TURN A SCAR TO A SEAM - PT11
Teaser: "She didn’t speak, and he added with a teasing tone, 'I’m sorry you spent so much time crafting this wonderful disguise, but I must admit—I’m impressed.'
A pause.
'You cannot hide from me, Marie.'
She let out a soft scoff, almost incredulous. Geneviève was right… he could find her by her scent alone."
She swore she’d only watch from the shadows—but love was never meant to stay hidden.
Length: 2k6 words
(little inspo from AOFAG)
Marie had almost spent the entire night working on her gown and Edwina’s. Her eyes were burning from lack of sleep, but it was worth it. Both dresses were perfect—Edwina’s destined to catch every gaze, hers designed to let her blend in with the rest of the ton. But then she remembered something.
What if he didn’t come to the ball?
After all, she was supposed to be in France, and Benedict might have returned to his usual habits—dodging every ball like duel bullets whenever possible.
But this one was different. Hosted by his mother, she convinced herself he should be there. He had to be.
She cast a quick glance at both finished dresses and then at the clock: 4 a.m. Maybe she could manage the day with only a few hours of sleep.
She started climbing the stairs as quietly as possible when Geneviève’s head poked out from her bedroom, hair a tousled mess, eyes half-closed.
'Only going to sleep now?' she whispered.
'Sorry to wake you. I’ve just finished Edwina’s dress,' Marie replied softly.
'And yours?' Geneviève added, her lips curving into a faint, sleepy smile.
'It’s done too. I can manage a few hours of sleep,' Marie said, her hand resting on her bedroom doorframe.
'Sleep. I’ll take care of the work tomorrow morning, don’t worry,' Geneviève said with a gentle smile. 'Get your hours of rest—you have a big evening ahead.' With that, she quietly closed her door.
Marie entered her bedroom and closed the door behind her. She was utterly exhausted. She gently removed the pins holding her hair in a bun, feeling the relief along her scalp. In one swift motion, she let her apron and dress fall to the floor before slipping into her nightgown and beneath the soft sheets.
She let out a sigh of relief as she closed her eyes. Perhaps she could get a little more rest after all—if only she managed to fall asleep right away.
But what she hadn’t anticipated was the vision of him—Benedict.
She was so eager to see him again, like a child before Christmas. Her heart fluttered; her chest tightened, and she had to remind herself to breathe in and out. She hated herself for feeling this way.
She shouldn’t feel this way.
And just as she began to silently beg the vision of him to let her rest, her exhaustion finally took hold, pulling her into a deep slumber.
The next morning, Marie’s eyes fluttered open at 10 a.m. Six hours of sleep might be enough. She almost immediately went back to work, feeling slightly guilty for leaving all the morning’s work to Geneviève. She kept stuffing pastries into her mouth—calling it breakfast—while cutting fabrics.
The sight made Geneviève chuckle and plead with her to be careful—not to choke, or at least not to scatter crumbs over every dress.
She spent the day working diligently, finishing gowns, and when the clock struck six, her head immediately turned toward Geneviève.
'Can I—' Marie began softly, not even finishing her sentence.
'Go prepare yourself,' Geneviève replied with a knowing smile.
Marie nearly pounced from her chair. 'Thank you!' she exclaimed, brushing past Geneviève’s shoulder and earning a soft smirk in return.
She climbed the stairs two at a time, tossed her apron aside upon entering her bedroom, and swiftly slipped into the dress she had made the day before.
She quickly but neatly pinned her hair with gem-adorned pins, letting her dark, long, wavy locks fall over her back and shoulders like a night sky adorned with stars.
She smiled softly as she put on the final piece—the mask covering her forehead, eyes, and nose. Looking at her reflection, she whispered, 'Perfect.'
It was impossible for him to recognize her. Impossible.
She descended the stairs quietly and heard a soft gasp rise from below.
'Ma chérie… you’re… beautiful,' Geneviève said, approaching as Marie landed before her.
Marie chuckled. 'Thank you. I’m not recognizable, right? Not too eye-catching? I blend in, yes?' She blurted out, showering Geneviève with questions until her cousin raised an eyebrow.
'First of all, quite beautifully eye-catching—and indeed, not recognizable.' She took a small breath before adding teasingly, 'But I think, quite honestly, Benedict could recognize you from a thousand women—even by your scent alone.'
Marie gasped and tapped her shoulder lightly. 'Geneviève!'
Her cousin smiled and continued softly, 'But you were still thinking of hiding from him tonight?'
'Of course…' Marie answered firmly.
'Marie… this is the right occasion,' Geneviève said, straightening, a hint of disapproval in her gaze.
