

Could it be?

“You know, I would buy your entire stock,” the man hummed, looking thoughtfully into the display case, “but I fear I would be recreating a rather taxing memory for the both of us.”

“Benedict,” she gasped, nearly dropping her tray. 

“You look radiant,” he mused, that wicked grin of his breaking on his face. “Much like the first time I saw you—covered in flour.”

“I am in my element,” (Y/N) said sweetly, “just as you would expect.” She had noticed that Marie and her husband were not in the café, the sign flipped to close. “You planned this.”

“Do you insinuate that I bribed my distant cousin to close her café to give you the day off, travel all the way to France, hoping I could spend the day with you?” Benedict scoffed playfully. “You truly do not know me at all.”

“I do not think Marie would take a bribe,” (Y/N) said slyly, knowing how much of a champion the cousin had been for the baker and viscount’s son to get together.

“She refused payment,” he admitted, agreeing with her notion. “But, was ever eager to see you get out of the kitchen and enjoy yourself.”

“You hadn’t written to me in two weeks,” (Y/N) said, walking around the counter. “I was worried.”

“I needed to refrain from our correspondence, I fear I would have let the surprise slip otherwise.”

“Smart man,” she hummed.

“I am known to be smart occasionally,” he shrugged.

“What are you doing here?” She finally asked. “N-not that I am not happy to see you, of course, but as you had said, this is a surprise.”

“I came to study art,” Benedict said, a hand in his coat pocket. “I felt that if I truly wanted to learn the craft, I needed to learn from the masters—many of their works are housed here in France. I even began to rent a little home in town, finding the need to stay a while.”

“That is the only reason?”

Benedict’s gaze softened. “Of course it is not the only reason.”

Her heart fluttered again.

“It is only fair that I try this again, correctly and without the prying eyes of society, this time,” Benedict said, clearing his throat and spinning around.

“Correctly?” She giggled, watching him twirl to face the door.

“Ah, good morning miss!” Benedict said, turning back to face (Y/N). “I must say, you look ever-so-pretty—tell me, do all bakers have a beauty such as your own?”

“I would wager no,” she said, trying to keep serious. “Most of the bakers around here are men.”

“Shame. Might I learn your name? It seems only fair—I fear I might just die if I do not know the sweet sound of it.”

“(Y/N),” she sang. “My name is (Y/N) (Y/L/N).”

“Benedict Bridgerton,” he stretched out his hand, reaching for her own. She allowed him to take it, a soft kiss was placed on the back of her cracked hand—a working hand, one that she was proud to have. 

“You are very charming, Mr. Bridgerton,” she hummed, looking deeply into his blue eyes. “Pleased to make your company.”

“I assure you, I am more pleased to be in yours,” Benedict insisted, kissing her hand again. “Tell me, do you have plans this afternoon?”

“It seems my schedule has cleared up,” she looked to the sign on the door and sighed. “Why? Do you have any suggestions on how I should spend it?”

“Might we take a turn around the park? A friend of mine has written to me about just how lovely one nearby is, I reckon I would like to see it for myself.”

She smiled brightly at him, as if he held the world in his hands. Instead, he held two leaves between his fingers—brown and cracked, but clearly treated with such care. They had been the same ones from their time at the park the first go around, she was nearly certain. Why else would he bring dead leaves with him?

"Leaves?"

"You see, my family, we have this tradition of racing with leaves—I would very much like to share it with you. These two in particular seem to be very lucky, thought it would be best to bring them along."

His smile melted her heart, endearing and thoughtful in the same breath. She could get used to a smile like that.

“Well… what are we waiting for, Mr. Bridgerton?”

Drunk On Love - Benedict Bridgerton

Summary: Love is beautiful yet when one is drunk it can rather be a little confusing and breathtaking.

Word count: 1210

Benedict Bridgerton prided himself on many things, his artistic talent, wit, and ability to hold his drink.

Yet tonight, the second Bridgerton son was wobbling on his feet, his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, a cravat dangling loosely from his neck like a sad ribbon on an overindulged present.

The Bridgerton house was alive with music and laughter.

Eloise had declared it a night for frivolity, dragging everyone into the drawing room after dinner to play a raucous game of charades.

Wine flowed like the Thames, and for once, Anthony and Kate didn’t step in to regulate the chaos.

“Benedict,” Colin chortled, pointing as his elder brother attempted to lean casually on a settee and nearly toppled over, “I think you’ve lost the ability to differentiate between horizontal and vertical.”

“I’m perfectly... perpendic... perpendicular!” Benedict slurred, wagging a finger in Colin’s direction.

“Indeed,” Eloise said dryly. She raised her voice, addressing the room. “I give it five minutes before he collapses entirely. Any takers?”

“Oh, stop betting on him,” sighed Daphne. “Where’s y/n? Benedict always behaves better when she's around.”

Benedict blinked hazily around the room.

His siblings’ teasing words blended into the merry chaos, but one name struck a chord, y/n.

Who was y/n?

And why did that name feel like a golden thread pulling at his soul?

He turned his head too quickly, the room spinning in response.

His gaze landed on a figure near the pianoforte—one so radiant it was as though the heavens had gifted them the very stars.

“Who... who is that?” Benedict whispered, stumbling toward Colin and yanking on his sleeve.

“Who?” Colin asked, bewildered.

“That divine creature,” Benedict gestured dramatically, “by the pianoforte. Look at her, Colin. Just look! She's perfect.”

Colin stared at him for a moment, then burst into uncontrollable laughter.

“Oh, this is too good. Benedict, that’s your wife”

“My what?” Benedict spluttered, recoiling as though he’d been doused in cold water.

“Your wife, you fool. Y/n. The person you married three years ago.” Colin’s grin was practically audible. “You have children with her, by the way.”

“Children?!” Benedict gasped, clutching his chest.

His mind raced. Surely, he would remember such monumental details.

A wife? Children? His heart thundered as he stared at you, as you were now laughing with Hyacinth and Gregory.

Every movement you made felt hypnotic, like watching sunlight dance on water.

“I don’t believe you,” Benedict declared, his voice rising above the chatter.

“Shall we fetch the marriage certificate?” Anthony drawled from his seat by the fire.

He smirked, swirling a glass of brandy. “Or the children?”

Before anyone could stop him, Benedict crossed the room with all the determination of a soldier marching to battle.

He nearly tripped over Daphne’s gown in his haste, earning a glare, but he pressed on.

As he approached, you turned to him, your face lighting up with warmth.

“Benedict,” you said, a fond smile gracing your lips. “You look like you’ve had quite a bit of—”

“Are you my spouse?” Benedict interrupted his voice a mix of awe and disbelief.

You blinked, glancing around the room as though to confirm this wasn’t a joke orchestrated by his siblings. “I am. Last time I checked, anyway.”

“And we have... children?” Benedict pressed, his hands flailing for emphasis.

“Two of them,” you replied slowly, your brow furrowing. “Are you feeling all right?”

Benedict staggered back a step, clutching at his heart as though Cupid himself had struck him anew.

“I don’t believe it. How could I have forgotten marrying someone so... so—” He gestured helplessly at you, his words failing him. “You’re perfect. Stunning. A masterpiece! Surely, I would remember creating something so beautiful with you.”

From the corner, Colin let out a loud snort of laughter, while Hyacinth whispered something to Gregory, both of them dissolving into giggles.

You, however, softened, recognizing the sincerity behind Benedict’s intoxicated declarations.

“Benedict,” you said gently, placing a hand on his arm. “You didn’t forget. You’ve just had a bit too much wine tonight.”

“I could never drink enough to forget you,” Benedict declared, his eyes wide with conviction.

