Steady or Wobbling (Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader)
Part two in the Interrupted series! MDNI! 18+
The aftermath of your encounter with Benedict Bridgerton.
Content warnings: brief smut, pnv, loss of virginity, regency stereotypes, reader is described as having feminine features, drinking, MDNI
part one here
Masterlist here!
You wake slowly. Sunlight filters through the curtains, and for a brief moment, you forget everything. Then you feel it. His absence. Your hand rests atop the coverlet, empty, and when you sit up, the chair near the hearth is vacant. His coat is gone, but upon the bedside table rests a folded piece of parchment.
Your name is written in his hand. You open it with trembling fingers.
Y/N,
Forgive my early departure. I find myself unwilling to risk facing you again this morning without first securing what should have been secured years ago.
You deserve a ring that has witnessed devotion and endured it.
Remain patient. I shall return to you before the day is out. Properly.
Yours, entirely, Benedict
Benedict does not bother with subtlety. He strides directly into Violet Bridgerton's sitting room, hair still slightly disheveled from sleep but eyes blazing with purpose. His mother looks up from her tea, assessing.
"Well," she says mildly. "You appear as though you have either committed a crime or fallen in love."
He does not hesitate, "The latter."
Her teacup pauses mid-air. "With whom?" she asks, though her eyes already gleam.
"With Y/N Y/L/N."
"Oh," Violet breathes, setting her cup down slowly. Lady Bridgerton's face betrays her surprise, but it is soon filled with excitement as she declares, "It is about time."
He tilts his head, a sheepish, but undeniably fond, smile appearing on his face, "You knew?"
"My dear boy," she says gently, "you have always reserved your fondest smiles for Miss Y/N."
His composure cracks slightly at that. "I nearly lost her last night," he says quietly.
Violet's expression sharpens instantly, opening her mouth to ask questions.
"But she is safe," he adds quickly. "And she has agreed to marry me."
For a moment, his mother simply stares. Then she rises and crosses the room, taking his face in both hands as she did when he was a child.
"You love her?" she asks softly.
"With everything I have."
She studies him, and when she finds no hesitation, she decides, "Then you shall have your grandmother's ring."
His breath catches. Violet moves to a small wooden box upon her writing desk. Inside lies a delicate gold band set with a modest pearl surrounded by tiny diamonds. It is elegant, timeless.
"This was my mother's," she says. "She wore it through joy and through grief. It has known endurance." She places it in his palm, "May it know nothing but happiness with you."
He bends to kiss his mother's cheek, "I intend nothing less."
---
Your mother receives him in the drawing room before breakfast. She eyes him carefully. A Bridgerton calling alone at such an hour is no small matter.
"Mr. Bridgerton," she says evenly. "To what do I owe this visit?"
He stands straight, unflinching, "I have come to request your daughter's hand in marriage."
Her brows lift, "Have you indeed?"
"I love her," he says plainly. "Not from impulse, nor from obligation. I have loved her quietly for years. I would never dishonor her. I intend to court her properly and marry her with your blessing."
Your mother studies him for a long, assessing moment.
"She has adored you since she was a child," your mother says. His heart stumbles. "If you break her heart, Benedict Bridgerton, I will never forgive you."
"I would sooner break my own," he replies.
A long pause, then your mother smiles, "You have my permission. Though I trust this sudden proposal has nothing to do with my daughter’s impromptu stay at Bridgerton House last night?" She raises a brow.
Benedict bows his head, swearing, “You have my word, Lady Y/L/N.”
—
You descend to breakfast with a strange fluttering in your stomach. The entire Bridgerton family is present. Eloise looks concerned. Colin looks suspicious, but Violet Bridgerton looks serene. Hyacinth and Gregory exchange glances, clearly unaware that you had slept over.
"Y/N, I did not know you were here!" Hyacinth greets excitedly. You don't miss the way Violet lays her hand on her youngest daughter's arm, silencing her quietly.
Benedict stands the moment you enter. Your breath catches. He crosses the room and stops before you, taking your hand gently.
"Miss Y/N," he says formally, though his eyes sparkle, "May I present you with something?"
You can feel everyone watching, but you nod slowly, a furrow between your brow. He drops to one knee, and gasps erupt around the table.
He withdraws the pearl ring. "Your mother has granted her permission," he murmurs to only you, "And mine has entrusted me with this."
Your eyes fill.
"I asked you once already," he continues softly. "But I would ask you again, properly. Before those who love us." He looks up at you, "Will you marry me?"
"Yes," you breathe, though the room already knows the answer.
