AN: sorry about taking so long. Had massive writers block for this story.
John and I got up early the following morning and had a quick bite to eat at the Inn.
As the two of us packed our final things, he stopped, looked at me, and said my name.
"Yes John?"I asked him, my heart beating so hard in my chest I was sure he could hear it. I hope he wasn't changing his mind.
"I feel like I have to ask this just in case, as we are still close enough to home. Do you wish to continue to our cottage, or go back home?"
I could have melted right then and there, as he called my family home his home, and the cottage, our cottage.
I cupped his cheek in my hand, and he leaned into it. His eyes closed for a moment as I ran my thumb across his cheek.
"I wish for us to continue our journey to our cottage."
He seemed to let out a small breath, as if he had been holding it in.
"Are you regretting us running away?"I questioned him, and his eyes opened quickly.
He grabbed my wrist to the hand that was still cupping his cheek, turned his head and kissed my palm gently.
"I have no regrets." John said to me.
"Good, now let us be on our way. We have a bit to go today, and your sister's places are somewhat along the way; it would be nice to meet them."
I kissed him as I dropped my hand from his face, ready to grab my gloves, when his hands suddenly gripped my waist, turning me to face him once more.
I was about to ask him what was wrong when his lips suddenly met mine, his hands squeezing my waist a bit tighter.
I practically melted into the kiss and into his arms.
John pulled back first and leaned his forehead against mine, and took a deep breath, his eyes still closed.
"I love you, so very much, and I wish to shout it from the rooftops."
I couldn't help but giggle as the image of John on the roof shouting about how much he loves me.
"And I love you my dear, sweet John. You have owned my heart ever since I met you, and even though it would be fun to watch you yell your love for me from the roof, we must make haste."
"You are very right my dear, but I will first send word to my oldest sister that you and I will be visiting her this afternoon."
"That sounds like a wonderful idea. No need to surprise her." I told him as I went to grab my bag, but John just gently took it from me.
"I can not have you carry out your own bag my love. You are to be my wife."
I followed behind John as we left our room. He stopped off at the front desk to pay for the rooms and also have word sent to his oldest sister that he was coming with his betrothed.
"Before we leave, why don't we have a quick bite to eat before our journey." I suggested.
"But we just finished eating." John said to me.
"I know, but I am enjoying it here so much. Just reminds me of my trips here with my father."
John grabbed my hand and kissed my knuckles. "Then we shall have something small to eat." He said to me.
JOHN'S POV
I could see my oldest sisters cottage in the distance.
I could hear the delightful screams and squeals of my many nieces and nephews.
"Uncle John!" I heard as our carriage got closer, and that moment my sister stepped out of home. Her with child once again.
I stopped the carriage and helped my very nervous lady down.
"Brother, it was a surprise to get notice that you were coming today, and with someone who has finally tamed your wild ways." Anna teased as she kissed my cheek.
"Oh hush you, but yes you are correct. I have fallen in love, well been in love with this fine woman for a very long time. Dear sister, I would like for you to meet my love." I introduced the two of them, and Anna's eyes widened for a moment when she heard the Bridgerton last name.
"How very nice to meet you. Please have a seat out here, it is much to nice of a day to spend inside." Anna said, and the two of us agreed.
My nieces and nephews surrounded us as we tried to sit down asking us a bunch of questions.
"Children. She is a guest." My sister said with a strong voice, that had them instantly calm down.
"I have treats and tea. I will grab them." Anna said, and my sweet woman offered to help, but Anna quickly turned down her help.
"You are guest for now, but John why don't you come and help me. Children, behave. Remember I can hear all, and see all."
I had to cough to to hide my laugh as I watched the children muttered amongst themselves at their mother's threat.
"What would you like for me to grab?" I asked her as I looked around, then I felt slap upside my head.
"What is that for?" I groaned as I rubbed the back of my head.
"She is a Bridgerton!" Anna exclaimed.
"Yes, we know." I said back with attitude, not liking that I was hit.
"Even though her family is kind, I do know that they would not allow you to marry her."
I stayed quiet.
"Do not tell me you two have run away?"
Before I could answer her, another voice chimed in.
"I understand your concern Anna, but this is mine and John's choice."
"A choice that could put him in jail, and you alone for the rest of your life."
