It's time for the yearly fic rec list no one asked for!
Reading in general was practically nonexistent this year (med school is time consuming guys), but I still found some fics that I loved sooo much.
As always thanks to all the writers for letting me take mind breaks into your stories, sometimes that is truly what I needed the most this year <3
More recs from previous years here: 2024, 2023, 2022, 2021 (omg how has it been 5 years since I first did this???)
(in no particular order)
When One Door Closes by LaLainaJ / @lalainajanes
Caroline's looking forward to a little time alone to decompress after leaving the Salvatore house (post 5x11). Problem is, she has a visitor, and he's come a long way.
Time travel fics my beloved!!! This one is short but so adorable and I love that we get glimpses of what Klaroline would be like in the future but also how Caroline never changes her stubbornness or her ability to tell Klaus off. Loved this X 100000.
Dream of Bloodwine On Your Tongue by @cupcakemolotov
Caroline has some sex dreams about Klaus...and maybe he knows something about them. HOT AS FUCK. LIKE DAMN!!! highly recommend
Fallen by @cupcakemolotov
For one hundred years, Klaus hunted for the angel who tumbled into his territory. Then she found him. I adore an angel AU and was craving one when I stumbled on this one. It's short but oh so beautiful. Klaus yearns to be claimed by Caroline so bad-my heart!!!
All Broken Roads by @cupcakemolotov
Enzo showing up on her doorstep with his dying, mystery boyfriend thrown over his shoulder (Kol) was not on Caroline’s to-do list. Unfortunately, they’ve got history, and saving him means dealing with all the shit she’s spent twenty years avoiding.
The world building in this with a sentient city is SO GOOD!! Feels almost post apocalyptic in a lot of ways too. Caroline knows all too well how Mikealson's can get under your skin and heart and she takes pity on Enzo and Kol but knows she'll run back into Klaus because of it. Their reunion is everything! “I’m her heart. You're ours”. Tender, intimate, and of course some hot smut. It was a super interesting idea and it was executed perfectly.
villain by coveredinthecolors / @definedareasofuncertainty
This fic was SOOO fun. Caroline is a famous singer with a new album coming out post a break-up with famous actor Klaus (that she plans to drop on his birthday). The story is mainly told through Caroline's/Klaroline's fandom via twitter theorizing, interviews, reactions to the songs etc. Vanity fair lie detector included!! It made me feel like I too was on twitter talking about klaroline and dissecting everything and anything to make it about them (as people should). Also the lyrics Luiza comes up with are beautiful!!! If you want something really fun and relatively quick please read this one!!!
Pendulum by Yokan / @galvanizedfriend
This is what Klaus Mikaelson knows: death isn't the end for him. From the moment he is brought into the world to his final shuddering breath, Klaus' life is pretty much the same as everyone else's. The difference lies in what happens after he dies: he goes right back to the beginning, a child in London with the memory of dozens of lives lived before. Nothing ever really changes, including the fact that no matter how hard he tries, he can never save Caroline Forbes' life for too long. [AH/soulmates!AU with a slight magical twist].
If you've been avoiding this fic for years for fear of emotional damage (like I was) here is your sign to finally read this MASTERPIECE because I promise it's worth it . I can't properly express in words all that this made me feel and everything I loved in it (if you really want to know scroll down in the comments on this fic to find my novel about it). My soulmate/full circle moments and angst loving self adored this and my heart left so fulfilled. Both endings are perfect in their own ways and while I think I have a slight preference for the first one the second one is also hauntingly beautiful and perfect in its own way. Wish I read this one sooner, but glad my 2025 self finally decided it was time.
Could I Choose You? by emeraldvixen / @vix-x-x (A sequel to Worst Things Have Happened by Yokan / @galvanizedfriend)
Pressure is mounting for Prince Niklaus to choose a bride. Caroline has kept his secret hidden for three long years, but can she keep her own?
I think this whole trilogy was my most read fic of the year?? I can't remember how many times I read it but it was a lot. The chemistry is AHHH but it's also so sweet and tender and it made my heart swell up with happiness. The way she gets jealous too, my favs!!! Anyway, please read this absolute delight!!!
“i've connected the two dots." "you didn't connect shit," by theroadbetwixt / @the-road-betwixt
Elijah Mikaelson has not survived centuries without learning how to understand his brother's moods, and lately he's been acting strange.(in other words Elijah tries to figure out klaroline with zero context and comes to all the wrong conclusions).
The summary of this fic made me laugh so I automatically knew I had to read it-and my intuition was correct because this was truly delightful! You get to see Klaus just being his whipped in love with Caroline self. He's so smiley and smitten in this. Elijah's confusion (and his conclusion) is so funny, I truly had so much fun with this one!!!
The Big Bad Wolf by @morningstargirl666 (WIP)
I'm so happy the rewrite dropped this year because I've been wanting to read it for a while!!! I love a good canon divergent fic that has its own lore and own backstory (this one in particular is soooo special) and I DEVOURED. Truly I could not put it down. I made the mistake of starting it during an exam week and wanted to focus on it instead of studying lol whoops. But god this fic is amazing!! Klaus's relationship with his bio dad and Sam is so special to me!!! (and so is Caroline's relationship with Sam) The slow burn is slowly killing me but I'm having so much fun with their tension and the little moments. Klaus's wolf too ugh I can't wait for him to connect the dots. I scream every time I get an email saying a new chapter dropped. Absolutely love this one and can't wait to keep reading as it continues to update-highly recommend picking it up if you haven't already!!!
All This Time (I Thought) by klarolineagainnaturally / @notalittlebutalottie
They always say "don’t fuck your best friend’s brother" and, well, she doesn’t have to worry about that because he obviously can’t stand her.
As a self proclaimed best friend's brother trope lover I eat up every single fic where Caroline and Bekah are besties but Caroline has a helpless crush on Klaus and they decide to have some fun without her knowing. Consider it a guilty pleasure. This one did not disappoint!!! Her confusion about why he doesn't like her, him trying to keep a distance, the way he tries to talk so gently to her, and of course the tension finally breaking!!!
the birth and death of the day by sunnydaisy/ @little-miss-sunny-daisy (currently reading)
The Forbes-Winchester family takes on the Apocalypse. After seeing this fic for years/being a self proclaimed huge sunnydaisy fan (see my love for call it dreaming especially in past years recs), I finally decided to read this!!! It kept me company during my last exams of the year and WOW IT'S SO GOOD!!! I was eating it up. Caroline with siblings and protective brothers ugh my heart melted. Klaus is sooo down bad but it's just so perfect and it really keeps both of them so in character which I love. I'm almost done but I can't wait to see what all ends up going down!!!
Rereads:
Speed Dating by Yokan / @galvanizedfriend
My love for this fic is endless!!!! The last chapter to it was posted this year and it's perfection I couldn't have asked for a better way for it to finish. I think I still read it religiously like once a month. Thank you for this fluffy but extremely tension filled/mutual pining clueless idiots fic Yokan bestie.
Tangled Up in Blue by idiot-wind87 / @idiot--wind
This cult classic had an update in 2025 therefore I HAD to reread the masterpiece!!! If you haven't read this already what are you doing?? It was so nostalgic to go back to this world and all the scenes that I've had in my heart for YEARS. And of course to be back with the author's writing, they were one of the first ever klaroline writers I read form and I think I've read all their fics multiple times. Anyway, obviously read if you haven't. It's angsty, adorable, tension filled, HOT, and just perfection.
Queen of Hearts by @cupcakemolotov
One of my forever favorite mafia one shots-it's so hot and he's so possessive and protective and ugh I love it so much. Her lipstick marks on the cigarette !(!!) and "our bed" make me insane
Colored You in by LaLainaJ / @lalainajanes
This fic is so wholesome and the pining is incredible. I woke up one day NEEDING to do a reread so I did.
Purgatory by ScarletBorn
If you know me you know why this fic is on here (if you don't know me look at like all the previous fic rec lists for dissertations on my love for it). It hasn't been updated since 2023 :( but my love for it has not faded and I go back to it SO often to read my favorite scenes and theorize on what I think will happen. The angst and the tension is just INSANE and the best-bloodsharing scene still lives in my head rent free always. Scarletborn I hope you can feel my love for you and this fic through the ether <3
Benedict Bridgerton x Sophie Beckett
An Offer from a Gentleman reimagined
Chapter rating: T - brief depiction of lovin' but all around fluffy joy
Word count: 4.9k
Masterpost
Previous chapter
Author's note: At long, long last - the finale. This has been the most ambitious creative project I have undertaken, spanning across 3 years, with probably half of that spent actually writing and the other half spent on hiatus. Initially, I never planned to share this story with anyone. I was just rewriting the book for myself out of frustration with the original. But kindly souls encouraged me to put it out there and I am so glad I did.
Special thanks of course to Julia Quinn who created this world (despite my qualms with the details 😜) and to Luke Thompson whose portrayal of Benedict is impossible not to adore. To the muse who showed up and compelled me to write this, and to Gumball, my loudest cheerleader, who made the end of this journey a dream all its own. 💚
At this bittersweet moment when I 'close the book' on this work 😉 the emotion I feel most keenly is gratitude. Sincere gratitude for every person who has encouraged, read and commented upon this story. That it brings enjoyment into anyone's day is the greatest honor, and I am humbled by each of you who have given it your time, thoughts and kind words. The story is for you. Enjoy 💙
The day dawned crisp and bright, the grounds of Aubrey Hall bursting with arrays of early summer flowers. Blues, purples, pinks and whites lined the walkways leading from the house to the statuary garden where chairs were set for a small ceremony.
In the smoking room, Benedict and Colin were tended by their valets, being primped and brushed until any trace of bottle weariness was gone. Though it may have had something to do with the flasks stashed in their pockets more than the grooming.
Just as Benedict swatted away another comb, the door swung open and in marched the Viscount in an ensemble matching their own, a blue velvet jacket and silver brocade waistcoat.
“Brother!” He clapped Benedict on the arm in uncharacteristically high spirits. “All ready then? Everything is in order outside. How are you feeling?”
Benedict smirked. “A good deal better than you when you first put on a wedding suit.”
Anthony scowled and began to stalk away.
“I jest!” Benedict stopped him. “Anthony, I am certain that this is the happiest day of my life.”
“If I had a pound for every time I’d heard that.” Colin snorted from where he lounged on a settee.
“You’d finally be self-sufficient, wouldn’t you?” Anthony parried.
Benedict rolled his eyes. “Thank you both for taking this seriously.”
Anthony softened. “Benedict, I know. I know you mean it sincerely. As you should. The happiness I felt marrying Kate was…” He gazed off, replaying the moments in his mind. “Well, seconded only by meeting my son.”
“Do I detect…emotion in your tone, brother?” Colin teased.
“Hush, you!” Anthony snapped, then squeezed Benedict’s shoulder. “Benedict, it is a momentous day and one that I am happy you have reached for yourself.”
The crooked grin that spread across his face nearly reached his ears. He felt as if light would burst forth from every strand of his hair, he was so incandescent with joy. He gripped his brother’s arm in turn. “Thank you, Anthony. For standing with us both. Not just today, but in every way that you have.”
Anthony smiled back, a moment passing between them, a small recognition of all they had lived through together; the special years they had shared before the rest of their siblings entered the world, the way they had jointly shepherded the family since the loss of their father, and the understanding that though their lives were changing once again, they would never abandon one another.
Anthony moved to a table laden with treats and began to nosh. “Do not be a stranger as you go off to start your life together. You know you are still responsible if I ever take a holiday.”
Colin chimed in. “Holidays? Marriage truly has changed you.”
Anthony lobbed a grape which pinged off his head.
“Do not worry, brother.” Benedict chuckled. “With your extended stints in India, I have grown very comfortable taking the reins as needed. Now with a wife by my side, I suspect I will be all the more suitable for it. Sophie has a head for figures.”
“Well, that makes one of you,” Anthony quipped. “I’m glad indeed that she’s joining the family. Colin, pour us a round.”
Clambering to his feet with a sigh, the youngest did as he was ordered and poured three glasses of brandy. Holding them aloft together, Anthony toasted his brother with a smile.
“To Benedict, the end of your bachelorhood and the start of a joyful and prosperous wedded life.”
“We never thought we’d see the day.” Colin wiggled his eyebrows and they downed their drinks in one gulp.
Resting his glass on a table, Benedict straightened his cuffs, eager for the events to begin.
“Yes, well, if it can happen to me I suppose it’s possible for anyone.” He slung an arm around Colin’s shoulders. “It’s down to you now, brother. Keep your eyes open for a good woman. She could be closer than you think.”
___
Upstairs in a grand bedroom outfitted as the bridal suite, Sophie sat at the vanity while Lizzie brushed and pinned her hair into a coiffure reminiscent of the one she wore to the masquerade. When she had returned to Aubrey Hall on Benedict’s arm with the announcement of their engagement, her old friend had squealed with glee in a breach of protocol that would have been censured under any other circumstances. Sophie had enjoyed slipping away to the servants’ level to share her story, assuring her former coworkers that she would always vouch for their wellbeing upstairs. Lizzie had sat enraptured as the tale unfolded. The footmen raised a glass to her and Mrs. Wiggin dabbed at the corner of her eye more than once. Anne, as expected, sat with crossed arms and a sour face but had not said an ill word.
Lizzie was beaming as she tucked the last silver pin in place and smoothed Sophie’s cascading veil. Sitting close beside them, Kate watched intently, wrapped in a lehenga of midnight blue with silver embroidery.
“There is something Violet and I wish to give you.” Taking Sophie’s hand, she placed a small coin in her palm. “A simple sixpence, but when worn in your shoe it will bring you luck. It was given to our mother-in-law by her mother-in-law as she prepared for her wedding in this very room, and she gifted it to me when I did the same. As she told me, you need luck on your side when marrying a Bridgerton man.”
Kate smiled, the wide smile that was reserved for only the most heartfelt moments. Sophie studied the coin, shiny and light but imbued with a different kind of weight.
“Is it that we need luck, or we’ve been lucky?”
“A bit of both, in my experience.”
They laughed and Kate held Sophie’s skirt as she bent to slide the coin into her silver slipper.
Sitting up, the Viscountess took Sophie’s hands between her own, speaking with a soft voice. “I know how it feels to be without your parents on your wedding day. Some of us are destined to find our closest family through circumstances other than blood. It is a small token, but it carries great love from the women in this family. Mothers. Sisters. We are with you today.”
Sophie’s heart swelled, tears sparkling in her eyes. Gaining Benedict as a husband seemed riches enough, but now, feeling the love of the family that came with him, she knew she was wealthy beyond description.
“Thank you,” she whispered, chin trembling, as Kate gathered her in an embrace.
After a moment of tender quiet, there was a knock at the door and Lizzie scurried to open it. Kate gave Sophie a final, encouraging smile and stepped away, exchanging greetings with the visitor as they passed in the doorway.
Sophie rose to her feet as the Duchess of Hastings moved into the room, draped in lavender and carrying a small bunch of flowers.
“Your Grace,” she curtsied.
Daphne smiled. “Miss Sophie. I came to extend my best wishes and to meet you…properly.”
Sophie blushed, unable to deny the awkwardness of their reintroduction. It had been only a few weeks prior, in this very house, that she had waited on the Duchess as a housemaid before the country visit. They hadn’t exchanged words, but Sophie knew now that Daphne had sensed something between Benedict and his peculiar ‘nurse’. How their acquaintance would continue as sisters-in-law hinged on her next words.
“I know the details of your courtship with my brother were…unique. But I would be lying if I said that it was the only unconventional path to the altar that has occurred in this family.” The humor in her tone and the gentleness of her eyes made Sophie exhale with relief.
“I may have heard something to that effect,” she confessed, remembering moments tucked away in staircases, engrossed in tales of the Bridgerton family as reported by Lady Whistledown.
Daphne nodded. “It seems that when love finds us, it brooks no resistance.” Setting down the flowers, she stepped closer. “Do you know that Benedict looked for you, for years?”
Sophie’s heart fluttered. “Yes, I know.”
“I had never seen my most carefree brother so unhappy. But when we visited here for the ball, it was as if he had returned to himself. I didn’t know at the time what had caused him to change but now I understand.” Her smile widened, delicate but genuine. “It was you. You were clearly destined for each other, no matter the circumstances.”
Before she would indulge praise of herself, Sophie had something pressing to say. “Your Grace, I know the role you and the Duke played in safeguarding this marriage and I must express how deeply grateful and indebted I am to you.” She dropped her head in humility. “It is something you should not have had to trouble yourselves with.”
A gloved hand rested lightly on her arm and Sophie looked up to meet Daphne’s eyes, another pair of piercing Bridgerton blue.
“When my brothers are in need it is no trouble at all. When you are part of a family you support one another.”
Sophie reflected on how long she had fought for scraps of kindness and how she now found herself in a home where it flowed so effortlessly. “Permit me to say, I think you are a rarity among families.”
Daphne grinned. “Be that as it may, we are now your family and you may depend on us.”
Sophie had managed to restrain her tears at Kate’s gift, but this compounding joy was too much and one ran down her cheek, threatening Lizzie’s careful application of rouge. Daphne sprang to action, producing a handkerchief and assuring Sophie all was well as she dried her eyes. She moved back to the table on which she had rested her offering.
“I have also brought you these flowers for your bouquet. I understand blue is the color you have chosen?”
Sophie nodded. “It is the family color and Benedict’s favorite.”
Daphne handed her the sprays, freshly picked from the shaded banks of the lake. “Well, these forget-me-nots are a lovely shade of blue. And quite appropriate I should think.”
Sophie studied the little blooms, starry and wonderfully familiar. If only Daphne knew how Benedict had gifted her with the same, sending a message at the crossroads of melancholy and hope; a ray of sunshine at the center of the blues. Together the women dotted the additions into Sophie’s simple white posy bouquet, transforming it into a palette of memory and promise.
Daphne took her leave and Sophie stood before the full length mirror, hardly able to believe what she saw. In a twist of good fortune among so many others, Gen had confessed to saving Sophie’s masquerade gown, locked away as the only remnant of her friend after she had distressingly vanished. In consultation about a wedding gown, both of them had known instinctively what to do. Gen had carefully deconstructed the dress, removing the hooped skirt and costume elements, and had then woven the starry swaths and silver embellishments together with bridal white silk to make the most shimmering and unique gown to ever grace an altar of the ton. Violet’s eyes had widened upon its reveal. Eloise had applauded its singularity. Benedict had been kept entirely ignorant of its construction.
Standing in the bedroom of Aubrey Hall, a bride in silver and white, Sophie saw every facet of herself simultaneously. The calloused hands of a maid holding the forget-me-nots her lover had snuck into apron pockets, the sparkling pins and ribbons of the masquerade debutante, and someone else entirely - the person who was the summation of these parts, a wife and a woman who made life on her own terms. She smiled, awash with gratitude and love for all that she beheld.
Another knock at the door made her turn to find the Viscount ready to escort her downstairs. He paused, taken aback by the sight of her. Since that fateful day Sophie had appeared in his study, events had progressed to raise her from a life of servitude into a member of the ton and her appearance had been steadily transforming along the way. Her clothes had gone from servants’ linen to the crepe of his sisters’ hand-me-downs, to some of her own stylish frocks from the modiste. Her hair had been loosened and curled, styled up and down as she had tried variations to her liking. Her pallor had grown warmer as she ate heartier and toiled less. Now she stood before him, a striking beauty in a crystalline gown unlike anything he had ever seen. For years he had mocked Benedict’s insistence that he had fallen in love at first sight with this celestial mystery woman, and he felt a tinge of remorse. Seeing her now, dignified and set free, Anthony understood how she was capable of capturing hearts in an instant.
“You look beautiful Sophie,” he complimented, extending his arm for her to take.
“Thank you, my lord.” Bowing her head modestly, she joined at his side and they began their slow march down the stairs and through the foyer to the garden outside.
“Nervous?” Anthony asked.
“Yes,” she admitted, lifting her skirt with one hand and clutching her bouquet with the other, arm linked through his as she prayed not to trip down the stairs.
Anthony smirked, leaning in. “If it makes you feel any better, I was once left at the altar in front of the entire ton.”
This did, in fact, make her feel better and elicited a small chuckle. “Oh yes, I read about that in Whistledown.”
Anthony grinned along with her, having learned long ago to find humor within that particularly catastrophic day. “The most disastrous failure of a wedding anyone is likely to witness and hosted by the Queen herself no less.”
Sophie recalled reading every salacious detail about the failed wedding at the palace: fireworks set off without celebration, cake melting in the sun, and the bride’s curious last minute change of heart. It was the season before she would don a mask and move among the same crowds, studying the spectacle of their lives. It was then that she realized another point of similarity between herself and the Viscount. Both of them had experienced their own misadventures within the ton, and both of them had eventually come out happier.
“But everything worked out in the end,” she reminded him.
“It did,” he smiled, eyes growing hazy with reverie. “Kate and I were married here in a small affair much like this and it was the happiest day of our lives. An overused expression, but true.”
They had moved through the ground floor of the house and reached the french doors that opened on a pathway to the gardens. Stopping at the threshold, Anthony turned to her.
“All this is to say, there’s no need to be nervous. It’s only our family out there, and we are happy for you to join us.”
Sophie knew the truth of his words and stopped trying to school her pounding heart, allowing it to dance with excitement rather than fear.
“Thank you, my lord.”
“Anthony,” he insisted.
She smiled. “Anthony.”
Then his face grew serious. “I am sorry for how I behaved when we first met. I was only…”
“You were looking out for your brother. I understand that. You were protecting your family, which is what you should do,” Sophie assured him. “You are an honorable man, Anthony. The only honorable titled man I have yet met, in fact. Thank you for all you have done for us.”
He sighed with relief, breaking into a broad smile to match her own. Thinking back on their tense first encounter, how could either of them have anticipated the kinship they would find beneath the surface of their circumstances? The understanding that would lie beneath the roles society forced them to play?
With a reassuring squeeze of her hand, Anthony grinned.
“Ready, sister?”
“I’m ready.”
Then Sophie stepped out onto the garden path and forward into her new life. The walkway was lined with flowering stone urns that gave way to hedgerows. Anthony led her steadily through it all as the ceremony spot came into view, a few chairs arced around the statue of Apollo, at the foot of which stood the local vicar and Benedict, bouncing nervously. All eyes turned to Sophie as she rounded the corner and Benedict clapped a hand over his gaping mouth, marveling at her while his tears streamed freely. The few attendees, Bridgertons and Genevieve, stood with smiles and sniffles as she passed. With a final squeeze of her arm, Anthony deposited her at Benedict’s side and shot his brother a wink before joining Kate in the frontmost chairs.
Standing in the spot where Benedict had pledged to be her anchor, their lives were joined together forevermore. Exchanging vows and rings, their love was palpable and they were both overwhelmed by an undeniable sense of destiny. This was the something Benedict’s surreal moments of clarity had been drawing him toward. This was the dream Sophie had dared to chase, come true. A happiness both of them had longed for, fully realized as a result of letting their hearts take the lead. He was her anchor and she was his muse, their souls stitched together as if they were shards of the same ancient star, finally reunited.
Their next kiss was their first as husband and wife and Sophie emerged from the garden reborn a Bridgerton. The day stretched on in a kaleidoscope of sunlight and flowers, embraces and laughter, with her husband’s hand clasped in her own. Despite the small size of the party, it was a raucous celebration. Indeed, Sophie suspected that the familiarity of the guests allowed them to let loose more than a high society wedding would have. Violet was full of happy tears, Anthony full of toasts and Colin full of biscuits. Eloise and Gen took every opportunity to pull Sophie aside for compliments and gossip, while Kate and Daphne chased after their squealing children. Francesca, though not forthcoming with her words, had composed a piece on the piano for the occasion, and Hyacinth pulled Benedict into an impromptu dance as she played. Gregory was caught trying to pour wine down the back of Benedict’s jacket and was punished with a smear of cake icing across his cheek. Sophie sat enthralled, allowing herself to bask in the love and laughter of her new family.
At some point in the festivities while everyone was occupied with their own chaos, Benedict led her upstairs, stopping several times along the way to press his wife against the wall and roam his hands over her silken frame. Their destination was the nursery, now emptied of his art supplies, where they perched upon the window seat and recreated their first kiss, this time without protest or interruption. Pressing her down into the cushion, Benedict deftly navigated beneath her skirts and brought his wife to bliss with his tongue as she gripped into his hair and moaned his name. Straightening themselves in the aftermath, they didn’t much care whether anyone had noticed their absence.
After the feast, the music, and countless rounds of champagne, Sophie found herself trundled into the seat of a phaeton with Benedict at the reins, the two of them setting off amidst a thousand farewells through the wooded roads of Kent. Trunks of their belongings were stowed in the back with more promised to follow. As they rode, Sophie couldn’t help but keep her eyes on the sky, praying it wouldn’t rain as it had on the night of their reunion. But it remained cloudless, the soft blue giving way to the brilliant ombré of sunset, then lavender, then violet, with crickets beginning their nightly symphony as they finally approached their destination.
Benedict had spent the ride unable to keep his lips from wandering to his wife’s cheek, and spouting forth with excitement about all the details of their house. With mention of marble floors and Tudor windows, Sophie began doubting its prior description as a humble abode. Not only was it spacious and well-situated, it came with a kindly old couple who had maintained it for generations, the Crabtrees. Benedict had already met them and gotten along swimmingly. Mrs. Crabtree had apparently expressed an eagerness to train Sophie with her knowledge of herbalism. The feeling that she was floating along in a fairytale refused to abate, and it was solidified when they rounded a corner and stopped at last in front of their new home.
Sophie’s breath caught in her throat as she took in the sheer size of it; brown-stoned with tall white windows overlooking the grounds, it boasted seven gables and five chimneys. It looked more like four homes fitted together and yet despite its grand footprint, it exuded a sense of comfort. Blossoming rose bushes lined the exterior and ivy climbed up the crags of the old walls. Thick trees hinted at the gardens and woods beyond and the air was still with peace. It was a home with a story and the promise of more chapters yet to be written.
Benedict helped Sophie down from the phaeton and tended to the horses as she examined the arched gateway leading onto the lawn. When he returned and slid an arm around her waist, she smirked at him.
“You call this a cottage?”
His eyes sparkled mischievously, clearly proud of the surprise he had pulled off. “The previous owner coined the name. You should have seen his other house.”
Sophie snickered, her eyes landing on a small, unobtrusive sign in front reading, MY COTTAGE.
She looked at her husband with mock indignation. “My Cottage? Only yours then?”
He folded his lip into an exaggerated frown and thought a moment before proposing an alternative. “The Cottage?”
Sophie shook her head. “Too plain.”
Then Benedict smiled, gathered her tight in his arms and planted a soft kiss on her cheek as he whispered, “Our Cottage.”
She beamed up at him, then turned and surveyed their home from the shelter of his embrace. She nodded with satisfaction. “Our Cottage.”
“I’ll paint over the sign tomorrow,” Benedict promised. “The Crabtrees will be here in the morning. I had them light the fires and bugger off.”
“A bit rude,” Sophie chided.
“It’s our wedding night,” Benedict reminded her with a devilish quirk of his brow. “I didn’t want anyone to disturb us.”
In an instant he swept her into his arms and she squealed with delight, laughing as he carried her up the walkway and across the threshold of their home. With a deep kiss he set her down in the marbled foyer and led her through to the main hall. Sophie’s eyes cast in every direction, marveling at the height of the ceilings, the patterns of the floor tiles and the intricately carved cornices. Just like the exterior, the rooms within were somehow both elegant and cozy, distinguished but warm. Reminiscent of Aubrey Hall and a combination of the spaces in which she and Benedict found themselves most comfortable. Her husband could not have found a more perfect refuge.
Stepping into the main hall, they were greeted by a gently crackling fire and lit candle sconces, signs that the Crabtrees had readied for their arrival. With parquet floors and a sparkling chandelier, the room also boasted enormous windows looking out onto the flourishing back garden. Dusk had given way to the royal blue of early night and stars were dotting the sky. Benedict opened a window, letting in a soft breeze and the chirp of crickets.
The room was bare of furniture or decoration save for one framed canvas atop the marble mantelpiece. It was Sophie’s portrait, finished at last and sent ahead by Benedict to be installed in pride of place. She stood before it, looking back into the eyes that held so much love and yearning, hidden behind sealed lips and a conflicted heart. While Benedict had kept the simple green dress she had worn for her first sitting, he had incorporated accents of his own, dotting it with embroidery and a ribbon about the waist in Bridgerton blue. He had honored the humble maid who had agreed to be his subject while at the same time enshrining her in his family and his heart. With the skill only an artist could possess, he had rendered her in a blend of her past and present, calling together the many facets of her life with a few expertly-placed flourishes.
Sophie’s heart fluttered, overcome by both the portrait and the home around it.
“Benedict…it’s so beautiful,” she breathed.
With a smile he wrapped himself around her, his breath warm across her collarbone. “It’s all yours,” he murmured in her ear. “Whatever you want to do with it. We’ll build our life here, you and I.”
Sophie leaned into her husband, feeling a sense of ease she had never known. “We should probably start with this room. Plenty of furniture needed.”
“The bedroom is fully furnished, I assure you.” His seductive suggestion was obvious but before she could respond, he turned her gently in his arms. “Shall we have a dance to break in the floor?”
