The chandeliers have been polished to a gleam, the kite laid carefully beside silk gloves and ribbons, and the final invitations sealed with wax and ribbon. At long last, the prompts for Benophie Week 2026 are ready to be revealed.
Over eight enchanting days, we invite you to step into a celebration of the hidden identities, stolen dances, lingering glances across crowded rooms, and the kind of love that transported us all. Inspired by the romance of our beloved Sophie Baek and Benedict Bridgerton, each prompt has been chosen by you, our honoured guests, to capture the magic, mystery, and devotion at the heart of their story.
So consider this your invitation to the festivities.
The ballroom awaits. The orchestra is poised to begin. The wedding march is about to begin.
We cannot wait to witness the dazzling creations that emerge once the festivities commence.
Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x Sophie Baek/Beckett
Summary: Benedict knows Sophie, perhaps better than anyone. But does he know himself well enough to know what he truly wants, before it’s too late?
Warnings: none really… fluffy fluff. Childhood friends, class differences, masquerade balls (yes, plural), marriage mart shenanigans, proposals, Benedict being adorable while also a complete dumbass.
Word Count: 10.4k
Authors Note: Benophie remix of this fluff fic to celebrate both @benophieweek and @benophiefest happening this month. Regency AU story, as Sophie's background is different. She was abandoned by her stepmother as a young child, left on a kindly woman's doorstep who raised her with love, nobody aware of her true background/lineage. She has also been a Bridgerton family friend since childhood. POV swaps between Sophie & Benedict. Enjoy <3
I: To Know You….
“I would rather not, Miss Baek,” the young man clips, walking away at a brusque pace.
Sophie sighs and looks down at her feet. Mrs Parsons will be so very disappointed, is all she can think.
—
Benedict may not have heard the words spoken, but even from his vantage point at the other end of the ballroom, he could see the disdainful way the man uttered his parting words to Sophie. It makes anger flare hot in his chest, his fists forming reflexively at his side.
He watches as she casts her gaze downwards, shoulders hunching, folding in on herself physically, as if the rejection for a dance has manifested in a body blow. He feels a pang in his gut—of sympathy, indignance on her behalf and mainly at the injustice of it all. To him, she is a wonderful, intelligent, caring person worthy of a good match. Still, the circumstances of her upbringing seem to stymie her attempts to join so-called ‘polite’ society at every turn…
—
Sophie looks up with a defeated mien until her eyes land on one person who has always been able to ameliorate any of her more morose moods—Benedict Bridgerton. Instantly, she feels lighter. She gives him a polite nod across the crowded room, and, to her delight, he returns it, a hint of a sympathetic smile tugging at his lips. It is just so very characteristic of him to offer silent support, to understand, from witnessing a moment of interaction, precisely what she is feeling. A large part of her so wistful that there is no other man quite as nice as him. She has an overwhelming need to leave the stuffy ballroom and catch some air.
Miss Sophie Baek grew up under the tutelage of the kindly, well-heeled doctor’s widow, Mrs Parsons, the third daughter of an Earl, whose house was not far from the vast Bridgerton estate in Kent. The naturally born daughter of nobody quite knows whom, Sophie was taken in as a ward when abandoned upon Mrs Parsons’ doorstep at a mere two years old, just a tag around her neck with that name upon it and a modest case of clothing. The widow’s reputation for kindness towards young waifs and strays is likely why poor little Sophie was left there. Fortunately, it was an event too early in Sophie’s life for her to recall. All she has known her whole life is the woman’s generosity and compassion, raising Sophie as if she were her own.
And now she is of age, Mrs Parsons takes her to events around Kent in the hopes of securing Sophie a respectable husband, the most prestigious of which being tonight’s Hearts and Flowers Ball at Aubrey Hall. The Bridgertons have always been gracious enough to invite local families, those without the means to partake in the London season, to events at their country estate—a benevolence that allows for Sophie’s attendance tonight. It’s just such a pity that the one bachelor Mrs Parsons was so very keen for her to meet, one Mr Reeves, just rebuffed her so thoroughly.
She glances down at the remaining empty slots on the dance card tied to her wrist and sighs again. Now that she is out on the terrace in the fresh evening air, the light breeze is at least a partial balm, allowing her to recover from the sting of rejection away from the hubbub of the ballroom.
“I will never understand how the men of this county can consider themselves anything approaching mannered.”
Sophie would know that refined voice anywhere. It haunts her dreams. Just the sound of it making her ribs tighten. She turns to see Benedict sauntering towards her, two drinks in hand, that sympathetic smile still in place.
“You are far better off without such rudeness,” he attests wryly as he pulls up beside her, arching an eyebrow for her entertainment.
“You are far too kind, Mr Bridgerton,” she answers, taking the glass he offers with a meek smile, trying not to let her ardent admiration for him be too evident.
“Mr Bridgerton?!? What happened to BenBen?” he teases gently, recalling her childhood name for him when she was a mere four and he was nine.
“We are at a formal event; I should address you properly, should I not?” she replies playfully, a warmth spreading inside as it always does when she gets the chance to have a witty, convivial exchange with him.
By gosh, if there is one man to whom Sophie would pledge herself without hesitation, it is him. But, of course, he is the second son of an illustrious family. To think she would have any chance to win his heart would be as likely as a future king to marry a commoner. Still, a girl can dream…
“At least call me Benedict, Skylark,” he winks over his wine glass as he takes a sip.
Butterflies erupt in her tummy at the affectionate nickname he has used since she was small, having to avert her eyes to avoid blushing deeply.
Just as Benedict goes to speak again, his brother, the Viscount, materialises at his side. Looking to all intents and purposes as if he is trying to escape the ball as much as Sophie is.
“Mother is best avoided tonight, brother,” Anthony warns sagely, taking a large gulp of his champagne. “She is under the erroneous impression I am suddenly in want of a wife.”
Sophie can't stop the giggle that bubbles up from within at his wry observation of his predicament.
“Hello, Sophie,” he greets warmly, just noticing she is also there, his face morphing into a youthful, playful grin.
If Benedict is the husband she has always dreamed of, Anthony is the elder brother she has always yearned for. In fact, that is always how he has treated her, akin to Eloise and Daphne, who she sometimes grew up playing with, being of similar age.
“Hello, Anthony,” she chimes back. “How was the hunt earlier? Did the infamous Bridgerton brothers kill another prized stag?” she inquires, keen to engage both of them for as long as they will entertain her. Just being around them always lifts her spirits to no end.
—
Benedict observes Sophie as she listens intently to Anthony’s recounting of the earlier hunt, impressed by her resilience. He has no doubts any other woman would feign an attack of the vapours had a man rejected her so harshly. But here she is, politely listening to his brother’s boasting, even though he can tell she is hurting inside.