"Anna, I know your heart is in the right place." I tried to speak, but I was interrupted.
"In high society, there are many, many rules that must be followed. Many girls do not marry for love, but of social obligation for their families. When it was my turn to enter society, I did, pushing aside my feelings for John, and trying to do what was expected of me, as a woman of high society, but with each suitor that came knocking, bringing gifts to try and impress me, I only wanted one person to do that. I was going to end up alone for the rest of my life. I refused to be some trophy for a man who would have a mistress and leave me to raise his children."
My sister gave us a soft, but sad smile.
"Where are you going if I may ask? Your family will be awfully worried." I am glad she changed the topic of conversation, for now.
"Slova. Her great-aunt left her a cottage." I said as I kissed the side of my love's head.
"You two have a far journey. Let's spend some time together before you two head off. I know my children have missed you dear brother, and my husband will be home in a few hours." Anna said as she finally grabbed her kettle to take outside.
ANTHONY'S POV:
My brothers and I stopped at The Angel Inn. Always a favourite spot of our fathers and our sister.
"Yes, I am looking for a woman and a man who may have stopped here last night."
The lady behind the desk just gave me a look. "We get plenty of those each day. Unless you can tell me what they look like, I can not help you." She went to turn away, but Colin stepped in.
"I believe these may help. These are drawings of the two people we are searching for." Benedict pulled out two pieces of parchment.
I clasped Benedict on his shoulder as the lady took a look at the drawings.
"Yes, they left this morning. He had someone bring a letter to a family member."
"May we speak to that person?" I inquired.
"Of course. That would be me son. Jack." She called.
"Yes mam?"
"These gentlemen are wondering who this man sent you to this morning." Jack looked at the drawing.
"His sister, lives in Abingdon, at some cottage called Flowersland."
"Thank you." I said to him, handing both him and his Mother coin for their help.
Benedict was already outside, informing Colin and Gregory what we were informed.
"They are not far and if we time it correctly, we will catch them." I said as I got upon my horse.
"On to Abingdon dear brother's. Let us bring our sister home." I said, hoping in my heart that we get to them in time.
I know it has been months since I uodated, if you would still like to be added to the tag list/kept on the tag list, please let me know. Had massive writers block.
hello!! I saw that your requests for Benedict Bridgerton were open. I was wondering if you could do a story about him and reader who is a fantastic author. Like she’s not bad at art but is so much better at writing. I always thought it would be a cute dynamic. Have a good day love!
benedict helped you spread the blanket on the grass, smoothing the corners. you put down the little basket you'd prepared with some food and a bottle of wine. then, laughing, you slipped out of your dress until you were down to your underwear and ran into the river. benedict followed you, his boots left on the shore along with his clothes. he caught up to you easily, grabbing you by your waist.
he held you as you wrapped your legs around him. benedict rested his forehead against your shoulders, pressing soft kisses there and going up your neck. your fingers threaded into his hair, pulling him closer as you tilted your head to give him space.
now you were sitting on the blanket, legs pulled to your chest, using them to steady your notebook as you wrote. benedict lay beside you, turned onto his side, propped up on one elbow, staring at you. you showed him the page full of words and he grabbed the notebook to read it. when he was done, he looked at you again.
—you should publish it. everyone deserves to read this.
it wasn't the first time benedict suggested it.
—you always say that, —you took back the notebook from his hands.
—and i always mean it, —he replied.
you traced your thumb along the edge of the paper, considering. —we're about to be wed, benedict, i don't want to embarrass you.
—embarrass me? —his brows drawn together in disbelief. he shifted closer, searching for your face.
you shrugged, —with my stories.
whole worlds lived in these pages and characters that loved too much, who bled their hearts out so that you could capture it in ink. these novels had been half hidden in your drawers and boxes under your bed, some of them took months, other years.
—if i publish them, people will read them and what if they think they're silly? or worse, what if they think you married some foolish girl who spends her days making things up?
for a moment benedict just stared at you, like you'd said something truly incomprehensible. then he let out a small laugh.
—my love, —he said, —you did not just call yourself foolish.
—be serious, ben.
—i am serious, —benedict pushed himself up to his elbows, —last winter you had me pacing the room because you hadn't finished that chapter and i needed to know if that poor man survived the war.
you tried not to smile.