Sophie delighted at the glint in his eyes. “I thought you despised dancing!”
At the wedding they had joined in group dances but had abstained from being the center of attention and dancing on their own. Given the small celebration it was not considered unusual.
Benedict shrugged. “Well, I should think my wedding day is the only occasion worthy of the effort.”
With a wink, he took her hand and led her to the center of the room. Peeling off her gloves and casting them aside, Sophie rested one hand on his shoulder and entwined their fingers as he grasped her waist.
“You know I have only danced with one man before,” she reminded him coyly.
“Is that right?” Benedict feigned surprise.
“Mhmm,” she nodded. “A handsome stranger in a mask. Do you think you can compare?”
“I shall certainly try.”
Then with a lopsided grin, he began to guide her in slow, smooth steps, circling across the room. In anticipation of the day, Sophie had engaged Kate for dance instruction so as not to make a fool of herself but now she realized with Benedict, the steps somehow came to her naturally. She floated as he led her. They needed no music at all to move in perfect synchronicity, their hearts keeping time. As they swept past the fireplace Benedict bent to her ear, his honeyed voice rumbling in his chest.
“What do you feel?” he asked.
Sophie pressed her cheek to his, closing her eyes to absorb every sensation. The warmth of his skin, the steady tempo of his breath, the grip of his hands and rhythm of their feet. The heat of the fire, the cool kiss of the breeze, and the assuredness that this was hers for the rest of her life. Peace. Contentment. Blissful romance. A dream that had turned from a dare into destiny.
She moved her hand to the nape of his neck and exhaled softly against him.
“I feel that if in the whole of my life I had experienced a fraction of the happiness I felt today, I would consider myself lucky.”
Benedict smiled, grasping her tighter, twirling her further across the room. “What do you see?”
She pulled back. As the twinkle of the chandelier spun overhead and reflected in his eyes, she saw the whole whirlwind of all that had transpired between them. But it always came back to the truth of what she had seen when they first met. A mirror of herself, a window into fate, a match written in the stars that was always meant to be.
She never took her eyes off his. “My soul,” she whispered, “I see my very soul. My husband. My love.”
Benedict swallowed, the lurch in his chest returning as it had so frequently in her presence but this time it was a warm, uplifting feeling, as if his heart were leaping with joy to be joined so closely with hers.
“What do you see?” His wife asked him in turn.
Benedict knew that if he lived a thousand lives with one hundred years in each of them, he would never have sufficient time to describe what he saw before him. A woman of such character, strength and beauty he still could hardly be convinced she was real. She had vanished once before, as gossamer as a dream, then returned to bless him with the most dreamlike reality any man could ever know. To express his gratitude, he would willingly take on any pain, any burden for her, and would honor her being with his deeds and words until his dying breath. Tears rose to his eyes, blurring the edges of her glittering form and making her shine all the brighter. He held her, a star plucked from heaven that would rest safe in his arms for the rest of their lives.
“I believe I see you for the first time as you truly are. Not the lady in silver, not Sophie the maid, but my wife, Mrs. Sophia Bridgerton, and you are more radiant than any dream could ever be.”
Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, WW2 AU.
Summary: Benedict teaches his new wife a new skill.
Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, oral sex teaching, blow job, masturbation, swallowing, orgasms. Romantic, I guess? idk.
Word Count: 3.0k
Author’s Note: One-shot (requested by🪴anon, see next post) set during Ch 12 of When The World Is Free. This scene is briefly referenced in the fic in a non-explicit manner. Hold onto your hats; here’s the detailed version lol. At this stage of their marriage of (in)convenience, they are already hopelessly in love but in denial. Fic title is another Edith Piaf song. Thanks to @colettebronte for being an awesome beta and for assuring me this is worthy of the WTWIF universe. Enjoy! 🫶
On your first night at Aubrey Hall, Benedict sneaks into your room in the early hours while everyone else is asleep. Crashing into each other, he hauls you off the ground into his arms, your legs winding around his hips as you kiss greedily, hungrily—stolen, secret moments together so very precious.
Half an hour later, you are staring at the ceiling, panting, utterly sated as he once again used his mouth to bring you to a shaking pinnacle, your cries muffled into a pillow.
“We must find somewhere private,” he sighs, his face resting on your belly as you card your fingers through his thick hair. “I like to hear you scream…” His wistful, cheeky addition makes you gasp, and you swat him gently on the shoulder. He laughs heartily and crawls up over you on all fours. “We can steal away somewhere on the grounds where no one would find us,” he assures, eyes shining in the low lamplight.
“I shall keep you to that promise, Mr Bridgerton,” you threaten softly, pushing his shoulders until he lies on his back, you hovering over him now. “Do you think you are capable of being as quiet as I was?”
“Why do you ask?” a flicker of confusion over his face, until your hand slides down his flat stomach and lands upon the warm bulge in his pyjamas.
“I would like to return the favour…” you offer, as his breath hitches beautifully. “I have never used my mouth as such, but you will teach me, won’t you? Tell me what you like?”
His groan is like music as you shuffle lower over his reclining torso, looking up at him with fluttering eyelashes as he stares down with utter devotion.
Pitching forward, you rub the tip of your nose over the warm bulge in his pyjamas. He makes a tiny noise in the back of his throat that is so enchanting. So you do it again, inhaling through the thin material. Your nostrils fill with that wonderful scent his skin has, but richer here, a little muskier. It makes your mouth water.
You open your mouth and kiss the mass there, and he exhales shakily as you allow your tongue to run the length of his cock through the silk, enjoying its heat and solidity. With his uneven breathing, you know your instincts are right so far.
Feeling bolder, you tap his hip and start to tug down on the waistband, signalling that you wish him to remove them. You sit up a little to allow him the room, and demurely, he yanks them down and tosses them aside.
“I have seen you naked before,” you murmur soothingly as he lays flat again.
“Please don't feel you have to do this…” A sheepish mien as he touches your chin briefly, even as his demeanour screams that he very much desires you to.
“I want to,” you reassure. “I am already aroused by the mere thought.”
There is a light groan at your confession; you lower your face again, his cock radiating warmth as it arcs upright over his body, fully erect and slightly red at the tip. You nuzzle there timidly.
“Guide me, Benedict….”
With a shaky exhale, he whispers. “Anything is frankly wonderful… but umm, maybe use your tongue? Like you did before?”
This bashful version of your new husband is so very endearing.
Starting at the very tip, you trail your tongue slowly down his length, as he suggested, just as you had through the silk, but this time mapping his flesh, its heat and contours. You don’t stop until you encounter his root, his taste strongest there, right by his balls. You swipe a lick over that flesh, fascinated by the different texture of his skin there, rougher, puckered, and he groans loudly.
“Shhh,” you chastise playfully, even as you glow with pride, already addicted to how powerful this feels.
His hand flies to his mouth, expression both comedic and apologetic all at once. It’s so adorable you can’t help but share a giggle, his eyes shimmering with affection. Your smile slides into a smirk as you unfurl your tongue, slowly retracing the path back up his cock, glancing up to see his eyes now rolling as you use a hint of pressure.
“What else?’ you ask quietly, eager to learn so much more.
“Kiss the tip,” he rushes out, reaching to brush your cheek. “Then take me into your mouth a little…. Please…” he quickly appends.
You follow his direction, wrapping your lips around the end of his cock, letting him slip into your mouth a fraction, smooth and hot.
“Yes, that’s it,” he breathes. “Just like that…”
Following his guidance, you spend a few moments sucking lightly on the end, your tongue running over the slit there, which has him inhaling sharply. The only other man you have been intimate with, Stanley, well, his cock was very different. Not that you ever did this for him; you only used your hands. But he was circumcised, whereas Benedict is not. There is a thin, moveable layer of skin enclosing his cock head, and you are keen to learn how to treat it.
“What do I do here?” You question, running your fingers over the ring of flesh.
“You can roll it down gently,” he advises, nodding when you wrap a hand around his shaft.
Delicately, you roll down his foreskin so all of his tip is exposed. It is flushed a very dark pink, especially where it tapers. Wrapping your lips around him again, making them into a tight ring and sinking, taking the whole of his head into your mouth, running your tongue around the exposed groove, him emitting a quiet moan as you do.
“Perfect…” he sighs.
You glance up at his face to see his lower lip caught between his upper teeth; he looks so handsome. So you keep exploring little licks and flicks of your tongue here and there. Experimentally, you kiss his exposed frenulum, then suck lightly upon it. He mutters a curse under his breath as a bead of liquid pools at his slit. You swipe it with your tongue, pausing at its salty, bitter taste.
“Sorry. I know it's not very pleasant…” he blurts out, looking contrite.
You make a noise of reassurance that it’s okay, not a delicious taste, but not terrible and continue to suckle on his head, moving up and down slowly. More familiar now, you glance up at him, wanting to see him in the full flush of arousal, his lips stained darker, a vein in his neck pulsing.
“Use some suction…please…” he entreats softly.
So you suckle harder, closing your eyes to concentrate, using your lips as a tight seal, your cheeks hollowing as you take rhythmic draws—his breathing changes, shallow and staccato. A hand landing in your hair, and you find you enjoy the weight. It’s not pressure, just guidance, his blunt nails mildly grazing your scalp. Above you, he makes little huffing noises.
After a few moments, you take a breath, seeking reassurance: “Is this okay?”
“More than…” he gushes. “Are you certain you have never done this before?”
“No. I’ve never even wanted to… Until you…”
Something about those words lights a fire in his gaze.
“Please take more of me,” he pleads, a tinge of urgency in his tone, “whatever you can manage.”
You hunger to give him everything, to try to take all of him into your mouth, but you will need time and more practice for that. Still, a large part of you burns to do so. A yen to be the best he has ever had, to make him addicted to you, his new wife, and what only you can do for him.
So this time, you sink a little lower, swirling your tongue once around his head, then pressing it to his underside as you take more of him into your mouth, a fullness that has you hollowing your cheek around him, suckling deeply.
A surge of victory in your core as his hips jolt, his fingers clutch your hair, the coolness of his wedding ring dragging against your scalp. His touch is merely a discreet guidance; you respond intuitively to the flex of his digits. Mirroring the pace he provides: following when to draw up, when to sink down. Guiding you like a conductor as he stifles his moans.
Your own arousal is slick between your legs, throbbing for him, yearning to crawl up and sit upon his cock, ride him until you are both screaming into each other's palms…. but you also want him to come from this alone. Excited by the prospect of him unravelling in your mouth, ideally breathless and needy, clinging to you.
Seeking more range of motion, you pause and softly pump him in your grip. “May we rearrange?”
His eyes fly open. “Yes… Anything…. What do you need?” He chatters, constantly so accommodating.
Instead of explaining, you drop off the side of the bed onto your knees, still pumping his cock loosely as you signal for him to twist and sit up; place his legs on either side of you.
He groans when you draw his head back into your mouth while holding his gaze, your eyes wide and unblinking, needing him to see you like this: naked on your knees, your lips stretched around him. Deducing it as a fantasy come true for him.
“Fuck, you look so beautiful….” he praises breathily, him brushing a strand of hair that has fallen over your face, tucking it behind your ear.
That little act of tenderness has you suddenly feverish for this, for him, a craving to have him utterly at your mercy and writhing with pleasure. Maintaining eye contact, you pulsate your tongue against his shaft, teasing him more. His Adam's apple bobs with a heavy swallow, his lower lip snagging under his incisor as he quells another curse.
Shuffling closer so your knees are under the bed, you break the heated stare, grasping his slender hips and rocking yourself further onto his cock. At this angle, you are more comfortable experimenting with taking him deeper into your mouth. Each pass takes a little more, sucking and swirling, letting your saliva drip down his shaft, lubricating your path lower; something so primal about the thought of him glistening with your fluids.
You sink to the lowest you've ever been, his tip nudging your soft palate. His touch is gone from your hair, grasping the sheets around him in his fists, emitting a guttural groan.
“Shhh!” You pull up quickly to chastise him again, your fist taking over with a slow pumping action.
“I cannot…” he whines, almost sounding defeated, his fuzzy, muscular thighs rippling slightly from the curl of his toes into the rug on either side of your hips.
”I want you to come in my mouth, but we risk being interrupted if you are too loud…” you remonstrate logically.
His cock pulses heavily in your hand as he stares down at you slack-jawed, having seemingly lost the power of speech.
“What?” You shrug, feigning innocence.
“Y-y-you want that?” He finally stutters, disbelieving.
“Of course I do,” you answer, twisting your wrist slightly, maintaining a light tease with your palm. “I have done so upon your tongue, haven't I?”
“Yes… but…”
Another bead of pre cum leaks over your knuckles as he flounders; you squeeze him gently in an upwards sweep. Instinct takes over; you dip down to lick your fingers. A strangled moan from him as your tongue swipes through the slightly viscous drop. That tartness blooming on your tastebuds is somehow sweeter than before.
You return suckling upon him, a new determination in your movements, more courageous with each passing moment. Using your grip at the base of his cock to add extra sensation. That thrumming dampness between your legs makes you want to frottage something, your hips flexing without you cognisant of such.
“Are you okay?:” he huffs out, perhaps concerned that your movements are borne out of discomfort.
“More than,” you assure, garbled around him.
“You are squirming….”
His sweet concern has you reluctantly release his cock with a wet pop and looking up at him, beguiled by his flushed cheeks.
“This arouses me, Benedict, very much,” you confess quietly, unable to be anything but truthful with him.
His nostrils flare; his face a picture of desire, his blown pupils glittering. “Touch yourself, please, y/n… fuck… touch yourself…” he stumbles, looking at you so intensely you could blister.
Almost under a spell, you do as he tutors, burrowing between your legs, fingertips sliding into a pool of wetness as you return to your ministrations, your lips sealed tight upon him.
The friction against your engorged clit has you moaning, him stuttering a curse at the responding vibration around his cock. You discern he is holding back, a tremor in him that is both excitement and muzzled restraint, a simmering urge to thrust a little, to buck into you.
You are sucking him earnestly now, moving up and down his shaft in determined draws, running your tongue tip into his slit as you reach the head. In your peripheral vision, you watch him scramble and grab his discarded pyjama top, wadding a bunch of navy silk into his mouth and gagging himself. He swears and babbles into the silk, the sounds now muffled, his moans louder and more insistent, his hand in your hair again. The twitching in his being and his heaving breaths - all his tells from when you rode him before - give you the sense he is approaching his peak.
You plead for him to break, your words unintelligible as you drool around him, your mouth full, your lips tingling, a slight ache in your jaw. You don’t want to stop, craving for the moment he breaks, utterly undone by you. Fingers sliding over your clit urgently, spiralling yourself high too.
“Look at me…”
It’s a ragged, almost frantic plea, slightly hoarse, as he yanks the material from his mouth.
Every fibre of his being is on a precipice while you gaze up at him. His skin flushed a deep pink, his neck corded, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple from his hairline, his pupils blown, encased in a cerulean ring, panting hard. That captivating sight is what catalyses your second orgasm, your pussy clenching in waves, craving his cock as you redouble your efforts to bring him to completion with you. Even fuzzy with the pleasure races around your body, you fight to keep going, allowing your moans of completion to reverberate loudly around his cock. And it works that carnal call and response too strong for him to resist.
“I…I am coming,” Benedict warns staccato, eyes screwed shut, his face contorting in rapture, all his little motions ceasing, his thighs constricting either side of your body.
His hand falls from your hair, likely expecting you to pull your mouth away, but it just spurs you on. Sinking, taking more of him, a strong pulse up his length, he nearly howls, hunching forwards over you and stuttering your name and so many words, some not even English, as he floods your mouth. All while you stay still, fighting the urge to cough, to take a breath. His taste is so much more than the preview. Salty, bitter, sweet, acidic. And copious. So much so that the reflex to swallow much of it kicks in before you even realise it.
His fingers lace with yours as you unwrap your grip from around his cock. With a gentle kiss to his tip, you withdraw, resting your head on his thigh to gather your breath, his taste strong in your mouth, and a lightness bubbling inside that you were able to give him this.
“Did you…?” He stumbles, and you instantly know what he is asking, so you just nod.
“You didn’t have to…”
“I wanted to,” you assert, letting him haul you back up onto the bed.
He surrounds you in an embrace, his body flushed warm, a little dewy.
“That was…” he trails off, again lost for words, his lips hot on your temple as he crushes a fervent kiss there. “Thank you,” his inflection so sincere it makes your heart melt.
“It was wonderful for me too, Benedict,” you assure, nuzzling into him. “I came too,” you add quietly, that reflex to always be honest with him kicking in as ever.
He grabs your chin, staring deep into your eyes with an intensity that seems to strip your soul as bare as your body. He may not even realise it, but the fingers of his other hand trace over your wedding ring as he keeps scrutinising you, as if reading all your layers. Unspoken words seemingly dancing on the tip of his tongue. He finally draws you into an earnest kiss that telegraphs what he cannot voice—tingles down to your toes. Even as you squeak in surprise when he is unphased by the taste of his release, perhaps even enjoying such.
Settling together, you lay entwined for untold moments, the ticking of a mantel clock and your shared breaths syncopating the only sounds, lulling you into drowsiness.
“I may need to be gone before anyone awakens,” he points out reluctantly after you stifle a yawn. “But that doesn't mean I don't wish for you to fall asleep in my arms…”
With a sated smile, you wordlessly burrow into him, your nose lodged into his neck, his heartbeat strong under your skin, his fingertips tracing soothing patterns on your flank, and his breath warm in your hair.
That, indeed, is how you fall asleep: in the arms of your new husband, already knowing this new dynamic will be impossible to resist.
Benedict Bridgerton x Sophie Beckett
An Offer from a Gentleman reimagined
Chapter rating: 18+ - explicit sexual content
Word count: 5.5k
Masterpost
Previous chapter
Author's note: A portion of this chapter may be familiar to you if you've read my story Fever. Dream. Before I decided to share this story with the world, I shamelessly lifted chunks of it to write that shorter fic. This has also been a work in progress for so long, it actually contains the first steamy scene I ever, ever wrote.
Love to Gumball, who inspired some of the dialogue. Such pure words from the heart had to find their way to Benedict's lips 💙
Sophie was grateful that it was the dinner hour and that they encountered no one closely in the distance between Bridgerton House and Benedict’s apartments. She couldn’t imagine the gossip that would erupt the next day from anyone who had seen them: Benedict Bridgerton, one of London’s most eligible bachelors, wild-eyed and bleeding, dragging a maid by the hand through the streets.
Once safely behind closed doors, Benedict led her into a small parlour, leaving her in the doorway while he proceeded to stomp about from one corner to the other. The footman that had opened the door followed them warily and scurried off when Sophie quietly asked him to bring a basin of water and cloth.
She paused to take in her surroundings. If Benedict’s room in Aubrey Hall could be considered something of a gallery, this room was a full-fledged studio. Devoid of most of the furniture one would expect to find in a parlour, this one held only a few cabinets of supplies, a large, paint-splattered table strewn with brushes, cups, palettes and papers, and a lone sofa. The floor was hidden entirely by dropcloths and three easels stood near the windows. As at Aubrey Hall, the walls were dotted with pinned sketches and hung paintings, mostly large landscape canvases. It was so precisely him - wild and disorganized but colorful and moving, with bursts of breathtaking beauty.
His wildness was on full display as he stalked the length of the room, kicking the cloths and crumpling papers, raking his hands through his hair.
Sophie stood in place by the doorway. “Benedict, you must tell me what is wrong.”
He glanced at her almost as if he had forgotten she was there. “Nothing is wrong,” he grumbled.
“You’re bleeding!”
He either didn’t hear her or chose to ignore her. He continued to pace, seething. “Bloody whelp…if he ever…”
Sophie stepped into the room, raising her voice. “If who ever?”
“Cavender!”
She froze. That was certainly not a name she had expected to hear tonight. “Cavender? What happened?”
Again he was either ignoring her or so lost in his anger that he had grown deaf. He continued muttering to himself. “Bloody…menace…ought to be shot…”
“Benedict Bridgerton!” She shouted with her full voice. It worked and he snapped to face her. “Come here and sit down,” she ordered. The poor confused footman had entered and placed the basin on the table before bowing out awkwardly.
With a look of apology, Benedict staggered to sit on the sofa while Sophie wet a cloth and came to stand before him.
His eyes were huge, unfathomable as he looked up at her. “Sophie…”
“Shut up,” she snapped. “Sit still.”
He stopped fidgeting and she held his chin, dabbing the cloth at the corner of his lips, the fabric staining pink. Even under these circumstances it felt so good to touch his skin again, she wanted to shiver. She continued to wipe away the blood, trying to focus only on her task, but her eyes inevitably wandered to meet his gaze. The blue-grey beacons pierced right through her. Something in them was longing. She couldn’t help herself from running her thumb gently under the one that was so frightfully damaged and bright red with blood.
“Did you get into a row with him?” she asked softly.
“Yes. I don’t think he’ll ever care to be in my company again.”
Sophie nodded and continued tending to his cut. She had a passing memory of Benedict’s promise so long ago at the inn; that he would beat Cavender when next he saw him. At the time it had made her smile. But now, Benedict acting as her champion brought out far more complicated feelings. Should she thank him? Had he revealed to Cavender where she was?
“What was said?” she asked.
“Nothing important. He doesn’t know you’re here.” He always had a way of speaking to her as if reading her mind. “He’s a loathsome cad and now everyone knows it.”
Sophie nodded again, feeling a bit relieved. She had done as much as she could with the cloth and brought it back to the table. She turned to Benedict, her voice wary.
“Why did you bring me here? Is this all you wanted to tell me?”
Benedict unclenched his jaw but didn’t answer. He seemed to be searching for words.
Sophie continued. “If you seek an apology, I must demand some of my own, and it wouldn’t be worth the breath we will waste because I am leaving. Tonight.”
He stood from the sofa and she instinctively backed toward the door. She didn’t have the energy to fight or bargain with him any longer. This would be the last time she would see him, bloodied and confused though he was. A final bout of sorrow began to choke her.
“I can’t do this anymore, Benedict,” she whispered, shaking her head. “Everything hurts too much. I can’t…”
“I love you.”
His words were loud and clear. A proclamation that made her heart stop. She stared at him, stunned. Was she going mad? Hearing things? Was he just toying with her?
Again, as if hearing her thoughts, he continued. “And I’m not just saying that to keep you here.”
He turned and walked to one of the cabinets against the wall, retrieving a small key from some hidden corner and unlocking a drawer. From within he lifted a stack of papers, varying in size and texture. He held them gingerly in both hands like priceless artifacts. Sophie moved trepidatiously to stand by the sofa, wondering what on earth he was doing.
Benedict turned and looked her in the eyes, an unreadable expression on his face, something like reluctance and yearning simultaneously. He walked closer and slowly started to spread the pages out before her, separating them to lay across the sofa and the floor so she could see each one.
She gasped.
It was her.
They were all pictures of her.
Dozens of them. Charcoal sketches of a faceless woman in a cascading ball gown. Renderings of a face hidden by a mask with dark lips and starry earrings. A study of gloved hands, another of the curls of her coiffure. Oil paintings of a woman facing away in a dark garden and watercolors of swirling blues and silver, some painted by his own fingers, abstract and without imagery, but she knew what they signified. She sank to the sofa and touched them in awe, her hands shaking. Eyes welled with tears, she looked up at him, speechless.
“I have thought of nothing but you for two years,” his voice was unsteady with emotion. “I couldn’t let myself forget you, even though I didn’t know your face. You are all I can see. You are in every line I draw, every sky I paint. You are all that inspires and delights me. The only moments when you’re not on my mind are in the dreams where you elude me.” He moved to stand before her. “I have loved you even before I truly knew you, and since fate reunited us I have scarcely been able to breathe in your presence.”
Sophie was finding it impossible to breathe in this moment. All she could do was gaze up at him and let the tears roll down her face.
“In my life I have endeavored to be guided by one thing,” he paused, swallowing. “My heart. And it is telling me that finding you again is not a coincidence. It is crying out for you.”
Sophie didn’t know whether she was about to sprout wings and fly into the air, or shatter like a pane of glass.
Then Benedict knelt on one knee, taking her hands in his. He looked up at her, a plea in his eyes.
“I know the circumstances are not perfect. I know our union would not be traditional,” he nearly spat the word. “But I have never put much stock in tradition or society. I must do what my heart bids me to, above all else.”
One hand rummaged in his waistcoat pocket, then he held out a glinting ring of silver and sapphire, a crooked grin teasing the corners of his mouth.
“Marry me, Sophie.”
All the air left her lungs, the room began to spin.
“Let me show you the love and comfort that you deserve. We can live quietly somewhere away from any judgment. Please, Sophie. We can find a way. Please do not condemn me to live the rest of my life as a broken man.”
It was as if the whole world went silent and all Sophie could hear were both of their bated breaths. Everything grew shrouded in her vision except him, kneeling on the paint splattered cloth, a question in his bloodied eyes. Seeing his outstretched hand, it was only now that she realized his knuckles were cut and bleeding too. It was not how she had ever envisioned the moment whenever she had dared to dream of his proposal. But it was perfect.
“This is real…” she whispered, more to assure herself than to ask him.
He replied nonetheless. “It is real. I love you, Sophie. I want to marry you.” He gripped her hand tighter. “Will you marry me?”
The warmth from his fingers spread up through her arm and across her whole body. It made her feel alive, illuminated, weightless with the happiness of a dream come true.
“Yes,” she whispered, a beaming smile breaking through her tears. “Yes, of course, yes!”
They surged forward to hold each other, colliding in a desperate kiss. Sophie wept and laughed simultaneously, absolutely breathless with emotion.
Grinning ear to ear, Benedict slid the ring onto her left hand. Sophie could barely register its beauty. All she saw was a glimmering braid of silver, pearl and blue through her tears, perfectly matching the spread of artwork beneath her on the floor. She gazed at it lovingly before pulling Benedict into another kiss. They grasped each other, sighing and giggling and kissing every inch of skin - lips and faces and hands - releasing the nervous energy that was coursing through them both.
When they had overcome their giddiness and could breathe again, they sat together on the sofa, hands entwined.
“I’m sorry,” Sophie said suddenly. It was all she could think to say.
“No, I’m sorry,” Benedict replied. “I shouldn’t have asked you to be my mistress. It wasn’t right of me.”
“Benedict,” she said softly, “what else would you have done? This isn’t a perfect world. Men like you don’t marry…”
“Fine. I wasn’t wrong to ask then.” He tried to smile. It came out lopsided. “I would have been a fool not to ask. I wanted you so badly, and I think I already loved you, and…”
“Benedict, you don’t have to…”
“Explain? Yes I do. I should never have pressed the issue. It was unfair of me to ask you to stop working and be a kept woman, especially when we both knew that I would eventually be expected to marry. I would die before sharing you.” He ran his fingers along her cheek. “How could I ask you to do the same?”
She reached out and brushed something under his eye. Jesus, was he crying? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried. When his father had died, perhaps?
“There are so many reasons I love you,” he said, each word emerging with careful precision. He knew that he had won her. She wasn’t going to run away; she would be his wife. But he still wanted this to be perfect. A man only got one shot at declaring himself to his true love; he didn’t want to muck it up completely.
“But one of the things I love best,” he continued, “is the fact that you know yourself. You know who you are, and what you value. You have principles, Sophie, and you stick by them.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “That is so rare.”
Her eyes were filling with tears again, and all he wanted to do was hold her, but he knew he had to finish. So many words had been welling up inside of him, and they all had to be said.
“And,” he said, his voice dropping in volume, “you took the time to see me. To know me. Benedict. Not Mr. Bridgerton, not ‘Number Two.’ Benedict.”
She touched his cheek. “You’re the finest person I know. I adore your family, but I love you.”
He crushed her to him. He couldn’t help it. He had to feel her in his arms, to reassure himself that she was there and that she would always be there. With him, by his side, until death did they part. It was strange, but he was driven by the oddest compulsion to hold her…just hold her.
He was, he realized, comforted by her presence. They didn’t need to talk. They didn’t even need to touch (although he wasn’t about to let go just then). Simply put, he was a happier man - and quite possibly a better man when she was near.
He buried his face in her hair, inhaling her scent. Somehow, she smelled of vanilla. Vanilla and amber, a sweetness so rare.
Sophie held him against her, trailing her fingers across the nape of his neck, saying at last the words she had hidden for so long. “I love you,” she whispered. “I have always loved you. I think I loved you before I knew you too.”
He pulled back and looked at her inquisitively.
“At the masquerade,” she said, her voice uncharacteristically shaky, “even before I saw you, I felt you. Anticipation. Magic. There was something in the air. And when I turned, and you were there, it was as if you’d been waiting for me, and I knew that you were the reason I’d stolen into the ball.”
He opened his mouth, and for a moment, she was certain he would say something, but the only sound that emerged was a rough, halting noise, and she realized that he was overcome, that he could not speak.
She was undone.
Benedict kissed her again, trying to show in deeds what he could not say in words. He hadn’t thought he could love her any more than he did just five seconds earlier, but when she’d said…when she’d told him…
His heart had grown, and he’d thought it might burst.
He loved her. Suddenly the world was a very simple place. He loved her, and that was all that mattered.