“But I must have been a fool not to spend every waking moment worshiping you. Tell me, y/n—how did someone like me manage to convince someone like you to marry me?”

Your laughter was soft, your affection for him evident in every glance. "You painted me a portrait. You said it was the only way to capture what words could not. And then you kissed me.”

“I kissed you?” Benedict repeated, his voice trembling. “I kissed you and lived to tell the tale? Remarkable.”

The room erupted into chaos as the siblings could no longer contain their laughter.

Daphne leaned against a chair for support, Anthony pinched the bridge of his nose in mock exasperation, and Eloise whispered something scandalous to Francesca, who chuckled into her wine glass.

“You’re all horrible!” Benedict shouted, turning to glare at his family. “How dare you mock a man rediscovering the love of his life?”

“You’re rediscovering her because you’re drunk,” Eloise pointed out, her tone laced with amusement.

“Drunk or not, my love is real,” Benedict retorted dramatically, turning back to you. “Y/n, my muse, my heart—can you forgive me for not loving you loudly enough?”

“You love me plenty loudly, Benedict,” you replied with a smile, your eyes twinkling with mirth. “Especially when you’re drunk.”

At that moment, the door to the drawing room opened, and a pair of small children toddled in, guided by their nurse.

The eldest, a dark-haired boy of about three, immediately ran to you, clutching your leg.

The younger, a baby with Benedict’s dimpled cheeks, squealed happily from the nurse’s arms.

Benedict froze, staring at the children as though they were mythical creatures.

“Are these... mine?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

“Yes,” you said, picking up the boy and balancing him on your hip. “This is Thomas and that little one is Edith.”

Benedict dropped to his knees, staring at his children in awe. “Thomas. Edith. My heirs. My legacy.”

“They’re not royalty, Benedict,” Anthony deadpanned.

Benedict ignored him, his eyes welling with tears. “They’re perfect. Just like their parents.”

You rolled your eyes fondly. “All right, darling. Let’s get you some water.”

The next morning, Benedict woke with a pounding headache and a vague sense of humiliation.

As he shuffled into the breakfast room, his siblings greeted him with a chorus of applause and cheers.

“Well done, Benedict,” Colin teased. “You fell in love with your wife all over again.”

“Most romantic thing I’ve ever seen,” Daphne added, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

Benedict groaned, sinking into his chair. “Please, tell me I didn’t embarrass myself too badly.”

You entered the room, setting a cup of tea before him. “You were charming, as always.”

“Was I?” Benedict asked, peering up at you.

“You were,” you said, leaning down to kiss his cheek. “Though I think you owe me another portrait. You did promise one last night.”

Benedict smiled sheepishly, his love for you as steady and enduring as the sunlight streaming through the window.

“Anything for you,” he murmured, vowing to remind you every day just how deeply he adored you—drunk or not.

*unshed tears shining in my eyes*

So beautiful and brutal at the same time😭

The Last Goodbye

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x Reader

Warnings: Infidelity, major character death, emotional distress, pregnancy loss, grief, regret, angst

Word Count: 1,000+

Inspired by @writing-fanics

It began as a whisper of discomfort. A slight fatigue that settled in your bones, an ache that did not fade even after hours of rest. At first, you dismissed it. A lady of your station had little time to entertain sickness—there were balls to attend, guests to entertain, and a household to manage. Anthony, always busy with his responsibilities, hardly noticed.

You told yourself it was nothing.

But then, the fevers came.

They crept in during the night, leaving you shivering beneath layers of blankets, yet drenched in sweat. The coughing followed—deep, wracking fits that left you breathless, clutching your chest as if you could hold your very life in place.

Still, you told Anthony nothing. He had already been so distant. His late nights had become more frequent, his excuses less convincing. Parliament meetings. Affairs of the estate. And yet, his cravat smelled of perfume that was not yours.

So you suffered in silence.

-

The physician confirmed what you already feared.

Your condition had worsened. There was no cure, only time—time that you did not have.

Benedict was the first to notice. He saw the way your hands trembled when you lifted your tea, the way your complexion had lost its color. He sat beside you more often, watching, worrying. It was Benedict who sent for Anthony the first time you collapsed, body too weak to carry you forward.

But your husband had not come home that night.

When he arrived the next morning, his eyes were tired, but not from concern. His cravat was slightly undone, the buttons of his waistcoat not fully fastened. You had seen him leave in pristine condition—he had not slept in your bed.

“Where were you?” you asked, voice hoarse from the previous night’s coughing.

Anthony hesitated, only for a fraction of a second, before forcing a smile. “Matters of business, darling.”

Lies.

But you were too tired to fight.

-

You were mostly confined to your bed now.

The sickness had taken too much of you—your strength, your appetite, your breath. Each step was a battle, each word an effort. The physicians tried what they could, but their expressions told you the truth.

You were dying.

And Anthony still had not noticed.

He came home later and later, his excuses becoming nothing more than background noise. He did not see the hollows beneath your eyes, the way your hands trembled when you reached for him. He did not see the way Benedict looked at him—how dare you leave her like this?—or the way your ladies’ maids turned away, unable to hide their pity.

You wanted to tell him. To scream at him. To make him see you.

But what use was a battle when the war was already lost?

So, you smiled when he kissed your forehead. You forced yourself to laugh when he told you of his day. You pretended you did not smell her perfume lingering on his coat.

And at night, when he did not come home, you wept.

-

Anthony had finally noticed.

It was Benedict—of course, it was Benedict—who had forced him to look at you.

“She is dying, Anthony,” Benedict spat, gripping his elder brother by the collar. “And where have you been? With her?”

Anthony had scoffed at first, had shoved Benedict away with a roll of his eyes. “You are being ridiculous. She is—”

Then he had seen you.

You had been sleeping when he entered the room, your form barely more than a shadow beneath the sheets. Your skin, once so full of warmth and color, was ghostly pale. Your lips were dry, cracked from fever. Your breaths came shallow, labored, the rise and fall of your chest so faint it terrified him.

“Y/N…”

He had whispered your name, but you had not stirred.

For the first time in months, Anthony had sat beside you. He had taken your hand—too thin, too cold—between his own and felt his heart plummet.

How had he not seen it?

How had he let this happen?

That night, Anthony left for Sienna’s townhouse, but not for the reasons he once had.

He was going to end it.

But Sienna did not make it easy.

“So now you remember you have a wife?” she had scoffed, draping herself over the chaise, eyes dark with amusement. “Is that not what I’ve always been to you, Anthony? A distraction from your duties? And now, because guilt tugs at your heart, you come to rid yourself of me?”

Anthony had clenched his jaw. “I should never have come to you in the first place.”

Sienna’s laughter had been bitter, cruel. “And yet, you did. Over and over again. While your wife lay dying in your grand estate, you were in my bed.”

He had left without another word. But the damage was done.

-

Anthony rushed through the doors of your chamber, breathless, desperate.

“Where is she?” His voice was frantic, cracking under the weight of fear.

Benedict was still seated beside you, his expression unreadable as he lifted his gaze.

“She is gone.”

The words knocked the air from Anthony’s lungs. His eyes darted to the bed, to your still form beneath the blankets, your face peaceful, untouched by the pain that had consumed you for months.

“No,” he whispered. “No, please—please, my love, wake up.”

He was at your side in an instant, grasping at your hands, pressing frantic kisses to your fingers, your knuckles, your wrists—anywhere he could reach. But you were so cold.

“Y/N,” he choked out, tears falling freely now, his whole body trembling. “Please, I am here now. I—I was going to fix this. I was going to—” His voice broke. “I should have been here.”

Benedict stood, his face void of sympathy. “Yes,” he said simply. “You should have.”