—that's not foolish, —he went on as he took the notebook from your hands, —that's amazing, —his hand found your chin, guiding your face back to his, —besides, i'd be insufferable. i'd tell everyone. 'have you read it? that's my wife. she wrote that.' i'd buy copies for strangers and i'd argue with critics in the street.
you laughed, closing the distances to give him a quick kiss, —you would not.
—i absolutely would, —his thumb brushed your cheek. —i'm marrying you because you're bright and stubborn and full of stories. i won't have you making yourself smaller, not for me, and certainly not for anyone.
you exhaled and leaned into him, pressing your face into the space between his neck and shoulder, hiding for the world like it was your safe space. benedict tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.
—send it out. one manuscript. just one. and whatever happens, you come home to me.
you looked down at the notebook again, then back at him.
—alright. one manuscript.
he showed you a big smile and tugged you down onto the blanket with him. you laughed as you fell, letting him wrap you between his arms. you pushed yourself up on his chest.
—should i let you decide which one? —you asked.
his whole face lit up, —the soldier one.
you rolled your eyes, —you're obsessed with that soldier.
—he's complex.
—he's impossible, —you argued back.
—he's misunderstood.
you narrowed your eyes at him, —you only like him because he reminds you of yourself.
—i do not brood that much, —he said, giving a quick kiss to your nose.
—you absolutely brood that much, ben. you cried when i wrote the last chapter, didn't you?
he shook his head, sliding a hand up your back, drawing lazy patterns on your skin, —my eyes were watering. very different.
you hummed, not convinced, —well. if it happens and it did make you cry, i enjoy seeing you affected by my work, and if i'm gonna send out one of my stories, i'd love for you to illustrate it.
benedict's hand stopped against your back.
—illustrate it? —he repeated. you nodded. benedict asked, —you'd trust me with that?
—i trust you with everything, ben, —you let your head fall against his chest, —you're in love with that soldier anyways.
his chest rumbled with a soft laugh, —i'm only in love with one person. an amazing soon-to-be-best selling author.
you groaned, hiding your face in his chest, —you're impossible.
—i'm optimistic.
you lifted your head just enough to look at him, narrowing your eyes, —you're biased.
There is No Adoration like That of a Painter Pt. 2
Benedict Bridgerton x Reader
a/n: season 4 has been incredible thus far, leading me to believe that i had no choice but to continue this story—enjoy! pt. 1
warnings: none, save for (non-sexually) sharing a bed with mr. bridgerton
There was a certain comfort that came with laying down next to Mr. Bridgerton. Nothing untoward had occurred in the time you knew him, and yet, though you knew it was improper, you found comfort in his bed.
He felt the same, it appeared, as he slept facing towards you, a soft smile adorning his handsome features. You had seen him every day since the private study, and last night he asked you to accompany him to his room.
The matter was that in the short time you knew him, you realized that for all of his aloofness and his revelry, the young lord was quite lonely.
It appeared that he seemed you a friend, or at the very least a sympathetic ear. He continued to request your presence, and you continued to show. He must have depicted your form a hundred times, and yet, he never seemed to grow tired of it.
You had to admit that there was a large part of you that simply enjoyed his company, and that the comfort made you feel centered.
He was not seeking pinnacle last night, or any form of mistressly activities at that; merely the presence of his muse, as he stated himself.
You obliged, your fondness outweighing your reluctance, however, any reluctance was tossed aside once the once the crown of your head met the goose-down pillow next to his.
In the face of dawn, you lied awake, accompanied by the gentleman’s steady breathing. Societal expectations would abscond you, as laying with a gentleman in such a manner was an event that simply did not happen. And yet, you could not help that you were susceptible to charming, pitiful blue eyes.
You gazed at him, admiring the contours of his angular face. You imagined it was similar to how he gazed at you when he painted you, as you examined the different details of him. His smile lines by his mouth and eyes, the lighter crease of worry between his brows… he seemed so young and boyish from afar, but up close, you can clearly see pieces of his story. Remarkable, you thought.
Suddenly, he stirred. “A fortnight,” he whispered.
“What?” you whispered back, unsure of whether or not he were conscious.