Perhaps it helps that the snub went primarily unnoticed. Sophie is unknown to the Ton; any witnesses likely dismissing it as the business of ‘country folk’ unworthy of note. Which, frankly, he could scoff at, seeing as he holds her in higher regard than all of the other attendees combined.
“How about you?” Anthony ends his story with a question to Sophie, interrupting Benedict’s train of thought. “How has your experience been at our fine event this evening?”
“Oh, the house is splendidly decorated and the music wonderful,” she obfuscates behind flattery. Anthony appears to buy it, but Benedict sees behind the facade, the flame behind her usually bright gaze dimming a little, making something ache in him to see it.
Damn that idiot for ruining her evening! This just won’t do…
—
Sophie can feel Benedict’s eyes upon her as she responds abstractly to Anthony.
“Miss Baek here is too polite to say it, but she was treated harshly by that young Reeves chap from Tenterden,” Benedict edifies as she bows her head, embarrassed. “Let’s be sure to rescind his invitation to future events, brother,” he appends with a surly tone.
“Duly noted,” Anthony nods sincerely, a brush of confusion flitting over his face regarding his brother's vehemence.
“No, there is no need…” Sophie begins to protest weakly but halts mid-sentence under the intensity of Benedict’s gaze.
“I bore witness. Believe me, He shall not darken our door again,” he states firmly.
It appears the matter is very much decided, and she doesn’t want to put up much of a fight, seeing as it ultimately benefits her. She does, however, want to bathe in the warm glow inside whenever Benedict defends her. It's wonderful to have someone looking out for her, especially one so handsome and kind.
—
Two days later, Sophie is taking afternoon tea with Mrs Parsons at the local tearoom when Benedict breezes in, looking so majestic dressed in Bridgerton blues that she grinds to a halt. Luckily, he has not seen her as he makes a beeline for the counter.
“‘Tis rude to stare, my dear,” Mrs Parsons lectures sotto voce, nodding to her teacup, frozen in mid-air.
Sophie shakes her head a touch and places said item back in its saucer as Mrs Parsons turns briefly to look at what or who caught her attention. Then she reaches out, her lace-gloved hand gently patting Sophie’s.
“It would be prudent to set your sights a little more realistic…” she advises with a sympathetic air. “Not that I fault your choice,” she adds, so quietly at first Sophie is not sure she heard her correctly, but there is a tiny playful smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. Sophie’s mouth falls open fractionally, and she stares as the old lady shrugs. “I may be old, my dear, but I am not blind.”
Well, I never, Mrs Parsons!
Just then, Benedict twists around from speaking to the proprietor, and he sees Sophie. There’s a jolt down her spine as he breaks into a huge smile that claims his whole face. And she almost chokes on her bite of scone as he makes his way to them rather than the exit.
“Good afternoon, Miss Baek, Mrs Parsons!” he greets effusively. “Would it be terribly impolite to ask to join you briefly?”
Mrs Parsons' face is a picture of surprise. “Not at all; the pleasure is ours, Mr Bridgerton,” she responds affably, gesturing to the spare chair at the small round table.
As Benedict sits, Mrs Parsons shoots her ward an incredulous look. It's Sophie’s turn to shrug fractionally.
“Mrs Parsons, I feel it necessary to tell you Mr Reeves was excessively rude to Miss Baek here at the ball, and I wanted to assure you that he will not be welcome at Aubrey Hall again,” he divulges sincerely.
Mrs Parsons looks taken aback and turns to Sophie. “Why did you not tell me, my dear?”
“I-I did not think it necessary…” she twists her mouth into a bashful pout, biting her lip.
“Mr Bridgerton, thank you for bringing this to my attention, and I thank you for your generous offer, but that sort of action does not seem warranted,” Mrs Parsons replies accommodatingly.
“That is what I said…”
“That is what she said…”
Sophie and Benedict speak in unison at the exact same moment, and their eyes ping to each other, both laughing then bowing their heads immediately. Sophie just knows her cheeks are flushed.
—
Benedict loves the look in her eye sometimes. That spirited sparkle with glowing cheeks. In his opinion, that is the only look Sophie should ever wear; no one, especially one as unworthy as Mr Reeves, should be allowed to rob her of it. He feels a strong compulsion to do everything in his power to keep her looking like that—carefree, happy, stunning. It’s what motivates his subsequent words.
“If it is not considered too impudent for me to do so, I have a suggestion for Miss Baek’s introduction into society,” Benedict offers sincerely. “I believe you should be able to find her an excellent, worthy match by casting a wider net.”
“What are you proposing, Mr Bridgerton?” Mrs Parsons inquiries, almost warily.
“That Miss Baek come to London and partake in the remainder of the season as a guest of my family. My mother seems to think it an excellent idea, and I know my younger sister Eloise is already a good friend. I do not see why they could not attend events together,” he shrugs genially.
“You have already spoken to the Dowager Viscountess of this matter?!” Mrs Parsons checks, unable to modulate the astonishment in her tone.
“Of course,” he confirms with a nod. “I made such a suggestion this morning when your names came up. She heartily concurs. Miss Baek here is too bright and good of a person to have her marital choice limited by geography or circumstance.”
His eyes flit to Sophie, and his heart gallops at the searing look she gives him.
—
Sophie doesn't even try to temper her doe-eyed expression as she looks upon Benedict, him extolling her virtues to the audience of the tea room.
Even distracted by all the wondrous things he has to say, she can detect the noise level on the surrounding tables has reduced; everyone in town always keen to eavesdrop on a Bridgerton conversation. Especially one that contains such noteworthy gossip as a local young lady being invited to the London season at the family’s behest.
“My dear, I trust that Lady Bridgerton will look after you well,” Mrs Parsons professes. “I have no objections should you desire to seize this opportunity.” Her tone pointed, very much encouraging.
“That would be just wonderful, Mr Bridgerton,” Sophie exhales with a grateful smile. “I cannot thank you enough for even thinking to raise such a petition.”
“Think nothing of it, Miss Baek,” he smiles, standing up and giving both a brief, shallow bow. “I shall see you anon, no doubt.”
And with that, he sweeps out of the tearoom, Sophie’s eye line tracking his concave outline through the curved glass as he rounds the corner out of sight.
“Well, well,” Mrs Parsons puffs out her cheeks. “I am not sure what you did to inspire such actions in a gentleman. But bravo, my dear, bravo,” she holds her teacup aloft in a toast.
Sophie is a jumble of emotions and could not even begin to answer about what she could possibly have done. Mostly, she is just elated by the prospect of the chance to attend the whirl of the London season, even if there is also a slight pang of regret that Benedict seems so keen to see her matched.
II: …Is To Love You
The following Tuesday, as the carriage pulls up outside the grandeur of Bridgerton House, Sophie has nothing but butterflies. And as the dowager Viscountess and her lady’s maid show her to a charming guest room, she cannot temper her excitement.