Anthony let out a strangled sob, his forehead pressing against your still chest. He had failed you. He had abandoned you in your final days, had left you to suffer alone while he chased after foolish, meaningless desires.

And now, it was too late.

You would never hear his apologies.

You would never know that in the end, he had chosen you.

All you had known before you left this world was his absence.

And for the rest of his days, Anthony Bridgerton would carry that unbearable, unshakable grief.

-

The world felt like it had stopped. The fire in the hearth flickered weakly, casting long shadows across the walls. The scent of lavender still lingered, but it was stale, lifeless—just like the room, just like you.

Anthony’s hands trembled as he held yours, the warmth he had once taken for granted completely gone. You weren’t asleep. You weren’t waiting for him.

You were gone.

A strangled sob tore from his throat. He pressed his lips to your knuckles, willing his love into your lifeless fingers, hoping—praying—that it would bring you back. But there was nothing left. Only the sound of his own broken breaths and the weight of the silence pressing down on him.

This was his fault.

He had left you to suffer alone, blind to the pain in your eyes, deaf to the way your voice had weakened. He had been with Sienna while you lay here, waiting for him, needing him. And now, when he finally realized what he had done—when he had finally chosen you—you were already gone.

He had failed you.

Benedict stood quietly by the door, watching, his gaze unreadable. He had been here, Anthony realized bitterly. He had been the one to hold you as you slipped away. He had been the one to witness your last breath.

Not Anthony.

Never Anthony.

“I told her you would regret this,” Benedict finally said, voice hoarse with grief. His fists clenched at his sides. “I told her you would come crawling back too late.”

Anthony couldn’t even argue.

He deserved every ounce of venom in his brother’s voice.

A rustle of parchment broke the silence.

Benedict reached into his coat, pulling out a folded letter, sealed with wax. He stepped forward, shoving it into Anthony’s hands, his eyes burning with something between sorrow and rage.

“She wrote this for you,” Benedict said, barely holding himself together. “She told me to give it to you only after…” His voice caught, but he swallowed hard and forced himself to continue. “After she was gone.”

Anthony could barely breathe as he looked at the letter. The edges were slightly crumpled, the ink slightly smudged—had she struggled to hold the pen? Had she been in pain while she wrote this?

With shaking fingers, he broke the seal.

My dearest Anthony,

If you are reading this, then it is already too late.

I wish I could have seen your face one last time. I wish I could have told you that I still love you, despite everything. But life is cruel, and time has run out for us.

I have known for some time now that I was not meant to stay in this world much longer. I felt it in the way my body betrayed me, in the way the pain settled into my bones, refusing to leave. I wanted to tell you, to beg you to stay, but I could not bring myself to do so. I knew your heart was elsewhere.

Perhaps it is selfish of me, but I wanted you to choose me on your own.

I wanted you to come home because you wanted to, not because you felt you had to.

But you never did.

And so, I made my peace with the silence.

But, my love, there is something I did not tell you—something I could not tell you.

I was with child.

Your child.

I found out only weeks before the sickness took hold of me. I had dreamed of telling you, of seeing your face light up with joy, of feeling your hand against my belly as our child grew. But I was afraid.

Afraid that you would not care.

Afraid that even this would not be enough to bring you home to me.

I wanted so badly for our child to know a father’s love, but as the weeks passed and my strength faded, I realized that they never would. I realized that I would never hold them, never hear their cries, never see them take their first breath.

I lost them before they ever had a chance to live.

And it broke me, Anthony.

It broke me in a way that nothing else ever could.

I know that you will carry guilt for this. I know that you will grieve. But I do not want my last words to be ones of anger or bitterness.

Despite it all, I loved you.

I loved you with every part of me, even as my heart shattered.

And I hope—no, I pray—that one day, you will learn to love again. That you will cherish what you once took for granted. That you will never let another love slip through your fingers as you did with me.

Goodbye, my love.

Yours, always,

Y/N

Anthony couldn’t see past his tears.

The letter crumpled in his grip, his hands shaking violently. A strangled, guttural cry tore from his chest, echoing through the room.

She had been pregnant.

With his child.

And he had never known.

He had left her alone to suffer, to mourn, to grieve the loss of their baby all by herself. She had gone to bed every night with the weight of their unborn child pressing against her ribs, knowing she would never hold them.

And he had been with Sienna.

Benedict turned away, unable to watch as Anthony broke completely.

He did not comfort him.

He did not tell him it was alright.

Because it wasn’t.

Because Anthony Bridgerton had done something no man should ever do—he had abandoned the love of his life in her time of need.

And now, he would have to live with it.

Forever.

very many thoughts, half of them are a Moulin Rouge inspired au with benedict bridgerton with an opera singer!reader/oc

the other half are an aemond oneshot based on the song hellfire from the hunchback of notredame with aemond absolutely obsessed with a velaryon!reader, daughter of rhaenyra and harwin strong

"eric is so benedict coded omgg, they are literally the same person!!!!" ok then make a little mermaid au fanfic 🤨🤨 whats stopping u? what is stopping this fandom from writing a scruptilisious piece where benedict just pines endlessly, this man was BUILT for it

don't care if its x reader or if its with Sophie just GIVE IT TO ME. please <3

Taking anti-depressant pills?? Seeing a therapist??? Journaling???? No need babe, my fav writer just dropped another x reader fic.

Over the Garden Wall - Chapter One

Chapter One - Loathing Boredom

I'm baaaackkkkkkk and back on my Bridgerton shit.

After I watched Queen Charlotte, I couldn't get this idea out of my mind. And, as you know, I'm a simp for Benedict.

Takes place during season 2 as well as the "present" storyline of Queen Charlotte.

This fic will be really heavy, however, so please keep in mind the tags if you choose to read it! Even though our character is the daughter of Queen Charlotte and King George, there will not be any physical descriptors. It's Bridgerton, so...you know. Use your imagination.

I hope you enjoy it <3

Benedict Bridgerton Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Warnings: Y/N used, fem pronouns, unrealistic/dramatic description of mental illness, isolation, feelings of suffocation

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x Princess!Reader

Word Count: 4.8k

As always, 18+ Minors DNI

It was always quiet in the cupboard. That was her only safe haven. It was the one place that she could turn to where nothing could find her. The voices and the doom didn’t exist there. It was only her and the dust bunnies. She preferred it that way. 

Y/N was the youngest child in a long line of children. But she never felt as though she had siblings. They were well about their lives by the time she really had any care for them. And, they kept their distance from her and their parents. It was hard to grow up as they did, so she didn’t fault them. However, in that large house, there was nothing to do. And with her illness, there was nowhere to go. 

She had been sequestered to a wing in the house for as long as she could remember. Her family rarely found themselves there. The only people she saw were her staff or her father when she was allowed to journey to their home in Kew which he called his home. 

Life was not easy to live when you were the daughter of the King and Queen of England.

----------

Y/N’s father had always been sick. No one really talked about it and when she would ask her mother, she would be brushed off. He would have good days and bad days. When she was younger, the good days far outweighed the bad, but that changed quite quickly. The last time Y/N truly remembered her father being fully there was when she had disappeared. 

Charlotte loathed being woken up. She was The Queen, there was no reason for anyone to wake her up…ever. She was allowed the grace of sleeping in and waking up whenever she pleased. So when Brimsley woke her up one night in a panic, she feared the worst. 

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” she asked, terrified. 

“N-No, Your Majesty. It is…Princess Y/N.”

Charlotte furrowed her brow and stood from her bed. One of her lady’s maids was already standing there with a night coat. She followed Brimsley’s hurried footsteps into the East Wing of the house. The commotion had woken the rest of the children that were still living there. 