His eyes opened ever so slightly, shaded by his long eyelashes. “It has been a fortnight, since…” he trailed off, a happily smile on his face. You knew exactly what he was referencing: the private study.
“Since you became obsessed with depicting my form, my lord?” your wit always preceded you.
“Obsession might be too strong a word,” he said, the slightest hint of rose coloring his cheeks.
“Really? I am nosey, you know. I saw various depictions of myself in various mediums on your desk last night.”
“Did you really? Huh. Maybe you have an illegitimate sister who chose the same profession as you.” A cheeky grin accompanied the notion. You snorted.
“Whatever you say, my lord.”
Despite the friendly bickering, your hands were interlocked between your bodies. His was large, warm. Comforting. Completely enveloping yours.
“I must insist you call me Benedict. It’s only right, given our… familiarity.”
Normally you might have let your wit escape your lips before you said something of substance, but the vulnerability in his eyes stopped you.
“Alright, then… Benedict.” His name felt foreign, albeit right. You desired to repeat it over and over again until it felt familiar.
A truly delighted smile overtook him, and for a moment, he leaned in closer, his eyes glancing at your lips, and his hand squeezing yours.
And then, as though a wave washed over his mind, he leaned back slightly. The smile never left, however. It merely became more impish.
“Would you like a bonbon?”
Your face contorted into an expression of confusion, before you agreed. “Why, yes!”
“Brilliant.” He quickly sat up, as though his energy had been restored, and reached for the a drawer in the chest beside him. “I’ve got strawberry, raspberry and I’ve got tangerine. Have you a preference?”
“Whatever you favor is fine with me.”
“Oh, well in that case we must feast on them all,” he said, and you had to laugh. He pulled three decently sized satchels out of the drawer, setting them between the two of you. You sat up, allowing your satin robe to drape however it liked. His eyes remained focused on yours, a boyish delight behind them.
He pulled a pink bonbon from one of the satchels, unwrapping it for you. “You must try this,” he said. You thought he might place it in your hand, but you were mistaken. He raised his sizable hand to your mouth, and you gasped, but allowed him to push the delicacy past your lips into your mouth. The only sign that he was even remotely aroused was the darkness of his blue eyes, before he cleared his throat.
“What do you think?”
You took your time tasting it, allowing the sweet flavor to wash over you and hopefully distract you from Benedict. It was all in vain, however.
“It’s… lovely. Where are these from?” you inquired, attempting to lighten the mood.
“They’re from Greece. Or maybe Turkey. I can’t quite recall. My brother went abroad last summer, and fetched them for me,” he popped an orange bonbon in so his own mouth, a soft moan coming out of him. You blushed, your legs closing their distance underneath the sheets. You could not develop deeper feelings for Benedict Bridgerton. It would be unseemly. In fact, it would be the worst possible outcome. An… art model and the closest thing to a viscount in one of the most prominent families in society? Unthinkable.
“That’s very interesting. You seem to quite enjoy them, Benedict,” you couldn’t help but quip, despite knowing far better. The look of adoration he gave you in return did the butterflies in your stomach no favors.
“As do you, y/n” he said with a wink.
You did not know how your relationship with Benedict Bridgerton would further transpire; if it could; and yet, you couldn’t help but long to never leave his bed.
a/n: if you like this, likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated! additionally, if you would like more benedict, or really anything, feel free to drop by my asks! i don’t bite! hopefully this is an acceptable sequel for our beloved painter and his model <3
a/n: not sure how many bridgerton fans are on this app, but in lieu of the new season dropping this week, i felt inspired to make a short little something. hope you enjoy!
warnings: none, save for the fact that reader is a model at benedict’s art school.
It was a lovely engagement that you had secured for yourself at the Royal Academy Schools. Simple, too. The most you required to do on any given day was stand nude in front of the ogling eyes of boys as they tried to replicate your delicate form on canvas.
It served you well, in that though you were still unmarried and without a suitor, you were able to indulge in a moderately luxurious life at your own discretion.
It would be an even more pleasant affair had it not been for one Benedict Bridgerton.
He was of nearly noble status, the penultimate elder of the vast array of siblings. Rightfully handsome, as the family was reputed to be, and vastly talented.
His only fault? His ego. He constantly wore the smirk of an imp, all too delighted by the next scandalous thing to come into his mind and out of his mouth. And, to your chagrin, you found that many a smirk was directed towards yourself.