“Get yourself freshened up, my dear. There is a masquerade ball this evening at the Queen’s new residence, no less, and there is no time like the present to begin your introductions,” Violet warmly counsels.
Sophie nods her thank yous, and after they take their leave, twirls excitedly around the room. Basking in the airy sunlight flooding in, admiring the elegant furnishings as she goes. She pulls up in front of a large sash window and is delighted to see bounteous gardens beneath. The rear of the property is very much an oasis of calm in the heart of the city. But one sight in particular draws her eye: a majestic oak with two swings attached to a stately arm. It looks like a place of refuge, and she feels oddly compelled to take a seat there.
Three hours later, walking into the palatial Buckingham House, she is in a different world from the one she knows in Kent. Candlelit crystal chandeliers glint like towering clusters of jewels, spraying thousands of shards of light around the room. Every railing is bedecked in hundreds of drooping flower garlands, and the walls groan with enormous portraits of royalty. The melodic strains of a chamber orchestra fill the air. She tries not to look too agog at all the surrounding opulence, glad for the mask to hide her wonder behind.
“And I thought Aubrey Hall was grand,” she murmurs, and beside her, Eloise just guffaws.
—
Benedict arrives late to the ball from his bachelor lodgings across town, bustling in as stealthily as possible, hurriedly tugging on his simple black mask as he does, knowing he will likely catch his mother’s ire for his tardiness.
But then he sees a sight that makes him temporarily stop dead in his tracks.
There surveying the room utterly lost in reverie at its grandeur—is Sophie.
He has not seen her dressed up as she is now, made over with the full attention of the Bridgerton staff. And he isn't afraid to admit to himself, at least, that it catches his breath. Even with a silver lace mask concealing half her face, how they have styled her emphasises her already evident beauty. And the dress they have chosen… well, he is almost ashamed of the heat pooling low in his gut; he has never seen Sophie in such tailored, refined, shimmering fabric. She looks positively ethereal.
Whosoever marries her shall be quite the luckiest man indeed.
He doesn't miss the way she inhales sharply when her eyes finally land on him, his chest swelling slightly with pride as her lips part in surprise before breaking into that winning smile which always seems to brighten every room, tonight being no exception.
When he finally joins his family, after needing to dodge a seemingly endless array of enthused mamas, he hears his own mother advising Sophie about the men in attendance.
“I would like to introduce you to Lord Shelton, my dear. He is a fine young man with many interests, and he has a lovely estate near Hove,” Violet recounts as Sophie listens intently.
“Oh god, no,” Benedict immediately intervenes, “Shelton has amassed significant debt at the Pudding Lane gaming hell.”
Violet looks up surprised, then raises an eyebrow at him.
“Pray tell dear son, how do you know such? Benedict Bridgerton, you had better not be frequenting the hells of the East End!” She threatens hushedly, in that stern maternal manner that would have any grown man quaking in their polished shoes.
“No, of course not, mother,” he bristles, his eyes cutting briefly to Sophie, not wanting her to think such things of him. “It is an open secret at Whites, and why he is currently banned from the card room there.”
—
Sophie cannot tear her eyes off Benedict as his mother side-eyes him.
Violet hums sceptically before declaring. “Well, not to worry, there are plenty of other options available for Miss Baek…” She steers attention towards another crowd of young men, all talking and sipping champagne. “Baron Corning, Lord Jennings, Viscount Tewkesbury,” she recounts, nodding subtly to each one. “Any would make a fine addition to your dance card, my dear.”
“We can do much better than any of them,” Benedict chides.
Sophie is slightly taken aback at how very much he sounds like Anthony tonight; apparently very invested in curating who she should dance with. The problem is, with each additional suggestion his mother makes, he roundly dismisses them out of hand.
Is no one in attendance up to his standard?
“Benedict, dear, a word?” Violet states pointedly after a third round of his withering opinions. “Get yourself another lemonade,” she smiles at Sophie, patting her hand before looping an arm in her son’s and dragging him away.
—
His mother’s arm is surprisingly strong when she needs it to be.
“Darling, may I remind you, while Miss Baek is indeed a wonderful person, I do not think we can afford to be too picky for her prospects. Her background is rather… unestablished,” Violet points out diplomatically as soon as they are out of Sophie’s earshot.
“We can do better than braggards, bores and philanderers,” Benedict shoots back, raising a pointed eyebrow.
She looks up at him and sighs. “Well, that is true.”
“As I thought, mother,” he winks as she affectionately swats his forearm. “Why not benefit from my knowledge? In fact, perhaps it is prudent I assist in your search for a suitor.”
“Oh, is it now?” Her tone suddenly filled with intrigue, her face entirely too scrutinising for his liking. “And does my second son wish to join their ranks?” She adds entirely unsubtly.
“I have no time for romance; I have my art. I am most preoccupied.” He waves a dismissive hand, but even he knows his answer is tellingly brusque.
“And yet, you do not seem too busy to assist with the search, dear…” she points out archly.
Benedict has no response to that.
—
The day after the ball, Sophie is sat in the dappled shade in the gardens of Bridgerton House, attempting needlework. It's never been a strength, frankly. She would much rather be allowed to partake in more physical pursuits, like archery or fencing, a want to burn off nervous energy as she awaits the arrival of any suitors. She did end up dancing with a couple of gentlemen, both of whom were... fine… in her estimation.
After messing up yet another stitch, she throws down the embroidery hoop and emits a deep sigh when a familiar chuckle rings out behind her.
“Not your favourite pastime?” Benedict correctly guesses.
“You can say that again,” she grumbles, twisting to smile at him, a little frisson in her belly at his mere presence.
He rounds the table to take a seat opposite.
“So let me guess,” his face charmingly skewed into a thoughtful mien. “You would prefer to be doing something, hmmmm, more athletic?”
Sophie giggles, abashed he knows her so well. “Correct again.”
“I remember you being a crack shot in archery,” he smiles nostalgically before continuing with genuine curiosity. “Why did you not continue it?”
“I was informed ‘tis unbecoming for a lady,” she rues, the mental image of Mrs Parsons deeming such things ‘unladylike’ flitting through her mind.
He scoffs. “Since when did fearsome little Skylark care one jot for societal expectations?” He teases gently, with a wink, as again he invokes that nickname he bestowed upon her a long time hence.
Sophie smiles briefly before she becomes more sanguine. “Since I have been informed I must find a husband…” she sighs.
He frowns a touch. “Any man would be lucky to have a wife who can keep him company on the archery field. I know I, for one, would greatly appreciate a spouse with whom I could share such a pastime.”
“I would venture that you are not like most gentlemen in that regard…” she counters, a bittersweet twinge in her heart that one day, he will indeed be married to some deserving, no doubt elegant, lady, and she shall barely see him.