“What is it, Mother?” Alfred wondered. He had always been the closest to Y/N seeing as they were the closest in age. Still, that was all about to change. 

Sophia, Mary, and Adolphus hurried behind them. Charlotte paid them no mind. When Brimsley opened the doors to the stateroom. Charlotte stopped immediately in the doorway, making her children run into her. 

There were tubes of paint littering the ground, some of them spilling out paint onto the carpet. In the distance, on the opposite side of the room, she saw a figure disguised by shadow. And, in front of the figure, was a large mural. A synthesis of all the colors of the rainbow that formed something of a galaxy. And then she heard her daughter and her blood ran cold. 

“Im…Impressionists are…they don’t see the sky. They don’t…They don’t know what they…”

Sophia opened her mouth to begin to speak, but Charlotte held up a hand to stop her. 

“Y/N,” Charlotte called out, continuing on into the room. She stepped in the paint but didn’t mind. “Y/N,” Charlotte called out again, this time more forceful. As she neared she could hear that her daughter was still muttering to herself. 

“They d-don’t see the stars…” Her neck twitched. “The stars.”

Charlotte held her chest and forced back tears. “Y/N.” Slowly, she reached out a hand and placed it on her daughter’s shoulder which made her flinch, but she didn’t turn. Then Charlotte turned her around, making Y/N drop the paintbrush. The girl was looking at one spot on the ground, her entire body shaking. “Y/N,” Charlotte said, her heart breaking. “Come back to me.”

“The galaxy…” she said quietly, neck twitching again. “The-the.”

“It is me…your mother,” Charlotte said, taking a deep breath. “You are home in Buckingham House.”

Y/N took deep breaths, her eyes finally coming back. She looked up to see her mother illuminated by candlelight. “M-Mother? It’s…It’s you.”

Charlotte pulled Y/N to her chest so that her daughter wouldn’t see her cry. “Take the princess to her room and get her washed up,” Charlotte called out to the wait staff. “Bring her something to eat and some tea.”

“M-Mother, what happened?”

“Nothing you need to worry about, my dear,” Charlotte said, kissing her daughter’s forehead. Y/N was ushered away. 

“Is it happening to her too?” Mary asked. “What happened to Father.”

“Go back to sleep, children,” Charlotte said to them.

“But Mother—” Alfred started.

“Bed! Now!” Once the children were ushered out, Charlotte took a deep breath. “Brimsley, ready the carriage.”

“To Kew, Your Majesty?”

Charlotte nodded. “To Kew.”

----------

When Y/N woke up later that morning, she called for her lady’s maids to dress her, and they informed her that she had a guest. That was all they said. She was ushered out into the dining room to see her parents standing there. 

“Father,” Y/N smiled widely. She ran into his arms and he immediately wrapped his arms around her. That meant it was a good day. 

“My dear Y/N,” he said, pulling away. “Shall we eat?”

She continued to smile and sat at the large table between her parents. “Are you well, Father?” she wondered. “It has been some time since I’ve seen you.”

“I am well, my dear,” George nodded. 

“Y/N,” Charlotte said in her usual tone that made her daughter set down her silverware and take a deep breath. “We must talk about what happened last night.”

“I do not want to,” she said, picking up her knife and fork once more. The breakfast was more decadent than she was used to. She never understood why they put useless flowers on the fruit and sprigs of herbs on the potatoes. She picked them all off and created a wreath of them on the table. 

Her mother’s voice continued to fade in and out. She heard certain words like “doctor,” “sick house,” “paint,” and “need help.” And then, “Y/N!”

“What, Mother!?” Y/N spat. She could feel the air in the room tense immediately. “I understand, okay!? I know what this is! I know that you are disappointed and I know that this means I will be locked away from the public eye for the rest of my life! I know! I have seen what it has done to Father.” She stopped, looking at George apologetically, but he just nodded in understanding. Her hands started to shake and her breathing began to quicken. Quickly, George stood from his seat and knelt beside Y/N. He grabbed her shaking hand in his. 

“It is alright. We will take care of you.”

“You can’t even take care of yourself,” she said quietly through tears. “I don’t want this.”

“I know,” he nodded. “No one wants this.”

“W-Why did it have to be me?” She asked before breaking down into tears. In the distance, she heard her mother order everyone out of the room. 

----------

For the rest of the day, Y/N locked herself in the cupboard of her room. That was 10 years ago and Y/N had not seen the outside of the Buckingham House walls since that night and she rarely left the cupboard. It was safe there. It was quiet. As her father had always said and as she finally understood—the heavens could not find her there. 

Once she aged out of the need for a governess, she started having tutors join her at the house. It seemed that her mother believed keeping her busy would keep the fits at bay. It didn’t, but it did help keep her mind occupied. 

Marietta, her lady’s maid, was the one person that was always at her side. She knew how to deal with the fits and would always get people away when they started. She knew the quickest routes throughout the house to get her to her safe cupboard. She made life easier to live. Though it wasn’t the life she wanted. 

“Marietta?” Y/N asked one day as she sat in the gardens, easel and canvas in front of her. She was covered in paint and felt wholly free. 

“Yes, miss?” Marietta wondered from her seat in the sun. 

“I find myself quite bored with painting landscapes,” Y/N sighed heavily. “How many times must I paint this one area of the garden?” 

“We can move to the South garden if Her Royal Highness would prefer it?”

“I have painted it ten times over, Marietta,” she sighed. “The south garden, the west garden, all the dining rooms, details of sconces, portraits of every family member and every member of the staff…I cannot paint anymore here.”

Marietta looked apologetic. Even she got to go out onto the town, but Y/N never got to leave those walls. 

“Do you know that it has been ten years since I’ve seen a different sky? Ten years since I have seen a new face…T-Ten…” Y/N's hands started to shake so she set down the paintbrush. She took a deep breath, feeling her neck twitch. 

“Princess?” Marietta called out quietly, hoping to pull the girl back quickly. 

“T-Ten years,” Y/N continued, her body starting to convulse. Marietta stood so quickly that her chair knocked over. She ran to the princess and grabbed the girl’s hands. 

“Y/N,” she called out, brushing her hand along the girl’s cheek.

“T-ten years…almost as long as Jupiter,” Y/N said, her neck twitching again. She began to mutter under her breath and Marietta could not understand her. “Twelve years will be…I will be brought out…out of the sky. Jupiter will c-come back.”

“Y/N,” Marietta called out again, tightening her grip on the girl’s hands. “Take a deep breath. Come back to me.”

Y/N finally found Marietta’s face, her body twitching one last time. She took a deep breath. “I…I think I sh-should like to rest now.”

----------

It was her twenty-fifth birthday when Y/N decided to take matters into her own hands. She decided it was time to see the country her parents spent their lives representing. After a rather boring dinner with the siblings who deigned to join her, she retired to her bedroom, hands intentionally shaky so that everyone knew to not disturb her. 

The one good thing about spending all of her life in the house was that she had everyone’s schedule memorized. She knew when the guards would change their rotations and when the maids would take their late night drink in the kitchens. So, sneaking out was easier than it probably should have been. 

By the time she made it through the grounds, her heart was racing so hard that she feared she had made a mistake. Her hands had begun to shake and she could sense her mind slipping. “Mercury, Venus..E-Earth…Mars, J-Jupiter is…Jupiter is coming…” Y/N took a deep breath, pushing it away, trying to pull herself back. “S-s-saturn, Uranus…Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus.” She took another breath, pulling it all back in. 