In fact, for a private study, he had requested you specifically. Of all the young lords and ladies who came and went into the School, he called upon you. He even offered a gratuitous payment. Far be it from you to refuse the offer.
He was lounging on a rouge sofa when you came into the room in your robe, mischievousness radiating from his handsome features.
“I’m very pleased you could join me, Miss,” he greeted, adjusting his posture (slightly) and reaching for his quill.
“Yes, I am certain that such is the only thing you are pleased by, my lord,” you said, stepping onto your podium and dropping your robe.
“How could you insist it would be anything other?” he said, his eyes languidly flicking downwards, and back up to your eyes. You couldn’t help but blush under the gentleman’s dark stare; thankfully the dim lighting of the room masked any contemptuous feelings.
“I believe it is your task to focus on the whole, not just the bits that pique your interest, my lord,” you ventured, settling yourself into a pose where your long hair covered your more… womanly aspects.
“Might it please you to know that the whole does in fact pique my interest?” he asked, his wrist flicking upwards on his parchment. You found that a warm feeling overtook your chest.
“Yes, it might,” you admitted.
“Brilliant,” he said, accompanied by a resplendent grin. You meekly smiled back, your former air of indigence reduced. “Would you mind lifting your arm up for me slightly, love?” he asked. You nearly forgot about the request once you processed the word love.
“O-of course,” you stuttered, complying. If he noticed that you were flustered, he didn’t show it.
“If I may, how did you find yourself in this line of work?” he asked, loosely sketching your form.
“Do you often converse with the models you illustrate?” you asked coyly.
“Only the interesting ones,” he said, looking up for a moment, showing you his sincerity.
“I admire your commitment to this approach,” you said, and he chuckled. “But, if you must know, my mother attempted to pair me with an abysmally ill-fitting suitor. Instead of remaining at home, I sought out better horizons. That is, if disrobing myself before gentlemen such as yourself could be considered as such,” you laughed drily.
“Gentlemen is such a presumptuous term,” he groaned, and you giggled, momentarily losing your pose. “But that being said, I believe that you have done the best with the cards you were dealt.”
“Why, thank you,” you said, taken aback by his earnest tone of voice.
“It’s only truth,” he brushed it off.
Before you knew it, the hour was up, and yet, you found yourself lingering with the gentleman, craving his presence.
“Initially I was skeptical of this little…arrangement,” you told him.
“And now?” he asked. Presently you were sat beside him on the rouge sofa, your robe loosely draped over your shoulders. He sat with his chin in his hands, leaning in towards you.
“And now I must admit, it wasn’t nearly as tawdry as I had anticipated.”
He laughed, and your heart leapt. “Brilliant,” he said, echoing his word from before.
“Indeed,” you agreed softly, gazing into his deep blue eyes.
Maybe the lord ought to book another such private session, you mused.
a/n: let me know what you think! if you liked this, my requests are always open! pt. 2 now out!
Teaser : 'She knows what Geneviève means by those 'art parties'—multiple chances to meet well-known London artists, but also to encounter them in… rather unconventional situations. But she was right, and Geneviève knew it. Marie was 25 now, had her own experiences, and as curious as she was, this could be a great opportunity for her as an artist to meet new people. And now that Geneviève had let that slip, she also knew Marie wouldn’t give up on the idea.'
She’s not here to be courted.
She’s not here to impress.
She’s here for art. (Or so she tells herself…)
Length : 1.4k words
This author is pleased to report that the season is already proving to be quite the whirlwind. Mayfair is brimming with fresh debutantes returning from across the globe, escorted by their ever-watchful mamas and, most fortunately, many promising matches are expected. As for gowns, the families may rest easy this year. Unlike previous seasons, when Madame Delacroix’s talent occasionally came with certain delays, she now benefits from the capable hands of her young cousin newly arrived from Paris. The season of courtship, fashion, and, of course, gossip, is officially underway.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS,
14 MAY 1813
'Ouch' Marie squeaks as a red bead forms at the tip of her finger. She squeezes it gently, then hurries away from the gown she was working on to grab a small rag lying nearby, wrapping it quickly around her bleeding finger. She mutters a French curse under her breath, inaudible to Geneviève, who is busy working at the back of the shop. She steps back toward the yellow gown, inspecting it carefully, hoping her little misfortune hasn’t left a stain. Fortunately for her, this little needle incident didn’t ruin five hours of work. Still, it might have made for a charming excuse to add a touch of ‘unexpected originality’ to the design—something this family visibly lacks—since the gown was a commission for the Featherington family, mostly known for their horrendous taste in fabrics and colours.