Sophie kissed him back, feeling like jagged parts of her soul were at last being stitched, tied together to his. Their secrets were finally falling away. Each whispered promise and revelation made her feel lighter and lighter within his arms. There was only one more.
She held his neck and pulled away, looking earnestly into his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she said again.
“What for?”
“For not telling you who I was. It was wrong of me.” She bit her lip. “I can’t explain exactly why I did what I did, but it just…” She sighed. “I didn’t tell you right away because it didn’t seem to make any sense to do so. I was so sure we’d part ways at the inn. But then you were ill, and I had to care for you, and you didn’t recognize me, and…”
He brought a finger under her chin. “It doesn’t matter.”
Her brows rose. “It seemed to matter a great deal last night.”
He ran his thumb across her lips. “I know who you are.”
She gave him a small smile.
“And do you want to hear the funniest part?” he continued. “Do you know one of the reasons I was so hesitant to give my heart completely to you? I’d been saving a piece of it for the lady from the masquerade, always hoping one day I’d find her.”
“Oh, Benedict,” she sighed, thrilled by his words, and at the same time miserable that she had hurt him so.
“Deciding to marry you meant I had to abandon my dream of marrying her,” he said quietly. “Ironic, isn’t it?”
“I’m sorry I hurt you by not revealing my identity,” she said, looking down. “How can I ever make it up to you?”
He lifted her face to meet his gaze again. His lopsided grin made his eyes sparkle. “Love me for the rest of your life.”
Sophie smiled. She knew that she would, and it would be rather like breathing. She wouldn’t have much choice in the matter.
___
The remaining hours of the evening whirled by. Benedict and Sophie stayed where they were, basking in the giddy reality that they were now betrothed. They did not discuss or fret over any details, knowing how delicate and complex those would be. They simply wanted to enjoy the happiness they felt in that moment and extend it throughout the night. The one arrangement they agreed upon was that they could not remain in England. It was too dangerous for Sophie to risk contact with the Cowpers or Cavenders, and Benedict refused to allow anyone even the chance to reproach his wife. They talked of Paris and Rome and Prussia - places Sophie could never have imagined seeing in her wildest dreams - and Benedict promised to take her there.
They sighed and laughed, wrapped in their dreams on the sofa until the footman returned and hesitantly reminded them that dinner was available. Benedict had the meal brought to his bedroom, unable to contain himself for a formal dinner table and unable to stop kissing and stroking his fiancee. Maybe they ate, he couldn’t remember, and maybe the footmen stared at Sophie, wondering why Benedict was being so flagrantly flirtatious with a maid, but he didn’t care.
Eventually Sophie stripped him of his torn clothing, kissing the spots on his shoulders and chest that he realized were tender from his fight. He pulled off her dress and they held each other, wearing only their undergarments, soaking in the heat of each others’ skin. He wanted her, of course. He always wanted her. But more than that, he wanted to hold her. To smell her, to feel her. He sat as she washed the dried blood from his knuckles, kissing each in turn. Then he laid back on the bed and she kissed his jaw, his bloodied lip, and the lid of his scarlet eye.
They lost themselves in a gauzy warmth, trailing their hands along each other’s bodies with no sense of urgency. They entwined their fingers, they whispered promises, they simply stared at each other, reveling in love. Benedict rolled onto his stomach and drank in the sight of her. He was contented just to lie there and watch her breathe, the soft movements of her chemise betraying the curves of her body. He studied her face, dappled by candlelight, the arch of her brows, the pointed bow of her lips, the line of her neck. He committed them to memory and endeavored to paint this image, the image of the woman he loved most in the world on the night they agreed to wed.
Sophie stared back at him, her fiance. The most beautiful man she had ever seen. Almost too beautiful to be real. She couldn’t help but reach out and touch his cheek to confirm that he was flesh and blood and not just a dream. His gaze held her so softly, so full of tenderness, then she broke into a smile. In turn he cracked a grin, that damn, cheeky, crooked grin that made her heart nearly leap out of her body. They lay there, grinning at each other like lovesick fools, holding the most precious secret between them: that they were in love, true and honest love with one another and soon would be man and wife.
The joy caused them both to chuckle and breathe heavier with sheer delight and the sound of their breaths, the rustling of the sheets between them, quickly elevated that joy to something else…an invitation. Their smiles faded and eyes locked, darkening with mutual need. Her hands wound into his hair, his hands found her face, and the space between them closed instantaneously. They kissed. A single, long, passionate kiss, intense but tender. They had kissed so many times before now, why did this feel like the first time? That kiss fractured into dozens more, faster, messier. Their tongues danced. He wanted to taste every sweet inch of her. She planted kisses across his jaw, down his neck. His fabulous, muscled neck. Benedict moved to lay atop her, gaining greater access to the entirety of her face, her collarbone, her pale shoulders.
“Ben,” she held his face in her hands, eyes glazed. “Show me how much you love me.”
His brow knitted with concern, “Do you not believe my words?”
She leaned up to kiss him, “No, no, of course I believe them.” Another kiss, then her eyes leveled on his. “But I want to feel them.”
Something twisted in his stomach, blood rushed downward in his body, arousal stiffened between his legs. This woman, he thought, how can her words always do this to me?
In a flurry he was pulling down the sleeves of her chemise as she wriggled to free herself of it. He wrestled with his own pants and kicked them aside. They were naked, exposed to each other and to all the opportunities that presented. It was the way he most enjoyed to be with her. He moved back to slide his tongue into her mouth, probing, caressing. His hands traced the shape of her curves. He cupped and kneaded her breasts, full and luscious. She leaned her head back and moaned as he moved lower, sucking at her nipples, grazing them with his teeth. She was a banquet and he was going to enjoy each course.
He snaked a hand between her legs and found her already slick. He groaned into the soft flesh of her stomach. How he wanted to dive into that river with every part of himself. His fingers pressed to enter her but she stopped him with a firm hand around his wrist. He looked up, curious, as she tugged to bring him back on top of her as before. As soon as it was within reach, her other hand gripped his cock, causing him to inhale sharply. She stared up at him, eyes burning as her hand started to move, up and down across his velvet length.
“I need to feel them now.” She tried to issue the words as a command, though she was sure her voice was mewling with desire.
His eyes were searing into her, mouth gaping, his breaths coming shorter. While she continued to stroke him slowly, with her free hand she reached up and gripped a fistful of his thick, black, unruly hair. She tugged gently, willing him to say something.
His eyes closed and he exhaled with a hiss, “Christ.”
She smirked. He understood her now and was eager to fulfill her wishes. She dropped her hand to his cheek and traced his bottom lip with her thumb. He opened his mouth and sucked her finger into it, swirling his tongue before biting and releasing it. He lowered himself into position and she wrapped both arms around his back. He kissed her, she kissed him, and they moaned into each other’s mouths as he slid into her.
Sophie felt whole. With Benedict in her body, in her mouth, in her heart, everywhere. He banished pain she did not know she had, or had forced herself to forget. It was as if she had spent her life before him as a broken half of a locket, thinking she could shine on her own, but not realizing how everything would feel corrected once she was rehinged with her other half.
Benedict’s hips moved with a practiced pace, thrusting slowly in and out of the woman he loved. It was luxurious, exquisite. She was here and she was his, body and mind and soul. She shifted beautifully beneath him as he rode, taking the length of him, breathing in time with his movements, her lips upturned in a smile of bliss. How many times in his life would he get to do this? To fill her and love her and watch her love him back? If it happened every day for the rest of his life, it wouldn’t be enough to satisfy the yearning in his heart. He quickened his pace and leaned down to inhale the sweet scent of her neck.
Sophie was moaning and sighing with pleasure. She leaned up and bit his earlobe then purred, “I want to feel you finish inside me.”
He groaned with a shudder and slowed to a halt, stopping himself from coming right then. He realized that his anxiety over such an act was no longer warranted. She was his fiancee, soon to be his wife. There were no longer any boundaries if they did not want them. And clearly, Sophie did not want them. He was only too happy to oblige.
A grin spread across his face, that damned crooked grin again. “I won’t finish before you do.”
He leaned back, never pulling out of her as he moved to kneel between her legs. He pulled her hips upward to meet him as her feet planted into the mattress, her thighs framing his hips. Her eyes were wide, eager to watch what he would do next. He began to move again, dipping into her slowly, one hand gripping her waist. He held her gaze as he raised his free hand and took two fingers into his mouth. They emerged glistening and he brought them down upon her crest, pressing, circling, teasing the center of her pleasure.
Sophie was certain this must be what it felt like to go mad. She had no words, no thoughts, she barely had sight. All she could feel, her every sense, was concentrated on the movements and heat and pressure orchestrated by the man between her legs. The gorgeous aching spread through her whole body like ripples in a pond. She was moaning, loudly, repeatedly, but didn’t care. All she could do was give in, hand him the reins to her body and its sensations. She gasped into the pillows and tried to hold on to something solid before she slid off the edge of the earth. One hand clung to his wrist at her hip, the other braced against the headboard which was thumping rhythmically against the wall.
Benedict’s eyes swept over her, moving from the work of his fingers to the delicious bounce of her breasts, to her flushed face, eyes clamped shut as she hummed and cried out. He was certain he could do this for hours. She was so wet he likely didn’t need to lick his fingers to touch her, but it was his way of kissing her there in her most precious spot while he was simultaneously inside her. He matched the circling of his fingers to the thrusting of his hips, rhythmic and not too fast, focusing solely on her.
Under his ministrations she began to grow rigid, her thighs shook and clenched him in place, her hips bucked upward to meet his hand. She began to pant, “Oh god, Ben, oh god…” He circled his fingers faster, pressed harder, coaxing her. Lord, how he wanted to feel her explode.
Sophie reached her precipice, mouth held open in a silent scream as electric white waves of release washed over her. She shuddered, reveled, lost herself to the feeling. Benedict choked out a gasp as she came, her body squeezing his cock of its own accord. He thrust into her faster, riding her spasms with blinding ecstasy. He nearly collapsed from the feeling but caught himself and was back lying atop her again. He gazed at Sophie, face sheened with sweat, cheeks high with color, eyes full of love and satiety, the most beautiful woman in the most beautiful moment.
“I love you,” he breathed.
Saying these words, the realization sunk deeper and deeper into his soul that this was forever. She was his present, she was his future. Wherever they found themselves, in city or country, in whatever corner of the world, accepted by society or not, this was the woman he had always hoped to find and she was better than any fantasy he had conjured. Sophie and the lady in silver, one in the same and entirely his own. She would be his wife, in his home, in his bed, in his thoughts and in his heart every day that they walked the earth together, and that was the only way he could endure the many days that stretched before him. This knowledge gleamed within his chest, flooding him with renewed energy.
Sophie was pulled from her reverie by Benedict’s soft oath. Even in the height of their passion he was proclaiming his love for her. She had known it was true when he confessed it the first time, but to see it in practice brought her a comfort that she had never felt in her life. The way he imbued his every move and glance with love. She looked at him with wonderment. How could she have ever dreamed to call this man her husband? This kind, handsome, cheeky, passionate man with that hair and those eyes, that devil’s smile, the slender fingers always covered in charcoal, the muscles of his shoulders and rippling down his back, and the way he could make her melt with his words, his hands, his mouth…
Benedict was rock solid to the point of pain. Helpless, he moved within Sophie once again. “I love you,” he kissed her collarbone, her cheek. “I love you, I love you.” The words spilled out of him like a holy chant, like a prayer. Her arms were bent on either side of her head and he caressed the length of one until their hands met. Sophie entwined her fingers with his and held tightly, her ring glinting in the candlelight.
“I love you too,” she breathed. He was suddenly struck with the memory of their first time and how he had held her hand in the same way. He had been trying to show her that she could trust him, could feel secure and supported by him. Now, the proof of that security and her belief in it was visible on her finger. The sweet intimacy of it made his heart flutter, feeling as if their palms were already wed though their persons might not be yet.
His hips increased their fervor and he closed his eyes, brow beaded with sweat. He pushed into her tight warmth deeper and faster, more desperately. Sophie responded in kind, grinding her hips with his, raking her free hand everywhere, through his hair, down his back, across his rump.
“Sophie…” he pleaded, pushing harder than ever. He had a fleeting concern that the violent knocking of the headboard would alert the whole house to their activities and most certainly leave a dent, but he really could not care less. He wasn’t sure where he felt more pressure, in his heart or in his cock, but one or both of them were going to burst in a moment. “Sophie…” his voice caught in his throat.
“Yes, my love,” she urged. “Inside of me.” She only had to say the words to conjure them into being. He peaked, a rapid pulsing as he throbbed within her, fusing them as tightly as two people could ever be. His moan was guttural, stuttering. It was an ecstasy he had never experienced, releasing himself inside a woman, and his heart swelled knowing that it was only Sophie that he shared it with.
Sophie’s mouth hung open in awe as she felt him throb inside of her for the first time. It was fascinating to feel the intense cadence of his release and she delighted in it, the hot rush of his seed filling her so much that she began to leak. She swayed her hips back and forth, sighing with deep contentment.
Panting and utterly spent, Benedict lowered to lay on top of her, sealing the moment with a deep and tender kiss before resting his head in the crook of her neck. She wrapped an arm around him and ran a hand through his hair, holding him close. She could feel his heartbeat hammering against her own chest, wild from his exertions, and she stroked the muscles of his back, calming him after mind numbing pleasure. She turned her face to his hair and inhaled that scent she knew so well: clean parchment, sandalwood and a pommade reminiscent somehow of a green forest, but all overlaid with the musk of their sex.
He was still tight inside her, their limbs an indecipherable tangle, their breaths rising and falling together. So this is lovemaking, Benedict thought. Though they had done the act before, this was more than physical. More than just their bodies joining, this was their souls joining, entwining, laid bare for each other to explore and pleasure and revere. There was nothing but honesty between them now. Honest love, honest desire, honest commitment. They were loosed from the bonds of their assumptions, their secrets, their fears. They were free, together.
“She's too smart for you, but I'm glad she makes you happy,” she commented and he couldn't help but snort at her comment. “Do you make her happy too?” Eloise asked, catching him off guard.
Did he?
Images of Sophie—frustrated and hurt by his offer—flashed through his mind. Tears threatening to spill down her cheeks, stoic expressions, and guarded gazes haunted his thoughts.
But he could also recall her secret smiles every time she saw him appear in front of her while she was working. The passionate embraces, the erotic sounds that slipped from her throat, the tender touches, and all the contented moments they shared.
“Sometimes,” he admitted in a small voice, a response as truthful as it could get. He couldn't lie to his sister.
She grew thoughtful at that. “Doesn't she deserve better than sometimes?”
She deserves the whole world, Benedict mused. And I wish I could give it to her.
Benedict Bridgerton x Sophie Beckett
An Offer from a Gentleman reimagined
Chapter rating: PG-13 - language, violence
Word count: 3.5k
Masterpost
Previous chapter
Mondrich’s club was moderately full but Anthony had no trouble finding his brothers at their usual table by the fireplace. The owner Will, their longtime friend, smiled warmly and brought him a double pour of whisky as was customary. Benedict and Colin had clearly been imbibing for some time given how they giggled when he sat down. He unbuttoned his jacket and eased back into his chair, savoring his drink.
“So, what is new with the both of you?”
Benedict’s laughter died and he grew uncharacteristically serious. Colin leaned toward him in an encouraging sort of way. Oh god, this made Anthony nervous. Benedict stared at the tabletop for a moment then looked sternly into his elder brother’s eyes. “I intend to wed.”
Anthony choked into his glass and sat upright.
“Ah, at last,” he smirked. “Given your…artistic disposition I had assumed you never planned to marry at all.”
Benedict tilted his head with a sarcastic smile at the jab.
Anthony continued, “But thank God you finally enjoy the company of women who are not models.”
This caused Benedict to grimace. These damn cheeky swipes and assumptions, all in that arrogant tone. He wanted to have a genuine conversation.
He sighed and brought his forearms to the table. “She is not a model, she’s a…”
“Bridgerton!” A man’s voice called over the crowd. The three dark heads swiveled to see who was shouting their name. Pushing his way through the patrons and holding a full snifter of liquor aloft, an ugly, red-nosed man was wobbling toward them. He reached the edge of their table and looked around with a rubbery smile. “Or I should say, Bridgertons.”
Benedict felt his stomach drop.
Anthony gave a curt nod. “Cavender.”
Phillip Cavender steadied himself with a hand on the back of Anthony’s chair, nearly sloshing the contents of his glass onto the viscount. “Lovely evening, is it not?” His words were so slurred, they were barely intelligible.
Anthony glanced up at him. “I was sorry to hear about your father’s passing.”
“Oh, yes.” Cavender took a long sip then smacked his lips. “Old stodger finally cocked up his toes and now here I find myself, lord of the manor.” He spread his arms wide, looking triumphant and decidedly not bereaved.
Colin could see the dark glower on both of his brothers’ faces and was quite disgusted with the fellow. “Well, our condolences and congratulations, I suppose,” he mocked.
Cavender didn’t even acknowledge Colin’s cheek. Rather, his eyes lit up and he began pointing at them all, spilling drops of his drink upon their table. “Speaking of, you really should come round some time to one of my fetes. I make sure all the most exquisite vices are available. No rules or judgment there, as your brother here can tell you.” Staggering over to stand by Benedict, he sniggered and clapped him on the back. The latter remained stone faced, clenching his hands on the tabletop.
Cavender leaned down to him, oblivious. “Benedict, I haven’t seen you since the last one. If I remember, you stole away rather unceremoniously.”
“Yes,” Benedict growled through gritted teeth. “I’m afraid I was ill.” He could smell the drink and sweat on the interloper. He and his abhorrent behavior were an assault on all the senses. To think that he had once considered this man to be a worthwhile acquaintance.
“Aw, you left just as the night really got started.” Cavender leaned in, perilously close to Benedict’s ear, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. Benedict felt a heat boiling in his brain that he had never experienced before. It took all of his focus to remain still and not shove the cur away.
Cavender lowered his voice. “I had this lovely servant girl.”
Benedict stiffened.
“Little minx she was. I would have shared her with you but the damn bitch ran off…”
Benedict snapped. His mind went blank with rage as his limbs moved on their own, socking Cavender in the jaw then pinning him down by the throat as the man lay stunned. After two more punches he must have knocked the drunken haze out of him, because the slippery man somehow wrestled his arms and legs around in such a way that they found themselves kneeling face-to-face, gripping each other at the collar.
Cavender landed a punch to Benedict’s eye then shoved him backward, knocking him into his overturned chair. Benedict leapt back up with a shout and managed to pin Cavender again, battering him repeatedly about the head.
Suddenly his arms wouldn’t move anymore and he looked back to find Anthony and Colin on either side, restraining and pulling him away. Mondrich was doing the same, holding a flailing Cavender single-handedly. The villain spat blood toward Benedict and leered at him with a bloody nose and swollen eye.
Benedict was vibrating with fury, deaf to the shouts and cheers throughout the club and to Anthony barking in his ear. It was a good thing his brothers could hold him back because he was ready to beat Cavender to nothing but pulp. It was what he had promised Sophie he would do.
Sophie…
There was only one feeling strong enough to supersede his rage, and it was his longing to see her. His mind became clear. He needed to get out of there. To hell with Cavender, to hell with society, and to hell with Anthony’s opinions.
He was done. He needed to go find his wife. Now.
Dropping his aggressive stance, he shook off his brothers and stormed out into the night.
___
Sophie’s bag was quickly packed, given that she had been ready to depart since the night before. She looked sternly at herself in her small mirror, smoothing her hair as she prepared to call upon the Viscountess. She would be polite but vague, expressing her sincere gratitude then taking her leave without an explanation. It wasn’t at all uncommon for servants to do. Then she would go to Gen’s and figure out how to untangle the mess of her life, this time with a trusted friend.
She was reaching for the door of her quarters when a knock rapped on the other side.
“Yes?”
The door opened to reveal Mrs. Wilson, her brow knitted with evident confusion.
“Mr. Bridgerton is asking to see you, Sophie.”
Sophie froze. There was more than one man with that title. “Mr. Bridgerton?”
Mrs. Wilson nodded. “Mr. Benedict. He is at the back door.”
Her stomach clenched. A part of her wanted to slam the door and barricade herself in her room, while another part wanted to flee through the house in the opposite direction. But she obviously couldn’t do either in front of the housekeeper. She couldn’t give any reason to refuse the meeting.
“Very well.” Her voice quavered and she followed Mrs. Wilson through the halls toward the back servants’ entrance.
Her knees were stiff and her heart pounding as she marched forward. What on earth could Benedict want to say that he hadn’t said the night before? Was he coming to unleash more anger upon her? Why would he do that so publicly by announcing himself to Mrs. Wilson? Perhaps he was going to take her to the police, in which case her life was well and truly over because there was no way she could outrun him if she tried to flee. The walk to the back door suddenly felt like the walk to the gallows, but there was nothing she could do to resist it and so she followed.
Mrs. Wilson stopped in the short hall to the back door and curtsied with a nod to the figure standing in the doorframe. She gave Sophie a last, inquisitive look then walked away. Breathing through her nose to steady herself, Sophie turned and faced the door. The back hall was poorly lit so the man standing there was cast half in shadow, but she could tell it was indeed Benedict. She didn’t move toward him, she simply steeled herself and waited for him to speak.
“Sophie, you must come with me.” There was an urgency in his voice that startled her. He sounded as if he had run halfway across London.
She looked to ensure no one was around to hear them and hissed. “Benedict, what are you doing? I’m not interested in being chastised any further.”
Still panting, his voice lowered to be unexpectedly soft. “I’m not going to chastise you. I just want to speak with you.”
She was about to turn and march back into the house but then saw the blood at the corner of his lips. Tentatively, she moved closer through the dim hallway and discovered that he looked an absolute mess. His hair was wild, his jacket was torn, and on top of his bleeding mouth one eye had turned a mottled red, a vessel clearly broken.
“What happened?” she gasped.
He looked frenzied, his shoulders still heaving. “Not here. Please…come to my apartments.” There was something so desperate in his voice. “I only want to talk.”
Sophie had no idea what could have happened; if someone else was injured or if anyone was in danger. But they clearly did need to talk, even though she couldn’t imagine what he would say. Stunned, she simply nodded, took his hand, and let him lead her out into the streets of Grosvenor Square.
___
Minutes after Benedict and Sophie had run out the back door of Bridgerton House, Anthony came running through the front, fuming. As usual, his brothers had created a god awful mess for him to clean up. After apologizing to Cavender and insisting that Mondrich add the expenses for broken furniture to his tab, he had interrogated Colin on what in hell was wrong with their brother.
Colin, loyal to a fault, had only said it was not his place to share Benedict’s business and had refused to explain anything. The two of them had left immediately after Benedict and wandered through the usual routes back to Grosvenor’s Square but hadn’t caught sight of him. Upon reaching the dooryard of Bridgerton House, Colin had turned off for his own apartments and promised to send Benedict to Anthony if he found him. Bloody lot of help Colin had been.
Anthony knew that Benedict was wrapped up in something serious. Nothing had ever spurred his brother to violence against anyone except those who had threatened his family members. Could Cavender have offended one of their sisters? No, in that case it wouldn’t just be ‘Benedict’s business’ and Anthony would have been informed of it. He needed to find Benedict immediately and call him back to his senses before he broke the nose of another nobleman.
He stomped straight upstairs and into his bedroom to put on his riding clothes. He would cover ground faster on horseback. He was immediately met by his wife, turning from the mirror in the corner of their room, fastening an earring. She was dressed for dinner in a sparkling plum gown and managed as always to steal his breath as soon as he laid eyes on her. He beheld her for a moment, his glorious Viscountess, but managed not to lose himself in distraction. With a tight nod, he marched onward to his wardrobe and began to pull out his clothes.
Kate immediately sensed his aggravation and didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “What is the matter with you?”
“It’s Benedict,” Anthony growled. “He’s behaving like a bloody madman. He assaulted Lord Cavender at the club then ran off.”
Kate’s eyes widened and she walked to his side. “Why did he assault Lord Cavender?”
“I don’t know. Though I think Colin does and he won’t tell me anything either.” He stopped throwing clothes around the room and began to pace back and forth, sorting his thoughts. “Cavender was behaving like a pig. Benedict seemed infuriated that he was talking about his servant girl like…”
He stopped in his tracks, a look of realization washing over his face. “Oh, god,” he groaned.
“What?”
“The servant girl.” Anthony turned, his eyes burning into Kate’s. “Benedict brought that maid to Aubrey Hall from the Cavenders, didn’t he?”
She nodded, “Yes. He said she helped him recover from his illness.”
Anthony looked back at the ceiling, lost in thought. “And then Hastings told me. Oh, of course!” He dropped his head into his hands and huffed then resumed his pacing once more, staring off into corners of the room and muttering to himself, waving his arms about in the air. Kate could only catch snippets of what he was saying but she distinctly heard “The bloody fool…” and “Would think he was in love with a lamppost…”
She hated when her husband did this. When he trailed off mumbling angrily, not sharing his thoughts with her so that she might help him to resolve them. She tried to keep her patience.
“Anthony, what are you talking about?”
He leveled his eyes at her, his voice cold. “Benedict and the maid. He’s having a dalliance with her.”
Kate raised her eyebrows. She had never considered it until this moment, but now that Anthony was sharing his revelation, she realized she was not at all surprised to learn that there was a relationship between Benedict and Sophie Beckett. Ever since she had been brought to work in London he was visiting the house with much more frequency and Kate hadn’t seen her brother-in-law so happy and motivated in years. It all made rather a lot of sense if anyone paused to look at the two of them. But she knew that Anthony was neither inclined to, nor had the time to make such observations himself.
Her husband continued. “It’s within his nature, I suppose. But carrying on with a maid in your family house…it is unbecoming of a gentleman. And I can’t have him going around attacking men to defend her honor.” He chewed his bottom lip, hands on his hips, staring at the floor in thought. “This is insupportable.”
“Anthony…” Kate called to him softly.
He cut her off, focused on his plan. “I will contact Mr. Dewitt and see that she is well compensated then released from Aubrey Hall.”
“Anthony…” she raised her voice.
He heard her but assumed he knew what she was going to say. “I know he will rail at me, but it is for his own good, I assure you.”
“Anthony!” Kate shouted, balling her fists at her side. He snapped to look at her, immediately silenced. Kate sighed and pressed her lips into a thin line. “She is not at Aubrey Hall.”
“What?”
“Sophie Beckett returned with us to London.”
Anthony was utterly bewildered. “Sophie B…” He shook his head. “Why?”
Kate sighed. Her husband truly knew how to vex her. Of course as Viscount he was consumed with his work. She didn’t expect him to know the name of every servant. But she assumed he would at least have noticed that the household expenses had increased to provide for two lady’s maids to oversee his sisters, rather than one.
“Because she is now Eloise’s lady’s maid and Eloise requested it.”
A flame lit behind Anthony’s eyes and he started to shout. “And you let her come?”
“Do not raise your voice with me!” Kate leveled him with a deadly stare. “I didn’t know about any of this. I doubt Eloise did either.”
Anthony backed down. Kate was innocent of any subterfuge, of course. But he could never say the same for his second sister. “Of course she did,” he growled, then spun on his heel and stormed out of their room, Kate calling after him.
It took all the restraint he possessed to pause and knock on Eloise’s bedroom door instead of just barging in as all the siblings had done to each other throughout childhood. But he was a gentleman now. Still, as soon as he heard the first syllable of Eloise’s invitation, he threw the door open and stalked inside. She stood from her desk, alarmed.
He advanced on her. “Why did you request for Sophie Beckett to accompany us to London?”
He could see in her eyes that she knew precisely why he was asking such a question, but true to form, she kept up her ruse, smiling cheekily. “Because she is a fabulous lady’s maid with whom I have formed a great friendship.”
“Eloise,” he glared. The glare that told everyone he meant business. It worked, and she wilted before him. “I know about her and Benedict. Why would you help your brother bring his conquest to his family house in London? It tempts scandal.”
The smile wiped from her face, Eloise still stood her ground. “She’s not a conquest. They love each other.”
Anthony rolled his eyes. “Doubtful. You know how Benedict is. He fixates and fantasizes. You remember he talked for a year about that woman from the masquerade, even though they had only known each other an hour? And as far as anyone could tell, she didn’t even exist. Colin was the only other person who apparently saw her. They had probably been drinking that damned tea…”
Eloise cut him off, raising her voice. “He cares more for Sophie than he does for that woman. He told me so himself.” She thought of Benedict’s smile on the night of the ball when he had told her. She thought of the light in Sophie’s eyes whenever she spoke about him. Even though they were having a row and Sophie was threatening to leave, Eloise refused to believe all hope was lost. She looked at Anthony with a defiant gleam in her eye. “He loves her. He may very well marry her.”
Anthony stopped cold. “That’s impossible.”
Despite her personal disdain for marriage she would not abide anyone, not even her eldest brother, standing in the way of Benedict’s happiness. “Why?” she spat. “Would it really be the end of the world if he did? Haven’t you and Daphne done everything in your power as eldest son and daughter to ensure the preservation of our family name?”