She continued on out of the grounds. She hadn’t realized that it was so large, or at least, she had forgotten. Finally, after what felt like hours of walking, she made it to the main part of town. People were milling about and men riding horses. Y/N assumed that these were not well-respected members of the ton, for her mother would frown upon such behavior. She always said that the night was for whores and debauchery. Y/N found herself quite interested in such debauchery. 

As she continued through the town, she found herself in a neighborhood of large houses illuminated by lamp posts. There were guards standing out front of some of them, indicating that she had officially made it to the more respectable part of the town. As she continued on, she was almost barreled over by a broad-shouldered man. As she began to fall, he caught her, his bare hand grabbing her gloved one. 

“Oh, dear, my apologies,” he said, a smile on his face. Y/N found herself immediately taken by him and his stormy eyes. His face was half illuminated by the fire from the lamp posts. 

“I…” she started, trying to contain her stammer. 

“Yes?” he asked, an amused lilt to his voice. He felt Y/N's hand shaking in his so he gripped it between the pair of his. “Are you alright?”

She took a deep breath and then nodded. “Y-Yes, my apologies, sir.”

“No apologies necessary,” he chuckled. “I am sure I gave you quite a fright.”

“Yes, quite,” she said, barely recognizing what he had said. 

He seemed to gaze at her in a way that Y/N thought did not exist outside of the books she had read. She looked down at his hands grasping hers, his hands were stained black. He followed her gaze, his eyes widening. 

“Oh, apologies,” he chuckled nervously. “Charcoal. I promise, I am not normally this…disheveled.”

“Are you an artist?” Y/N immediately wondered, her eyes wide. 

“I…dabble.”

“I do as well,” she smiled. 

“Really?” he said, his smile impossibly wide. “What is your medium of choice?”

“Oils, preferably,” she responded, and the man’s eyebrows rose. “Are you surprised?” she wondered.

“Impressed,” he corrected. “I have yet to tackle the mountain that is oils.”

“It is quite fun once you get the hang of it. Of course, having intriguing subjects always helps.”

“What do you prefer to paint?” he wondered.

That was the question. “I have painted landscapes, architecture…portraits,” she responded.

“But what do you prefer?” he wondered.

Y/N took a moment to really think about it. All she knew was what she did not want to paint. “I have yet to discover it, it seems.”

They stared into each other's eyes, the sounds of the town fading away. Then, a carriage passed them, the galloping of the horses pulling them from one another. The man cleared his throat. 

“It was lovely to meet you, Miss…”

“Y/N,” she responded. 

“Y/N,” he repeated and she loved the way it sounded coming from his lips. “I apologise for ruining your gloves.”

“They are dreadful things anyway,” she responded, pulling a breathy chuckle from him. 

He looked at her curiously. “I do find it strange that a woman such as yourself is out here at night all alone.”

Y/N felt her cheeks warm. “I found myself…suffocated....at home.”

“I believe I understand,” he smiled and she didn’t have the heart to tell him that he could never truly understand. “Will you be safe getting home? I am afraid I have no horse nor carriage lest I would accompany you.”

She smiled. “I made it out all on my own, I believe I can make it back.”

The man smiled again and gave her a parting glance before grabbing her hand and kissing the back of it. Y/N felt herself stop breathing and her body began to shake, but not in the way she dreaded. It was in a new and fascinating way that she had never experienced before. 

“Then this is where I leave you,” he said, smiling once more, before turning to leave. 

As Y/N followed him with her eyes, something struck her. “Wait, sir!” she called out, he turned immediately. “Do you have a name or shall I continue to think of you as 'that man with charcoal on his hands'?”

He laughed heartily. “Benedict,” he responded. “My name is Benedict.”

When Y/N got back to Buckingham House, it was with a wide smile on her face. She made her way to her bedroom, avoiding every member of the staff. As she got inside, she found herself staring at the canvases that littered the wall. Romanticized versions of her prison. Instead of walking over to her easel as she usually did, she dug through her drawers for something she rarely used. A notepad and charcoal. She had to commit him to memory for she would probably never see him again. Though, she found it rather unlikely that she would ever forget him. 

----------

The blinds being pulled open was what finally woke Y/N up. She sat up, groaning at the light, and saw Marietta watching her with a scrutinizing eye. 

“What?” she asked, her voice hoarse with sleep. 

“I cannot remember the last time I had to wake you up,” she said thoughtfully, then went about setting out the princess' clothes. 

“I was up late,” Y/N revealed. “Sketching.”

“Sketching?” Marietta asked, surprised. She stopped in her tracks and looked over to the corner where Y/N's sketchbooks and charcoals sat. Once she had finished setting out the clothes and Y/N had stood from the bed, the maid walked over to the desk. Y/N immediately dashed over and intercepted the sketchbook, causing Mariette to look at her curiously. “What are you hiding?” she wondered.

“It is of no concern to you,” Y/N responded. She held the sketchbook tightly to her chest which did not ease Marietta’s curiosity in the slightest. 

While Marietta helped the princess dress, she tried her best to not ask the questions that were pressing on her mind, though it was difficult. Y/N had never really been one for secrets, at least not in the safe walls of the palace. Marietta thought that she knew everything about the princess, but she might have been wrong. 

Y/N watched herself in the mirror as Marietta did her hair and she wondered what Benedict must have thought of her the night before. Did he find her as striking as she found him? She wanted to see him again, to feel his gaze upon her. But she had no idea where to even find him or if she would ever find him again. 

“Princess Y/N!” Marietta said with some form of impatience.

“What?” she asked, wincing as a rather sharp pin was slid into her hair. 

“I have been speaking to you for minutes,” Marietta claimed. “And yet it is though you have not heard me. Are you quite well? Are you feeling a fit come on?”

“No,” Y/N responded immediately. “I feel…fine, actually. Well, in fact. And yes, I was thinking. I am always thinking.”

“Only you seem more distracted than normal.”

She shrugged. “Perhaps I have become bored of normal.”

She spent the rest of the day locked in her cupboard. No one bothered her in there, thankfully. But, for once, she was not hiding from the heavens, she was hiding from the outside world. Armed with her notebook and tin of charcoal, she drew Benedict over and over again, but she could not seem to get him right. She could not get the correct gleam in his eyes. He looked so beautiful lit by the firelight and it was almost impossible to replicate. 

The only way to be sure was to go out again to find him. 

----------

Sneaking out two nights in a row forced a chill down Y/N's spine. An excited chill, it was. The town was as alive as it had been the night before, but she did not find it as frightening. She did, however, realize a bit too far into the journey that she had no idea how to get to where she had met Benedict. She had been wandering, taking steps that were almost impossible to replicate. In fact, she was finally remembering just how long it had taken her to get home. She had taken turn after turn, her mind wandering. Finally, she found something that looked familiar—a very specific lamppost. Of course, it was impossible to determine if it was the same one, but something in her made her think that it was. 

So, Y/N found a bench close to it, sat down, and pulled out her sketchbook. She rarely got to play around with the night’s sky—leaving her room at night was seen as improper. If only they knew that she had left the palace grounds all together. Y/N was certain that she would be found out at some point, but she found herself not caring in the slightest.

The worst they could do would be to lock her in her wing for the rest of her life, which seemed to be what they wanted anyway. At least this way, she would have some taste of freedom, no matter how long it might last. 

It was difficult, she found, to accurately replicate the light shining from the lamppost with simple charcoals. She wished she was able to sit outside with her easel and paints. Perhaps this sketch could act as a guide. 

“Will wonders never cease?” a deep voice chuckled from the depths of the darkness. Having been staring at the light for so long, it took Y/N's eyes a moment to adjust, but, when they finally did, she saw Benedict approaching her. “Miss Y/N,” he smiled, bowing his head.

