blair @memoirofasparklemuff1n - Tumblr Blog

revenge is a dish best served debutant

summary: you have always been content loving benedict from the shadows, comforted by the vow you both took in your youth to never wed. until one day you see him with lady arnold and decide it is time to take matters into your own hands

pairing: female reader x benedict bridgerton

warnings/tags: mutual pining, childhood friends to lovers, reader and benedict are lowkey both dumb af but it makes it cute, fluff, angst, jealousy, jealousy & more jealousy

notes: inspired by request from @idaamalienie92 (thank you!!) benedict has always been my favourite brother so it is always so fun to write for him! enjoy!!

likes, reblogs, comments are very much appreciated!

Enjoy my work? Tip me! 🤍

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Jealousy was a disease.

A trait most unbecoming of a lady of the ton.

You’d had that value engrained into you since you could walk.

And as you'd grown up, you'd been most pleased with yourself to find never in need of such an emotion. You'd watched from the sidelines in amusement as girls flustered and muttered snarky remarks under their breath. When they'd cast longing glances at the Bridgerton brothers and glares at the Bridgerton sisters.

You'd been above all thought, you'd thought smugly. Only those with insecurities and pettiness danced with the sin of envy.

And yet there you stood, clinging to the walls like you always did at these events, watching him.

You were not sure of the exact moment when you fell in love with Benedict Bridgerton.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was until tonight.

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

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

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

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

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

Your chest ached with something unfamiliar, sharp and humiliating.

Jealousy was unbecoming.

Jealousy was foolish.

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

The realisation hit you like a landslide.

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

"Are you alright?"

Eloise's voice yanked you out of your spiral.

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

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

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

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

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

"Typical." She chortled.

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

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

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

But Benedict did not tire of her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What pact?" Your mother asked sharply.

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

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

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

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

"Ever." You added on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you debuting because of my brother?"

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

"What?"

"I know."

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

"Know what?"

"That you love him."

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

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

"Oh-" Eloise moved to sit beside you.

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

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

She frowned. "Why are you sorry?"

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

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

You would have to pry behind those shrouded words later.

"Although, I am seriously questioning your taste."

That managed to get a real laugh out of you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

"For you, my lady."

She placed it in your outstretched palm.

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

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

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

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

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

My darling,

How are you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forever your partner in crime,

Benedict

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

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

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

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

Dear Benedict,

It is lovely to hear from you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Warm regards,

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you quite alright brother?"

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

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

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

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

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

Penelope and Colin exchanged glances.

"Maybe they are preoccupied?"

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

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

Benedict whipped around in a flourish, pointing accusatorily.

"Why? Has she said something to you?"

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

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

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

“Children! More letters have arrived!”

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

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

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

The sound of your family name made Benedict flinch.

“Another one?” Benedict blurted out.

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

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

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

“Well no uh-“

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

Benedict blinked. “Four?” His voice squeaked.

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

The rest of his family looked at him in shock.

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

He felt a wave of nausea hit him.

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

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

But oh, how wrong he would end up being.

-

The announcement in Lady Whistledown sent shockwaves through the ton.

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

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

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

And Benedict -

Benedict was blindsided.

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

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

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

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

-

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

The first ball of the season.

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

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

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

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

He stared, openly, forgetting himself entirely.

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

Eloise smirked up at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Miss Brighton.”

Benedict glared at the intruder.

“Lord Helmsley.” You curtseyed politely.

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

“Benedict.”

“Edward.” He spat out.

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

“Actually-“

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

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

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

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

You did not spare Benedict another glance.

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

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

Even the Queen preened at the sight of you.

And all the while, Benedict watched.

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

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

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

Until now.

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

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

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

It was terrifying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded, "very well."

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

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

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

"This is not you."

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

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

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

"But the pact-"

"-was a childish fantasy."

"Best not tell Eloise that."

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

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

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

"No."

His eyes narrowed. "You are lying."

"I am not."

"You are."

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

You regretted the words the second they escaped your lips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All of you.

-

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

Eloise peered over the top of her book.

“Are you trying to ask for my assistance?”

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am meeting my-“

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

“Eloise.” You said simultaneously.

Despite everything, you both laughed.

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

“She has been hanging around us too long.”

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

“I am sorry for abandoning you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You picked at the fraying rope of the swing.

“I am sorry to hear that.”

You were most definitely not sorry to hear that.

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

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

“I see.”

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

“So… we can go back to normal then?”

You finally looked up at him at that.

“What do you mean?”

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

“I do not understand.”

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

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

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

He looked up at you in shock.

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought you had forgiven me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How could you have possibly messed that up?"

Benedict whirled around to see Eloise marching across the lawn.

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

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

"What are you talking about?"

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

Benedict balked. "I do not know what-"

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

He stared at her, jaw slack.

"Well? Why did you not tell her?"

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

Eloise's features softened.

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

He could not bear it any longer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The summer night air hit you with dizzying intensity.

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

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

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

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

Your name softly leaving his lips was nearly your undoing.

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

"You should not be out here alone."

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

He took a step toward you.

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

His confession took you off guard.

You took a step back.

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

"I wish to be alone right now."

“Just tell me one thing.”

He took your silence as permission to speak.

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

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

"Or it is a product of passion."

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

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

“I do not wish to answer that.”

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

Us.

"You cannot keep running from this."

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

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

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

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

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

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

The man who had always been yours.

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

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

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

He stepped toward you, his eyes boring into yours.

"Then do not marry Lord Helmsley.”

The words landed heavily between you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Very well."

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

Your breath stuttered.

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

Thunder cracked overhead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You remembered, of course you remembered.

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

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

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

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

The words settled between you, heavy and irreversible.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart hammered viciously behind your ribs.

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

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

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

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

He laughed breathlessly, relieved.

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

“Can I-“

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

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

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

“Now who is the dramatic one?”

“Just kiss me Benedict.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He chuckled, pressing his lips clumsily against yours again.

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

Your eyes flashed up at him playfully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shrugged.

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

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

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

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

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

"No, although that is a perk."

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

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

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

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

"You had better keep up."

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