Anthony balked as she straightened her posture, her eyes cutting into him. “When will the rest of us be able to experience a little freedom in choosing the lives that we lead? Benedict is a second son. At least grant him some of the eccentricities that position affords. Or are you hell bent on controlling every last one of your siblings' lives and denying us our happiness for as long as you denied it to yourself?”
Both of their ears rang with the terrible silence that followed. It was a rare occurrence that Anthony would allow any of his siblings to have the last word in an argument or to speak to him in such a way. But the bitter truth in Eloise’s words left him utterly speechless. All he could do was back out of the room while she glared. His senses returned to him when his feet hit the stairs and he remembered his objective once again. He shouted for Mrs. Wilson, asking her to summon Sophie Beckett. When she replied, wide-eyed, that Benedict had just come and taken Sophie away, he growled under his breath as his blood resumed boiling.
He turned back to his room to prepare for the chase but was met in the hall by Kate.
“Anthony, you should not do this. Not tonight.” Her voice was stern. “Let Benedict calm down and find him tomorrow.”
“They could have eloped by then,” he huffed.
“Who is going to marry them in the middle of the night? And do you really think he would run away from the family without so much as a goodbye?”
This made him pause. She was right. Benedict may have been eccentric but he would never pull away from their family so abruptly. Unpredictable bohemian that he was, his love for his family matched Anthony’s own. Kate was always right, of course.
His wife gathered his hands in her own and stepped close, her voice softening. “En anpe, don’t you remember how badly we wanted to be alone together? How we needed that time to sort things out between us?” She rested her forehead against his, whispering across his lips. “Let them have tonight.”
Anthony sighed, struggling to steady his breath as emotions whirled within him. He was worried about his brother, terribly worried. Worried about the challenges his situation would create for the family too. But Kate was leaning against him, her soft fingers entwined with his own, and her breath was hot across his skin. He was drowning in the heady scent of lilies. Just being near her would always quiet any cares that he had.
“But what if…” he mumbled weakly.
“Anthony,” she raised a hand to his cheek. “I need you here.” With her other hand she pulled his to rest on her stomach then looked deep into his eyes. “We need you.”
His breath caught as a joyful smile lit her face. It did not matter if the very world was burning to the ground outside their windows; there was nothing that would compel Anthony to leave his wife’s side that night.
Benedict Bridgerton x Sophie Beckett
An Offer from a Gentleman reimagined
Chapter rating: G (just a lotta feels)
Word count: 7.4k
Masterpost
Previous chapter
Author's note: This chapter preserves a big chunk of Colin and Benedict's fencing sequence from the book. I really like it and can tell it was lifted from Benedict's book and applied to Anthony's story in season 2 of the show. The Bridgerton boys will talk about their feelings, but only if they're boxing, fencing, drinking, etc. first 😜 Fans of Colin and Eloise, this chapter is for you. Enjoy! 💙
Sophie was stunned, frozen in place losing all sense of time in the dark garden. It was the sudden outbreak of applause from the house that roused her back to her senses. The musicale was still ongoing but she needed to get inside. As quietly as she could she stole back to her quarters on the lower level. While the musicians carried on above her, the strings filling the air with romantic melodies, she sobbed upon her bed, cast into the very depths of heartbreak. She felt something tugging at her and pulled off Benedict’s cravat which had been hanging loosely around her neck. She cried anew, crumpling the silk in her fist.
It was over. The greatest joy she had felt in her life; the dream that had been her source of strength and comfort for years; it was over. Benedict would never forgive her and she would never see him again. A part of her mind raged at herself, that it was her fault for keeping her identity a secret. But a louder part raged at the world for putting her in a position where she needed to lie. All of the unjust circumstances that had befallen her, all of her anger and pain toward her father, the Cowpers, the Cavenders, and whoever constructed society as a whole. It roiled within her and erupted in a howl muffled into her pillow.
Why her? Why had she been born the way she had been? Treated the way she had been? And toyed with by fate the way she had been? Why had fate conspired to bring Benedict into her life not once but twice? Why had it drawn them together with such undeniable magic when the world they were born into would not allow them to stay that way?
An image of her father appeared in her mind, his entire countenance sour and cold. Damn you, she thought. You gave me a taste of another life and then left me in the wind. It would have been so much easier if I’d been raised a servant. I wouldn’t have wanted so much. It would have been easier.
She let herself rail against his memory, against her fate and all of her misfortunes until she was too exhausted to cry anymore. All she wanted to do was sleep but she knew she would need to prepare Eloise for bed. She also knew that she needed to leave the household as soon as possible. She couldn’t risk any further contact with Benedict and she feared he may expose her to the rest of the family. Then the Bridgertons might join the list of aristocrats who had a reason to want her in jail - for trespassing if not outright fraud.
It was sad, really, she thought as she splashed water on her face and tried to look presentable before going upstairs. For all her inner turmoil over Benedict, she’d liked living in the Bridgerton household. Sophie had never before had the honor of living amongst a group of people who truly understood the meaning of the word family.
She would miss them.
She would miss Benedict.
And she would mourn the life she could not have.
She sighed, closing her eyes for a moment. It was time to go. Where, she didn’t know, but she couldn’t stay here.
She would see Eloise to bed and stay for the night. In the morning she would give her notice to the Viscountess. Never in her life had she had the chance to spend time with women of her own age who treated her with respect and affection. She owed them these courtesies. She wanted to say goodbye. If she was lucky, they would not yet have heard about her altercation with Benedict, and she could give her notice, say her farewells, and be off. She had a little money saved. Not much, but if she worked and was frugal, she’d have enough funds for passage to America within a year. She’d heard that things were far easier there for those of less-than-respectable birth, that the boundaries of class weren’t quite as strict as they were here in England. A new country and a new life, finally free from the mess her heart had landed her in. She wondered how long it would take for it to stop aching as she tried to forget Benedict.
Sophie managed a meager smile when Eloise returned to her room. The younger was lost in her thoughts, narrating as she swept by, pulling off her gloves.
“Well, I must say that was not nearly as painful as I had anticipated. Though I did need to continuously dodge the advances of the Marquis of Bath around the canapés.”
She turned to her lady’s maid and paused. She was uncharacteristically dour.
“Sophie? Is something wrong?”
“No, Miss,” she lied.
Eloise frowned, looking her over. “I can tell you’re not being truthful. Are you alright? Are you ill?”
“No. I mean, yes. I am alright, I simply…”
Sophie’s head was spinning, replaying the terrible events of the night and dreading how she would announce her resignation. She clasped her hands behind her back, desperately trying to find her balance. Her legs felt unsteady, her heart felt unsteady. Any moment now she was going to burst into tears, and why? Because the man she loved would never marry her? Because he hated her for lying to him? Because he’d broken her heart twice - once by asking her to be his mistress, and once by making her love his family and then forcing her to leave? He might not have demanded that she go, but it couldn’t have been more obvious that she could not stay.
“What is it?” Eloise pressed, worry creasing her features as she laid a hand on Sophie’s shoulder. “You can confide in me.”
Sophie chewed her lip, fighting back the tears. What could she say? How would she even start?
Eloise spared her the painful confession.
“Is it Benedict?”
Sophie gulped, scrutinizing the young lady’s face. A young lady who should have been scandalized to learn of her brother’s dalliance. A member of the ton who should have been disapproving. But then, this was Eloise, who was so unlike her peers. She knew Benedict had confided something in his favorite sister but neither the details nor the depth of information shared. Yet regardless of what she knew, there was nothing but concern and kindness in Eloise’s eyes. Sophie remembered Benedict’s promise that their secret was safe with her.
“He has done nothing wrong.” Sophie choked out at last, unwilling to divulge the tangled details of their argument. “It is not right, what I have done. I should not have taken appointment in your home.”
Eloise found something oddly satisfying hearing Sophie admit, albeit indirectly, that she had feelings for Benedict. Ever since she had seen the joyful gleam return to her brother’s eyes on the rooftop at Aubrey Hall she had been invested in their mutual happiness. She loved her brother fiercely and had grown to hold Sophie as a dear friend. Now that their relationship seemed to be in peril, she wanted to do everything possible to preserve it.
“What do you mean?”
Sophie pulled Eloise’s hand from her shoulder and held it gently. “I am grateful. So very grateful to you, Eloise, and to your sisters and the Viscountess and your mother. I have enjoyed my time here very much. It has been the kindest home I’ve ever known. But it is time for me to move on. Tomorrow morning I will be giving my notice to the Viscountess.”
Eloise could hardly believe her ears. “Sophie, you can’t!” She pulled her hand away, eyes wide. “What has happened? Please tell me!”
A sensation bloomed in Sophie’s chest, simultaneously warm and aching. The warmth of being wanted and the ache of knowing she could not stay. “It is dangerous, Eloise, the position I am in.” She trusted the young lady understood what she was referring to. “Not just for me but for the entire household. The last thing I would ever want is to bring shame and scandal upon your family name. You don’t deserve it, certainly not for my sake. The best thing for everyone will be for me to leave.”
Eloise was crestfallen, knowing that everything Sophie said was true except that her friend was not worth taking a risk for.
After a moment, she asked softly. “Do you not love him? Do you not want to stay?”
Sophie froze, tears pricking her eyes as the last image of Benedict rose in her mind. He was furious, heartbroken, and so was she for having caused him any pain.
Her voice cracked. “Not all of us can have what we want.”
A devastating silence hung between the two women. They both began to recognize that this was not just the end of Sophie and Benedict’s relationship, but also the end of theirs.
“Where will you go?” Eloise asked at last, her voice rasping. “To work for another house?” If the rules of society would not allow Sophie to remain at Bridgerton House, she at least had to know that her friend would be safe elsewhere.
Sophie pondered for a moment. Where would she go? America was the goal but where would she sleep tomorrow? She would need to flee London again but did not relish copying her mad dash years ago, sleeping in woodsheds and on the kitchen floors of kindly housekeepers until she managed to secure a position in the countryside. Her transition could be more planned if she knew of a place to stay in the city. A place where she had a friend… Then she remembered.
“I am not certain where I will work but I will seek out an old friend and see if she will let me stay until I find my feet.” She tried to hide her uncertainty that her friend could even be found.
“You have a friend in the city?” Eloise asked.
Sophie nodded. “The modiste. Or, she used to be a modiste…”
The young woman’s eyes lit up. “Madame Delacroix?”
“Yes,” she breathed a sigh of relief. Eloise would be able to point her in the right direction.
“You know her?”
A small smile tugged at Sophie’s lips, remembering that the only bright moments of her years with the Cowpers were when she found herself in the dress shop. “It has been some years but we were friends. Does she still have her shop?”
“Yes she does.” Eloise confirmed. For a brief moment her mind began to twist, remembering her brother’s dalliance with the modiste as well. Was Sophie aware? Was Madame Delacroix somehow involved in their acquaintance? As curious as it was to question the details of her brother’s affairs, it was not nearly as important in the moment as Sophie’s wellbeing.
“I will take you to her tomorrow,” she offered. When Sophie opened her mouth to protest, Eloise cut her off. “I insist. We shall go and see her and make sure you have a place to stay before you give your notice. I do not know what is compelling you to leave and I certainly don’t want you to. But Sophie, if you feel it is best, let me help you.”
The warm ache spread further and all Sophie could do was nod with fathomless gratitude. It was so within the Bridgerton character to be this kind and accommodating to a servant, even one leaving their employ under scandalous circumstances. She would never find another family like them.
“Thank you, Miss. I should like that.”
___
Benedict’s first inclination upon reaching his lodgings was to pour himself a good, stiff drink. Or maybe three. Alcoholic oblivion sounded rather appealing after the emotional skewering he’d just received at the hands of Sophie Beckett. And he pursued the inclination, drinking himself into a stupor and stalking angrily about his rooms until he collapsed on the sofa in his small parlour.
The next thing he knew, he was being poked. Something was jabbing him sharply in the arm, the chest, the side of his face. His head was pounding and it didn’t help when he cracked his eyes open to see blinding sunlight pouring in through the windows. The jabbing continued. What the devil? His senses slowly returning, his vision cleared to reveal Colin standing over him with a broad smirk, holding the fencing foil which was the cause of the annoyance.
Benedict groaned. He had forgotten that he’d made a date that morning for a fencing match with his brother. Although given the incessant poking, skewering Colin sounded rather appealing, no matter that he’d had nothing to do with Benedict’s wretched mood. That, Benedict thought as he dragged himself upward to sit, was what brothers were for.
“There he is, the sleeping beauty,” Colin mocked, finally lowering the foil. Benedict groaned again and dropped his head into his hands. “I see that you were…enjoying yourself last night.” Colin rocked on his heels as he looked at the empty glasses by the sofa. “Bit uncharacteristic of you to do so alone.”
Benedict looked up at him with bloodshot eyes but did not feel like explaining himself. “I’m sorry I forgot about our appointment,” he mumbled.
“Well,” Colin straightened with a smile. “You can make it up to me by letting me win our matches.” He produced Benedict’s own fencing foil and glove seemingly from thin air and tossed them onto his brother’s lap. Then he strode across the room to a side cabinet. Benedict sighed. He was not going to be released from his obligation, no matter how horrid he felt.
His head spun when Colin suddenly reappeared and waved a fresh glass of brandy under his nose. “A lesson you taught me brother,” he grinned. “To combat after-effects.”
Benedict was simultaneously proud and horrified of his little brother. What kind of monster had he created? A glint of gratitude sparked in his eyes and he downed the spirit, despite how it made him want to expel everything in his stomach.
In short order they were both outfitted in their gear and standing in the small garden behind Benedict’s apartments. The fresh air and swig of brandy slowly seemed to be helping Benedict’s body feel human again, but he doubted there was anything that could alleviate his mind. He touched the tip of his foil to the grass, letting the blade bend slightly.
“Are you ready?”
“Not quite,” Colin replied, working on his stance.
Benedict lunged at him.
“I said I wasn’t ready!” Colin hollered as he jumped out of the way.
“You’re too slow,” Benedict snapped.
Colin cursed under his breath, then added a louder, “Bloody hell,” for good measure. “What’s gotten into you?”
“Nothing,” Benedict nearly snarled. “Why do you ask?”
Colin took a step backward until they were a suitable distance apart to start the match. “Oh, I don’t know,” he intoned, sarcasm evident. “I suppose it could be the drunken stupor I found you in, and that you nearly just took my head off, slashing like you were using a sabre.”
Benedict gave a hard smile. “It’s more fun that way.”
“Not for my neck.” Colin passed his sword from hand to hand as he flexed and stretched his fingers.
“Will you just get into position, please?” Benedict grumbled.
“As you wish,” Colin murmured, raising his weapon. They both stood en garde, swords raised for a moment of stillness, and then Benedict advanced immediately, lunging and attacking. But Colin had always been particularly fleet of foot, and he retreated carefully, meeting Benedict’s attack with an expert parry.
“You’re in a bloody bad mood today,” Colin said, lunging forward and nearly catching Benedict on the shoulder.
Benedict stepped out of his way, lifting his blade to block the attack. “Yes, well, I had a bad” - he advanced again, his foil stretched straight forward - “night.”
Colin sidestepped his attack neatly. “Nice riposte,” he said, touching his forehead with the handle of his foil in a mock salute.
“Shut up and fence,” Benedict snapped.
Colin chuckled and advanced, swishing his blade this way and that, keeping Benedict on the retreat. “It must be a woman,” he said.
Benedict blocked Colin’s attack and quickly began his own advance. “None of your damned business.”
“It’s a woman,” Colin repeated, smirking.
Benedict lunged forward, the top of his foil catching Colin on the collarbone. “Point,” he grunted.
Colin gave a curt nod. “Touch for you.” They walked back to the center of the yard. “Are you ready?” he asked.
Benedict nodded. This time Colin was the first to take the attack. “If you need some advice about women…” he said, driving Benedict toward the corner wall.
Benedict raised his foil, blocking Colin’s attack with enough force to send his younger brother stumbling backward. “If I need advice about women,” he returned, “you are the last person I would go to, you green child.”
“You wound me,” Colin said, regaining his balance. “Rather than raking my way across half of London,” he lunged at his elder brother, “I have courted women with respect.”
“Ah yes,” Benedict sniggered, blocking the string of attacks, “Very respectful, the way you are stringing along poor Penelope Featherington.”
Colin froze for a moment, struck by his words. “What?”
It only gave Benedict the opportunity to advance upon him and he raised his sword to block just in time. Benedict continued, “And your slapdash engagement and near elopement with Miss Thompson.”
As soon as he spat out the words he regretted it and dropped his blade to his side. He had gone too far. He knew that what had happened with Miss Thompson was not Colin’s fault. His brother had simply been too naive, a trait that had been exploited by the poor young woman who was in distress. Fortunately, everything had worked out for the best, but Benedict should not have treated it as a stain on his brother’s record.
Colin had dropped his blade too and was staring intensely at the ground, nodding. “I was foolish,” he said, before Benedict could apologize. “You, on the other hand, are stupid.”
That lit the anguish in Benedict again. “What the hell does that mean?”
Colin sighed and planted a hand on his hip. “Why don’t you just do us all a favor and marry the girl?”
Benedict just stared at him, his hand going limp around the grip of his sword. Was there any possibility that Colin didn’t know who they were talking about? He looked into his brother’s steely blue eyes and nearly groaned. Colin knew. He didn’t know how Colin knew, but he definitely knew.
“How do you know?” Benedict finally asked.
One corner of Colin’s mouth tilted up into a victorious smile. “About Sophie? It’s rather obvious.”
“Colin, she’s-”
“A maid? Who cares? What is going to happen if you marry her?” Colin asked with a devil-may-care shrug of his shoulders. “People you couldn’t care less about will ostracize you? Hell, I wouldn’t mind being ostracized by some of the people with whom I’m forced to socialize.”
Benedict shrugged dismissively. “I’d already decided I didn’t care about all that,” he said.
“Then what the bloody hell is the problem?” Colin demanded.
“It’s complicated.”
“Things are rarely as complicated as they seem in one’s mind.”
Benedict mulled that over, bending the blade of his foil back and forth with the tip in the grass. Colin had proven adept at easing his mind before. Most significantly through the introduction of the powdered tea, but even uninhibited, Benedict knew he could confide in him.
“Do you remember the masquerade?” he asked.
Colin blinked at the unexpected question. “A few years ago? At Bridgerton House?”
Benedict nodded. “Yes. Do you remember meeting a woman dressed in silver? You came upon us in the garden.”
Colin snorted, “Well of course I remember, you wouldn’t shut up about…” his eyes suddenly bugged out of his head. “That wasn’t Sophie?”
Benedict gave him a serious nod. He still could barely believe it himself.
Colin gaped. “But…how…”
“She told me she snuck in. She’s not a maid.”
“She’s not?”
“Well, she is a maid,” Benedict clarified, “but she’s also the bastard daughter of the Earl of Penwood.”
“Not the current--”
Benedict shook his head. “No, the late.”
“And you knew all this?”
“No,” Benedict said, the word short and staccato on his tongue, “I did not.”
“Oh.” Colin caught his lower lip between his teeth as he digested the meaning of his brother’s reply. “I see.” He stared at Benedict. “Then what are you going to do?”
Benedict let his sword fall into the grass and stared at it dispassionately. “That's a very good question.”
He was still furious with Sophie for her deception, but neither was he without blame. He shouldn’t have pushed so hard for her to quit her work and be kept as his mistress. It had certainly been his right to ask, but it had also been her right to refuse. He shouldn’t have kept making up excuses to keep her within his reach. From the inn at Rosemeade, to the multiple times she had tried to leave Aubrey Hall, to his family bringing her to London. He had lorded money and pleasures over her and then his family got involved to complicate matters further. No wonder Sophie had tried to negotiate her own boundaries and continue working as a maid. It was the one thing she seemed to have control over and he should have respected that and not insisted that she abandon it too.
If he respected her, then he had to respect her beliefs.
He shouldn’t have been so flip with her, insisting that anything was possible, that she was free to make any choice her heart desired. His mother was right; he did live a charmed life. He had wealth, family, happiness…and nothing was truly out of his reach. The only awful thing that had ever happened in his life was the sudden and untimely death of his father, and even then, he’d had his family to help him through. It was difficult for him to imagine certain pains and hurts because he’d never experienced them.
And unlike Sophie, he’d never been alone.
What now? He had already decided that he was prepared to brave social ostracism and marry her. The unrecognized bastard daughter of an earl was a slightly more acceptable match than a servant, but only slightly. They would live quietly somewhere, eschewing the London society that would almost certainly shun them. He would shield Sophie from the unkindness that would be most heavily directed at her. Europe seemed the safest option. It took his heart less than a second to know that a quiet life with Sophie was by far preferable to a public life without her.
Did it matter that she was the woman from the masquerade? She’d lied to him about her identity, but he knew her soul. When they kissed, when they laughed, when they simply sat and talked - she had never feigned a moment.
The woman who could make his heart sing with a simple smile, the woman who could fill him with contentment just through the simple act of sitting by him while he sketched - that was the real Sophie.
And he loved her.
“You look as if you’ve reached a decision,” Colin said quietly.
Benedict eyed his brother thoughtfully. When had he grown so perceptive? Come to think of it, when had he grown up? Benedict had always thought of Colin as a youthful rascal, charming and debonair, but not one who had ever had to assume any sort of responsibility.
But when he regarded his brother now, he saw someone else. His shoulders were a little broader, his posture a little more steady and subdued. And his eyes looked wiser. That was the biggest change. If eyes truly were windows to the soul, then Colin’s soul had gone and grown up on him when Benedict hadn’t been paying attention.
“I owe her a few apologies,” Benedict said.
“I’m sure she’ll forgive you.”
“She owes me several as well.”
Benedict could tell that his brother wanted to ask, “What for?” but to his credit, all Colin said was, “Are you willing to forgive her?”
Benedict nodded. “I was going to propose to her last night when all of this came out. My mind was made up.” He took a deep breath. “It still is.”
Colin smiled warmly and clapped him on the shoulder. Something in the gesture brought Benedict a stab of sadness. “If she will have me, we will have to move away, Colin.” His brother’s brow knit in confusion. Benedict continued, “I don’t care what the ton will think about me, but I won’t subject her to their reproach. I want us to live undisturbed by all that nonsense.”
Colin’s eyes, grown and perceptive as they now were, flickered through emotions in an instant. Longing, sadness, worry, and then resolve. His smile returned and he gripped Benedict’s shoulder.
“Well, I am happy for you brother. But I will miss you, wherever you end up. However, I suppose that if any member of the family were equipped to visit you with frequency it would be me, so I’m sure we’ll be seeing plenty of each other.”
Benedict returned his smile, already picturing Colin at the bow of a ship headed east across the English channel. Of course he would be thrilled to have an excuse to travel even more than he already did. And he would be the perfect guide to chaperone the family in visiting Benedict and Sophie abroad from time to time. A future was starting to shape itself in his mind. A future where everyone might be happy…
“I have to get back to her,” he blurted out, tugging off his glove.
Colin arched a brow at him, suddenly serious. “Might I suggest…I think it would be best to confirm your plans with the family first before taking off with your fiancee. It would make it less awkward for Sophie than quitting her position and everyone finding out afterward that she is with you.”
Benedict stared at him, surprised once again at the depth of his little brother’s insight. “You’re right,” he nodded, “but Mother already knows.”
“Not Mother,” Colin leveled his eyes and Benedict understood.
Anthony. If there was anyone in the family who may try to stand in the way of Benedict marrying a maid and running off to live abroad, it was his elder brother. The Viscount took his responsibility of maintaining the family’s reputation very seriously. So seriously that Benedict had nearly watched him get killed over it when Anthony had dueled with the Duke, their now brother-in-law, over a premarital kiss with their sister. What on earth would he do to keep Benedict within the family and married to a respectable woman? Whatever it was, Benedict would face it head on and ensure that it wouldn’t complicate his engagement. Bless Colin for having the foresight to anticipate it.
As if reading his mind, Colin spoke. “We’ll meet with Anthony today. I will support you, brother.”
A lump formed in Benedict’s throat and he reached out, pulling his brother into a tight hug. Thank God they had scheduled this fencing match because it was turning out to be precisely what he needed. Like a guardian angel Colin was here with resolutions to all of his problems. How the tables had turned since the years when Benedict had watched over him as he grew.
“I don’t say this often enough,” he said, his voice starting to sound gruff in his ears, “but I love you.”
Colin patted him on the back, “I love you too, brother.” He pulled back and beamed at Benedict with a wide smile. “Do you have a ring?”
Benedict blinked, surprised by the question. “Uh, no…” he stuttered, “I was too caught up in my anxieties, I didn’t think of it.”
“Well,” Colin clapped him on the chest and began to walk backward toward the house, beckoning Benedict to follow. “Now you are proposing and apologizing, so a ring is definitely warranted, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes,” Benedict nodded, his mind racing. “But the last thing I have time for is ring shopping around London.”
“We have the family rings.” Colin shrugged. “We’ll go to the house and you can pick one out. It would also give us the opportunity to check on Sophie.”
His younger brother seemed to have a mind to think of everything and Benedict was more than happy to follow his lead. He didn’t know if his brain or heart could handle any more than they were already contending with. “But the rings are in Mother’s room under lock and key.”
Colin paused in the doorway and folded his arms with a devilish smirk. “Was it not you who taught me how to pick a lock?”
___
Less than an hour later, Colin and Benedict were moving quietly through the halls of Bridgerton House. The stealth of their mission reminded them both of their younger years when they had crept down the same halls and staircases, around doors and through secret passages to avoid detection due to some naughtiness they had committed. Fortunately, they encountered no one on the way to Violet’s bedroom. They had spoken with a footman who confirmed that the two Lady Bridgertons were out for a promenade with little Edmund. Upon reaching the bedroom door, Benedict ducked inside and Colin stood watch in the hall, trying to look nonchalant in case anyone appeared.
As if on queue, someone called his name. “Colin!” He turned to see Eloise rushing toward him from the main staircase.
Colin sighed. Whatever it was his sister wanted to prattle on about, he didn’t have time for it. “Busy at the moment, El.” He grumbled, trying to shoo her away.
She marched up to him, ignoring his words completely. Now he could see she was in a degree of distress. “Have you seen Benedict?” she asked anxiously.
“Uh…” Colin’s mouth hung open as he pondered whether to tell the truth.
“I need to speak with him.” Eloise wrung her hands and was practically bouncing foot to foot.
“Regarding?”
“Miss Beckett.”
At this, Colin grasped her by the elbow and looked up and down the halls. No one seemed to be within earshot but he conspiratorially pulled his sister into a corner nonetheless.
Realization dawned on Eloise’s face. “Ah!” She grinned. “So you know too!”
“Well, I do now.” Colin whispered, urging her to lower her voice. “What about Miss Beckett?”
Eloise’s distress returned. “She wants to leave. She’s going to give her notice to Kate today…”
“She can’t.” Colin declared.
“I know she can’t,” Eloise huffed, aggravated that he cut her off in the middle of her explanation, “but…”
He interjected again. “Benedict is going to make everything right, I assure you. You need to keep her around. Just for today.”
“I’m going to!” Eloise grumbled. “I am taking her with me to the modiste. But where is Benedict?”
“Don’t worry about that,” Colin assured her. “We will find you. Just don’t let Sophie leave. Be persuasive if you have to, I know you’re up to it.” The smirk on his face made it clear that he meant his statement as a jibe rather than a compliment. Eloise scowled at him, convinced he wouldn’t help her any further, and stomped away.
His sister had just turned the corner out of sight when Colin saw his eldest brother approaching from the opposite direction. He sighed. Bridgerton House was a veritable bustling city center.
Anthony was scanning a fistful of papers and looked up as he drew closer.
“Colin?” There was a tone of surprise in his voice, but he smiled. “Good to see you. What are you up to?”
Colin did his best to look nonchalant, clasping his hands behind his back. “Must I be up to something when I am simply visiting my family home?”
Anthony raised an eyebrow and Colin could feel the interrogation coming. Before it could begin, he continued. “It’s been too long since we’ve caught up. We are due for a drink at the club, wouldn’t you say? The two of us and Benedict.”
Anthony’s brow stayed arched, but he appeared to soften a bit. “Yes, I suppose we are due.” He glanced down at the papers in his hand. “I have a mountain of ledgers to get through, though. Meet you at Mondrich’s before dinner?”
Colin smiled, “Splendid.”
Still giving him a quizzical sideways look, Anthony slowly moved on down the hall while Colin bounced on his heels, nodding politely. He knew his brother could detect something was afoot but was grateful that the Viscount was not in the mood to probe further. Once his brother was out of sight Colin stepped into his mother’s bedroom and closed the door before anyone else appeared to question him.
In a far corner of the room, Benedict was bent over a chest of drawers. Colin moved to join him, whispering urgently.
“You’ll need to hurry up before I have to stave off every last member of our family…”
Benedict suddenly straightened, inspecting the ring he held aloft. “This one.”
Colin stepped closer. “You found one to your liking?” In his brother’s grip he saw a small silver ring, the band delicately filigreed and set with two pearls framing a lone sapphire. It glinted as Benedict turned it in the light. Colin recognized it. “Ah, great aunt Eleanor’s ring.”
Benedict was staring at the jewel like a man in a trance, turning it this way and that. “I believe so.”
Colin smirked at him. “You know, betrothal rings are traditionally gold.”