“Perhaps not,” he agrees, looking thoughtful, “but then you are not like most ladies, Skylark.”
“I am not a lady…” her counterpoint is softly-spoken, almost ashamed.
“You are more lady than any other member of the Ton,” he asserts, his gaze suddenly intense, as if he is willing her to believe his point. “And you should be free to pursue any pastime you wish.”
Sophie says nothing, just smiles wanly, wishing she could believe it were true.
—
How Sophie constantly doubts herself causes a little stab behind Benedict’s ribs. A sudden burning need to prove that she should do as she pleases. He slaps his thighs and stands up swiftly.
“In fact, I am going to go set up the archery targets right now,” he nods decisively, headed for the far corner of the garden where he knows the targets are kept, hoping she will follow.
“Coming?” he calls, twisting to look back at Sophie. “I won't tell anyone…” he adds with a conspiratorial wink, seeing from the involuntary bounce of her leg how much she wishes to join in.
He cannot help the smile that engulfs his face as Sophie jumps to her feet with a mischievous giggle. Nor can he help deliberately aiming badly, letting her roundly defeat him at target practice, basking in the victorious glint in her eye as she teases him gently for losing.
He also pretends not to notice his mother watching from a high window, her expression riveted and so very telling.
—
Later that day, Sophie is reading quietly with Eloise when Violet sweeps into the drawing room with her lady's maid.
“Sophie dearest, Sir Denton is here to see you,” she smiles brightly.
“Oh, I…” Sophie stutters, sitting upright, surprised.
“I can send him away, Miss?” The maid offers, intuiting her disquiet.
“No, no, it is fine… I am just surprised, that is all. ‘Tis almost 4pm. I was not expecting that anyone would be calling, given the late hour.”
Benedict suddenly materialises in the doorway. As ever, there’s that trademark flutter in Sophie’s chest.
“Any reason Denton is lingering in the hallway?” he inquires airily, grabbing a teacup and pouring himself some.
“He is here for Miss Baek,” Violet breezes as his eyes cut to Sophie, a wave of irritation seeming to cloud his face.
“Well, we should dismiss him,” Benedict sniffs, pausing in his action, his face souring.
“Why?” Violet frowns.
“I had a chance to look into his past since I acquiesced to his dance with Miss Baek last night…”
“Acquiesced?!” Violet scoffs, but Benedict ignores her interjection, save for a curt eyebrow raise.
“I have subsequently discovered he has vastly overstated his assets,” Benedict bristles imperiously.
“Who woke up and made you Anthony?” Eloise pipes up witheringly.
Benedict shoots his sister a look of irritation. “Anthony has deputised me to run family matters while he is away on business this week, sister,” he reminds pointedly.
“Yes, but you did not have to adopt his personality as well,” Eloise shoots back, disgust evident on her face.
“I take finding Miss Baek here, a suitable match, seriously,” he volleys. “Do you wish to see your good friend married to someone unworthy of her?”
“Well, no…”
“Then kindly permit me to handle matters,” Benedict orders with finality, uncharacteristically forthright in his opinions.
“I do not wish to see her married at all…” Eloise mutters under her breath as he stalks away to dispatch Denton before anyone can argue.
Sophie just sits there mildly dumbfounded, unsure what to make of it all.
—
The following evening, Sophie attends a music recital with the Bridgertons; Benedict is notably absent, which makes her a touch melancholic in a way she doesn’t want to dwell on.
However, the evening turns for the better while she is taking refreshments at the interval. A friendly-faced young man strikes up a conversation with her after an introduction from Violet.
“Are you enjoying the music tonight, Miss Baek?” he asks genially.
“It is very nice, Lord Glassborough,” she offers politely, trying to stifle her slight boredom.
Sophie enjoys music, but a two-hour concert is a little too much. She much prefers a short set of songs, as they play at balls.
“I find it rather dull myself,” he opines quietly, leaning in. “I much prefer a lively song one may dance to.”
She cannot temper her surprise that his opinion is an exact mirror of her own.
“Have I offended you so?” he checks, looking mildly contrite.
“Not at all, my lord. I was actually just thinking the same myself,” she chuckles quietly.
He looks inordinately pleased and breaks into a friendly, toothy grin. He seems like a nice, agreeable sort. A pleasant, if not particularly handsome, face. Over his shoulder, Sophie sees Violet looking inordinately pleased that all appears to be going so well.
—
“I am not sure I can do this...” Sophie sighs as Ms West genially taps the metronome.
“You can, dear; just remember your finger placement.”
And so she begins again. Attempting to master this tricky piece, her eyes trace the lines of music as her fingers glide over the cool ivory keys of the pianoforte. Violet is keen for her to brush up on her skills, given Lord Glassborough’s interest yesterday. Sophie could not find an adequate excuse fast enough, so here she is, in a slightly reluctant music lesson, trying her best to recall what Mrs Parsons taught her a few years ago.
“Men do so appreciate a lady who can entertain them with exquisite music,” Ms West nods approvingly as she plays.
Mostly, Sophie is relieved when she makes it to the end with no mistakes, at least none glaringly obvious.
“I much prefer to sing…” she admits tacitly as Ms West shuffles the sheet music.
The teacher looks at her surprised, then shoos her from the piano stool. “Sing for me then, my dear…” taking a seat and beginning the opening bars to a song that, fortunately, Sophie knows well.
She begins to sing along, growing more confident with every note, allowing herself to get lost in the words, the story of a lady awaiting her true love.
“Exceptional!” Mrs West peals delightedly over the sound, and Sophie feels bolstered to continue, the piano a the perfect accompaniment.
—
Benedict stops short as soon as he enters the house. The most lilting, beautiful sound echoes gently down the marble hall.
“Who is that Jenkins?” he asks of the butler who takes his coat.
“I believe it is Miss Baek, sir.”
He draws inexorably closer, finding himself watching Sophie through the crack in the doorway, listening to her sing a touching tale of love that sounds so hauntingly hypnotic in her mellifluous tones. Her eyes are closed, and she sways to the melody, lost in reverie, in the narrative being woven.
The piano stops abruptly.
“Can we help you, sir?” an elder lady calls crisply.
Benedict realises the door has crept open slightly before him, enough for him to be clocked by the music teacher. He watches as Sophie swings around and looks horrified that she may have an audience. It makes him take a resolute step forward into the room.
“Do you need us to desist? Is it perhaps too loud?” The lady checks deferentially, likely assuming him to be the head of the household.
“No!” His reply is a touch too forceful. “Please continue,” he modifies. “I was merely drawn by the splendid sound I heard. I am not sure I have ever heard such a wondrous voice,” he adds, keeping his gaze steadfastly upon the lady, not able to look Sophie in the eye as he confesses such.
—
Sophie is mortified when she realises Benedict heard her singing; she has always managed to keep it private, until now at least. But now her heart is suddenly pounding at his extolling words.