'I… I don’t feel ready. I just want to see him. See if he’s well. And maybe…'—a small pause—'if he’s even happier without me.' Her eyes dropped to her gloved hands, fidgeting. 'I would be relieved.'
Geneviève shook her head. 'You’re not thinking clearly,' she whispered. 'Have you already forgotten what I told you?' She gently cupped Marie’s face. 'He comes every week, Marie—searching for a glimpse of you.'
In truth, how could Benedict find relief in not seeing her? His only solace would come tonight, when he would finally find her.
He was preparing in his bedroom, putting on his masquerade ball attire: a full black ensemble with polished boots and a slightly open, flowy shirt at the collar—revealing just enough of his chest to tease, but not too much, for he wanted only one pair of eyes upon him.
Marie.
Her face had never left his mind for months, and tonight, more than ever, she was his reason to breathe.
As he adjusted his black mask over his eyes, he heard the first guests arriving in the main hall. He was usually the one to escape every ball, to tense at every one of them—but this time, the only reason his chest tightened and his breath shortened was her. He cleared his throat, taking a final look in the mirror before leaving his bedroom.
Marie arrived at the ball at eight o’clock—neither too early nor too late—just in time to avoid drawing too much attention, blending effortlessly into the crowd.
Edwina and Kate had arrived earlier, as Anthony had already reserved all the dances with the youngest on the card at her wrist.
And Marie had done a splendid job: Edwina’s dress caught every eye in the room. As she entered, she could already hear Edwina speaking proudly, telling everyone how the young modiste had made it.
Marie, Marie… Her name echoed on every pair of lips.
Normally, it would have flattered her—but what if he heard it? What if Benedict heard it?
She swallowed hard and glanced around. No sign of him. Her worst thought felt confirmed: he had probably escaped the ball. He probably just—
Surrounded by a swarm of ladies and eager mamas, walking briskly, excusing himself, rushing toward the refreshment table like a man in the desert seeking an oasis.
Her mouth fell slightly open. He had changed—not much, just enough to make her breath hitch. She schooled her expression into calmness, picking up a card left on a nearby table and fastening it quickly around her wrist, pretending to be any other debutante.
She glanced around until the magnificent chandelier above caught her eye, pulling her gaze upward. A soft smile formed on her lips. Her mask revealed only her green eyes, shining beneath the light, and the gentle curve of her mouth. She caught herself whispering, 'Beautiful,' as she admired the grand piece of décor—a detail no one else seemed to notice.
Benedict scanned the dance floor, a glass in hand. He even spotted Edwina and Anthony dancing together. The sight made him roll his eyes.
'You’re far too stubborn for your own good, brother,' he muttered under his breath.
Then his gaze caught her—a woman in a dark blue dress, her long, wavy hair cascading over her shoulders. He swallowed hard, his heart quickening.
He wasn’t sure—it was too far away. If only he could see more of her: her eyes, her smile. Yet even with her mask, he noticed where she was looking. He followed her gaze, then looked back at her face, studying her intently.
It was always there. Every year, every masquerade ball, it wasn’t like the chandelier in his own house chang—
It was her. Surely, it was her.
No one else would look at it. No one else would examine it the way she did in that instant. It had to be her.
He quickly set down his glass, and just as he was about to stride toward her, a mother and her daughter blocked his path.
She shook her head slightly, realizing how distracted she was. She needed to focus on her task—avoiding being seen by Benedict and simply enjoying the evening.
And maybe, just maybe, allowing herself to catch a glimpse of him now and then.
As her eyes searched for him, she caught sight of him speaking with a forced smile to a woman and, likely, her daughter. A soft smile tugged at her lips at the sight—until she noticed how he glanced at her before returning to the conversation, and how much closer he stood than before.
Quickly, yet appearing nonchalant—as though she were merely a lady seeking a breath of fresh air—she turned on her heel and, with two quiet strides, slipped through the open French windows into the garden.
Benedict caught sight of her moving away.
'Not again,' he muttered, excusing himself and rushing after her.
As he passed through the French windows, he scanned the garden quickly, searching.
'Please don’t disappear…'
And there—under the moonlight, kneeling among tulips and poppies—was her silhouette.
He almost dashed toward her, but slowed his pace, afraid she might vanish if startled.
'Poppies are your favorite flowers,' he said softly—and it wasn’t a question.
Marie gasped quietly, not turning immediately. She rose quickly to her feet.
'Not at all, my lord. I was simply enjoying the scent.'
He chuckled as she turned to face him and stepped closer, his gaze carefully studying her masked face.
'Something wrong?' Marie asked in a near whisper.
'Nothing at all. In fact, everything’s perfectly fine… Marie,' he said, his eyes piercing through hers.