“No,” Benedict shook his head, eyes still locked on the ring and full of conviction. “This one must be silver.”
It only took a moment for Colin to register why that would be, and he didn’t know whether to laugh at or admire his brother’s depth of feeling. He chuckled and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You are a hopeless romantic, you know that?”
This broke Benedict out of his reverie and he blinked, stashing the ring in his pocket.
“Eloise is keeping an eye on Sophie and Anthony will meet us at the club tonight.” Colin explained.
Now Benedict turned his heartfelt gaze on him and spoke in a voice choked with gratitude. “Thank you, brother.”
Colin was glad to have helped his closest brother with so many momentous decisions in a single morning, but he desperately needed a break from all of these intense emotions. It was high time for a drink. They could wait for Anthony at the club. He grinned at Benedict. “Do you need some liquid courage beforehand?”
___
It had been so long since Sophie had slept in, she found herself utterly confused when she finally awoke. No one in the house had roused her and by the time she dressed and left her room, she was terrified to discover that it was already past midday. Yet she was not admonished. Mrs. Wilson was nowhere to be found and none of the other servants commented upon her tardiness. Ashamed nonetheless, Sophie ran upstairs to meet with Eloise only for her to confess that she had insisted Sophie not be woken.
Sophie knew what Eloise was doing, using every trick she could think of to keep her at the house longer. But she couldn’t deny that she was grateful for the rest and that her head felt much clearer thanks to it. After Eloise made sure that Sophie ate something, they set off as intended to the modiste. As they drew nearer to the shop, down the streets which Sophie knew so well but hadn’t trod in years, her heart started to pound. She was eager to see her old friend but couldn’t be certain how she would react to all that Sophie had to tell her.
When they stepped through the door of the dress shop, Sophie was transported back to the night of the masquerade. This was where she had spent the last moments before her life flipped utterly upside down. Turning from three women gathered in a corner of the shop, Madame Delacroix swept over to them.
“Mademoiselle Bridgerton,” she smiled at Eloise without a glance at her lady’s maid. “Back again so soon?”
Caught off guard, Sophie had to remind herself of the faux accent Genevieve adopted for clients. She had always used her true voice when she and Sophie chatted alone and with the passage of time, Sophie had forgotten the saccharine timbre she was capable of.
“Yes,” Eloise chirped. “More dresses. Young ladies are always in need of more dresses, are they not?” Her voice was dripping with sarcasm. She looked back to where Sophie stood timidly by the door and waved her forward. “Madame Delacroix, I believe you know my new lady’s maid.”
Sophie stepped toward them both, nervously searching Gen’s face. She knew that she was barely recognizable from the woman she had been years earlier. Benedict had proven as much. But she noted that Gen looked the same, if not even more beautiful, with rich raven curls, bright eyes and pink lips, modeling a navy dress in the latest fashion. There was a moment’s confusion in her eyes as she beheld Sophie, but it almost immediately melted into recognition and surprise.
Her eyes wide, she gasped. “Sophie Beckett?” Her accent slipped and Eloise cocked her head.
Sophie felt as if she would burst. It felt so good to be recognized, to be greeted as a friend. “Genevieve,” was all she could manage.
Gen started to walk toward her but regained herself and thought better of it. She cleared her throat and looked back at Eloise.
Before she could say anything, Eloise cut in. “I will be going across the street for some ice cream.” She began backing toward the door with a cheeky grin on her face.
“Eloise,” Sophie turned to her with a cautionary tone. The last thing she needed was for anything to happen to Eloise on her watch while she broke all the rules of her position and sat chatting with a friend, not paying attention.
“Just to Gunter’s Tea Shop across the way.” Eloise pointed through the front windows. “Just there. You’ll be able to see me the whole time.” Sophie peered out and could indeed see into the tea shop. It appeared to be full of young ladies, maids and mamas and seemed like a place where Eloise was very unlikely to get into any trouble. “In fact,” Eloise continued, her hand turning the doorknob, “I think I see my friend Penelope in there already.” Before Sophie could say another word, Eloise was out the door, across the street, and sitting at a table in the tea shop, plainly visible.
Sophie sighed. Eloise would be safe and she knew that this visit to see Gen was another gift the young woman was giving her. She turned back to her friend who was smiling at Eloise’s antics but held a hundred questions in her eyes.
“Let me just see to these ladies,” she said softly, pointing to the customers in the corner. “Make yourself at home.”
Sophie returned her smile gratefully and found a cushion to sit on while Gen tended to the women in the shop, clearly rushing them to make their purchases and leave. Once the last of them departed, she locked the door and pulled Sophie to the back parlour.
“Sophie Beckett, where on earth have you been?”
Over the next few hours, it all came out. Sophie told Gen everything that had happened. Everything from the night of the masquerade up until the present day. The magic of meeting and dancing with Benedict, Araminta’s cruelty and her flight from the Cowper house, her years of servitude, Cavender and the fateful night she escaped him. Everything that had occurred with Benedict, only the appropriate details of course; how he had found her and how she had ended up at Aubrey Hall, then London. How they had been together, how he had discovered her secret at last, and how she loved him. Despite the pain and the anger and the impossibility of their pairing, God help her, she still loved him but knew it was time to put an end to it all.
She shook, she cried, she raged. She unburdened herself of all her secrets. It felt so good to share her story with someone, she was unable to stop until every last detail of her heartbreak was laid bare. Gen held her hands, brushed tears from her cheeks, wrapped her in reassuring arms, and listened intently, asking all the right questions. When Sophie had finally talked herself numb, Gen produced a bottle of wine and two glasses.
The drink helped Sophie to steady herself. “I’m sorry,” she rasped, hoarse from her confessions. “If this is awkward for you. You and Benedict…”
Gen gave her a reassuring smile. “Benedict and I had fun. But that was so long ago, I don’t even think about it. I’m the one that called it off.” She sighed and sank back into her seat. “He’s a bloody fool. These Bridgerton men,” she grumbled, “tearing their way through the hearts of all the decent women in London.”
Sophie sniffed and took another sip of wine. She didn’t care to know what other stories Gen had about the Bridgerton men.
The modiste looked at Sophie intently. “I understand why you must leave and of course you are welcome to stay here for as long as you like. Not a Cowper or a Cavender or a Bridgerton will lay eye nor hand on you.”
Sophie smiled at her with deep gratitude, feeling that for the first time in ages, she had a safe place to go.
It was dusk when she pulled herself together enough to leave the modiste’s shop, but she didn’t feel guilty. This had been the purpose of her outing with Eloise, after all. Eloise must have been watching for her because she stepped out of the tea shop and met her in the street. Sophie wasn’t sure if she had told the truth about seeing her friend, but she had seen her speaking with a girl in a yellow dress.
On their walk back to Bridgerton House, Eloise pressed Sophie for information but all she would confirm was that she would be giving her notice to the Viscountess and then going to stay with Madame Delacroix. Eloise was flustered, pleading with her to reconsider her resignation, offering to set up a meeting with Benedict for them to patch things up, but Sophie held her resolve. She thanked Eloise repeatedly for everything she had done and even agreed to visit with her at the modiste’s shop, though she wouldn’t confess that she only planned to stay for a day or two while she decided upon her next move.
Eloise huffed, she implored, she bargained, but was forced to stop when they reached the steps of Bridgerton House.
“Eloise,” Sophie looked at her seriously. “You have been incredibly kind to me.” She felt emotion rising in her throat but kept her composure. “You are a remarkable woman and a wonderful sister. I will miss you.”
Eloise’s chin began to tremble as she finally seemed to accept that she could not convince Sophie to stay any longer.
“Write to me, wherever you end up,” she croaked.
Sophie gave her a half-hearted nod, unsure if that was a promise she wished to keep, maintaining a tie that was so close to Benedict. Suddenly, Eloise flung her arms around her and embraced her tightly. Sophie was stunned, aware of how inappropriate it was for a young lady to be hugging a maid at all, much less on the front steps of her home in full view of the street. But it felt wonderful and Sophie squeezed her back.
Then they silently walked into the house and with sorrowful nods at each other, Eloise turned and went upstairs while Sophie made for servants’ staircase below, fighting back tears.
Benedict Bridgerton x Sophie Beckett
An Offer from a Gentleman reimagined
Chapter rating: G
Word count: 3.1k
Masterpost
Previous chapter
Two nights later the Bridgertons were hosting a musicale at the house for a few dozen guests. Benedict didn’t know the details except that one of the Smythe-Smith women was among the performers. At that, he didn’t know whether to be impressed or terrified. Either she had come to her senses and escaped the ear-rending mediocrity of her siblings’ musical endeavors, or her genetic lack of talent would make the evening as painful as any other performance he had seen from her family. Either way, he would not be in the room to find out. Rather, it was the perfect night to have a moment alone with Sophie when all of his family were reliably occupied in the main hall for several hours.
Benedict made the usual vague excuses for not attending, saying he was meeting friends elsewhere for the night. Anthony had rolled his eyes, clearly jealous of the excuse to get away. Then he had spent the night pacing in his old bedroom, hands sweating as he recited over and over under his breath. He would tell Sophie that he loved her, that he had never met anyone like her and society be damned, he wanted to marry her. They could run away together, wherever they felt safest. All that mattered was that they loved each other. He pictured her smiling with joy, overwhelmed, crying even. She would breathlessly accept his proposal and fall into his arms with the sweetest of kisses. She would be Sophie the maid no more. She would be his fiancee.
Every few minutes he cracked open the door and looked down the hall to Eloise’s room. He knew that Sophie was dressing his sister for the musicale. After what felt like his eighteenth glance he saw Eloise’s door open and his sister emerge looking as glum as if she were headed to the gallows. He could hear strings being tuned downstairs and the chatter of voices beginning to quiet. Once Eloise plodded out of sight he stole over to her room as quietly as possible. Inside he saw Sophie arranging brushes and trinkets on the vanity.
“Sophie,” he whispered, causing her to jump.
“Benedict!” she gasped. “What are you doing here?”
“Come with me,” he beckoned to her, grinning. Her eyes darted but only for a moment before she matched his mischievous smile and took his hand.
He led her, sneaking down the servants’ staircases to the ground floor then out into the garden. Mercifully, they didn’t encounter anyone on the way. Through the windows he could see the rows of guests seated for the performance and could hear the first chords start to play. He nearly winced, waiting for that signature Smythe-Smith cacophony, but was pleasantly surprised that the song progressed softly, melodiously, the well-pitched notes drifting out into the evening air.
Silently congratulating the Smythe-Smith girl, Benedict pulled Sophie across the grass. Once they reached the far side of the elm tree from whose branches hung two wooden swings, he pressed her against the trunk and savored her lips in a slow kiss.
Her fingers dug into his back as she sighed with pleasure, but kept trying to talk in a whispered tone.
“Benedict…”
He kissed her.
“What are you doing?”
He kissed her again. She tasted so sweet. He loved that she had no idea what was coming. No idea that her life was about to change. His excitement was brimming over, making him giddy.
He needed to find the perfect spot for the big moment. He took her hand again and led her, giggling, to the patio stones tucked within the rose hedges - one of his favorite spots on the property. This was the place, fragrant with flowers and bathed in the warm glow of candles from the windows. With everyone gathered in the main hall, no one was watching them. This is where he would make her his forever. But he wanted to add an extra layer of surprise.
Sophie looked at him with bewilderment and he smoothed the confusion from her face with another kiss, sliding his tongue gently between her lips. While he tasted and nibbled at her, his hands went to work untying his cravat.
Sophie pulled back sharply. “Benedict!” she hissed. “We can’t! We’ll be seen!”
He smirked, loving that her mind had gone to the most scandalous extreme. “We won’t,” he assured her. “You’re the one that taught me the many uses for these things.” He grinned as he loosened the final layer of silk from around his neck.
Sophie continued to stare at him in utter confusion. “I…”
“Shhhh,” he quieted her while he brought the strip of silk down over her eyes as a blindfold, loosely knotting it behind her head. His heart was pounding nearly out of his chest. This was the moment. He would kneel and then tell her to remove the cravat. He could already envision it - the way her eyes would shine when she saw him on one knee, the way her hand would tremble in his when he asked her. The shock and joy that would light up her face.
Softly, he sealed a final kiss and then pulled away, sinking to one knee while he kept hold of her hand. He was breathless, vibrating. The whole world went silent. Even the music floating out of the house was lost to his ears and everything in his vision grew vivid, crystal clear. He took a deep breath, looked up…and saw her.
Her.
Not Sophie.
Her.
And yet it was Sophie.
Her face half hidden, standing precisely in the spot where they had danced the night of the masquerade, that’s when he knew.
There was only one other woman in the world he had seen like this. The smile was the same. The gamine little point at the end of her chin was the same. It was all the same. She was the woman in silver, the woman from the masquerade ball.
It suddenly made sense. He remembered how familiar it had felt painting Sophie’s portrait. How his hand had recognized the angles of her face even though his eyes hadn’t. Only twice in his life had he felt this inexplicable, almost mystical attraction to a woman. He’d thought it remarkable, to have found two, when in his heart he’d always believed there was only one perfect woman out there for him.
His heart had been right. There was only one.
He’d searched for her for months. He’d pined for her for years. And here she’d been right under his nose.
And she hadn’t told him.
Did she understand what she’d put him through? How many hours he’d lain awake, feeling that he was betraying the lady in silver - the woman he’d dreamed of marrying - all because he was falling in love with a housemaid?
Dear god, it bordered on the absurd. He’d finally decided to let the lady in silver go. He was going to ask Sophie to marry him, social consequences be damned.
And they were one and the same.
A strange roaring filled his head, whistling, whirring, humming; and the air suddenly smelled acrid and everything looked a little bit red, and -
Benedict could not take his eyes off of her. He dropped her hand like dead weight and stood, backing away, but he couldn’t blink if he tried.
Sophie stood timidly in place, blindfolded, her head swiveling. She smiled nervously, “Benedict? What is it? What are you doing?”
“It’s you.” He barely recognized his own voice. It was hollow, controlled, but his hands were shaking.
“What?” The smile fell from Sophie’s face and she yanked the cravat down from her eyes. As soon as she saw him, everything inside her sank with dread. His eyes were on fire, burning with a rage and a hurt that she could barely comprehend. She knew that he knew; that her secrets were over. She went still, a soft rush of air escaping her lips.
“You.” He repeated, his jaw clenched. “The woman from the masquerade.”
Her silence was an admission in itself. He could see it in her face, the way she held her mouth, tight at the corners, and yet still slightly open. He hoped she was terrified. “Were you ever going to tell me?”
Her mouth moved but she didn’t speak, her eyes wide and intense.
“Were you?” He asked in a low growl.
“No,” she said, her voice wavering.
“Why not?” he demanded, fighting to keep his voice from rising to a shout.
She cast her eyes to the ground and started to mumble, “It wouldn’t have…”
“Speak up,” he snarled.
Then something shifted within her, visibly. Her hands curled into fists and her back straightened. She met his gaze with a fierceness he recognized. She had found her resolve. Her voice clear and steady, she asked him, “What difference would it have made?”
Her stare was leveling, but his mind was reeling too fast to regret challenging her. “What difference!?” he snapped. “I fell in love with you two years ago! It would have made all the difference!”
Hearing his confession of love, Sophie faltered. Except it hadn’t really been her, just the debutante he imagined her to be. The idea that they had both developed genuine feelings in the space of an evening was a level of serendipity fate would never gift to her. She scoffed at him. “You didn’t even know me. You didn’t fall in love with me two years ago.”
“How would you know? You disappeared.” He was gesturing wildly.
“I had to disappear,” she cried out. “I didn’t have a choice.”
“We always have choices,” he snickered at her condescendingly.
“That’s easy for you to say.” she snapped, raising her voice in earnest. “You who have everything! Not all of us are as fortunate as you are.” The disdain on her face was a new emotion he had not seen before and it cut through him.
“A fancy dress and a mask didn’t change who I was. If you’d wanted me, I still would have been your lowborn mistress.”
“It occurs to me,” he said, trying to keep his voice casual though his emotions were caught in a maelstrom, “if you were at the masquerade, then you are not exactly lowborn are you?”
“I didn’t have an invitation. I was a fraud. A pretender. I had no right to be there.”
Benedict could hardly comprehend what he was feeling anymore, realizing his pursuits, his emotions, whole years of his life had been predicated on lies. “You lied to me. Through everything, all this, you lied to me.”
“I had to.” She jutted out her chin defiantly.
“Oh please,” Benedict waved away her excuse. “What could possibly be so terrible that you must conceal your identity from me?” He thought he had earned her trust. He thought she knew what an accepting person he was.
At this she stayed silent, chewing on her lips. Benedict was suddenly overwhelmed with the feeling that this woman was a complete stranger to him. Despite everything they had been through. Despite how they had shared their time, their thoughts, their bodies and their hearts with each other, he had no idea who she was. Had it all been a lie?
“Is Sophie even your true name?” he asked in a dangerously low voice.
She nodded, gulping. Here in the garden of Bridgerton House with Benedict staring daggers at her, she had to try and recollect why she had not told him that she was the lady at the masquerade.
She had always kept planning to leave. She thought they would part ways at the inn in Rosemeade, but he had taken ill and she needed to care for him. Then she had thought he would travel to Aubrey Hall alone, but he had offered, no, insisted, that she go with him until she found a new position. She couldn’t refuse the money and how it would ease the start of her next chapter in life. She was going to leave Aubrey Hall, truly she was, but then he had kissed her, and then he had wanted her, and then… and then her body, soul and heart were his. She had shared his bed, which was the most she could have hoped for anyway if she had revealed herself as the woman from the masquerade. So what difference did it make?
Maybe she hadn’t said anything because by the time she’d realized that this wasn’t going to be a chance meeting, and that he wasn’t going to let Sophie the housemaid out of his life, it was too late. She’d gone too long without telling him, and she feared his rage.
Which was exactly what had happened. Proving her point. Of course, that was cold consolation as she stood across from him, watching his eyes go hot with anger and cold with disdain - all at the same time.
Maybe the truth - as unflattering as it might be - was that her pride had been stung. She’d been disappointed that he hadn’t recognized her himself. If the night of the masquerade had been as magical for him as it had been for her, shouldn’t he have known instantly who she was?
Two years she’d spent dreaming about him. Two years she’d seen his face every night in her mind. And yet when he’d seen hers, he’d seen a stranger.
Or maybe, just maybe, it hadn’t been any of those things. Maybe it was simpler than that. Maybe she’d just wanted to protect her heart. If Benedict had known who she was - or at least known that she’d been the woman at the masquerade - then he would have pursued her relentlessly. Sophie was sure of it. He wouldn’t have perceived the class differences as being quite so great, and he would have fought to keep her in his presence for who knows how long, rather than just treating their time together as a springtime dalliance with a maid. It was already going to be hard enough to part from him. She didn’t need to deepen her pain by drawing out a foregone conclusion.
A man such as Benedict - son of and brother to viscounts - would never marry a servant. And the dreams of both a servant and an aristocratic bastard weren’t likely to come true. Making the dreaming all that much more painful. And she’d known - every time it had been on the tip of her tongue to blurt out her secret, she had known - that telling him the truth would lead straight to a broken heart.
It almost made Sophie laugh. Her heart couldn’t possibly feel worse than it did now.
“I searched for you,” he said, his low, intense voice cutting into her thoughts.
Her eyes widened. “You did?” she whispered.
“For six bloody months,” he cursed. “It was as if you fell right off the face of the earth.”
“I had nowhere to go.” She felt as if she were being pulled apart with heartache. Torn limb from limb like being drawn and quartered.
“You had me.” Anguish broke through the anger in Benedict’s voice and his words hung in the air, heavy and dark. His eyes filled with emotion and he turned away from her, pacing.
Finally, Sophie, propelled by some perverse sense of belated honesty, said, “I didn’t know you searched for me. But…” She choked on the word, closing her eyes tightly against the pain of the moment.
Benedict whipped back around to face her. “But what?”
She met his gaze and spoke softly, “Even if I had known you were looking, I wouldn’t have let you find me.”
“Why?!” Benedict practically screamed, spreading his arms and looking around frantically. He felt as if he were going mad.
Sophie raised her voice to make herself perfectly clear. “We’re from different worlds, Benedict. Since I first met you I knew there could be no future for us.” He dropped his arms to his sides and her voice grew softer. Tears began to well in her eyes. “But you came back into my life and I kept thinking I would leave. But you just…” She shook her head, biting her lip, remembering all that had passed between them.
“It has been wonderful.” Her voice cracked. “But it has also been torture. Teasing myself with a dream that can never be fully realized.”
A beat of silence.
“Who are you?” he asked suddenly.
She just stared at him, frozen.
“Tell me,” he bit off. “Tell me who you are. Because you weren’t born a damned maid, that’s for certain.”
Her continued silence was making him incensed. Did she think she could actually keep any more secrets? It was time for it all to come out.
“Are you running a scheme on me? Trying to extort me?”
Sophie shook her head in horror. “No.”
“Then who are you?” he roared, advancing on her.
“Sophia Beckett.” She backed up a step. “I’ve been a servant since I was sixteen. I am a bastard.” The word always felt like vinegar in her mouth.
“Whose bastard?” Benedict persisted.
“Does it matter?”
His stance grew more belligerent. “It matters to me.”
Sophie felt herself deflate. There was no room to hide anymore. No secrets to keep or reasons to keep them. She didn’t know why Benedict wanted to know who her parents were, but it was probably so he could curse her very name and everyone associated with her.
“The late Earl of Penwood,” she confessed.
He stood utterly still, not moving a muscle. He didn’t even blink.
“I’m a nobleman’s bastard,” she said harshly, years of anger and resentment pouring forth. “And my mother was a maid. Yes,” she spat when she saw his face grow pale. “My mother was a maid, the same as me.”
A heavy pause filled the air.
“You lied to me.” Benedict said in a low voice, at a loss for any other argument in the face of such overwhelming confessions.
Though Sophie’s face was drawn, she kept her back straight and her arms stiff at her sides. She was not one to back down or lose a fight. Her voice became cold.
“What difference would the truth have made between us? I know you’d never marry me. I’m a servant, not a fool.”
All the breath escaped Benedict’s body. How had the world turned upside down so quickly? He had thought that in this moment he would have Sophie in his arms, committed to being his wife. Instead, he had uncovered the wildest revelation and most devastating deception one could imagine. The lady in silver was the maid he had loved all along and her betrayal had shown her to be a stranger, a liar, perhaps even an enemy. His mind was swirling with compounding emotions, each one more intense than the last, and it stymied him. He had to get out of there.
“I have to go,” he snapped, then turned and walked through the garden, off of the property and out into the night.
Summary: Sequel to Bella Notte. Exactly one year later, you find yourself at Aubrey Hall lake again...
Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI. Slight exhibitionism, oral sex (m to f), cunnilingus, vaginal sex, sex underwater, orgasms. Benedict speaking foreign languages, yep, that needs a warning.
Word Count: 3.4k
Authors note: I've finally finished this sequel that I started almost two years ago. You don't need to have read Bella Notte to read this, but it helps with the grounding of the story and shows the growth of their relationship. Thanks as always to the amazing @colettebronte for beta reading. Enjoy! <3
An elegant grandfather clock softly chimes midnight as you pad through the hallway of Aubrey Hall. Struggling to sleep after a rousing midsummer day of Pall Mall, you decide to go for a walk to make yourself drowsy, leaving your husband and beautiful three-month-old baby daughter sleeping soundly.
Before you know it, you are outside on the rear terrace enjoying the night air. There, you realise that it has been exactly one year since you went for a memorable night swim, just a few short days before your wedding.
Unable to resist, you drift towards that very lake, surveying its serene, moonlit beauty again. You recall with perfect clarity how Benedict stood naked with the water hugging his hips, beckoning you in. And, like so many times since, you joined him in a new adventure.
Wandering along its edges, you eventually pause to lean against the reddish trunk of a sturdy, towering evergreen. Inhaling deeply, you savour the refreshing fragrance of the pine needles above. Staring out at the glassy surface, vividly remembering how it felt when your husband first kissed you—how your world spun. And you giggle to yourself as you reflect that; even now, all it takes is one brush of his lips, and you are just as swept away, perhaps even more so now, knowing exactly where such journeys can end, a stirring between your legs.
“It was precisely a year ago.”
His sonorous voice from nearby startles you; you jump and grab your chest, your heart erratic from the shock. You didn’t even hear his approach, so lost in wistful reverie for untold minutes.
“You half scared me to death!” you scold affectionately, shaking your head as he rounds closer and slides his arms around your waist. He wears a somewhat crumpled white shirt and britches, obviously haphazardly thrown on before leaving your rooms as he always sleeps naked, not something you ever complain about.
“I am so cruel, am I not, my darling?” he chuckles.
“The very worst,” you concur dryly, settling into his embrace, always your very favourite place to be.
“I do not know how you tolerate me…” he jests mildly, his hands running soothing patterns along your spine.
“Wait! Bella!” you exclaim, pulling back a fraction, concerned about your little bundle of joy.
“She is fine,” he soothes. “Meredith is watching her sleep.”
Your nursery maid is so often a veritable lifesaver.
“Thank you,” you smile as he draws you flush against him once more, rocking you gently in his arms for a few minutes of companionable silence.
“So is this a little trip down memory lane, Mrs Bridgerton?” He asks sotto voce, his warm lips lingering on your temple.
“Perhaps...” you coquette, that kindling flame always smouldering between you.
“Mmm, it was so very memorable,” he hums, his lips tracing over your cheek until he reaches your mouth and seizes it with a brief but fiery kiss. “Do you have any idea how much willpower it took to stop when we did? I had to go back to my room and take myself in hand,” he pouts over your lips.
“Poor, poor lamb,” you tease playfully, your hand lowering instinctively to palm his stirring cock. “I would happily have helped.”
“You were so innocent then; what a change a year makes,” his breath more laboured as your hand drags insistently over his clothing.
“I know you liked me innocent, but I think you like me even more so now,” you contend, your intent unmistakable as you make fast work of the buttons on his trousers.
“You are not wrong…” he breathes as you shove the fabric down his muscular thighs, a searing need to have him inside you right away.
“Fuck me,” you demand crudely, your hand wrapping around his bare cock. “Against this tree, right now, right here.”
He groans, surging into your grip, his hands flexing on your back. You glance at the house around his shoulder, realising you are not remotely concealed from most of the East Wing. If anyone were to drift to their window, they would get an eyeful of your husband’s naked bottom at this very moment.
“I hope no one can see us….”
“Let them watch,” he snarls, tugging off his shirt and removing your hand so he can shuck his trousers, fully naked now.
It’s a sight that always has you flustered, so much lithe musculature, his skin glowing like sculpted marble in the moonlight. But you get little chance to admire or to run your hands along his contours, for he hauls you off your feet into his arms. Your robe and nightgown are pushed high around your hips as he presses you into the tree trunk; the fabric snags the rough bark.
Then he guides his cock where you want, with no preamble, both groaning as he thrusts into you in one swift, decisive move.
“Yesssss, that's it…” you hiss, your toes scraping the meat of his calf, your arms banding his neck tightly as he withdraws and then surges back in, your whole body rolling with the sheer force.
It’s only been three months since you had your baby, and he has been so tender with you since you started having sex again mere weeks ago. But tonight, you don’t want gentle; you want raw, rough passion, a reminder of just how much you cannot resist each other.
‘“Harder husband,” you implore, finger digging into his toned flesh.
And he delivers, setting a fierce rhythm, snapping his hips in a way that ensures neither of you will last long. You moan a litany of encouragement, your eyes drifting to the lake, remembering how thrilling it felt to touch him for the first time. He grabs one of your legs and loops it over his forearm, opening you wide, your thighs burning slightly with the stretch, your mouth slackening as his pelvis glances at your clit.
“Oh yes, right there, do not dare stop,” you moan through gritted teeth, fighting off your thin silk robe.
“So very demanding tonight,” he huffs, bemused, but his pace never wavering as he assists you in tugging your nightgown off, now as naked as him.
“Make me come,” you order, breathing heavily, bearing down into his upward thrusts, plunging yourself deeper onto his cock, greedily chasing your orgasm.
“Happily…” he retorts with a victorious smile.
But you mewl bereft as, instead of moving faster, he abruptly withdraws from you, leaving you pulsing and wanting.
With you still in his arms, he takes a few paces and lays you down delicately by the water's edge. The verdant grass cushions your back as he quickly snakes down your torso, landing between your legs. You cant upwards and howl at his sudden acute suction on your throbbing clit.
This is why you thank your lucky stars every damn day for your husband. You ask him to fuck you, and he changes it into something else, entirely other, taking you beyond. He tilts his head up, bringing your attention back to his handsome face framed by your thighs, his eyes glittering like the lake.
“I want to be out here all night, bringing you pleasure over and over. I don’t care if anyone sees. One of my family, even. I want everyone to know how good we are together. How lucky I am.” He turns and sucks hard on your inner thigh. “So give them a good show, my darling wife, scream for me.”
Your responding groan is loud and appreciative, your hands grabbing his head to direct his questing tongue.
This.
This is the Benedict you can never get enough of. When he’s all riled up, he is a force to behold: filthy poetry dripping from his sinful, talented mouth. Enchanted by his decadent words, your knees fall open wider, pushing yourself into his face.