“She does indeed have a most excellent voice,” Ms West concurs with his sentiment, looking at Sophie expectantly as Benedict walks further into the room, his face with the same hopeful expression.
“I am not sure I can…” she stumbles, nervous for an audience, most especially him. His is the opinion that would matter to her the most—she would be crestfallen should he not like it.
“Sing more for me, please, Skylark?” His ask is gentle, beseeching as if it were just the two of them alone.
“Skylark?” Ms West sounds enchanted.
“My childhood nickname for Miss Baek,” Benedict explains as he takes a seat.
“Skylarks have a wonderful song,” the lady sighs wistfully.
“Indeed,” Benedict chimes, his eyes still upon Sophie. “I never knew how appropriate it was until this very moment.”
Something warm cracks in Sophie’s chest at his sweet words, making her courageous. At least enough to nod when Ms West looks to her again from the piano. And so she restarts the song for this very special audience, heart in her mouth. The words coming easily to her, an extra layer of meaning he will never know as Sophie sings words of unrequited devotion, looking to him in her braver moments. His face is enrapt, leaning forward, his eyes soft and expressive.
As she reaches a high note at the end of the song, holding it, Benedict bursts into applause, jumping up from his seat and taking her by surprise, grabbing her gloved hands in his.
“You should always be singing Skylark…” he pronounces. “Truly beautiful. Please promise me, no matter what happens, that you will always, always sing…”
Sophie ducks her head briefly, unsure how to deal with his effusive praise. Ms West’s face is a picture, watching them stand with hands held tight, Sophie feeling a tingle where the warmth of his skin seeps through the layers to hers.
“I-I-I promise,” she replies meekly, a touch dazed as her eyes again meet his, the intensity making her lungs restrict.
“Thank you.”
Two words have never sounded so sincere or loaded with significance.
III: … And I Do.
A few days later, it is the Trowbridge Ball, a regular fixture on the London social calendar and a decadent affair that is usually the most talked about of the season. As it turns out, another masquerade ball. Apparently, Lady Trowbridge is still somewhat piqued that the Queen ‘borrowed’ her idea and usurped the occasion by hurriedly arranging her own for the week before. Eloise recounts this as they get ready, and Sophie can only chuckle. The Ton seems such an oddly cutthroat place under its veneer of civility.
They share a carriage ride to the ball with Benedict. Sophie tries her best not to stare at him - so handsomely dressed in a white cravat and black velvet cropped jacket that clings to his tapered shape - but mostly, she fails. In rather spectacular fashion, really, her skin flushing hot the more she looks at him, glad the majority of her blushes are hidden behind her mask. But she could almost swear that his gaze dwells on her, too, subtly sweeping the fine silk Madam Delacroix has expertly tailored.
—
“You look beautiful this evening, ladies,” he offers politely to both, but really, it is just for one of his carriagemates.
“What do you want?” Eloise cuts across any reply Sophie could give, narrowing her eyes at him, instantly suspicious of his flattery.
“Can I not compliment without an ulterior motive?” he ripostes, unable to stop their usual sibling dynamic from flaring.
“Not usually,” Eloise sniffs, with another suspicious glance, before looking out the carriage window.
He beams happily as Sophie takes the opportunity to thank him quietly. She seems truly radiant, so much that he cannot prevent his gaze from lingering longer than it probably should, grateful Eloise’s attentions are drawn elsewhere in this confined space.
Same as a few minutes later, even though he knows he probably shouldn't, he allows his hand to remain upon Sophie’s a few seconds longer than is necessary when he assists her in alighting from the carriage.
—
Around an hour into the ball, as Sophie goes to partake in a refreshment, a sneering Lady Cowper utters something cruel under her breath, her sour-looking daughter smirking beside her. Sophie does not hear all of the words but does not need to. One sideways glance tells her all she needs to know. It seem so unnecessarily cruel to be judged so harshly, having never even exchanged so much as a word with the woman. A sticky lump in her throat, even as, thankfully, their attention is pulled elsewhere.
“Ah! Mr Bridgerton!” Lady Cowper’s entire demeanour changing to oleaginous charm, “my daughter looks particularly stunning tonight, does she not? I do believe you should secure a place upon her dance card before there are none left!”
Even with his face partially disguised behind his mask, Sophie sees Benedict blanch at the very words.
“I do not dance, Lady Cowper, but I bid you ladies a good evening,” he responds, polite but firm.
Sophie tries her hardest not to smile at the disdained sneer on their lips and feels light as air as, instead, he sweeps by them, drawing up to her and winking privately.
“That woman does not realise she is doing her daughter’s prospects more harm than good with her brashness,” he comments dryly as he grabs a glass of champagne from the adjacent stand.
“I am not so sure the daughter would do much better without her; she seems perpetually furious about her own hairstyle,” Sophie opines sardonically, making Benedict snort loudly into his drink. A lightness fizzles in her being as he shoots her a look of unmistakable admiration for that remark.
“I daresay you are a much better dancer than her,” he contends, not breaking eye contact, placing aside his refreshment before leaning in and continuing in a hushed voice. “Perhaps you would do me the honour of a dance to confirm my suspicion?”
There is a vault in Sophie’s chest as he is offering her a dance when, just a moment ago, he declared publicly that he would not. Sophie can only nod, heart hammering, as he breaks out into the most handsome smile, offering his arm and leading her to the centre of the room as a ripple goes through the nearby crowd. Apparently the sight of one Benedict Bridgerton taking to the dancefloor is a rare occasion indeed.
—
As he takes Sophie’s gloved hand in his and curls an arm around her shoulder, he realises this was perhaps a mistake. An impromptu offer, the hollow thrill of petty revenge for the insult that he observed the Cowpers sling at her. But now he realises it has somewhat backfired… upon him. He cares not a jot for the gossiping, people whispering behind their hands as they begin to dance. No, the problem is much more concerning than that.
It is how discombobulated he feels having Sophie in his arms.
How her body seems to fit and move perfectly with his. How, when she dares to look up at him, his mouth goes a little parched. He has never truly noticed how striking her eyes are until seeing them now this close. Indeed, the evident beauty of her face, the way she seems to glow from within, more tonight than ever. It makes his chest - and somewhere else on his body - feel entirely too tight.
—
Nothing could have prepared Sophie for this.
The feeling of literally being swept off her feet. With Benedict's handsome face smiling down upon her as she floats around the dancefloor.
Surely, this is what dreams are made of?
She knows it is a flight of fancy, but it seems as though the floor beneath her feet is a shower of diamonds rather than candlelight refracted through chandeliers. The warmth and strength of Benedict’s embrace caged around her, respectful but so close it makes her lungs feel too small to gasp the air she needs to keep moving. But she never wants to stop. A whirlwind of sensation as she twirls, carried away by the music, the man, the moment.