She immediately stood and gave a brief curtsey. “Benedict,” she responded with an equal smile. 

“Out on the town again?” he wondered. “I must say, I find it intriguing that you are even allowed out this late.”

She found herself chuckling nervously. “I believe it is best that my endeavors stay between us.”

Benedict all but smirked. “I shall keep my lips sealed, then. Though, if the wrong person were to see you, it is only a matter of time before the whole ton knows. Lady Whisteldown seems to have eyes everywhere.”

She furrowed her brow. “Who is Lady Whistledown?”

Benedict chuckled heartily, then stopped. “You truly do not know?” he wondered. She shook her head. His smile was contagious. “She is a mysterious gossip columnist. She seems to know all about what happens here.”

“Seems quite intriguing,” Y/N said with a tilt of her head.

“Some would say so,” he shrugged. “Others find her utterly intolerable.”

“Are you one of those?” she wondered.

Benedict chuckled. “I find it quite entertaining, in fact. Though, I have yet to be the subject of one of her witty reports. My feelings might change when it is directed towards me.” She nodded in thought. “Are you drawing?” Benedict asked, looking at the sketchbook in her hand. 

Y/N looked down, flustered all of a sudden. “Oh, yes.”

“Might I take a look?” he wondered.

She stammered for a moment. “It is nothing…amazing,” she warned him, carefully handing over the sketchbook. He took it with a similar care and looked at the drawing. A smile formed on his face.

“How have you captured the light so perfectly with charcoals?” he wondered.

Her lips parted in a gasp. “I was just thinking to myself that I was unable to do that.”

“I disagree,” he said with a smile. “Might I look at your other works?” he wondered, his finger poised to turn the page. Y/N immediately jumped and grabbed the sketchbook. 

“I-I don’t think…you would enjoy those as much.”

“My apologies,” Benedict said, slightly shocked at her outburst. 

“N-No, no, it is I who should apologise,” she said nervously. “I should not have reacted in such a way.”

“It is alright,” he said, his smile reforming. “I too am possessive of some of my works.”

“I would love to see them sometime,” she said immediately, then shut her mouth. “I-If…Apologies if that was too forward—”

“I would love to show you,” he responded. “Though, I would find it improper to do it late at night. Perhaps…we can meet during the day?”

She closed her eyes for a moment and sighed. “I wish that were possible,” she responded. 

Benedict simply nodded. “I find you quite intriguing, Y/N.”

She swallowed harshly, nerves filling her entire body. Her hands started to get clammy and she feared she would drop the sketchbook onto the ground beneath her. “I don’t believe anyone has ever called me intriguing before,” she chuckled.

“Perhaps they do not know you well enough,” Benedict chuckled.

“And you do?” she wondered genuinely.

“I would like to,” he responded smoothly. She felt all of the breath leave her lungs. She would like nothing more but knew it was impossible. “That was too forward…I apologise.”

“No, no,” she said quickly. “I would…I would like to as well, but it would not be possible.”

“I would like to know why, but I will not press the matter,” he responded.

Y/N nodded in thanks, words completely escaping her. Suddenly, she could hear the sounds of others' footsteps on the cobblestone, she could feel the heat from the lamppost, and her hands began to shake. “I…I must go,” she said, immediately turning to leave. 

“Wait,” Benedict called after her. She turned back around to look at him. “Might I accompany you home? It is quite dangerous for a woman to be out here alone.”

“It is quite far, I can manage.” With that, she turned and began walking swiftly. She took deep breath after deep breath. “Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Saturn, Jupiter, Uranus…Mercury, Venus…”

----------

She made it back to the palace without slipping which caused her to let out a sigh of relief. She quietly closed her door behind her and turned to lean against the wood, a smile on her face.

“Where were you?” a voice asked, pulling her out of it. Her eyes widened to see Marietta standing in the middle of her bedroom, still in her night things.

Y/N cleared her throat. “Outside,” she responded with ease. She set her sketchbook down on the desk and took off her cloak. 

“No, you weren’t,” Marietta said. “I have been looking all over for you. I almost alerted the guards! Where were you?”

Y/N turned. “You do not speak to me like that.”

“Shall I inform Her Majesty?”

“N-No!” Y/N jumped. “Please, please, Marietta…Just let it go.”

Marietta breezed past Y/N, who thought she was leaving. In fact, she stopped at the desk and picked up the sketchbook. She immediately opened it, much to the horror of the princess. 

“Y/N…” Marietta said, warning in her voice. “Where were you?”

“Outside,” she responded. 

“I was terrified,” Marietta responded, still gazing down at the sketchbook, more specifically, at a portrait of Benedict that Y/N had yet to finish. “I thought you had one of your fits. I thought you were hurt.”

“I am fine, Marietta,” she assured. “I was simply…outside.”

“How far outside?” she wondered.

Y/N swallowed. “Quite far…” she responded quietly. 

“And what were you doing?” Marietta asked slowly. It was obvious that she was nervous for the answer.

“Sketching a lamppost,” she responded. She was not lying about it, in fact. Of course, she was being rather vague and she knew that Marietta could see right through it. They knew each other almost too well to hide anything. 

“Alone?” Y/N did not know how to respond to the question. “Princess Y/N, were you alone?”

She swallowed harshly. “Not…completely.”

Marietta took a deep breath, her eyes closing. She closed the sketchbook and set it back down on the desk. “If you were to be found out—”

“But I have not been.”

“How long have you been doing this?” Marietta asked, shocked.

“Only twice,” she sighed. “I knew I would be found out, I just did not imagine it being so soon.”

“And this man…” Marietta said, pointing towards the sketchbook. “What is your relationship to him?”

Y/N shrugged. “I hardly know how to quantify it, Marietta,” she responded truthfully. “I only just met him last night. But…I have not been able to stop thinking about him since. Nothing improper has happened, I assure you.” Marietta’s shoulders immediately relaxed, though, only slightly. “And perhaps it is only because he is the first new face I have seen in over ten years…but…he makes me feel—” she started, then cut herself off, trying to figure out the words. “Well, I do not know…But he makes me feel, Marietta. For so long, I have been locked in this place. Controlled by my mind, controlled by my mother…And I want it to end. I need it to end. I can no longer breathe here. I have not been able to breathe for so long and he…he gave me my breath again.”

“So you will continue to see him,” Marietta realized. 

Y/N looked at Marietta for a long moment. “I only wish that you will not stop me.”

“I should,” Marietta revealed. “I should stop you. Because you know this cannot end well.”

“I know,” she agreed. 

“Does he know?”

“About what?”

“Any of it? All of it?”

“He knows nothing,” Y/N said. “Not of my title, nor my family, nor my…affliction. And I hope he never will.”

“So you will—what? Continue to lie to him? What if he finds out? What will you do then?”

Y/N sighed heavily. “I do not know, Marietta. All I know is that…he wishes to know me. And I will let him know only what is relevant. I will let him know who I am outside of these walls…on my good days. I will let him know who I really am.”

Marietta nodded apprehensively. “Do you even know his name?”

“Benedict,” Y/N replied with a whistful sigh.

Marietta’s eyebrows rose. “Bridgerton?”

--------------------

A.N.: So??? Let's just say, this will be a whirlwind. Will the Queen ever let Y/N out of the castle? Will Benedict ever discover her true identity? Who knows?

Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist

Love always,

Alma xx

gold rush ; benedict bridgerton x reader (part one)

pairing: benedict bridgerton x fem!reader

summary: you have loved benedict bridgerton since you first met him, but after anthony married, he became the ton's favorite bridgerton, and now that everybody wants him, you realized you don't like a gold rush.

warnings/tags: unrequited love (at first), benedict bridgerton being a clueless disaster, benedict is a curious little shit, married kate and anthony, platonic anthony bridgerton & reader, song: gold rush (taylor swift), inspired by taylor swift lyrics

word count: 2.5K

❁ part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5

❁ mila's anthology (main masterlist)

You have loved Benedict Bridgerton since you first met him, that you wouldn't deny. However, it was complicated to say the least because he was the talk of the town.

Especially after his brother, the Viscount, had married. Right then, he was the Ton's favorite Bridgerton.

Every mama wanted him to marry her daughter… The artist was always getting the attention of every lady around. Including you.

You have loved Benedict Bridgerton since you first met him, when your family returned to London after having lived in New York for longer than you have lived. Your father was Edmund Bridgerton's childhood best friend, and as soon as he had heard of your family's return, your invitation to their home arrived.

Aubrey Hall was the lovely home of the Bridgertons, where Lord and Lady Bridgerton lived alongside their seven children: Anthony, Benedict, Colin, Daphne, Eloise, Francesca, and Gregory. Unfortunately, you were older than the oldest daughter, and the one who was closer to you in age was the second born. Still, he was three years older than you and, as a man, there was no way he would play with you. There was your older brother who is Anthony's age to play with, so you were left alone mostly.

When your eyes met Benedict's, you were instantly in love. He, as expected, barely looked at you. In spite of his indifference, your heart used to beat faster than the fastest horse every time he was around, which, after a few years, was more often than not. The Bridgertons returned to London after their Father's death, and your Father took as his newest life purpose to help Anthony become the lord of the house. Therefore, there were frequent dinner parties, balls held together, and many events in which both your families were seen as one.

You have loved Benedict Bridgerton since you first met him, even when everyone expected you to marry Anthony. Even he saw himself married to you once the moment came, an idea that you managed to erase as you confessed to him you were hopelessly in love with his younger brother.

Then, once Anthony got married to Kate, all the attention was set on the next Bridgerton: Benedict, and you knew it would be for the best if you decided to throw away your feelings for him.

The one thing on Earth you were certain was that he would never lay his eyes on you, and that was fine. He did not owe you his affections, regardless of how hot yours for him burnt.

Benedict turned into a gold rush right then, and you knew you did not stand a chance against any of those ladies when you were nothing new.

Your love for him grew and ruined you like poison ivy that tied your hands, and you would be lying if you said you weren't tired of being at his oblivious mercy.

Always romanticizing the tiniest of attentions, being like a flush around him, imagining a future together. All for nothing, because you despised feeling like that. Feeling the way Benedict made you feel.

It was scary, the way your world spinned around his. Terrifying, the amount of diaries filled with poems you have written about him. Horrific, how fond you were of the idea of spending every second you have left to live by his side.

"Are you, by chance, feeling heroic tonight? Even the smallest bit?"

You scoffed. "Colin, my feet are killing me, so I will not be dancing anymore tonight. Other than that, you may use me as an excuse however you please."

"But if Miss Cowper sees me available, she will come to me."

"Then get out of my hair, I don't want to have her near me after what she did the last time!"

"If you dance with me, I will stop talking about my travels when you're around."

You quickly changed your mind at this tempting offer. "Deal, but let's wait until the next song."

Colin rolled his eyes, reluctantly speaking. "I will be right back, I shall bring you some champagne."

You nodded, watching him leave. Your eyes crossed paths with Penelope's for a brief second, and then you turned to none other than Benedict Bridgerton in the flesh. He was, however, dancing with some girl from the Ton.

Jealousy creeped inside you, threatening to show on your face.

"There is only one moment in which I take pity on being married," Anthony said, standing beside you with his wife next to him. "I cannot dance with you to make Benedict jealous anymore."

You looked around, and as soon as you noticed no one was looking, smacked his arm. "Lord Bridgerton, that was low to say the least."

He and Kate laughed.

"My apologies," he muttered sarcastically. "What a charming young lady you are, I cannot fathom why you are not married yet."

"Anthony…" Kate threatened him.

"No need, Kate. He is so right, even Papa dearest agrees with him," you commented dryly. "He is still upset because I rejected him, please, cut him some slack."

She laughed. "What?"

"Her Father advised me to marry her," Anthony replied. "I courted her for weeks and she didn't even realize until I proposed to her. Right there, she confessed her undying love for my brother and we didn't marry."

"You would be the Viscountess now, do you regret it?" Kate joked.

"Well, at least I never was engaged to be married to the wrong sibling like a friend of mine."

Anthony rolled his eyes in annoyance as Kate snorted.

"You must admit that was quite funny, my love."

"Nothing to admit here. It was not funny at all."

"What did I miss?" Colin asked, appearing suddenly and offering you a glass of champagne.

"I was just informed that Anthony was planning to marry Y/N."

Colin nodded. "Yes, and she rejected him because he is the boring Bridgerton. Unlike me, let's dance."

"If you mention the word 'Greece' ever again, I will personally tell Lord Cowper that you dishonored his daughter, then you will be inevitably forced to marry her."

"It will be as if I never left London in the first place, Miss Y/L/N." he said with a cynical smile.

You laughed, and started dancing with Colin.

"I did not know that Colin and Y/N were so close," Benedict mentioned to Anthony, approaching him after some time. "They have danced three times now."

Anthony eyed his brother. "Why are you asking me that, Brother? Does it bother you?"

The younger brother scoffed. "Not at all, why would you think that?"

"No, no reason at all. I was just asking."

"So? Is Colin courting her?"

"One of us should be the one to marry her," Anthony said, a glint of mischief shining in his eyes. "I am already married, you seem uninterested, so that leaves Colin."

He nodded. "I see."

"Or are you interested?"

"She is our friend and I only wish the best for her," Benedict replied. "I just doubt Colin's intentions, that is it."

"Is it that you have better intentions, Brother?"

"That is not what I am saying."

Anthony smirked, seeing how you returned to where they were next to Colin. "Dance with her."

"I have the most wonderful news for you, my dearest friends," You grinned. "As long as you are near me, you will not hear anything regarding Colin's travels. You are very welcome."

"We have been blessed."

"We have indeed," Benedict agreed, seeing how Colin rolled his eyes. Anthony jostled him, but you noticed. "Would you dance with me?"

You pursed your lips, a serious expression. "I am quite tired, Benedict. Perhaps the next time."

Anthony's amused face softened at your response, and so did Colin's. You always wanted Benedict. You loved dancing with him and spending time with him.

They knew you could be dead tired, but if he offered, you would dance to death.

"Oh," Benedict gave you a forced smile. "It is fine, next time it is."

But the Cowper Ball came and you rejected Benedict once again. Then, the Schmidt Ball, the Bridgerton Ball, the Reynolds Ball, and you still said no to all of his dance invitations.

It reached the point he was just tired of your indifference toward him, since not only have you declined dancing with him every time, but you also refused to be near him for longer than strictly necessary or be alone with him anymore. Thus, Benedict had no other choice but to finally ask you himself.

One day, he just arrived at your family's home, looking for you most urgently.

He was let in. With him, there was no need to announce his arrival. Benedict just went to your studio.

Looking around, he spotted many differences since the last time he visited you: the paintings he had painted for you weren't hung anymore, just piled in the corner of the room; your pianoforte he had drawn himself the sunset on was replaced for a new one; the books he gave you long forgotten inside a decaying box.

Benedict's heart hurt at the sight of you erasing him from your life just like that, no warning or reasons he was aware of.

He approached the box, taking out all the novels and astronomy books he had picked just for you. Then, he stumbled upon loose sheets thrown around. He recognized easily your handwriting on them.