Marie had been in London since early that morning. She’d arrived by boat and had started working with her cousin Geneviève the moment she stepped into the shop. That was why she had come, after all, the debutante season had brought a flood of work, and for once, Geneviève had accepted her temporary help. Marie had started working as a modiste almost two years ago in Paris. By now she had gained quite a bit of experience and she had been more than eager to come.
She thinks to herself while glancing at the gown still squeezing the cloth wrapped around her finger, now stained a bright red.
Yes, she had been impatient to come. But not to work. And while it was proving to be a valuable experience, this overly yellow gown could almost make any modiste regretful.
No, Marie had been eager to discover London, not just because it was a great opportunity for her work, but even more so for herself. She had always been quite an independent woman, and fashion had been the most natural path for her. Coming from a family of modistes, becoming one herself had simply been the easiest route. It allowed her to make a living while still devoting time to what she truly loved: painting, writing, reading poetry, anything she can’t earn a living from as a woman. Perhaps the overly yellow gown wasn’t the worst thing after all. Perhaps being a creative woman in 19th-century London was the truly dreadful part.
Marie took a step back from the gown and pulled out the paintbrush that had been holding her dark hair in a bun, letting it fall over her shoulders, down to her waist and the curve of her back. She closed her eyes and let out a soft sigh before glancing at her finger, unwrapping the cloth now that the bleeding had finally stopped.
She heard light footsteps and the soft rustle of fabric behind her and turned to see Geneviève settling down on the table next to her numerous fabric rolls, nearly tripping over one of the chairs. 'Are you quite well ma chérie ? I heard you', Geneviève says, catching her breath and giving Marie a quick once-over before her eyes landed on her stained finger. 'Ah, I see—classic modiste injury,' she added with a giggle.
'Maybe the yellowness of this dress finally got the better of me.' Marie let out a soft giggle and shrugs. As she begins untying her working apron, Geneviève says gently, 'Maybe we’ve worked enough today. You should rest a little.'
'You’re right, we should take some time for ourselves. It’s already…' Marie glances at the clock on the wall and then back at Geneviève. '7 pm, time to close the shop anyway.'
'I’ll let you do that,' Geneviève replies, untying her own apron and resting it on the mannequin.
Marie goes to the front window and draws the curtains. As she makes her way to the main door and begins locking it, Geneviève calls out from behind her, 'Don’t… lock the main door! I’m going out tonight!'
Marie pauses and turns to her as she raises an eyebrow and a small smirk appears on her face 'You’re going out? Mind telling me a bit moreee?'
'Well, nothing surprising, just a little…art party.'
'An art party and you don’t even think of inviting me?' Marie scoffs jokingly.
'Maybe you’re a little…young ? Let’s say you’re a little young.' Geneviève adds with a soft chuckle.
‘Oh, come on ! First of all, I’m 25, and second of all, we didn’t see each other for what ? 5 years ? Who told you I didn’t go to quite the memorable and depraved art parties back in France ?’ Marie exclaims crossing her arms, the soft freckles on her nose and her almost pouting face could make her look like a teenager throwing a tantrum. She knows what Geneviève means by those art parties—multiple chances to meet well-known London artists, but also to encounter them in… rather unconventional situations. But she was right, and Geneviève knew it. Marie was 25 now, had her own experiences, and as curious as she was, this could be a great opportunity for her as an artist to meet new people. And now that Geneviève had let that slip, she also knew Marie wouldn’t give up on the idea.
'Okay, okay, you can come with me, but…not too much drinking ma chérie ?!' Geneviève finishes with a sigh as she watches Marie excitedly run up the shop stairs to her bedroom, almost shouting, 'Thank you! I’ll get ready right away! And yes, not too much drinking, don’t worry !'