“Thank you, Benedict,” she breathes, knowing she is likely looking up at him far too adoringly but unable to hide it, a burning need for him to know how grateful she is for this dance, not even noting her slight faux pas of employing his first name at a society event.
His eyes flash and she could swear they dilate a fraction before she must turn her back to him, following the steps.
“I was right,” he rumbles cryptically from behind her now, his large hands wrapped around hers as they hold them aloft together, following the moves of the dance. “It is indeed an honour to dance with you.”
They turn in perfect sync, and they are now dancing directly in front of Cressida, her expression murderous even hidden beneath her demi-mask. It makes Sophie bolder than she has ever been, tilting her head sideways a fraction so her cheek almost brushes Benedict’s, fuelled by the envy she feels seething from within the odious girl.
Sophie could swear he sighs ‘Skylark’, his hot breath tickling her ear. It has her chest pounding, a flavour in the air she could taste, a powerful stirring low in her belly.
—
Benedict knows this is a dangerous path and yet is powerless to do anything but walk it. Even while knowing his ever-vigilant mother is watching, an inscrutable expression upon her face. Breathing that nickname into Sophie’s hair as he inhales her scent, heightened by the movement of her dancing. A light, sweet floral perfume but underneath the smell of her, familiar from many years of friendship but altered now, more decadent, an undercurrent of tart berries that thrills and stirs deep within him.
He is almost grateful when the music ends before he does something foolish. But then Sophie is staring up into his face, all doe-eyed expectancy and his tongue feels unexpectedly tied. He is almost grateful when an interrupting hand wraps around his shoulder.
—
Sophie watches what she believes is Will Mondrich whisper in her dance partner’s ear. Before she knows it, Benedict is offering apologies with a shallow, polite bow and hurrying away. Coming back to reality with a bump, she drifts awkwardly from the dance floor, feeling judgy eyes, suddenly flooded with concern her behaviour may have been entirely too wanton.
Before her thoughts can spiral too far, however, someone materialises at her side.
“I do so hope your dance card is not full tonight, Miss Baek,” a newly familiar, chipper voice cuts in.
“Lord Glassborough,” she greets, recognising his cheery demeanour despite his mask; the relief at having someone familiar to distract her is palpable. “I am available to dance right now.”
Sophie takes his proffered arm and lets him lead her back out to the spot she and Benedict had just vacated. But as the music begins and they move together, the difference for Sophie is noticeable. Gone is the frisson over her limbs, that excitement as if her skin could vibrate off her very bones. Instead, she feels comforted, almost a brotherly presence as the man leads her in the dance. He is technically proficient, but it feels lacking—that tension, a heat burning in the space between them. It makes her yearn for Benedict even though he was just there. Her stomach settles with a leaden weight as she realises she will have to settle for less than what she truly desires.
Still distracted by the mental comparison, Sophie absently acquiesces to his suggestion to take some air upon the terrace as the dance ends. She senses Violet, ever the vigilant chaperone, follow not far behind as he leads her into the cooler air outside.
“Miss Baek…” he begins cautiously. Sophie senses a nervousness in his being, pulling her focus back to him. “I think us most compatible, would you not agree?”
“We make most excellent friends, indeed, Lord Glassborough,” she hedges, not wanting to appear overzealous.
“And friendship is the most appropriate foundation to build something more… tender,” he argues with a smile. “I do believe I could offer you a most agreeable life.”
There is a strange twinge in her chest as suddenly, Sophie realises what this is. The moment everyone, except perhaps her, has been awaiting all season.
“I would be honoured if you would consent to be my wife, Miss Baek,” he humbly offers a sincere kindness shining in his eyes.
And there it is—an offer of marriage from a perfectly nice, respectable gentleman done in an appropriate manner.
To one side, Sophie sees Violet clutch a hand over her chest, face delighted, even as her own fists clench within her delicate gloves. Wishing this moment were not happening so soon after a truly breathtaking dance with the man of her dreams. Who is not the same man as the one before her, nervously shuffling from foot to foot, awaiting her reply.
“I am honoured, Lord Glassborough,” she answers cautiously, bowing her head demurely. “This is a big decision to make. Please allow me time to give you my proper, considered answer?”
“Of course,” he bows chivalrously, his accommodating nature making this moment all the more bittersweet. He is indeed a lovely man.
He is just not the one Sophie wants with every fibre of her being.
—
That night, Sophie cannot sleep—the most significant decision of her life to make. So, in the small hours, she finds herself drifting to the deserted kitchen of Bridgerton House to do what she does best when she needs to think calmly—baking.
A pastime she has grown up enjoying with Mrs Parsons. Many hours spent happily with flour dusting her hands, sun streaming into the large but homely kitchen of the house she grew up in. Perhaps a slightly maverick pastime for a woman of Mrs Parsons’ social standing, with a modest staff to do such things for her, should she wish it, but so very enjoyable for them both nonetheless.
Throwing a large, heavy baking apron over her nightdress and robe, Sophie potters around. The flagstone of the basement floor is cold underfoot, a grounding feeling that stops her mind from racing too much.
She has no idea how to respond to Lord Glassborough’s proposal. On one hand, he is a seemingly nice man, of a good family. She is sure he would be a perfectly acceptable husband, unlikely to be mean or untoward. It is just… a nagging voice is telling her to turn him down despite him being an imminently sensible choice, her heart wanting, well, the impossible. A man that excites her, not just a safe, practical option.
She is onto the second batch of lemon and rosemary biscuits when a voice makes her jump out of her skin.
“What on earth…?”
There in the doorway is Benedict, looking confounded to find her there. The very man who makes her heart skip, always. He is dressed the most undone Sophie has ever seen him—a white frilled shirt open a few too many buttons revealing a smooth plane of lightly freckled chest, brocade braces slung casually around his hips as he pads in, also barefoot. She swears she may have to grab the bench before her to stay upright.
“Skylark, we have cooks you can call upon at any time should you need food!” he fusses, instantly concerned, moving to ring a bell on the wall.
“No! Please do not!” She exclaims, rushing to stop him, grabbing his sleeve in her haste. “I-I enjoy baking. It is relaxing; it helps me to think.”
His brow knits, and his eyes flick down to her hold on his sleeve, a warm vein pulsing under her fingertips. She snatches her hand away quickly, a blush staining her cheeks, mumbling an apology as she scurries back to her biscuit-making.
“Alright,” he concedes slowly, still appearing confused. “When I saw the sconces lit from the rear stairwell, I assumed one of the staff was still down here.”
Sophie finds it amusing that he seems at pains to justify why he might also be in the kitchen, especially to her, a guest of his family. This is Bridgerton House, and he is a Bridgerton. He may go wherever he pleases, surely? And yet here he is, doing so.