“Yes, my love,” he encourages silkily as you lightly scratch your fingernails across his scalp; his reply muffled into your folds as he languidly swirls his tongue.
So you do as bidden. Begin to ride his face shamelessly, his nose nudging your clit as he slips lower to swirl his tongue into your pussy, murmuring words into your soaked, quivering flesh.
“Mia bellissima, mia dia…”
All you can do is shudder and hold tight, the ground dewy under your shoulder blades as you writhe upon him, toes curling into the muscle of his back as he feasts upon you, drinking your honeyed nectar. Notching you gently up that invisible ladder towards ecstasy as he returns to your throbbing clit.
“Mon vie, ma femme, tu es mon monde.”
Each word is like a precious jewel he drops onto your pearl, his tongue a glancing tease that has you begging for more.
“Please husband…” you rasp, licking your lips, that telltale twinge deep in your belly.
His stubbled cheeks rasp your folds as he takes pity and sucks your clit hard between his lips and doesn't let up. Your pussy clenching in pulses, his strong hands grasp your thighs to hold you down as you buck up reflexively, all your muscles tensing as he takes you higher. Your engorged nub in his hot mouth, him driving you towards the edge with each roll of his muscular tongue. When he reaches up a hand to pinch one of your nipples, you are gone. Hurtling into the stars above, calling his name—uncaring if your lusty cries awake anyone sleeping in the house.
He growls encouragements as you begin to break under him, but his hold is still firm, not letting up, elongating your rapture. Making you thrash your head into the mossy verge, your pussy convulsing, leaking onto his chin as he chuckles richly, the echo seeming to travel through your pelvis. Knowing your body so well, he keeps suckling on your sodden flesh, running the edge of his teeth over your nub, holding you right in that state of mindless ecstasy for what feels like forever, a dizzying high that wracks your whole being, buzzing down to your fingertips and toes.
Just as it seems too much, and you want to beg him to stop, he relents, switching to delicate kisses on your inner thighs as you fight for breaths, your entire being tingling.
“You were right,” you stutter, idly raking your fingers through his thick chestnut hair as you come back down to earth.
“About what?” he queries, resting his chin on your pubic hair.
“W-what you said to me in this very lake,” you sigh, head lolling to the side to observe the moonlit waters. “That I would receive pleasure from you at length.”
He smiles jubilantly and crawls up on all fours, landing a kiss on your lips. The tangy flavour of your release is strong on his face. And yet, even quaking and dazed, you are still greedy for more—for him, for this night not to end.
“I need you inside me again,” you appeal breathily. “In the water. Take me the way you wanted to that night, husband.”
He looks out to the adjacent lake briefly, then back to you, that devastating lopsided smile claiming his features.
“You are full of wonderful ideas, my love. What a fitting tribute to that night.”
He swoops you into his arms bridal style, athletically springing to his feet and strides decisively into the lake. Your whoop of delight morphs into a shriek as the cold water engulfs your nethers.
“Colder than I was expecting, too,” he acknowledges perkily but wades on regardless.
You giggle to distract from the mild shiver at the sudden change in temperature. Impressed that his cock is still rigid at your hip as the ground under his feet falls away rapidly, the water quickly up at your ribs.
His hold changes as you both begin to float in the water, spinning so you are face to face. The juxtaposition of his warm skin and cool water is just as beguiling as it was that night. Your lips find each other in a languid kiss, wrapping your limbs around him as it deepens, that fire stoking within you that he always seems to ignite.
“Roleplay with me,” you beseech impromptu as your lips part.
“What do you mean, my darling?” He queries, his face the picture of intrigue as his sizable hands slide over your buttocks, grabbing your cheeks.
“Pretend I am the innocent I was that night,” you whisper into his ear, pressing your pebbled nipples into his chest as you lightly bite his earlobe. “But do not be a gentleman this time.”
He groans, fingers kneading your bottom as his cock tip ruts into your belly button, telegraphing how much he loves that idea. You grab one of his hands and guide it between your legs.
“I ache there…. when you kiss me.”
You employ the exact words you uttered to him one year ago, the moment, indeed the whole night, etched so clearly in your memory.
You watch his face cloud with a beguiling mix of tender nostalgia and pure seductive menace—his cheekbones and jaw in stark relief in the moonlight as his cadence slips lower.
“That is wonderful news, my love. That is how it should be; it means you desire me as much as I desire you.”
Your heart leaps as he recites, verbatim, his reply to you that night. A meaningful beat passes between you, silently conveying the poignancy.
But then, just as you want, as you need, he flips the script. A sharp tang of desire floods through you as he curls his fingers into your folds.
“And fear not, I shall make that ache go away,” he rumbles. “I will take you right here. Make you mine. Ruin you for every other man. You will not want another for as long as you breathe.”
You pull him in for a kiss, burning from his possessive words, hitching your legs, encircling his waist—a blatant invitation. His other hand slides up your spine, dampening the strands at the nape of your neck, grasping there lightly as he continues in that resonant tone.
“I fear I cannot be gentle, for you have bewitched me.” It sounds like the very best kind of warning, his fingers teasing over your clit.
“I do not wish you to be,” you affirm truthfully, your lips ghosting his as you breathe other's air.
There is a rich groan from him, and his fingers are gone, replaced by the blunt head of his cock demanding entry. You gasp as he slips a fraction inside you, your eyes going wide as if this were unknown, even though all you feel is bliss from that now familiar stretch.
“Relax, my sweet, let me in,” he tutors, stilling, playing the part so perfectly.
As he inches in so slowly, you attempt a noise of astonishment, but it just sounds wanton, the hot steely plunge of his cock such a contrast to the cold water enveloping you. Part of you rues asking him to treat you as the innocent, for the slow pace is almost agnosing, like sandpaper rasping gradually over the needy edges of your desire. It makes you impatient for him to take you roughly, perhaps more than he ever has before, greedy for another spine-tingling orgasm. Even as you enjoy the cling of your pussy to his every contour.
“Well done, my love. You've taken all of me so well,” he praises as he reaches your hilt.
You can't help but peal a laugh; although his swagger is not unfounded, something about the moment feels both humorous and oddly sweet.
He breaks character too, chuckles warmly into your ear: “You are terrible at acting innocent, darling wife.”
“Maybe,” you concede as you swat his shoulder affectionately, clenching your pussy so he moans loudly. “But I am enjoying you corrupting me, you utter rake, so please continue,” you giggle.
There is a twinkle in his eye as he withdraws and then charges back into you, not at all how he treated you on your wedding night.
“Be gentle; I am so innocent,” you entreat with theatrical irony as your eyes beg for him to be anything but. A ripe, pulpy sensation in your core needs relief.
“I warned you that I cannot…” he volleys back in a low timbre, quirking a brow and deploying that devastating, crooked smile, goosebumps breaking over your arms, and not just from the coolness of the lake.
This playfulness, slipping into and out of roles for each other's amusement, is why you feel so lucky to be married to him, indeed, why you love him so much. The deep, trusting bond you have built together since the last time you were in this very lake. And passion, so much passion. A mutual wish to always be joined as you are now, him buried inside you as you float together.
“I love you, Benedict,” It falls from your lips unbidden. Honest. Truthful,
“I love you too, y/n.” His response is instant; his mien softens in understanding as if he intuits where your thoughts have slid.
Profound emotion mutates to tart, metallic want, causing you to undulate upon him. The buoyancy of the water aids your movement, rising, then sinking back onto his cock, staring into his hazy eyes, blown wide by inky pupils.
“Amore mio,” he murmurs, his gaze never straying from yours.
Even if you do not understand every word when he speaks in another language, you can feel the meaning emanating from his very soul.
The water ripples out in concentric waves, distorting the glassy reflection of the moon as you move together with increasing urgency, naked bodies entwined under the surface. He ploughs so deep into you, hitting that spot only he can reach—the one that makes you feel altered, renewed, powerless to do anything but chase that addictive, dizzying high again. Eyes rolling, caged in his arms, you hit a new joined rhythm that feels sublime, stealing kisses between breaths.
You moan his name as he plants his feet firmly on the bottom of the lake to give him more capacity—a dangerous smile as he grasps your bottom vice-like, slamming you onto him, redoubling his efforts. You throw your head back, your hair trailing in the water, moaning to the dark domed sky above, his mouth hot on your throat as you move together with increasing speed, the cool water a balm to your now fevered skin. Spurred on by the illicitly arousing thought that anyone in the house could see you out in the middle of the lake, fucking under the stars.
“Mon amour,” Benedict stutters, his voice tinged with the desperation of nudging ecstasy.
“So close,” you pant, grabbing his jaw and kissing him deeply, lathing your tongue over his as one of his hands dives between your legs. You cry out into his mouth as he strums roughly against your swollen clit, flinging you towards bliss.
You feel that dam breaking, your whole being wound tight like a spring that abruptly snaps in a kaleidoscopic release. Your pussy clenching around his cock, an imprint you want to carry always. Fireworks behind your eyelids as a thrill races down your spine to all your nerve endings. Your fluttering pulls him over the edge, too, his body spasming then stilling as he releases into you, a bloom you feel inside as his teeth sink into your neck and he emits a wracking groan of sheer relief.
For a few moments, you hover in the water, him still inside you, catching your breath. Chaste, pecking kisses and little words of reassurance as he slips from your body, both of you belatedly realise just how cold the water is now that your passions have been sated, giggling as you swim back towards the edge. Certainly not as warm as it was during last year’s heatwave.
After he has helped you out of the lake, you return hand-in-hand to your pile of discarded clothes under the trees, jostling into each other for warmth, staving off your shivers in the night air.
“I need you to promise me something…” you murmur, pulling on your nightgown, it turning translucent as it adheres to your damp skin.
“What is that, my darling wife?” he drawls, intrigued, pausing in the haphazard refastening of his trousers.
You wait until his gaze meets yours. “I know it is close to our wedding anniversary, but I need you to bring me here every year, Benedict. On this exact date… And take me right here, in this very lake…”
His eyes flash, and he tugs you into his arms.
“That can certainly be arranged, my love,” his words laden with dusky promise. “This shall forevermore be our notte d’amore.”
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Author's Note: Request fill for @corpseoftrees-queen, who requested a sequel to Rescue and Ruin almost two years ago now. Sorry that it's taken me so long to write this. As partial recompense, there will be at least one more fic to accompany this (hence the 'I' in the title). Beta read by the amazing @colettebronte. Enjoy! <3
It’s just after midnight as you escape silently out of a side door of Aubrey Hall. Furtively moving only amongst the shadows as you make your way towards the lake, shimmering beguilingly in the bright moonlight—doing your very best not to be seen by any possible prying eyes. You want no one to know of your scandalous plans.
To meet one Viscount Bridgerton out here under the stars and all the tempting things he offers.
You know if you are found out, it will be your ruin…. And yet you are powerless to do anything but. Moving as if your feet are possessed, a fever that has been coursing through you since your exhilarating encounter mere hours ago.
Thus, butterflies in your tummy, you edge along the dense, high bushes, looking for the gap you vaguely recall emerging from. Suddenly, a strong arm wraps around you, yanking you backwards through the thick foliage; before you can even squeak, another hand clamps over your mouth.
“Shh, do not be alarmed,” he dusks into your ear instantly, and immediately your body blooms.
Anthony.
All six feet of him pressed against your back, the smooth leather of his boots brushing your bare calves, his hand hot through your cotton nightgown where he grips tightly around your waist.
“I knew you would not disappoint,” he declares, the hand over your mouth releasing, slipping lower, fingers dancing over your collarbone. “Such intense curiosity, needing sating.”
Something in his tone is decadent, tastes of rebellion and desire, thick and honeyed like treacle. You want everything he is willing to offer, consequences be damned.
“Sate me,” you beseech, twisting to nuzzle his jaw, throwing all caution to the wind.
He makes a sound that is almost a growl, his fingers curling into your belly.
“Oh sweet one, you have no idea of what you speak….” His cadence is throatier and breathy. “But it would be my complete pleasure to teach you some. Perhaps not all,” he concedes. “I am a gentleman, after all,” he offers without a trace of irony it deserves. “Just enough to make you insatiably… enthusiastic.”
You feel the curve of his cheek as he smiles against your temple, the hand at your clavicle tracing lower, inching over your skin until it skirts the neckline of your nightgown.
“What say you?” He queues and you realise he is waiting, waiting for you to give him your permission.
“Please….” You rag and inhale sharply as his fingers slip under the cotton.
He teases your areola with the barest of grazes, but it still has you shuddering. Your skin their puckering tightly
“So sensitive,” he murmurs, sounding pleased, stoking a molten fire somewhere deep inside.
The hand at your waist smears heavily upwards over your ribcage, rucking the gown over your knees until it, too, slips inside your neckline. Both hands now tease featherlight circles around your nipples, which is at once too much and somehow also not enough.
“More….”
It’s a panted whisper that slips from your lips unbidden as you close your eyes and sag back against him.
“Greedy little thing,” he chuckles, but it seems to spur him on.
He abruptly pinches your nipples between his thumbs and forefingers; the sharp spike of sensation makes you gasp. A lighting bolt zips down between your legs. A throb there as he releases them that would cause you consternation, were it not so so good.
Anthony hums gently, more than a little cocky, as his teeth nip your earlobe.
“That’s it, you love that?”
You moan as he does it again, changes pressure, twisting his grip so his warm hands cup the curve of your breasts, cradling them as you begin to writhe against him instinctively.
“Wrap your hands around my neck, sweet one,” he commands gently. “Lean into that exquisite feeling.”
And so you do: eyes still closed as you raise your arms and blindly loop them around his neck, tendrils of the hair at his nape tickling your wrist bones as you lock your fingers together, if nothing else, an anchor for your weakening legs.
“Gooood,” he elongates the word so it drips into your ear.
You undulate into his hands, sighing every time he teasingly retreats his fingers a fraction away, you tilting to chase his touch.
“You are so perfect,” he groans, pinching a little harsher this time so you vocalise, wanting him to do this forever, never to stop.
He nudges your cheek until his lips meet yours, and then fireworks explode behind your closed lids as he kisses you. Deeply, all-encompassing, his tongue invading, swiping yours in sync with his finger staccatoing your nubs. You moan wantonly into his mouth, unable not to, awash in novel sensation.
“Do you think you could reach a peak just like this?” He breathes right into your open mouth, licking along the jagged edge of your teeth covetously.
“I do not know what that means,” you confess with hushed honesty, your eyes fluttering open to his hungry stare piercing your soul. Only knowing there is something hot and urgent rising in your body—dangerous, luscious, addictive.
“They teach you young ladies nothing,” he condemns before tugging both of your nipples harshly forward, a sharp metallic zing blooming on your tongue as you buck into him as the slightly rough treatment just heightens your yearning. “And yet… look how much you need it without even knowing.”
Lightheaded already, you cannot believe that just his hands inside your nightgown could make you feel like this. But suddenly, they are gone, and you cry out on instinct, the loss acute, hardened, peaked nipples rasping the fabric.
“Take off your gown,” Anthony tutors, unlinking your hands from around his neck and taking a step back.
Scrambling to obey, you cross your arms and rapidly tug the material up and off without a second thought, just so very keen for him to assuage that deep ache. A dampness between your thighs that is slick, viscous.
You can hear his laboured breathing as he slowly prowls a circle around you, his gaze seeming like a heavy robe even as your flesh erupts with goosebumps in the swirl of cool night air. Scrunching your toes into the damp grass to stop you from swaying, an anticipatory jangling in your nerves for what he will do next.
He comes to a halt in front of you.
“Look at me.”
You tilt up your chin at his soft order, meeting his eyes; the intensity and beauty steal your breath. His darkened pupils reflect the bright moon, his cheekbones in stark relief.
“Do you wish to know more?”
You bite your lip and nod vigorously, locking your knees at the velvety tone he employs.
With a hungry noise, he hauls you into his arms, your chest colliding with the stiff cotton of his shirt, a hard bulge pressing into your belly through his tickly woollen britches as once again he kisses you. Stealing your breath, plundering your mouth. A thrill zipping over your skin, like you are caught out in a thunderstorm. He hunches down, hands sliding down to grasp your buttocks firmly; you squeak over his lips as he pulls you up onto tiptoes, rutting slightly against you.
“Sweet one, I crave to ruin you. Ruin you in ways so you would never even think to look at another man,” he warns darkly, and it sounds like just the fire you want to burn in.
But then he stills, as if muzzling himself and sighs heavily into your neck, breath hot and moist.
“Alas, ‘tis not fair to do such, even if I burn to…”
It sounds like regret and yearning all at once. You whimper, hankering for something you know you need even without knowing what it is—-an elusive eden just beyond your grasp.
“I want you to.”
You entreat, moving your hands from the anchor of his shoulders to cup his jaw, bringing his conflicted gaze to meet yours.
“Ruin me, Viscount Bridgerton.”
Your bold beseechment flips a switch in him, and he snarls, his nostrils flaring. Before you know it, you are swept off your feet and placed on your back on the cool, dewy grass, the moon almost dazzling over his shoulder.
He hovers over you on all fours, eyes raking over your form as if deciding what to do next.
After a moment, a light seems to go off behind his captivating eyes, and he grabs your wrist and guides a hand down towards the apex of your thighs.
“Touch yourself,” he implores.
Somehow, you know without asking what he means. A throb that demands attention. Without hesitation, your fingers plough into your slit, and you are taken aback by how swollen you are there, how soaked your flesh is. Your body cants up, a moan escaping as you swipe over a hardened nub, a riot running through every cell at this mere brush.
Anthony groans, and his hand closes over yours, guiding your movement. You can feel his fingertips between your swollen lips, even if it’s your own pad pressed against that bundle of nerves.
He mutters a curse and presses more insistently, puppeting your hand like a sinful marionette, noises from between your legs that sound filthy but only seem to make him more desperate, lowering himself to rhythmically press that swelling into your thigh.
“That’s it, chase it, my sweet,” he encourages, a baritone rumble that seems to echo from his ribcage into yours.
You spiral higher, your breath harsh pants, your muscles twitching, somewhere inside clenching as if it needs something to grip onto.
“Do not fucking stop,” he urges through clenched teeth, his desperation and crude language ratcheting you higher, a heat boiling in your veins.
Your digits are just passive under his now, letting him direct your pleasure; be the one to push you beyond, even if the touch is indirect.
Then, a dam breaks within you, and your whole body goes tense as moisture gushes from within, coating your fingers and his. You explode into a thousand tiny fragments and snap back together, heart pounding, every nerve afire. Calling out so loud, his other hand briefly clamping over your mouth again, muffling your hoarse cries that echo above the trees into the night sky. He gruffs for you to hush but in a tone laced with pride in what he has wrought.
As you float somewhere among the twinkly stars above, your lungs still heaving, he guides your slack, soaked fingers up to his face and plunges them between his hot lips, his moans vibrating your fingernails.
In a partial daze, detached but mesmerised at how untamed he is, you watch him chasing his pleasure now—sucking your fingers so hard, repeatedly rutting into your thigh over and over until his whole body tenses. There is a ripple against your quad as he collapses over you, your fingers buried deep in his mouth, a warm, sticky bloom seeping through the wool of his trousers as he collapses over you.
“Anthony…” you appeal softly after a few moments, his weight almost too much to bear and with a grunt, he rolls to one side, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you into an embrace as you lay on your sides.
“I do believe I have not soiled my britches as such since I was a teen; look what you have wrought from me,” he contends.
There is a brief moment when you fear you have wronged him, but then you catch his eye and see nothing but a twinkle of mischief and a handsome smirk. He is teasing you.
“There’s just something about you….” he hums, his knuckles caressing your cheekbone, the scent of your arousal still potent on his hand as you nudge into his touch. “You bring out the very best…. and very worst… in me. It took all I had not to ruin you right here,” he smiles, leaning down to claim a brief, soft kiss.
“I am not yet ruined, my lord?” you frown, and that makes him chuckle.
“Oh, we are just getting started, sweet one,” his silky voice laden with promise. “And I will be here again, midnight tomorrow, waiting for you. And for as many nights as you wish it…”
And what a beguiling idea that is.
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First chapter of 2025 is up now, my Darlings! (18+only)
Link to AO3 here
Previous tumblr link chapter here
CW: mentions of child abuse and implied/referenced CSA; canon-typical misogyny; Geidi Prime and the Harkonnens serving as their own content warnings
Additional tags: switching; dom!Feyd; sub!Reader; pregnancy; vague murder plots; dysfunctional family dynamics; minor degradation; collars and restraints; vaginal sex; vaginal fingering; titty fucking; oral sex (M+F receiving) facials; face-fucking; ball-sucking; teasing; edging; aftercare; arena fights
When you wake up the next morning you realize that the two of you shifted to your sides, that he’s moved up a little and his breath tickles your upper abdomen; you can see the top of his head just below your breasts and feel one of his legs in between yours. He’s so warm, so solid yet pliant, making you smile to yourself and gently stroke his back as you remember everything that happened last night.
This man’s been submissive before, has been collared and leashed before, has allowed himself to be used before, and that’s fine. You never expected to be your husband’s first anything , even before you knew that there were other sorts of firsts.
You are reasonably certain, though, as he stirs and tightens his arms around you for a moment, that you’re the first person to have him like this. If you were in a different mood you’d ask him if anyone else has ever slept through the night with him and felt him as wanting.
Instead you turn onto your back, guiding him on top of you as he starts to wake up and shift your legs to give him space to rest in the cradle of your hips.
He seems to properly wake seconds after you do, raising his body up to stifle a yawn against your collarbone before finally lifting his head to look at you.
You get a proper look at his neck; there are faint red marks around it, and if given proper time to inspect it you’d be able to make out the faint outline of the prongs that dug into the column of his throat and chains around the sides of his neck. You press a kiss there, thinking that no one else is going to risk staring so long that they’d get a close view.
“How does it feel?” you ask, voice still thick with sleep. You realize that Feyd’s half-hard against your thigh.
“Feels perfect,” he murmurs, smiling for a moment as his cheek brushes against your temple, his chest expanding as your tongue flickers against his skin. “And you?”
You can’t help but let out a giggle and admit, “Sore.” You suppose it’s not much of a surprise; he’d had his tongue and then his cock inside of you for over an hour.
“Oh?” he asks, and leans down to meet you in a kiss as his half-hard cock brushes against you again. “ Too sore?” he asks.
“Didn’t say that,” you tell him as you shift and draw your legs back, giving him more space. You’re barely awake, barely processing the gray early-morning light but Feyd’s getting harder, enough to properly push inside of you, and you ache for it.
Still, you’re not quite wet enough when he slides along your slit, so he slowly rubs his fingertips against you until you are, until he can no longer take the distance and presses into you with a low rumble of a groan against your lips.
You belong inside of me , you want to tell him as you clutch at his back the moment you arch your own, pressing your chest against his, keeping one arm wrapped around his shoulders and your free hand against the back of his head to pull him into a kiss.
It isn’t rough, not until the end when Feyd seems close, when his thrusts get hard and fast and he snarls and bites down on the crook of your neck. Not until you dig your nails into his shoulders and drag them down his back, feeling the top layer of skin break.
I'll take all you can give me, you think when he comes and you coil yourself around him, clenching down and shuddering.
He pumps his hips into you a few more times, wrapping an arm around you as he lowers the two of you down and laps at the bite mark he’s no doubt left. You tilt your head to give him more access, your fingertips trailing over the marks you’ve left on him.
You’d almost ask him to stay inside you a little longer, before he kisses your mouth, the contact swallowing up your gasp as he pulls out.
He gets up and pads over to the bathroom. You’ll do the same in a few minutes but for the moment take your time to reach for the nearly-empty glass of water on the nightstand and take a sip and turn to your side, head resting on one hand, to watch as Feyd reemerges.
You tilt your head, watching as he dresses silently; his training shirt’s collar low enough that anyone will be able to see the marks you’ve left. He turns and catches where you’re looking, the faint amusement never leaving his eyes. “No one’ll say anything,” he says by way of answer to your silent question.
Certainly not if they want to keep their heads, you think as Feyd finishes getting dressed and fastening his boots. You wonder if this is what it’s like to feel territorial, to feel pride at marking up what’s yours.
And you are mine, aren’t you? you think, biting your lip as he sips some water and gets ready to leave.
“I expect you in the Training Halls in half an hour,” Feyd says on his way out.
“Noted,” you tell him and get up, slinking into your own quarters, feeling rather pleased with yourself, even if so few of the real conflicts you’ll have to face have been resolved. For a few minutes you can just allow yourself to be happy, getting ready for the morning until Idrisa arrives with her tray of water, lemons, and coffee.
“Morning!” you tell her from your spot seated on the edge of the bed as you pull on your training shirt and reach for your boots.
“You seem to be in better spirits, my lady,” Idrisa says as she sets the tray down.
You smile at her. “Well, thank you. I’d dare say I am in better spirits,” you tell her.
She doesn’t know yet; you can hardly believe you haven’t told her yet, in the days since you’ve found out. “Can I tell you something?”
“Yes, my lady?” she asks, standing at a respectable distance and folding her hands in front of her.
For all there is to fear, you allow yourself to enjoy the knowledge of the life growing inside of you. “I’m pregnant,” you tell her. “The Bene Gesserit confirmed it during their visit.”
Her eyes widen and she glances down at your abdomen, as if you could be showing so soon. One hand reaches up towards you, the other flying to the side of her face. “Oh, my lady, that’s such wonderful news!” she says. “Do you have any symptoms yet?”
“Not yet,” you tell her. “Not any that I’ve really noticed.”
“Well, I’m here to provide you with whatever you need. You’ll have the best care the Fortress has to offer,” she says. She glances back at the tray, suddenly looking stricken. “Oh, if I’d known I’d have gotten some prenatal tablets for you. I’m sorry, na-Baroness.”
You step forward, reaching for her hands as she starts wringing them. “You couldn’t have known; I hadn’t told you yet. I mean, it was inevitable given, well…” you hesitate, managing an awkward chuckle you don’t expect her to be able to share in. “Hardly anyone knows yet. We…well, we’ve decided to wait another couple of weeks or however long it will take to get a proper confirmation from a Harkonnen doctor before we make any declarations. I don’t think I’d have known about it were it not for the visit,” you add. “So I think it would be not only fine but for the best to hold off on those prenatal supplements until my pregnancy’s common knowledge.”
Idrisa’s hands are smaller than yours, and clammy as she nods, her eyes shining, looking for a moment like they’re brimming with unshed tears. “Yes, of course, my lady,” she says emphatically. “And I’ll bring you some ginger tea after your training. It’s good for energy and digestion.” She drops her hands the moment you release them and she takes a step back. Her eyes dart back down to your stomach.
“Pardon me, my lady, I wasn’t quite sure what to make of you when we first met,” she says. “But I do think you’ll make a very fine Baroness. And I think you’ll soon realize how important this is to the House of Harkonnen.”
You don’t see her fervor often, and it’s almost enough to give you pause, almost enough to take you out of the warm bubble you inhabited with Feyd last night, earlier this morning.
Even if the Harkonnens don’t know the significance of your firstborn son to the greater population, this is momentous for them, and you realize you might not have seen yet the fanaticism they’re capable of showing.
At breakfast the Baron undoubtedly notices the scratches along the back of his nephew’s scalp and the indentations along his throat. He probably knows they came from you. You’re reasonably sure, though, as he glances between the two of you, that he couldn’t begin to guess how you put them there.
He doesn’t ask, though, and neither of you indulge him. So instead of probing he mentions that he’ll eventually join Feyd on Arrakis, to see his progress and results.
“Not to leave you alone here, my dear niece, but I’m sure you understand that such measures are necessary during war,” he says to you in afterthought.
“I do, my lord Baron,” you say lightly, “and I appreciate your consideration.” You spare just a glance at Feyd and catch his eye for a moment.
You have a window of opportunity here , you want to tell him. You can make your move while in enemy territory .
And not that you could ever hope to communicate telepathically, but his responding look before focusing his attention on the Baron seems to suggest that the thought has already occurred to him.
It makes the Baron’s weeks of petty insults and insinuations easier to stomach. He can find you disposable, can find you nothing more than a broodmare for the Harkonnens to be dispatched after you’ve served your purpose. You’ll tolerate it for now. All that matters is that within months he’ll find out how wrong he’s been.
You're not surprised that there's no blood the following week when your time comes around, just a little surprised that you don't feel any different yet. A little more tired than usual, but that's about it. Still optimistic about the future, for now, before anyone can ruin it for you.
You examine your profile in the mirror one morning before you’ve gotten dressed and your belly doesn’t look different yet; you’ve had monthly courses where there’s been more of a curve to your lower stomach. Your breasts look about the same, although you’ve heard they’ll change first and change soon. The only difference in your body you can point out from when you first landed on Geidi Prime is that there’s a little more definition in your arms and legs, and you’re not sure how long that will stay. Feyd said once that he’d pause your training sessions once you start showing but that’s undoubtedly changed to “ once he leaves for Arrakis .”
How strange, that something so powerful’s growing inside of you and no one could begin to guess yet just from looking at you.
It’s then that Feyd enters, fully dressed in his training clothes but before doing any training, if the lack of sweat is any indication. His expression’s inscrutable. For once he’s not eyeing your naked body with lust, even as his gaze sweeps over you.