'You must be mistaken,' she answered lightly.
Then, swiftly, he took her gloved hand in his and murmured, 'French accent…' He turned her palm upward, revealing a faint red mark on the inside of her wrist. 'Paint stain.' His gaze lifted to her eyes. 'And unforgettable green eyes.'
His fingers tightened around hers—not harshly, but gently, a subtle way of keeping her close, preventing her from slipping away again.
She didn’t speak, and he added with a teasing tone, 'I’m sorry you spent so much time crafting this wonderful disguise, but I must admit—I’m impressed.'
A pause.
'You cannot hide from me, Marie.'
She let out a soft scoff, almost incredulous. Geneviève was right… he could find her by her scent alone.
'If you truly read all my poems, if you really remember all of my words… how could you think I could forget even one inch of your skin, one note of your voice, one touch of your fingers?' he whispered, his thumb gently stroking her gloved palm.
Her fingers tightened around his in return, and after a few quiet seconds that felt like minutes, she said softly, 'I’m sorry… I missed you so much. But you must understand.'
'and I understand,' he whispered back.
'But you don’t even know what I was about to say,' she added with a small tilt of her head.
'But I know,' he interrupted gently, a faint smile tugging at his lips. 'Your departure broke us both. I should be at least a little angry with you for not telling me you’d returned,' he chuckled, glancing down at their entwined hands. 'But I understand why. And all I can think about right now is how I can finally breathe again in your presence.'
He lifted his gaze to meet hers—those beautiful green eyes he had never forgotten.
'Benedict…' she murmured with a slight frown.
'Let’s just enjoy the time we have, Marie. Please,' he said, a quiet plea slipping through his voice.
Deep down, he already knew—he would never let her go again.
Marie couldn’t resist. He was right.
She didn’t want to stop herself from being loved, from loving him—even if it wasn’t for the rest of their lives. Even if it was only for a few months, a night, or just a single hour right here at the ball. She missed the wild flutter in her chest, the warmth of his touch, the safety in his embrace. And even if it meant the moth would burn in the flame, she would surrender herself willingly to the fire.
'Your hair is… shorter,' she said softly, a small smirk tugging at her lips as she pointed toward the top of his head.
'You like it?' he chuckled, glancing briefly at her pointing finger before returning his gaze to hers.
She nodded, and his hands gently lifted her mask from her face.
'Much better,' he murmured, removing his own with his free hand.
They spent the rest of the evening beneath the stars, dancing under the moon, hiding in the quiet of the garden—where no one could find them, no one could judge them.
As Benedict held her close, he whispered into her ear, 'Tomorrow morning… come with me. To Aubrey Hall.'
Marie lifted her head, searching his eyes for any sign of hesitation as they swayed together.
'We’re hosting a ball at Aubrey Hall in one week,' he sighed, sounding almost annoyed at the thought. 'Anthony invited the Sharma family and Lady Danbury. Other families will join later in the week until the big day…'
Then he smiled softly. 'I want you there. The entire week. There’ll be plenty of activities—you can spend time with Eloise; she’s missed you too, and—'
'I can’t, Benedict. I have to work and help Geneviève—that’s why I came in the first place,' she said, still swaying with him slowly. 'As much as I would have loved to,' she added in a soft murmur.
'You can work at Aubrey Hall,' he replied quickly. 'I’ll bring a carriage—or even two more—to carry all your patrons, fabrics, everything.' His tone grew almost triumphant. 'And right before the ball, you can hand-deliver every gown to the ladies there.'
Marie’s eyes widened slightly. 'You planned everything so I’d have no reason not to come, didn’t you?' she asked, a smile tugging at her lips.
'Yes,' he said proudly, a smug look playing across his face. 'While we danced.'
'What about your family? And the ton?' she asked, worry furrowing her brow.
'My mother has quite the soft spot for you—ever since the Cressida Cowper incident,' he said with a faint chuckle. 'When Edwina’s tongue slipped last evening at dinner—' He stopped himself abruptly. 'Anyway, my mother was pleased to learn you were here tonight.'
He smiled, his hand tightening softly at her waist. 'As for the ton—they’ll have nothing to say. You’re merely accompanying the diamond to Aubrey Hall to assist with her gown, as rumors swirl of a possible wedding between the viscount and her, yes?' he said innocently, a wide grin spreading across his face.
'God, you really have thought of everything,' she giggled. 'Then it’s a yes, I suppose… I just need to tell Geneviève.'
'Good. Perfect, in fact,' he whispered, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against hers as they swayed slowly—savoring every fleeting second together beneath the stars.
PART 10 - MASTERLIST