“I was rather hoping for some hot cocoa,” he explains with that soft, crooked smile that always has her heart aflutter.
“Oh! Well, umm, I could make you some cocoa?” She wipes her hands upon her apron and moves to do so.
—
That Sophie would make such an offer, as if seeing herself as household staff, spurs Benedict into action.
“No, you certainly will not!” He decries, moving swiftly towards the larder before she can. “I am perfectly fine with some cold milk,” he assures, re-emerges with a bottle and pouring himself a glass, leaning back against the sink to take a sip.
Despite the lateness of the hour, he finds Sophie’s heretofore secret pastime fascinating. A lady who bakes. By choice. So he watches as she returns to making biscuits, entertained, as she begins to beat the mixture quite furiously with a wooden spatula.
“Have those ingredients caused you some sort of personal offence….?” he jests lightly, nodding to the bowl.
He observes a flit of contrition across her face.
“I, umm, have a decision that I must make; baking helps me think,” she explains vaguely, then appears to change the subject rapidly. “I am, however, sure of one fact - some biscuits are a must to accompany milk. There is a completed batch over there.”
“Genius,” he opines with a wink, enthusiastically moving to grab one from the cooling rack she signalled to, delighting in the blush that darkens her cheeks.
He decides to gently push the topic she abruptly avoided. Concerned there could be a topic she is genuinely wrestling with. If his opinion on the matter can ameliorate her burdens, he would be most honoured to assist.
“What sort of decision must you make?” he inquires… before temporarily losing the power of speech.
There is an explosion of tart lemon and earthy herb on his tongue that melts into a buttery sweetness—utterly divine.
“Lord alive, these are delicious!!!” He exclaims around the mouthful.
“Thank you,” she answers softly.
Sophie is always so modest about her talents; it sometimes makes him want to grab her shoulders and shake her gently. To make her see what he does.
“To answer your question, it is a perplexing matter that needs serious consideration,” she continues but stops short of detail, looking at him with a sudden intensity.
He is saddened it appears she is not yet ready to share the information with him. But he also does not want to pry if she is reluctant to divulge.
—
Benedict swallows a bite, and Sophie finds herself staring at the movement of his throat. Knowing one thing to be true—if it were his proposal, she would not even hesitate for a split second.
That wistful thought makes her suddenly melancholic, sighing, pushing aside her mixing bowl, realising this may be an issue baking will not fix.
“I do so hate to see you doubt yourself, Skylark,” he offers quietly after a beat, mien so earnest. “Trust yourself. You will find the right answer for your dilemma; I am certain of it.”
He is so remarkably supportive that, ironically, she almost wants to scream at him.
“I should leave you to your thoughts,” his tone is gentle, reluctant.
“Please, there is no need, Benedict,” Sophie tries to assure. “To be honest, in all of this world, yours is the company I enjoy the very most…”
That truth is out of her mouth before she can censor it.
She sheepishly glances over to be met by a surprised look on his face. He takes a few steps towards her, probably without realising it. Suddenly, he is very close, faint wisps of his woodsy, citrus cologne tickling her nose.
“And I, yours, Skylark…” he rumbles, his gaze falling to her lips.
Time seems to stop, and Sophie feels pinned under glass, staring up into his handsome face as he breathes slightly ragged, her body rioting as he engulfs her senses, definitely too close to be considered gentlemanly, polite…
…But then, he takes a sharp inhale and steps back as if coming to his senses. He turns heel with a hastily muttered goodbye, and before she knows it, he is gone. Leaving her bewildered, thoughts scattered.
—
The following day, Benedict is idly reading the paper, partaking in a leisurely lunch of tea and cake, when his mother swans in, reeling off a set of instructions for her lady's maid.
“Oh, and lastly, do not forget, we should secure an appointment with the modiste, in case Miss Baek should know her answer today…” Violet concludes breezily as she takes a seat.
“Yet another ball we must suffer, mother?” Benedict drawls, folding down his paper and taking a hearty bite of zesty lemon drizzle.
She shoots her son an exasperated look before neatly smoothing a serviette into her lap as she is served her usual afternoon Earl Grey by the butler. “Miss Baek will be in need of a wedding dress, Benedict, dear.”
He spits an array of crumbs onto his newspaper, coughing in shock. “She will need what?!?” he wheezes, barely recovering.
“Lord Glassborough proposed to Miss Baek last night at the ball. She has yet to give her answer, but I am confident she will accept. They are a fine match,” Violet declares, taking a sip of tea.
“Why did she not mention it to me?” he mutters, more to himself than anyone, his forehead creasing heavily in a frown as he swallows the rest of his mouthful.
“Why would she have?”
“We talked last night…” letting slip perhaps too much in his perplexed state, lost in his tumbling thoughts.
“When last night? We returned from the ball very late,” a suspicious tone in his mother’s voice, belatedly releasing he should know better than to think aloud; she is sharp as a tack.
“I-I found Miss Baek baking last night in the kitchen when I went for cocoa. She told me she had a dilemma she was wrestling with…” he admits, looking down at the paper, the words now a jumble before his eyes. “....Mother do you think it is possible she will say yes??” Benedict's head snaps up, his heart suddenly pounding in his ears.
“She would be a fool not to,” Violet points out, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow at him. “Unless there was another, perhaps more wanted, proposal she could consider? Do you possibly know of one? Son?”
Even he can read between those lines.
“I-I am late,” he abruptly changes tack. “I promised to meet Anthony today to discuss the soil at Aubrey,” he bustles rapidly, standing and fleeing the room before he can allow his mother to see how much of a complete lie that is.
—
Benedict spends the afternoon at Whites, downing perhaps one too many whiskeys as he grills his fellow patrons about the Glassborough family. Looking for any reason he can find to object to the betrothal while steadfastly refusing to examine why he feels so passionately about the subject. He also spends time checking the hefty tomes of Debrett’s the club holds.
He returns to Bridgerton House just as dusk settles in, the sky streaking red and pink as he enters.
“Where have you been, dear?” Violet asks as he rounds into the parlour.
“Researching,” he gruffs economically.
“What? Or rather whom?” Violet inquires, revealing she already has a firm idea of what she asks.
“I can find nothing wrong with him!”
Benedict paces, an energy emanating from his being as if that very fact rattles him.
“That is a good thing, is it not, son?” Violet reminds pointedly. “We want Miss Baek married to a good gentleman.”
Benedict shoots her an exasperated look but relents. “I suppose…”
“Is not your reluctance perhaps for another reason, my dear?” Her question is gentle, if not particularly subtle.
He slumps into a wingback chair with a defeated sigh. “Go ahead. Say your piece, mother.”
“I have watched you, darling,” she begins softly, watching him tip his head back and screw his eyes shut. “I do not know exactly when, but your regard of Miss Baek has altered, and I am not the only one to observe it.”