“Is something wrong?” you ask him.
“You’re going to want to stay in your chambers today,” he says, voice tight.
You furrow your brow, tamping down on your indignation. “ Why?”
A muscle in Feyd’s jaw twitches. “Rabban’s here on a short visit,” he says. “Getting a respite and trying to explain why he’s been such a failure.”
You reach for your robe and cover up, feeling almost like he’s here already. Your brother-in-law has never looked at you with hunger, as far as you could tell, but a certain resentment, no doubt over the fact that he wasn’t the one gifted with the trophy bride and the key to the Harkonnen throne.
“You don’t think he’ll try to–” you start, because at no point has Feyd ever seemed afraid of his older brother, and you don’t think it’s fear that’s causing him to act this way now.
“Never. I’d kill him before he tried,” Feyd says. “But he’s coarse and unpleasant at the best of times, and worse when he’s aggravated. He’ll want to insult you, brag about the size of his dick, and make any number of comments I won’t stand for.”
You’ve heard a number of coarse comments before, mostly ones you weren’t meant to hear, but you’re grateful for the opportunity to avoid any coming from your brother-in-law. Still, if Rabban’s to lose his post soon regardless, it seems pointless to continue demanding results from him that everyone knows he won’t deliver.
“Giving him time to explain himself implies that your uncle’s going to give him another chance to fix things.” Selfishly, you don’t hate the idea, as impossible as it is. Let Rabban keep putting himself in danger on Arrakis, and let your husband stay with you .
“And I’m sure Rabban believes that,” Feyd says. “He’s welcome to, for now. It’ll make things simpler if he’s not throwing weeks worth of tantrums over having his toys taken away from him.”
You scoff, not because you don’t believe him but because it’s almost bizarre to really think about the difference between the two of them–Rabban so much older, already a man when Feyd was still an infant, and yet so petulant and easily angered. “He’s really so immature?” you ask.
“He’s a useless oaf who couldn’t beat a ten-year-old in a game of cheops and relied on his fists instead,” Feyd says.
For a man who rarely discusses his childhood he always somehow manages to say a great deal in so few words. You pull your robe tighter around you.
“Avoiding him won’t be an issue,” you say. “How do you think you’ll handle him?”
Feyd holds your gaze. “I’m not ten years old anymore,” is all he says, before turning and leaving, going off to train.
You bring your hand back down to your still somewhat-flat abdomen.
You know Feyd’s intentions with the Baron when the time is right. But what of Rabban? You can’t exactly ask him to dispose of both uncle and brother, even though Feyd probably wouldn’t hesitate to do so if there was nothing stopping him.
But could he pose a threat? With the Baron gone would Rabban try to challenge Feyd for the Barony? Regain governorship of Arrakis? Feyd could banish him back to Lankiveil, sure, but would it take? Rabban’s power is mostly superficial at this point, but he could still be an issue.
You’ll have to make sure that Feyd knows how to handle him when he has neither Arrakis nor his uncle to prop himself up.
A few hours later your attempts to self-isolate prove to be a moot point when Feyd visits you in your room while you’re nursing a cup of ginger tea.
“Uncle insists upon your presence at dinner,” is all he says.
You set your tea down. “To taunt Rabban? Or to test your patience?” you ask.
“I assume both,” Feyd says. “And Uncle won’t allow fratricide, so he and I will both have to be on our best behavior.”
You raise your eyebrows. You’re reasonably certain what ‘ best behavior ’ looks like from Feyd, but you’re not sure. You couldn't begin to guess what Rabban’s version of it is. You resolve to wear something that covers you up as much as possible, not even just for modesty but to hide. Rabban won’t attack you, you’re certain, but you don’t want him even looking your way.
“Very well,” you say. “Whatever the Baron requires of us tonight.”
You know dinner’s going to be an uncomfortable affair the moment you step into the room.
You and Feyd enter to the sight of the Baron, alone, sitting in his suspensor chair, already eating and sipping from a wine glass that looks like it could hold nearly an entire bottle.
“He’s coming, dear nephew,” he says before Feyd can even think to ask. “He must simply be decompressing. Grim, disappointing news as usual. Do have a seat Feyd, Y/N.” It probably doesn’t escape the Baron’s notice that your dress this evening is ornate but as physically modest as you can manage, covering you from chin to wrist to ankles, with a hood to conceal you further. You wonder if there’s a joke on the tip of his tongue about how trying to hide yourself from Rabban will just make him notice you more, as a servant offers you and Feyd wine and you both silently decline.
You also both fill your plates in silence, leaving you wondering if you should wait for your guest before the doors open with greater force this time.
Rabban looks more haggard than you remember, bags under his eyes and frown-lines more prominent than they were weeks ago. His frame is still bulky and powerful, but his face is bloated from lack of sleep. It all serves to remind you yet again that despite being his brother he’s old enough to be Feyd’s father. You avert your gaze for a moment as his eyes scan the length of the table, from the Baron at the head of it, to his brother, and finally to you. And by mistake you glance up for a split second at just the right time to meet his gaze.
He looks incredulous when he takes in your appearance and you can guess why. The hood of your dress mostly covers your hair but doesn’t completely obstruct it or your eyebrows from view. You look back down, holding your breath, as Rabban looks back at Feyd as if he’d just spat on him. His nostrils flare and he starts to open his mouth as Feyd stares back, expression carefully neutral.
Before he can speak, though, the Baron says, “Have a seat, Rabban. And do try to be civilized; you are in the presence of an actual lady for once.”
Rabban’s mouth snaps shut as he lowers his head and pulls out his chair. He still shoots Feyd another thunderous look but he must realize that while Feyd’s the one who allowed–even wanted–for you to keep your hair, that to imply that if Feyd insulted the Harkonnens with this choice would accuse their uncle of being so weak or foolish as to permit it.
No one speaks for a while after that. Rabban loads up his plate almost as high as his uncle’s, but with simple meat, grains, and veg rather than the sauce-laden delicacies the Baron starts with before going in for second, third, and fourth courses. Granted, Rabban accepts the wine, tilts the glass back and finishes it in one long pull before setting the glass down and rapping his knuckles against the table for a refill. After that the sound of utensils scraping against plates doesn’t quite drown out the sounds of the Baron eating, and with no conversation to act as a buffer.
“Just here on a brief visit?” Feyd finally asks.
“A brief visit is all I have time for,” Rabban says, sawing at his meat with his knife so aggressively you’re surprised his plate doesn’t break in half. “Some of us have important tasks that require constant attention.”
“And I’m sure your attention span can handle it,” Feyd says.
Rabban shoots him another glare, looking like he’s searching for a snarky quip in return and, failing that, wants to simply cuff his little brother on the side of the head. For a moment you see the two of them as they must’ve been fifteen years ago, except this time Rabban knows he won’t get away with it.
“I noticed you weren’t there when I spoke with Uncle,” he says instead.
Feyd lifts his head just a fraction, but you could sense him watching Rabban from below his lashes this entire time. “He wanted to discuss your personal failures with you privately,” he says.
“My–” Rabban gives an incredulous laugh. “ I’m the one leading the charge on Arrakis, fighting the good fight against those Fremen savages. What exactly have you been doing?”.
“Securing a legitimate heir,” Feyd says, and continues eating.
Rabban does a double take and looks over at you, his dark eyes darting towards your belly as you pointedly keep your gaze down and directed at your plate. He glares at Feyd and you can sense the moment he decides to push his luck. After all, their uncle is there to intervene if Feyd retaliates. His lips curl into a sneer. “It’s hardly an accomplishment to knock up some foreign bi–”
You can feel your hands shaking as you grip your utensils so tight your knuckles blanche. You look down, ears pounding, as you hear Feyd rise from his chair and pull his blade before Rabban can finish his sentence. You hear the Baron saying, “ Now, now, let us all be civil ,” as if he doesn’t find this all deeply amusing. As if this wasn’t what he wanted to see when he demanded you all dine together.
“Rabban, you speaking in such a manner in front of a distinguished Lady from a Major House is why I don’t entrust you with these sorts of duties in the first place,” the Baron continues.
“Feyd, I specifically said no fratricide. Rabban still has his obligations on Arrakis.” For now . “You’re both grown men now, so behave like it,” he adds, as if he’s not the one pitting them against each other, hoping one goads the other into a fight.
Feyd, for his part, sheathes his blade and sits down gracefully without a word, seemingly calm once more, as Rabban sputters, indignant. You half-expect him to say, He started it! and are almost impressed when instead he scowls and finishes his second glass of wine, snapping his fingers for another refill.
Feyd glances over at you after a couple of minutes. You wouldn’t say that you’re full, but you have no desire to keep eating here.
He stands. “Uncle, I would have my wife return to her chambers. She’s in a delicate way, after all, and beginning to feel the effects of her condition.”
The Baron settles back for a moment, savory pastry in one hand and his other resting on the table. He doesn’t look convinced, although you’d be surprised if he knew anything about pregnancy other than conception and birth. Feyd adds drily, “I don’t think you’ll need her present for any further briefings, either.”
The Baron huffs, takes a bite of pastry, and gives a dismissive flick of his wrist. “Y/N may be excused. You can escort her back to her quarters, nephew, just as long as you return.”
Feyd barely has to touch the back of your chair before you stand and curtsy.
“Thank you for the lovely meal this evening. My apologies for not feeling well,” you say. “Have a good evening, my lord Baron, Governor Rabban.” You give them each a nod before smoothing out your skirts and taking Feyd’s offered arm. On the way out you wonder how many times Rabban even has left to be addressed by that title.
“Are you sure the two of you are related?” you murmur in Feyd’s ear once you’ve made progress down the hallway. “You look nothing alike.”
“We are,” Feyd says. “He looks like our father and I look like our mother.”
You pause, not quite knowing how to respond to that. You’re sure the irony isn’t lost on Feyd.
He senses your silence, and if he senses the reason for it, he doesn’t address it. Instead he says, “I won’t be much longer. Rabban hates being reminded of his failures when he’s here even more than when he suffers them on Arrakis. He’s preparing a ship to take him back tonight.”
“Good,” you say softly, turning to look at him. Put him in his place when you take over, somewhere far from here, you don’t tell him. Instead, after a moment of trying to find a proper farewell, you say, “I’ll be waiting for you tonight.”
Feyd looks at you a moment longer, as if he’d like to say something reassuring. He doesn’t, and you can’t really begrudge him that. Talk is cheap for Feyd and he’s not exactly the sentimental type. He just brings one hand under your chin and brings his lips down to yours in a brief kiss before he returns to dinner with his uncle and brother. You take a moment to watch him go and wonder if for a moment if there’s still residual pain there, if Feyd looks at Rabban and thinks about what he took from him.
Probably not, you realize; Feyd knows Rabban has lost whatever competition they may have had since Feyd was a child, and it's all the worse for him that he doesn't even know it yet. If you didn’t hate Rabban you’d pity him in his desperation for the Baron’s approval and fear of losing what he’s never really had. And while perhaps Rabban had a hand in putting Feyd in the Baron’s path, he didn’t directly send his uncle after a seven year-old boy; the Baron would’ve found someone else to kill Abulurd Rabban and pluck Feyd from Lankiveil.
So you don’t think there’s still a part of Feyd that’s ten years old and nursing the wounds his older brother inflicted; whatever old hurts existed have become a thick, unfeeling scar. Like you, he’s probably thinking about where he’ll put someone like Rabban once he’s Baron. He’s probably wondering what he’ll need to do to temper him, and you’ll let Feyd handle Rabban as he sees fit, so long as his vindictive older brother doesn’t do anything to endanger you, your family, or your unborn children.
The real issue remains the Baron. Surely Feyd can see it if you can; it makes you wonder how much the Baron’s not only hidden from Rabban, but how much he’s hiding from Feyd. Of course he wants Feyd to succeed on Arrakis, but only on his terms, and with the true credit for himself. You don’t trust the Baron, and you know Feyd doesn’t either, not really. The problem is you’re fairly certain the Baron knows this and is biding his time until he can make Feyd a puppet emperor, an extension of himself for as long as Harkonnen medical tech can keep him alive.
Idrisa helps you out of your gown and asks you if you need anything before she leaves. You tell her no, thank you, and relieve her for the night. What you need is to prepare for your husband.
You want to take his mind off of it, make him feel like there is something he’s truly in charge of right now, that’s entirely his with no one to claim ownership or responsibility for it. He needs this. You need this.
You think about your wedding night, your instructions to wait “ unwrapped and in bed waiting for him ” as you let your hair down and scrub off the light dusting of cosmetics you wore for dinner. You still, bafflingly, look similar to the frightened girl you were over six weeks ago. You spritz a tonic into your hair, one he likes the smell and gloss of, and make your way into his bedroom.
This time when you get into position, laying on your side, you face the foot of the bed and Feyd’s bedroom door. This time you couldn’t feel further from being frightened of him. You think of how much you’ve learned these past weeks–not even two months yet, somehow–and the way you just want to forget, help him forget, for now, all the pressures and uncertainties beyond your control. In this, at least, you have leverage. In this, it’s just the two of you, and no one else to interfere.
You take a breath as the door opens and your husband steps into his bedchambers to find you naked in bed waiting for him.
Feyd pauses as he takes in the sight of you and tilts his head. What have we here? he seems to ask. The hunger that was absent this morning seems to have returned to his eyes; you’ve gotten to know that look pretty well in a short space of time.
You raise your eyebrows in turn and shift your body a little, resting your cheek on your hand. “Was I too presumptuous?”
He starts removing his jacket. “That I’d want you in my bed later? Hardly, just observant,” he says, and once that’s off gets to work on his tunic beneath. Funny that considering how frequently you see him naked, you don’t see him actively undress all that often.
“Remember the other week when you offered to let me use you how I wished?” you ask.
A corner of Feyd’s mouth twitches upwards. “I’ll remember that night for the rest of my life, pet,” he says.
Something in your belly flutters. You bite your lip. “How about if I returned the favor tonight?”
You could swear that Feyd’s eyes light up for a moment as he steps in closer to the bed. On instinct you sit up, one leg still bent over the other as you set one hand down on the mattress beside you, the other on your top thigh. You still have to look up at him as he stops, brings two fingers under your chin, and tilts your head up to meet his gaze.
“You want me to fuck your mouth like you did mine?” he asks. “You want me to tie you down and use you for my own pleasure?”
Heat floods your core. He’s done something similar before. You remember the ache between your legs when he did, coming close to understanding how aroused he gets whenever his face is between your legs. You nod, but that only prompts him to ask, “Will you use your words while you still can?”
“Yes–” your voice starts off hoarse, uncertain, before you try again. “Yes, Husband. I want that.”
Feyd detects no lies; there’s none to detect. Something like storm clouds seem like they’re building in those blue eyes. “I assume you’ve guessed what those hooks in my bed posts are for?” he asks, nodding over to his bed.
You give him a small smile. “I may have made an educated guess,” you tell him.
“Have you thought about it? Being strapped to my bed while I take what I want from you?” he asks, his palm cupping the side of your face.
You just smile a little wider and lean your cheek into his palm, rubbing your face against the callouses, never breaking eye contact.
Feyd smirks. “I won’t make this an endurance test for you, pet,” he says. “You have nothing you need to prove to me.
“But since you offered,” he adds, “I’ll have my fun with you."
The cuffs are a bit like the collar; not too tight with a reasonably comfortable interior. You just lay back, spread-eagled, watching and taking mental notes on how Feyd tightens the cuffs and then the ropes that connect them to the bedposts.
He doesn’t attach any kind of leash to the collar this time.
“The collar’s just because I like seeing you wear it,” Feyd says when he notices the silent question on your face, and sits on the edge of the bed to unfasten his boots. He takes better care with his clothes than you’d expected, given that regardless of how he treats them, anything he wears today will be collected and laundered tomorrow morning while he’s out training. You’d appreciate his fastidiousness more if he only hurried up a little to match you in your undressed state. Perhaps that’s why he’s doing it this way. You feel warm already between your legs, curiosity eating at you more than lust but you can sense them both within you.
He’s not fully erect yet by the time he’s naked, but he’s close to it, and you’re pretty sure you know how he expects you to get him the rest of the way there. Your pulse speeds up as you shift your hips much as you can and meet his gaze as he circles around the bed, looks at you for a moment, and then climbs onto it with you.
He starts by sitting astride your stomach and tilts his head as he looks down at you before settling down on his haunches, his partially-erect cock resting on your sternum, between your breasts, where your nipples start to perk up. What are you doing? you want to ask the moment before he does it.
And then your mouth falls open in a gasp as he presses your breasts together and rocks his hips.
It feels strange, but not awful. A giggle bursts out of you as you think, Of course men think to put it there. They must want to put it everywhere. Feyd smirks back, expression teasing, even fond considering what he’s doing.
You arch your back as you wonder when he’s going to take this further and if this is all part of the fun, him teasing you. He stiffens further in between your breasts, never sliding close enough for you to put your lips around him, at least not until he releases you and raises onto his knees again, shifting forward, and holding the back of your head with one hand as he grips himself with the other.
It’s harder to suck his cock from this angle, can’t quite get as much of him in as he controls the rhythm, holding the base of your skull and twisting his fingers through your hair to get a good grip of it. Not painful, but confident. You won’t be able to handle him fucking your throat the way he fucks your cunt; the handful of times you’ve taken him into your mouth it was simply impossible.
And he doesn’t; he doesn’t batter his way all the way down your gullet but he keeps his movements insistent, sometimes going so slowly that it seems like he’s testing you, seeing how long you can keep your mouth around him.
And then he shifts forward, bracing his hands against his headboard and rocking down further, nearly straddling your head. That’s when he starts to speed up, hips rocking rather than gliding, the intensity of it making you drool, making tears prick up in the corners of your eyes, both of which abate only in the brief moments he pulls off to let you close your mouth and try again; a vessel for his cock and little else. He continues until you think you might not be able to breathe, and then relaxes, speed increasing in increments subtle enough you don't realize it until he throbs and twitches, precome one your tongue and his breath turning into grunts.
He pulls out and you have just enough wherewithal to close your eyes as with a jerk of his fist and a harsh gasp he comes on your lips, your nose, your left cheek, your left eyelid. It’s warm and viscous, making you gasp in turn. When you’re certain he’s finished you look back up at Feyd, still positioned over you, and wait for a sense of shame to kick in.
It doesn’t.
He brings his hands to your face, swiping his thumbs over the tear stains but not his come, leaving it on you after looking at where it’s landed and giving a quiet, approving hum. He climbs off the bed, leaving you wondering for a moment what tool he’s going to pull out of his armoire, and then takes a moment to look at you, tied down and helpless, and reaches down for one of the cuffs.
What are you doing? you want to ask, your brow furrowing, as he unfastens the first cuff from the rope and moves to your ankle to repeat the action, taking each length of rope with him until the cuffs at your wrists and ankles anchor you to nothing. Surely you’re not done yet? Feyd says nothing, offers no instructions and gives no orders. You can get up and pull Feyd back into bed easily.
Still, you don't move, even as you want to wipe Feyd's spend off your face, even as you clench your fingers in the sheets. You move only your head to watch Feyd put the ropes away, his cock hangs soft between his pale thighs, but you’re certain not for long.
So what now? you don’t ask. You don’t say a word, for the way it feels almost like there’s a spell cast on the room, like the quiet blanket of new snowfall. You part your lips and dart out your tongue to lick them as you watch him turn to look at you. You don’t know what else he has planned, but the feeling building in the pit of your stomach isn’t dread. It’s anticipation, and the pressure of it builds lower in your body than your stomach. You stare at Feyd and he stares back at you, and your heartbeat quickens and whatever he sees in your gaze makes him smile before he climbs back onto the bed.
He shifts to straddle your chest once more, and you tamp down on the urge to bring your hands up and grip his thighs, his hips. You just stay where you are, trying not to arch your hips against nothing but the building heat between them. You just wait.
He shifts closer, wraps a hand around his cock and presses the tip against your lips in a silent command to lick it clean. Your eyes flick up to meet his as well as you can as you whorl your tongue around the tip of him, pressing your tongue against the entrance of it.
You wonder if he looks down at you and sees the same look in your eyes that he had when you’d tied his hands behind his back and fucked his mouth until you couldn’t stand it anymore. You wonder if he can see that same desire to be used.
“Get me hard again,” he says, but his cock remains limp in his hand that he lifts as he positions himself just above your face and there’s only one place you can comfortably put your mouth. He offers no explanation, has never told you to do this before, but it’s pretty self-explanatory.
You lift your head and stick your tongue out, running it over the seam of his testicles.
“That's it,” he says softly above you, and you open your mouth further, trying to explore more of him.
He keeps one hand in your hair and rolls his hips as he languidly pumps his stiffening cock, a low rumble in his chest as you take one into your mouth. You won’t be able to manage both at once, you think as you run your tongue along the underside. It’s uncharted territory; you weren’t fully aware that this was an option.
You feel the heat of his inner thighs framing your face, can feel him braced above you without putting any of his weight on you, almost but never quite sitting on you. You shut your eyes as you focus on every other sensation, on the clean but salty sweat of his skin to the way it feels so delicate against your tongue. On the tension coiled in Feyd’s thighs straddling your head, the sounds of his breathing as you can sense his fist moving just above you. Your heart pounds, your ears ring. You feel so infinitesimally small and yet there’s an ache in your chest that’s so vast an entire fleet could fly through it.
You could move, if you wanted to. He might get annoyed by it but there’s nothing stopping you from reaching out, pushing him away. Nothing except the fact that your breath quickens at the combination of salaciousness and perverse intimacy of it all. The fact that he’s more than happy to let you do the same to him, the fact that want to stay, used and enjoyed.
He guides you, holding your head in place for a moment as he cradles the back of it–the gesture familiar if the parts are different. He doesn’t let up, doesn’t move off of your mouth, so again you have to breathe through your nose.
You gasp when Feyd does, sliding back and forth on your tongue, from his cock to his balls to just behind, and forward again. You ache to touch yourself as you dig your hands into the sheets.
You feel it in your gut first, your stomach clenching, and your chest heaving before you realize the moan escaping you–the sound if it’s muffled but anyone could tell its one out of desperation and not protest.
Feyd stills and rises to his knees, shuffling back, and you finally get a good look at his face.
His pupils are dilated, his mouth open. His lips twitch into a grin as he reaches behind him, not looking away as he reaches in between your legs and tilts his head as he finds the verification he needs, the slick in between them. He leans down and replaces his fingers with his mouth.
You moan, head falling back, legs falling further open.
“I,” you start, panting, “I thought this was fun for you .”
Feyd smirks. “It is,” he says, and dives back down. Briefly you think about grabbing the back of his head, of wrapping your legs around his shoulders, but you do neither, arms still out-stretched, spread-legged, letting him take and give whatever he chooses. It’s tempting, though, and you fruitlessly roll your hips against his mouth, only for him to pull back the moment you try. He leans up, eyes blazing, seemingly delighted at your desperation.
“Not yet,” is all he says as he rises to his knees.
He shuffles to the foot of the bed and settles onto his haunches before beckoning you towards him with one arm.
“C’mere, pet. Crawl over to me,” he says, and you tremble as you go, leaning forward, anticipating it before it can happen, opening your mouth before he can ask. You hear him chuckle as cradles your face in one hand, stopping before you can wrap your lips around him.
“Spit on it first, pet,” he says.
You glance back up at him for a moment before gathering up all the saliva you can and letting it dribble onto him, and when that spurs on an encouraging grunt from above you dive back on, tongue along the underside of him, lips wrapped around his shaft.
Again he rolls his hips, keeping your head in place with both hands, pushing into your mouth as deep as he’s ever gone.
“What a good, eager come-slut,” he says as he fucks your mouth. “Getting better at this each time we do it.”
You moan again around him, his words making you want to double down on your efforts; If he had pubic hair, your nose would nearly brush it. He never chokes you; probably knows better than to try and cut off your airflow, given your current condition. Still, you gasp for air when he tugs you off of him, your chest heaving.
“That's it,” he says. “Now turn around, sweet thing.”
You shake, nearly collapsing as you scramble to do so and chance a look behind you, knowing how you must look–eyes wide, wanting. And oh, how you want .
Feyd shuffles forward and grabs your hips, hauling you back towards him. Sometimes you wonder if he likes taking you this way because of how primal and animalistic it must look, the submissive position it puts you in, or because even though you’re wet and pliant, there’s still that bit of resistance from this angle. Maybe it’s because when he fucks you on all fours he draws noises out of you that you never thought you’d make. He bears down hard, the ache and stretch almost painful even as you can feel your slick around him, and you can’t get enough. Especially not when he leans forward, his cock brushing your insides from a new angle that has your upper body giving out, hips raised up but everything else slumping against the bed, helpless and wanting.
“I’m–I–” you’ve never come untouched before, not with him taking you from behind like this, but you can feel it building fast.
You let out a pathetic sob, your come-stained cheek against the mattress, whining as he has the audacity to slow down. I thought this wasn’t an endurance test, you want to tell him as you buck your hips, leaving behind all attempts to be patient and let him take what he wants. Feyd snickers behind you and stops entirely for a moment.
“Please,” you say. Your voice sounds wrecked.
“Say that again, pet,” he says, leaning forward, his voice now close to your ear.
“Please, husband,” you say again. “You feel so good and I need to come so bad. Please keep fucking me until I…”
He thrusts hard into you once more, holding you to him, his face buried somewhere near the nape of your neck, nose against your hair, one hand braced against the pillows as the other presses against your stomach, and then you’re gone, clenching around him, bright light flashing behind your clenched-shut eyes, feeling a fresh batch of tears spilling down your cheeks.
After he’s come and has caught his breath, after he’s pulled out, he turns you over without a word.
He reaches first for the cuff on your left wrist, presses a kiss against the inside of it as he undoes the restraint at last. He repeats the gesture for each cuff, until he reaches the collar around your neck. You expect him to unfasten it and your eyes dart down to his lips, waiting for them to press against the bare skin when he does.
Instead Feyd hooks a finger through the loop at the front and tugs you upward into a sitting position. “Come with me, pet,” he says, dropping his hand from your collar and holding it out to take one of yours as he leads you off and away from the bed.
It’s not far to go; just his bathroom, where he grabs a clean cloth and wets it silently, eyes darting across the tears and spit and dried come on your face, all marked in one way or another by him. And then when he wipes it clean. His touch is gentle, which perhaps you didn’t expect but doesn’t surprise you. You feel weightless as you laugh, eyes closed until he's wiped every trace of tonight off of you.
“How long have you wanted to do that?” you finally ask when he finishes and tosses the cloth into a bin.
Feyd pauses, and flicks at the hoop that would normally connect your collar to chain or rope before he answers.
“Since before I met you,” he says. “Since I first saw you in a dream six months ago and knew that you had to be a stranger because I would’ve remembered if I’d seen a face as pretty as yours, but knew that you wouldn’t be a stranger for long.”
He takes another moment to look at you, naked except for the collar you’ve come to see as your own–previously used by others, perhaps, but by no one else from now on–before he unfastens it and gives you a glance in the direction of the bed before he turns back to the armoire.
You get the hint and pad back into the bedroom. You climb into bed, under the covers, as he sets the collar back and closes up, and wait until he’s slid under the covers with you to sprawl halfway over him. It’s another thing you doubt he’s allowed with others in the past; this sort of post-coital affection. It didn’t seem to come naturally to him, at least not those first few days. You’re honestly not sure if it was a dormant habit he hadn’t needed to develop until you dragged it out of him but that idea makes you nestle closer to him. Feyd wraps an arm loosely around you and for a moment you think he’s absently playing with your hair, but then he runs his fingers through a snarl and as you wince you realize he’s smoothing out the mess he must’ve made of your hair. He simply keeps going, until he catches them all, and his passes through your hair turn into pets and strokes. You have no words right now; you need none. His touch is soothing, and if you had to pick one symptom of your new condition you have been able to notice, it’s that you’re easier to tire, quicker to fall asleep.
Before you do, you ask, “You ever thought about letting me tie you to the bedposts?”
You sense Feyd tilt his chin and shift to get a better look at you, and you raise your head to meet his curious gaze. “Have you? ” he asks, sounding amused.
“May’ve crossed my mind at one point,” you say, even as you’re close to drifting off. You bring your head back down, ear close to his heart, its beat steady.
“We can give it a try one night before I leave,” he says. “While we still have time.”
You smile against his chest.
Not that either of you have discussed it, but every night since your reconciliation you’ve slept in the same bed. Feyd still gets up first and is quiet enough that he rarely wakes you as he gets dressed, but you still feel a little colder waking up than you did falling asleep to his heartbeat against your back.
The same is true of this morning, when you wake to a knock on the door.
You sit up, rubbing your eyes and getting up to reach for a robe. “Come in, Idrisa,” you call, voice thick with sleep as you start to pull it on.
You pull it on faster when Idrisa enters alongside another attendant, a woman in long gray robes covered by a black smock. She’s carrying a synthetic case.
“Good morning, my lady na-Baroness,” she says, lowering her head and giving a polite curtsy. “I do hope we did not wake you. I’ve arrived on orders of the Baron.”
“Oh?” you ask, sitting up, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes.
“He said it was time to confirm your pregnancy with our doctors. An appointment has been made for early this afternoon but first we would require a sample from you.”