The second part of her sentence was almost a whisper as she disappeared from Geneviève’s sight. Geneviève stood there, smiling softly, and chuckled under her breath, 'How am I supposed to manage you these next few months?'
As Marie kneels on the floor, rifling through the few dresses she has brought from France in her luggage, she finds a dark blue one. It’s stained with a bit of paint on the corset, but still quite suitable for the occasion, she thinks to herself. A little paint might even show her true intentions at those parties—nurturing her art and meeting artists with the same intentions as her, nothing more and nothing less. Marie quickly stands up and glances at the small pocket watch on her bedside table: 7:30 p.m. She needs to get ready, and fast.
Calling out across her bedroom, she asks, 'What time are you supposed to go?'
From across the apartment came Geneviève’s reply: 'Eight!'
Marie slips into the dress and carefully laces the corset at the front. As a modiste, she has never had the luxury of a maid’s helping hands in moments like these. Front-laced gowns are simpler to manage—less elegant, but practical. Yet now, living with Geneviève, she could craft gowns for herself with delicate corsets tied at the back. Perhaps, after all, this is one of the rare blessings her craft can offer. She stares at her neck in the mirror, brushing her hair aside, questioning whether she should add accessories—jewelry, perhaps? She shakes her head; no need for all that. She wants to keep it natural. After all, she isn’t going there to be courted or draw attention to herself, but only for art. Yes, art.
Geneviève softly knocks on her bedroom door, peeking in gently. 'Ready?'
Marie quickly turns to her and nods with a smile. 'Ready.' She then picks up a little case with charcoal sticks in it and paintbrushes.
En Garde (❤): where you care too much about what your mother thinks, much to your siblings dismay, it almost guides all of your decisions. but when you rely on what you want... you find it to be rather rewarding — starting with a simple game of fencing. (@delphispoeticals)
You Are A Menace To Society (Affectionate) (❤): Benedict teaches his wife how to fence. (@starryeyedstories)
Of The Same Mind (❤): a mutual distaste in a certain author—should he even have the grace to be called that—leads to an unexpected meeting. (@murdockparker)
Warm Embrace (❤): you find solace in the warm and comforting presence of your husband. (@satellite-evans)
A Fitting Distraction (❤): you and Benedict enjoy being blissfully married little shits. (@benedictscanvas)
Birds of a Feather (❤): Benedict meets a kindred soul at a ball. (@lovableapocalypse)
I'm Not Drunk (❤): "I’m not drunk. Can a drunk person do this?” “You’re not doing anything.” “But… I sent you my love. Did you… did you not get it?” (@fayes-fics)
Drunk In Love (❤): when their wives get drunk, it is up to the Bridgerton brothers to take care of them. (@satellite-evans)
Little Miracle (❤❅): Y/N and Benedict face unexpected challenges during a family gathering. (@satellite-evans)
Bad Timing (❤): when Eloise needs help with a problem, she knows she can count on her brother and his new wife for help. (@captainsophiestark)
Following In Our Footsteps (❤): as the wife of benedict bridgerton, you're always fixing his clothes and readjusting his collar and as your husband, he's always smoothing your dress down when you get out of the carriage... you don't realise but these traits get passed onto your children. (@alloftheimaginesblog)
Caught In The Act (❤): Benedict and his wife, his muse, are interrupted by his mischievous sister Eloise during a private painting session. (@satellite-evans)
↪︎ Not Again (❤): this time it is another sibling that interrupts benedict and Y/N during a private moment. (part two)
To Know You... (❤): Benedict knows you better than anyone. But does he know himself well enough to know what he truly wants? (@fayes-fics)
new! All My Love (under the mistletoe) (❤): modern au; you have been in love with your best friend’s older brother for years. on Christmas eve, things finally come to a head. (@seasonsbloom)
new! Wifey Duties (❤): you go home to your husband after a night out with the ladies. (@disasterofastory)
new! Painter's Muse (❤): Benedict draws inspiration from his wife to finish his latest piece. (@libraryofloveletters)
new! Obsessed With You (❤): Ton's most eligible bachelor is obsessed with the mystery lady in silver, and would do anything to have her. (@skyrigel) (warning: minor non-con touching)
↪︎ Part Two (❤): Ton's most eligible bachelor makes a move, oh dear ! An offer by the gentleman.