Benedict's eyes fly open, and he tips his head down with a frown as his mother continues.
“Even Colin has marked a change in you. If you feel anything, my dear, then Miss Baek, Sophie, has the right to know. Before it is too late. The right to make an informed choice if you are bold enough to give her one. Son, I have only ever wanted my children’s happiness. And if your happiness lies somewhere that perhaps even you have not realised until now…. well then I encourage you to follow it. Follow your heart.”
Her impassioned speech suddenly makes the pieces of a jumbled jigsaw before his eyes arrange into a pattern, a way forward that is suddenly clear and sharply in focus.
It makes him leap to his feet, an urgency thronging in his being.
“Where is Miss Baek?” he almost barks.
“I do not know,” Violet confesses, “but I do know she has not yet seen or written to Lord Glassborough,” she adds.
“Good…” he rasps, headed determined out of the room to find Sophie.
—
The verdant lush grass is cool between her toes as Sophie curls them over, sighing heavily, the night now dark, a twinkle of silver stars among the navy sky, soon to be black. The swing under the big oak, a refuge she has sought many times since staying at Bridgerton House, feels a particularly poignant place to be tonight as an internal war rages within, her decision swinging back and forth as much as the wooden seat she is perched upon, the rope digging into her cheekbone as she slumps against it, flummoxed.
She knows what her answer to Lord Glassborough should be. Indeed, what it should have been from the moment he asked.
A resounding yes.
In every practical measure, this is the best possible outcome of her London season. A proposal from a thoroughly decent, acceptable gentleman, way above the station anyone was expecting, given her complete lack of certainty around any prestigious lineage.
And yet.
And yet.
There is a large part of her, her heart, that wants to turn down the proposal, foolhardy as that may be—wanting to feel something akin to what she felt when she danced with Benedict that night.
She is not so foolish as to believe he would ever propose, but perhaps there is someone else out there for her that may evoke something similar. Even if only half, it would be enough. Enough for her to build a future around and feel contentment in her heart, to not just settle for what her head knows to be a sensible choice.
—
Having searched the house, Benedict rounds into the garden and stops short, heart leaping into his throat as he spies her, swaying gently upon the swing, looking thoroughly lost in thought.
It makes his chest ache that Sophie is so melancholic about a decision that should indeed be joyous. The selfish part of him celebrating, hoping that perhaps she is not. His memory recalls with perfect clarity how she had looked as lost as he now feels every time she has been close. The unbearable lightness of hope seizes his legs and draws him inexorably closer.
—
Sophie whips around as she senses company and has to take a deep breath as her eyes fall upon Benedict. His face pinched with a restless intensity.
“I was hoping I would find you…”
“You have,” she shrugs, still confused by his crackling energy, him seeming in a rush to say something.
“Sophie, you deserve the very best of everything. Sincerely. And part of that includes being privy to the truth in the hearts of those lucky enough to know you…” a slight quake in his voice as he takes a step closer.
“Alright…” Sophie responds cautiously, her brow creasing as she senses the nerves emanating from him.
She gasps as he rapidly drops to one knee before her, a hand clutched to his chest.
“I have been a fool not to see it before now. My own ardent admiration for you. For your talents, for your beauty. I realise now, perhaps too late, that you are truly the most wondrous, precious being in this world. You may not always see it, but it would be my greatest honour to show you, every day, if you will permit me, what I see when I look upon you, what I have always seen if I am honest with myself. A light that shines brighter than any other, a bird that soars higher and sings more sweetly than any other. A soul that it would be a privilege to be bound to. I know it is perhaps the worst possible timing, seeing as you already have a proposal from a perfectly acceptable gentleman. Still, I could not let you get married without knowing the true contents of my heart.”
Sophie is stunned. Speechless.
Her heart pounds in her ribcage as she sits there stupified for what must be an age, Benedict looking upon her expectantly, breath slightly ragged from his long speech. Somehow, convincing herself this could only be a dream. That the man she has adored since before she can remember has just made the most beautiful poetic confession of love she has ever heard. And it’s to her.
So, she does the only logical thing that comes to mind. Pinches her own leg. Hard.
—
Benedict is momentarily confounded at Sophie’s actions.
“Owwww!” she yelps. “Not dreaming then…” is her muttered follow-up, rubbing her knee as his face morphs into an enormous grin, a lightning bolt of joy tearing through him as he realises what she is doing, that she can scarcely believe this is happening any more than he can.
“It is really me, Skylark,” he chuckles softly, seeing the way her eyes dilate rapidly as he can't help a lopsided grin claiming his face, a warmth behind his ribs, just for her.
“I realise that now,” Sophie sasses back, and there is a distinct stirring in his trousers at the tone she employs.
“I love you.”
It's a reflex; he doesn't even realise he says it. But as soon as it's out of his mouth, it's like an invisible burden has been lifted from his entire being.
His truth. Plain. Simple. Honest.
—
Sophie knows her face is aflame as she snaps back at him, entirely without meaning to, but then he says three little words that tilt her whole world even more.
“I-I love you too.”
She is bewildered when she says the same aloud.
Her truth. Plain. Simple. Honest.
Benedict’s bare hands grab hers, tingles shooting over her as their skin touches.
“Marry me? Please. My darling, wonderful friend,” he implores.
“Yes!! I will!!!” She answers breathlessly, not even a second of hesitation.
He leans in and captures her lips. They are warm and soft as they move gently with hers. And when he opens her mouth, and his tongue rolls delicately over hers, it feels as if all the fireworks she has seen in the sky live now inside her, popping and exploding in a riot of colour. A whole new world of sensual pleasure is promised in that one move.
“Are you certain?” Sophie murmurs as they break apart for air, a flash of insecurity that it is happening so fast, even as there is a strong pull inside, a want to keep kissing him over and over.
Benedict smiles, tilting his forehead to hers, a wistful look in his light eyes.
“To know you, truly know you, is to love you, my beautiful Skylark,” he sighs, his words a comforting blanket settling over her quaking heart. “And I do. I truly do.”
Benophie Masterlist • Taglist (must follow this blog to be tagged)
New little fic as a homage to Benophie (as it is their wedding anniversary on June 16th) and Celinejesse from the Before trilogy
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
A Before Sunrise AU of Benophie set in Paris, ft. a transfemme Sophie Bek who's on the path of making herself a home, a Benedict Bridgerton on an art pilgrimage around Europe and plenty of Parisian transit system confusion.
An excerpt:
The woman was the most captivating person Benedict had ever seen. Then again, he seemed to think everyone around him was captivating to some degree, so maybe it did not matter as much.
He clicked his pen, drawing the side of her face, the way her hair fell in untamed curls against her ears, by her silver earrings. The way she was absorbed in a book of maps. Benedict thought her to be the most intriguing person in the entirety of the train. Most of them hardly looked away from their phones.