You’d thought they’d need a few more days for a doctor’s visit. “A sample,” you repeat.
“Just some of your urine, na-Baroness,” she says, pulling on gloves and withdrawing a metal box from her case, and from that pulling out a glass canister. “It should be enough to provide an answer by the time of your appointment.”
You glance at the canister. “And you require a sample right now.” She’s clearly not asking you, so you aren’t, either. It’s the most authority with which you’ve seen a Harkonnen woman speak so far.
“At your earliest convenience, my lady,” she says.
You sigh and reach for your distilled water on the nightstand. From the full night of sleep, your bladder is full enough that it won’t take too long. You finish the glass, set it down, and say, “I suppose now is as convenient a time as any,” as you hold your hand out for the canister.
She steps forward and deposits it gently into your palm with both hands and a bow. You take a breath, trying to remember that this woman is simply following instruction, and head into your bathroom.
I bet the Baron finds this hilarious, the fat bastard , you think, cranky, holding the canister under you, trying to aim the stream into the canister and not on your own fingers. Even pissing is done under his orders .
You do, to your credit, clean off the exterior of the canister when you’re done.
She can tell that you’re annoyed when you come back out and hand it over, you’re sure, but she doesn’t act like it. Instead, she curtsies again before leaving with a pleasant, “Thank you for your cooperation, my lady na-Baroness. We’ll be able to confirm the results in time for your appointment.”
You watch as she leaves, feeling numb even as you’re still flushing scarlet. Idrisa apologizes profusely, her head down.
“I apologize, my lady, I had no say over when and how you’d be asked to provide confirmation–”
You hold up a hand. “I know,” you say. “It’s alright. The Baron does what he wants.” And you understand why he’s timing it this way; first showing off Feyd as a legitimate fighter on his birthday as Rabban continues losing more men, and then providing hope for the Harkonnen lineage by showing off how it’s continuing, and soon securing Feyd’s legacy as an effective leader ready to inherit the Barony. You don’t even mind playing your part in bolstering Feyd’s image. What’s vital is that the Baron’s plans end there.
Until then, you are Feyd’s pregnant foreign bride, the vessel for his heir to the eyes of his people, and the Baron can entertain whatever notions he wants about his own future.
You lay back on the examination table, trying not to wince and squirm as the doctor presses a tool inside of you. You clench your jaw, fingertips digging into the sides of the table as you try not to close your legs. The tool had looked like some sort of crude torture device and while it isn’t particularly painful, it stretches you in ways that you’re too dry and uncomfortable to adjust to.
Standing in the corner is the woman from earlier, who tilts her head to get a better view of the examination. Her hands are folded daintily in front of her, her expression blank.
Feyd stands close by, watching the doctor with eyes like a shark; his posture seems locked but it’s obvious to everyone in the room that he’s coiled and ready to castrate the doctor and force-feed him his own cock and balls if the man glances or prods a millisecond longer than necessary. He’s here at your request.
When you whimper through gritted teeth you hold your hand up, certain Feyd’s going to lunge and stab the doctor to death while the instrument’s still inside of you.
“It’s fine,” you manage. “He’s just doing his job.” You try to ignore the doctor, who freezes, trying not to look at your husband. You meet Feyd’s eyes instead. I’m alright, you hope your look conveys. It needs to be done . Feyd pauses as he takes in your expression and folds his arms across his chest as he glares down at the back of the doctor’s head.
“Well,” the man says after another minute, sitting back, setting the device back with the others, and taking off his gloves. “Between this and the results of the urine sample we’ve gotten all the confirmation that we need.” As you pull your skirts back down he gets up, tosses his gloves into the wastebin beside your examination table, and bows to Feyd. “Congratulations, my lord na-Baron.”
You can’t help but scowl at that, brow furrowing. You’re the one who’s pregnant. It won’t be Feyd who carries the future of the house of Harkonnen for the next nine months. “And how many of these examinations will I be going through, doctor?” you ask, voice no sharper than you intended. The doctor turns and lowers his head in a small bow. “Many, my lady na-Baroness. We must be vigilant to ensure that your pregnancy remains healthy. However, I will not be the one administering them.” He turns to the woman who has neither moved nor spoken this entire time, and tells her, “Come forward.”
The woman does, taking a step towards you and inclining her head as she gives a curtsy.
“Oksana will look after you until it’s time for you to give birth,” the doctor says. “She’ll perform your examinations and be your resource throughout your pregnancy. She will provide guidance and be at your disposal for whatever you require.”
“It is an honor, my lady na-Baroness,” the woman, Oksana, says, and suddenly her wardrobe makes more sense. This is a woman with a more elevated position than any you’ve seen who hadn’t married into it.
You glance between them; you neither know nor completely trust this woman, but you’d still rather she poke around your insides than some man by decree of the Baron. “Very well,” you say finally, raising your chin. “I appreciate your services, Oksana.” You sit up and swing your legs over the examination table to allow yourself some dignity before giving the doctor a curt nod. “Yours as well.”
You mean it unambiguously as a dismissal, and yet when the words come from your mouth, they both remain where they are, only Oksana looking like she may recognize your meaning but the doctor seeming to wait for the na-Baron’s response and not yours.
“I’d have a moment alone with my wife,” Feyd says, tone sharper than you’d be willing to chance. Oksana curtsies and leaves without a word, and it’s only after she’s gone that the doctor realizes he’s dismissed as well. He removes his headlamp, bows once more, and leaves the room with a visibly relieved sag of his shoulders.
You look away for a moment, reaching over for your undergarment to pull it back on, shifting your hips to get them up the length of your legs. “I’ve never had an examination like that before,” you say off-handedly.
“He won’t be examining you again,” Feyd says.
“So was Oksana your decision?” you ask.
Feyd looks impassive, arms folded across his chest. “That first doctor was chosen by Uncle,” he says, “but I imagined that if you were to have any physician exploring your insides you’d rather it be another woman.”
You smile at that. “You’re not wrong,” you admit. “I just hadn’t realized women were allowed to be doctors here.”
“There aren’t many,” Feyd says. “And they look after the wealthier women in the Fortress as midwives. If anyone was to be poking at your cunt during my absence I’d also only accept a woman to do it.”
You exhale; a short breath of laughter. “So we have a second opinion and it’s the same as the first one,” you say after a moment, and reach your hand out to pat the space on the edge of the table beside you.
Feyd gets the hint and sits down. The two of you sit in silence. You think about holding his hand, but you can’t quite bring yourself to move yours any further. Instead you ask, “So how is the Fortress going to announce it to the rest of the planet?”
“Not sure,” Feyd says. “This hasn’t happened in decades. Uncle will send out missives to the other Houses announcing it, and he’ll try to time the news before my appointment to Arrakis. If he has anything planned beyond that he hasn’t shared it yet.”
Are you happy? Are you looking forward to being a father? you don’t ask. He’s not that sort of man, this isn’t that sort of culture. He won’t be that sort of father, the one who bonds with his children, and you knew that since before you met him. There are ways he’s surprised you, ways you’re reasonably certain you’ve won him over, but this is one aspect you just don’t think you can change.
You’ll wait just a little longer to ask him about spending your pregnancy on your own planet.
You sit in the arena stands once more, next to the Baron this time, in a seat both smaller and raised lower than his own. As a practical measure, of course, nothing personal.
“We must give the announcement in style,” the Baron had said over dinner the night he’d gotten confirmation from the doctor. “A new Harkonnen heir on Geidi Prime–it requires pomp and circumstance, would you not agree, nephew?”
And that was the full discussion. All there was left was to negotiate; now that the Geidi Prime audience had seen Feyd fight properly, especially with his responsibilities going forward, he’d forgo his shield, and his opponents wouldn’t be sedated beforehand.
Horns blare, and you sit up just a hair straighter.
Minutes ago, you were adorning Feyd with paint and stuck on the questions you wanted to but couldn’t bring yourself to ask.
Will your people truly be happy about the news? Or will they be angry that it’s a foreigner who’s carrying your heir? you’d wondered as you’d anointed his body with paint and his Darlings had curled up naked on their spot on the dais watching and sniffing at the both of you. For the first time since your rift with him he’d abstained from sharing a bed with you last night, but from the way he looked at you as you painted his chest and stomach, he’ll practice no such self-restraint tonight.
And now you take your place, almost but not quite beside your uncle-in-law in the same gown you wore for Feyd's birthday--the fit of it the first indication you've gotten that your breasts are starting to grow. Your hair’s down, face bare, as you hear the announcer’s voice blaring out, once again so loud your teeth nearly rattle and goosebumps raise along the back of your neck.
“Today we celebrate the na-Baron Feyd-Rautha and his success qleighlw an heir! His bride the na-Baroness cwnawek a son!”
A veritable sea of people who’ve never seen your face and who you’ll never meet erupt into cheers as deafening as they were for Feyd's birthday arena fight.
“In honor of our beloved Harkonnen line, our heir and our heir to be, let the games begin!”
The games in question that open the festivities are skirmishes between a few of the healthier-looking prisoners; a free-for-all battle royale with rounds in between and whatever weapons they can salvage. You try not to wince at the desperation they all have, ferocity at the chance of escaping a life in the dungeons to a likely menial one mining ore and precious metals. Half an hour later the victor, covered in blood that’s partially his own, gets hefty applause and cheers from the crowd as slaves set the corpses of the fallen fighters to the side to be burned at the end of the arena showing.
But they don't compare to the cheers for your husband. They start before he can enter the arena, somehow managing to build when he does with the same long-legged gait as before.
You flicker the settings on your binoculars to get a good look at him when he bows low, as always, to the Baron’s private viewing box and try not to smile when Feyd raises his head and you realize even from a high distance that he’s looking at you. Your eyes lock for a moment, his expression entirely calm as he gives a small nod and rises to his feet just as a door opens and the first opponent steps out.
Even with the new stipulations it’s not what you’d call evenly-matched. While the other man is tall and athletic-looking he’s a noticeably less skilled fighter than the Atreides soldier from before. His coordination is impaired not by any drugs but by his uncontrolled anger, and while it adds force to his movements it’s easy for Feyd to manipulate him.
So you don’t feel the same kind of terror as you did on Feyd’s birthday, even as your hand not holding your binoculars digs into your seat. Even as you gasp and wince when his opponent manages a close swipe.
The Baron senses it and chuckles. “My sweet niece, surely you know your husband well enough to understand that this is part of the show?” he says.
Your fingers dig deeper into your seat. You can feel a muscle flicker in your jaw as you say without taking your eyes off Feyd, “I suppose it’s just that he performs it so effectively, my lord Baron,” you say primly.
Feyd seems less impressed than he was with the Atreides soldier, despite the match going on for a few minutes, when you notice that his opponent leaves a couple of openings during their match and yet Feyd seems to draw it out. Sure, Feyd could be drawing it out for theatrics, but surely there’s something else?
And then the arena opens again, with another well-built man coming out. Another man wincing at the infrared sun but adjusting and catching sight of his enemy.
Ah, you think, as Feyd glances at the emerging opponent and in hardly the blink of an eye turns and slashes the first man’s throat.
The second man looks imposing enough, but it’s clear that he also lacks proper training and is trying to use his bulk to compensate for it. It won’t work for Feyd, though, it seems, because he knows how to use the other man’s broader frame against him. He evades and parries swiftly until he manages to catch the man off-balance and slash along his hamstring.
You wouldn’t be able to hear the man’s bellow of pain even without the cheers in the stands, but you can detect the sudden fear curtailing his relentless pursuit of Harkonnen blood. Perhaps this man had hope somewhere for a victory against Feyd, perhaps he counted on his bulk overpowering the na-Baron’s comparatively lithe frame. You can’t quite see the look in his eyes, but the sudden way he tries to stumble back as Feyd advances on him is enough.
You can see his panic the moment Feyd grabs his shoulder and sinks his blade into his belly, starting at the waistband of his tunic and slicing upwards. The man starts to go limp by the time Feyd reaches his sternum.
You can’t make out the moment the light fades from this man’s eyes, but you can sense the disappointment in Feyd’s, and it isn’t the same as it was his last arena fight, looking like he was contemplating the loss of a fun new toy or an interesting playmate. He’s disappointed there wasn’t more of a challenge. He withdraws his blade, viscera dripping from it, and watches, stone-faced, as the man drops.
“Are you not impressed with my nephew, young Y/N?” the Baron asks.
You force yourself to continue looking into the stands as Feyd raises his blade above his head and marches back through the entrance into the chambers below. “I daresay I often am, my lord Baron,” you say. You try to tamp down on the gnawing feeling in the pit of your stomach, trying not to think about how these men are dead partially because of you.
You did not order this, would never have suggested this. You inhale through your nose, exhale through your mouth and close your eyes for a moment. You just need to play your part.
“What are you thinking right now, Y/N?” the Baron asks. “Don’t tell me you’re still squeamish.”
You’re certain your expression is neutral and polite as you turn to look at him. You’re also certain he can tell that you hate him, anyway. But whatever response you try to think up in the moment gets interrupted by an older man in long gray messenger robes.
“Good afternoon, my lord Baron, na-Baroness.” The messenger says, bowing. “The na-Baron requires his wife’s presence,” he adds.
You Baron narrows his eyes at you with a derisive little smirk. Enjoy being nothing more than a hole for my pretty nephew to stick my cock in when the mood strikes him , the one little look tells you. It’s the only use you’ll have until you bear his son .
You smile in return and rise from your seat, pausing only to curtsy and offer the Baron some parting pleasantries before leaving for the cavernous halls down below, where artificial light washes out pale skin and Feyd’s waiting for you. It’s just him, back in just his loincloth, barefoot and with his body paint now smudged on his bare torso. The dais is bare; his Darlings must’ve eaten and been taken back to their room already.
As for Feyd, you think about the first time you ever saw him like this, how scandalous it felt to see him close to naked just the day before your wedding, but how exciting it felt. How he’d looked like a marble statue made by a sculptor with a perverse sense of humor; almost beautiful but still somehow wrong , unsettling and not entirely human. You’d felt unnerved, then, wanting to but still nervous to look upon him like this.
Now you step forward with a smile, the heels of your boots clicking against the stone floor. “Congratulations, husband,” you tell him. There’s a part of you that thinks that he looks like he belongs in catacombs and dungeons, some unsettling creature of a dark underworld. There’s a part of you that knows that a year ago, that months ago you couldn’t imagine being married to a man who’d celebrate the news of your pregnancy by killing two, as far as you know, innocent men in front of a cheering crowd. Maybe the version of you that existed before this would be scandalized by what you’re wearing, would have trouble recognizing what you’re turning into, would refuse to understand why you’d ever choose to be close to the cold-blooded killer in front of you.
But that version of you no longer exists. You step in closer, the heels of your boots narrowing the height difference between you.
You think you know how you must look to him; body scandalous, face guileless, and so it takes just a glint in Feyd’s eyes to serve as a signal before he’s kissing you roughly, pushing you up against the wall, and grabbing your thigh to drag his hand under the slit in your skirt. You whimper against his mouth when his searching fingers find no further barrier between them and your cunt and he curls one of them inside of you.
“Does seeing me kill make you wet?” he asks, pulling away just long enough to ask.
“Your skill makes me wet,” you tell him, and devour his mouth again.
He removes his cup with the kind of finesse of a man who’s done this multiple times before, seamless and without breaking away from the kiss. His loincloth takes little more effort, the bands around his hips elastic enough that with your combined efforts, it falls to the ground within seconds, leaving him naked. When he tugs the straps over your dress away to free your breasts, when he tears at your skirt to give himself better access, when all that’s keeping your dress up is the tight waistband, you’re not far behind him. Under these lights he may look like a slab of marble, more statue than man but his skin’s so warm, his heart thudding against your chest. There’s more vitality in him right now than there was in the arena minutes ago.
I am your prize today, you want to say. So go on and take me .
You rise further onto tiptoe when you finally feel it, when he takes himself in hand and pushes inside of you
His body paint mixed with his sweat rubs against your breasts and stomach, leaving black smudges anyone will be able to see even when you try and set your dress to rights later, and you don’t care. If this is his way of marking you up then you welcome it. You’ll wear his paint on your skin with pride. You grab his hips and urge him in deeper with a groan.
He snarls and hitches you up, giving you enough time to jump and wrap your legs around his waist as he carries you a few steps to the dais, and for a moment keeps you impaled on him just like this, for perhaps the last time he’ll be able to take you in this position for many months to come. And then he advances, lowering you down, slithering over you. He gets a hand under the back of your head before it can slam against marble and then his mouth is on you once more, first your lips and then lower, curling himself to get to your breasts.
When you whine, body open for the taking, one hand cupping the back of his head, it’s because you finally feel tender there, a delicious sting lancing through you when he scrapes his teeth against your nipple.
It’s changing. Your body’s changing .
Everything about you is changing.
It’s uncomfortable on your back, probably even more uncomfortable on his knees as he resumes his thrusts inside of you. You don’t care. For now, you don’t care if this planet and this marriage has made you a little crueler, a little darker, a little more dangerous. All that matters right now is you and him and the life you’ve created together that’s growing between you.
Above these catacombs, you hear the sounds of people celebrating.
Tag list: @alexandrainlove @richardslady121 @wo-ming-bai @blazeflays @cavillandevanssandwhich @aemondseyepatch and please let me know if you would also like to be tagged!
Also shout out to the wonderful @peggyao3 who in addition to writing wonderful fanfic made a lovely fanart collage of different OC and Reader characters for Dune Part Two here!
Me at age 13, exhausted at school after staying up all night to read fanfic: I can’t wait until I’m an adult and I can stay up reading without any consequences!
Me, an adult, exhausted at work after staying up all night reading fanfic: Fuck.
Benedict Bridgerton x Sophie Beckett
An Offer from a Gentleman reimagined
Chapter rating: G
Word count: 2.6k
Masterpost
Previous chapter
Benedict and Sophie laid bare in each other’s arms and lost track of time, dozing in and out of consciousness, saying nothing more about the impossible situation they found themselves in. They both just wanted to savor these moments of mingled skin and breath and limbs; Sophie because she was certain it would all come to a crashing end soon, and Benedict because he was steeling himself with the courage needed for his next course of action.
When the noises of lunch preparation could be heard in the kitchen down the hall, they finally rose and dressed, helping each other with all of their layers and buttons. Benedict found himself unable to look away as Sophie sat at her small mirror brushing and pinning her hair back into place, her delicate fingers twisting through her short tresses and exposing her slender neck. Something about the sight made it hard to breathe and he realized that this strange feeling overtook him only when he looked at Sophie. In quiet moments when she was resting or going about her own business, it was as if he grew deaf and blind to the rest of the world and could see only her. Every detail was sharp: the lock of hair that hung loose by her ear, the tendon in her neck that flexed when she moved her shoulder just so, the curve of her lip as she concentrated. She entranced him. She made him want to paint her, over and over again, so that he could capture these details that felt so precious to him and revisit them when they were not together.
He was resolved. He knew what he had to do. Sharing a final tender kiss, he stepped warily out of her room, scanning the hall for any other servants. Then he moved briskly through the lower level and straight out the back door before anyone could see him and grow curious.
He didn’t need anyone’s blessing to pursue Sophie, but he wanted it. He loved his family; his mother, his elder brother, and didn’t want the complications of his choice to be perceived as an act of rebellion or resentment against them. It wasn’t. It was simply what his heart was telling him to do and he felt powerless to resist it.
He knew to start with his mother. She had always been a remarkably good listener. And truly, for all her annoying matchmaking ways, she was more qualified to give advice on matters of the heart than anyone he knew. Anthony was already suspicious and upset with him, and so bullheaded that he would undoubtedly muck everything up as he had done so repeatedly before: with Daphne’s season, with the Royal Academy.... No, Benedict would notify Anthony once he and Sophie had decided how they could - how they wanted - to be together. He respected Anthony as Viscount and head of the family, but he would not let his brother hold sway over such an intimate and crucial part of his life. But his mother was bound to be more understanding and perhaps even helpful.
Cutting through the garden, he entered the house again through a side door and straightened himself in a hall mirror. Making his way to the drawing room he found his entire family gathered for the afternoon, save for Colin and Anthony which was no doubt for the best. Francesca was at the piano, engrossed in playing a beautifully complicated tune, Hyacinth and Eloise sat scowling at each other over the chess board, and Gregory was spinning little Edmund around in his arms while Kate and his mother sat watching from a sofa, laughing. After warning Gregory not to encourage their nephew to sprout wings and fly away, he leaned to his mother and asked if she wanted to join him for some air. The way her eyes grew sharp he knew she saw through his innocent request, but she smiled and nodded her way politely out of the room, took his arm and let him lead her outside.
“Benedict,” she smiled nervously as they sat in the chairs tucked against the house’s wisteria-covered back wall. “What is it dear?”
He suddenly found himself feeling both childish and guilty. He was running to his mother for help, but was also about to induct her into the difficulty of his situation. Where should he even begin?
He swallowed and said, “I wanted to ask about Miss Beckett.” Violet’s brow knitted with surprise. “How is she getting along at the house?”
Rather than answer him, she looked at him intensely and asked her own question. “Who is she, Benedict?”
“What do you mean?” he balked.
“She is not who she says she is, of that I’m certain.”
Benedict shook his head, trying to decipher her meaning. “She worked for the Cavenders. They mistreated her and she left. I found her on the road.”
Violet blanched. “Did he…Oh dear. Was she…”
“She wasn’t,” Benedict said grimly. “But not for lack of trying I’d venture.”
“The poor thing. How lucky for her that you were there.”
Benedict didn’t want to be thought of as a hero. He hadn’t done anything. Sophie had extracted herself from the Cavenders and all he had done was offer her a short ride to the village which turned out to be its own unique disaster, requiring Sophie to turn around and care for him. Remembering that night, the wild adventure of it all and the sweet days that had followed, he couldn’t suppress a smile. Hoping his mother hadn’t noticed, he reverted back to her question.
“Why do you say she’s not who she seems?”
“She is far too educated to be a housemaid. Her mother’s employers may have allowed her to share in some of their lessons but all of them? I doubt it. Benedict, the girl speaks French!”
“She does?”
“I caught her reading a French book in Eloise’s room. And I think I heard her curse at Hyacinth in Latin.”
Surprised as he might be, Benedict couldn’t help but chuckle. If anyone needed the demons exorcised out of her with Latin curses, it was Hyacinth. He was glad he had chosen to speak to his mother. She had the same sense as he did that there was something off about Sophie, something more to her than just being a simple housemaid.
“She might be a nobleman’s daughter who has been cast off for some reason,” Violet theorized, “or she might be illegitimate.”
The pieces were starting to fall together now in Benedict’s mind. He knew she was illegitimate, but precisely who her parents were was something he had never pushed Sophie to explain. If she was the daughter of an aristocrat, it would explain so much about her behavior.
“One would think her father would have settled enough funds on her so that she didn’t have to work as a housemaid,” he posited.
“Some men completely ignore their bastards,” Violet’s face wrinkled with distaste. “It’s nothing short of scandalous. Outrageously dishonorable.”
They sat in silence for a moment, both imagining what Sophie’s heartbreaking origin story could be. It made Benedict realize how much he didn’t know about her and how much he wanted to know. If they could be together, he would have the time to ask. But he didn’t need to know every detail of her life to know how she made him feel.
“Mother,” he said abruptly.
“Yes?” her blue eyes were intrigued.
He took a deep breath, “When you met Father-”
“It happened in an instant,” she said softly, somehow knowing what he’d meant to ask.
“So you knew that he was the one?”
She smiled, and her eyes took on a faraway, misty look. “Oh, I wouldn’t have admitted it,” she said. “At least not right away. I fancied myself a practical sort. I’d always scoffed at the notion of love at first sight.” She paused for a moment and Benedict knew she was no longer in the garden with him, but at some long-ago ball, meeting his father for the first time. Finally, just when he thought she’d completely forgotten the conversation, she looked back up and said, “But I knew.” Tears welled in the corners of her eyes and she turned to blink them away.
Benedict felt a lump in his throat and he looked down, not wanting her to see how the memory of his parents’ love affected him too. Would anyone cry for him more than a decade after he died? It was a humbling thing to be in the presence of true love, and he wanted it for himself, jealously. His parents had found love and had the good sense to recognize and cherish it. Few people were so fortunate.
“There was something about his voice that was so soothing, so warm,” Violet continued. “When he spoke, you felt like you were the only person in the room.”
“I remember,” Benedict said with a warm, nostalgic smile. “It was quite a feat, to be able to do that with eight children.”
“Seven,” his mother swallowed convulsively, her voice brisk. “He never knew Hyacinth.”
Benedict chastised himself silently. He should have remembered. He didn’t want to force his mother to revisit her pain. Perhaps it was why they rarely spoke about his father and the loss they had endured. He reached out and grasped her hand atop the small table between them. It seemed the only right thing to do. Violet squeezed his hand back but kept her eyes on the ground.
After a pause, she released his hand, wiped the last tears from her eyes and straightened. She turned to him with a look that he knew could see right through him. “Did you ask me about your father because you are planning to wed?”
Benedict’s heart started to race. Of course she could intuit what he was up to. If he was being honest with himself, it was probably why he had decided to speak with her before Anthony, because she would already know half of everything he was going to say.
He took a deep breath. “What happens,” he asked, surprised at how readily the words tumbled forth, “when one is attracted to someone unsuitable?”
“Someone unsuitable,” she repeated, holding his gaze.
Benedict nodded painfully. “Someone…” He paused. “Someone a person like me would be discouraged from marrying.”
“Someone perhaps who is not of our social class?”
Benedict nodded again. She knew. Of course she knew who he was talking about.
“I see,” she chewed on her lower lip for a moment before continuing. “I would have to say that I love you very much.” Her eyes locked intently on his. “But I must caution you to consider what you are doing. Love is, of course, the most important element in any union, but outside influences can put a strain on a marriage. And if you marry someone of say” - she took a breath - “the servant class, then you will find yourself the subject of a great deal of gossip and no small amount of ostracism. And that will be difficult for one such as you to bear.”
“One such as me?” he asked, bristling at her choice of words.
“You and your brothers lead charmed lives.” Her eyes ran over the garden as if the size of their property was proof enough. “Our family is well respected and you have had every door opened to you by virtue of our reputation and our resources. That would no longer be the case for you if you married outside of custom.” She frowned.
Benedict’s cravat suddenly felt too tight. “I could live with that,” he said through gritted teeth. He had seen the vicious ebb and flow of gossip and scandals year after year, season after season. It had always annoyed him how his privileged peers put so much stock into knowing each other’s business and judging each other fiercely for any perceived misstep. It had caused his siblings agony in the marriage mart which was precisely why he had never earnestly sought to participate in it.
A thought suddenly occurred to him. “And would the rest of the family be made to suffer for associating with me?” He wanted to marry Sophie, more than anything. But he had to know every ramification of that choice. If his marriage would stain the reputation of the family deep enough that it would make it harder for his siblings to find good matches, he would need to proceed carefully.
Violet’s eyes softened. “We have weathered scandal before and always landed upright. That would not be your concern, dearest, if you are truly in love.” She gave him a small smile, then her voice lowered. “But it would be hard on your wife as well. Perhaps hardest on her. She would not be accepted. The ton can be cruel.”
“I know,” Benedict scoffed. He already felt disgusted imagining the ways someone like Lady Featherington would treat Sophie if they knew where she came from. It would be more than he could bear to witness and something he would never subject her to. His mind began to form a picture of a future with Sophie, a future somewhere away from the vipers of the ton, somewhere green.
“I suppose we would have to live somewhere else,” he stared off, musing to himself.
“I wouldn’t banish you for marrying someone you love,” Violet’s voice cracked and he turned back to find fresh tears in her eyes. “But if you choose it, perhaps that would be for the best, yes.”
The weight of their conversation suddenly sank into Benedict’s chest. If he married Sophie he would have to leave his family. Not just in the standard way of setting up his own house, but truly distancing himself from the lifestyle and people that were all he had ever known. They would need to live far away, out in the countryside or maybe in another country entirely. They would not attend the social seasons in London or the events of society. They could visit with the family in their private homes but would have to be careful about that as well. He would leave his mother, Anthony, Eloise, all of them, in a much more significant way than he had ever imagined.
“Only you will be able to make this decision,” Violet continued, bringing Benedict’s thoughts back to the present, “and I’m afraid it won’t be an easy one.”
Benedict nodded, feeling a sadness rise within him for causing her pain, for pulling away from her and everyone else. But a voice was also whispering inside his soul, quiet but insistent, telling him to trust. That Sophie was worth it. She was the one.
His mother sighed, looking tired and wistful. “I wish your father were here,” she said.
“You don’t say that very often,” he said quietly.
“I always wish your father were here.” She closed her eyes for a brief moment. “Always.”
And then somehow it became clear. As he watched his mother’s face in the bright light of the garden, finally realizing - no, finally understanding - the depth of his parents’ love for one another, it all became clear.
The voice in his soul spoke with resounding clarity, saying the word aloud for the first time. Love. He loved Sophie. That was all that should have mattered.
He’d thought he’d loved the woman from the masquerade. He’d thought he’d wanted to marry her. But he understood now that it had been nothing but a dream, a fleeting fantasy of a woman he barely knew.
But Sophie was…
Sophie was Sophie. And she was everything he needed.