It is wrong to. Those are her intimate thoughts and should be none of my concern, Benedict thought, but again, the reason why she is pushing me away could be there.

So he took the first ones he found, seeing how the very first page had the title About Benedict Bridgerton.

Benedict bit his lip hesitantly, making sure no one was around and he could take a good look at what you wrote about him.

However, surprise clouded his features as he read the well worded feelings turned to ink.

I remember when I first met him. Benedict did not even determine me and I was devastated! However, I was still enchanted to meet him. He has always been so handsome and enchanting, and perhaps I have loved him since we first met.

A small piece of another sheet caught his attention.

Please, do not be in love with someone else.

Please, do not have somebody waiting on you

Another sheet followed.

Today, I saw Benedict dancing with that girl. I wish I could make her disappear with only one glance so he would like me without her around to stop it.

I constantly dream of the day he wakes up and finds that what he is looking for has been here the whole time. Why can he not see he belongs with me?

All this time how could he not know that he belongs with me? You belong with me. I have been here all along.

I am certain she cannot make him laugh like I do and that he does not tell her about his dreams like he does to me. She should just go away.

He chuckled slightly.

Then he spotted another one.

I hate Benedict Bridgerton. Despise him. Loathe him.

At the Bridgerton Ball, he danced with someone else and did not even look at me. He neither said hello nor goodbye!

Perhaps I should listen to my Papa and let him tell Anthony to propose to me (because Benedict will never like me). He will never realize I am the one he should be with. He will never return my affections.

And, guess what? At the Featherington Ball, she did not dance with Benedict and just then he remembered I existed and came to me. I hate him because I love him so much.

Everyone just assumes I know nothing, but I knew I would curse him for the longest time, I knew I wish he would have changed his mind.

Chasing shadows in the ballroom, I knew he would miss me once the moment died. I knew to love would be to lose my mind! I knew he would come back to me.

Because I know everything!

Benedict sighed, cursing himself for having been so blind all this time, for not being able to notice your affections or return your feelings before.

I am tired. This love will make me fall sick. I am tired of Anthony shaming me for loving his brother and having rejected him that time. I wish I had never met Benedict Bridgerton, I wish I had never come to London… I give up.

I do not like a gold rush. I hate that anyone would die to feel his touch. Everybody wonders what it would be like to love him, everybody wants him now.

I do not like that falling feels like flying until the bone crush. I hate a gold rush.

And I always wonder what must it be like to grow that beautiful? With his hair falling into place so effortlessly and a smile that could light up this whole town. I could be romanticizing everything, but my mind turns Benedict's life into something mystical. I cannot dare to dream about him anymore.

We will never be husband and wife, we will never have children together, he will never be mine. I must stop living under this naïve hope!

The town we never found will never bear witness of a love as pure as it, because it fades to grey. It will never be.

Benedict found another loose piece of paper.

Losing him feels as if I were bleeding. But again, he was never mine to lose.

He searched and searched for more pages, but could not find any.

"You knew all this time and had the audacity to not tell me?!"

Anthony frowned. "I knew what exactly?"

"You knew she loved me."

"Oh, that…" he pursed his lips, looking at Kate beside him. "I could not tell you, it was her secret."

"You let me let her hate me in the name of a secret?"

"If I had known you returned her feelings, I would have done something!"

Benedict kept quiet.

"You do not love her?"

"I- I do not know…" he replied to Anthony.

Kate sighed. "If you don't know, let her go."

"I cannot let her hate me."

"She does not hate you." Anthony said calmly.

"She explicitly said so." Benedict replied.

"She could never hate you, Benedict." Kate retorted. "No matter what she said."

"She wrote it, Kate, she wrote that she hated me."

"What did you read, Benedict?" she questioned, threat lingering in her voice.

He exhaled. "I went to the Y/L/N Manor and saw that she replaced the piano we painted. She had the paintings I gave her gathering dust in a corner, and all the books I got her inside a box. I just… looked at the box and saw some pages with things she wrote about me."

"How dare you read that?!" Kate scolded him.

"I wanted to know why she hated me!"

"She doesn't hate you!"

"Yes, she does! That is what she said!"

"She did not mean that!"

"How do you know?!"

"Okay, enough!" Kate yelled. "Y/N does not hate you because she loves you, alright? You love her, too? Go talk to her. You do not? Give her space. She does not deserve to have her heart broken by your hand, Benedict."

Benedict rolled his eyes. "Fine. Fine."

Y/N: Did you tell anybody we are engaged, Benedict?

Benedict: Yes, I have no self-control and I told half the ton we are engaged.

Y/N: Okay, there is no need to be sarcastic.

Benedict: No, I really do have no self control and told half the ton we are engaged.

I’m gonna be very honest here - I have sort of lost my want to write. I’m not quitting by any means, but I just can’t find any inspiration to write in this moment.

I guess I’ve kinda been on hiatus? Anyways, I want to write more. That’s the main thing, I just don’t know what to write. I’ve started a Jungkook fic called Baby Girl that I think I want to make into a series, but I haven’t really had time to continue writing it. Not only that, I’ve been swamped with other stuff. I wanted to post it as a surprise, but I didn’t want anyone to think that I was just…done posting.

I still have a HUGE love for writing, especially for Jungkook and other people, but none of them are sparking inspiration for me at this point in time😭 I’ve fallen back into my love for Bridgerton, and want to write for maybe some of the characters (possibly only Anthony, Benedict and Colin) but I was second guessing myself on if anyone would like it.

I’m trying to continue Baby Girl and it WILL come out, I just don’t know when. Sorry for ranting, I just wanted to share! And let me know how you feel about the Bridgerton idea, I always love seeing your guys comments :)

THIS IS GOOD!!! AAAAAAAAA!!!!

YOU BEWITCH ME

꧁ ༺ ✧ ༻ ꧂

─────────────────────

Oh baby I am a wreck when I’m without you- I need you here to stay.

Line Without a Hook, Ricky Montgomery

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benedict bridgerton x eldest daughter! reader

summary: Benedict Bridgerton has been the least tolerable Bridgerton since you arrival to the ton. You are a lady of respectable means, though nearly forgotten by society due to some extenuating circumstances. But no matter how hard you try, you can’t stay away from him.

cw: time period typical treatment of women in society. btw when i say eldest daughter i mean SHE IS THE FIRST BORN OF HER FAMILY SHE IS NOT RELATED TO HIM NO INCEST THAT IS NASTY !!!! also no smut

a/n: i’m writhing on the floor foaming at the mouth im dying dead. my girlies from the books know that Benedict is a Tier One Yearner (tm) and im utterly obsessed with the dynamic of elizabeth bennet and fitzgerald darcy so i bring you the bridgerton version

i wrote this before i watched season two so shhhhh i didn’t steal her backstory from Kate’s i had no idea they were gonna be so similar T-T

please excuse the crazy long playlist my brain is infected

songs i listened to while writing: Somethin’ Stupid by Nancy and Frank Sinatra, Bewitched by Laufey, Line Without A Hook by Ricky Montgomery (these fools are yearning CRAZY) Amore mio autami by Piero Piccioni, Valentine- Live at the Symphony by Laufey & The Iceland Symphony Orchestra, Someone to Say- Reprise from the Cyrano Motion Picture Soundtrack, Hopelessly Devoted to You by Olivia Newton-John, The Way I Loved You (Taylor’s Version) by Taylor Swift, A Lovely Night by Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone, The Swan by Camille Saint-Saëns, Sebastian Comberti, and Miriam Keogh

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title taken from Bewitched by Laufey (GO LISTEN TO LAUFEY)

✧˖°.

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.

✧˖°.

──────────────────────

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