He slides the ring onto your finger. The Bridgerton family descends into chaos. Eloise gasps. Hyacinth squeals. Colin claps Benedict hard on the back. Violet presses a hand to her heart, openly emotional.
Benedict rises and draws you close, his forehead brushing yours. "Good morning, fiancée," he murmurs. For the first time since the terror of the terrace, the world feels entirely, beautifully right.
—
The air inside the club is thick with smoke and laughter. Candles burn low in silver sconces. Cards slap against polished wood. Crystal glasses clink in a steady rhythm. The card table is abandoned almost immediately because tormenting Benedict is far more entertaining.
Anthony Bridgerton is slouched in a chair, nursing a glass of brandy. Colin, meanwhile, looks as though Christmas has come early, already on his third ale. Benedict should have known better than to accept their invitation.
Colin swirls his drink lazily. "Let us begin with the obvious."
Anthony nods. "You are marrying the only woman in London who has ever successfully silenced you mid-sentence."
Benedict’s mouth falls open, playful offense on his face, "You speak as if I am incorrigible.”
Colin grins. "You once lectured an earl for forty minutes about the emotional symbolism of clouds."
"They were misinterpreting Turner!” Benedict accuses, to which the brothers chuckle.
Colin leans forward, asking, "Do you recall the masquerade ball? When Miss Y/N danced with Lord Pembroke?"
Anthony smirks faintly, remembering, "Ah, yes! The night you nearly went mad."
"I did no such thing!" Benedict scoffs.
"You cracked a champagne flute," Colin says cheerfully.
"That was an accident."
"You were gripping it as though it had personally offended you!"
Benedict mutters something under his breath.
Colin continues mercilessly. "Or the Smith-Smythe musicale. When she laughed at someone else's joke, and you stared at the poor man as though calculating his life expectancy."
Anthony adds, "You are not subtle."
"I was subtle!" Benedict protests pointlessly.
"You followed her into the garden three times in one evening," Colin reminds.
"To ensure she was not cold!"
"It was June, and you brought her your coat the second time!"
"It was breezy," your fiance grumbles under his breath to no avail.
Anthony leans back, satisfied. "You have been courting her for years without admitting it."
Benedict glares at both of them. "I was not prepared."
"For what?" Colin presses.
"For her."
That quiets them, and Anthony studies him carefully before speaking, "You love her deeply."
"Yes."
"More than your art?" Colin asks lightly.
Benedict does not hesitate, rolling his eyes as if he had never been asked such a ridiculous question, "Of course." That lands heavier than any of the teasing. Anthony's expression shifts to one of approval. He is satisfied to see his brother finally settling down.
Colin softens only slightly before recovering his mischief, "Tomorrow, she becomes your family. Which means we are her brothers now."
Benedict groans softly, sensing where this is going.
Anthony's voice lowers slightly, "If you ever cause her distress—"
"I won't."
"We will know," Colin finishes.
Benedict's expression sobers. He sits up straighter, "I would sooner set myself on fire."
Anthony studies him, searching for doubt, hesitation, immaturity. He finds none. A slow nod, "Good."
Colin raises his glass again. "To Benedict Bridgerton," he declares. "The most hopeless romantic among us."
The teasing escalates with each additional drink. Benedict is two glasses past dignified, not drunk, but warm. Relaxed and perhaps dangerously honest.
Colin leans across the table, "Let us discuss the wedding night."
Benedict chokes on his drink, shaking his head, "Must we?"
"Yes," Colin says brightly. "For educational purposes."
"I do not require education from you," Benedict mutters.
Colin grins. "Oh, I think you do." He leans back smugly. "How many times have you kissed her?"
Silence. Anthony slowly turns his head. Benedict does not answer.
Colin grins wider. "Ah. Fewer than we imagined."
"That is none of your concern."
Anthony's voice turns smooth and mildly threatening. "If you have compromised her—"
"I have not," Benedict says sharply. The sharpness is immediate and protective.
"So," Colin says lightly, teasingly, "you are waiting."
Benedict takes another drink, "Yes."
Colin cannot help himself. "But tomorrow," he continues, wickedly delighted, "you will not be waiting."
Benedict nearly stands again, but Anthony gives in to the teasing, "You have been in love with her for years and done nothing. Forgive us if we find your restraint amusing."
Benedict exhales slowly, "I did not think she would have me."
Anthony's expression shifts, less teasing now, and Colin's grin falters.
"You?" Colin says incredulously. "You did not think she would choose you?"
Benedict shrugs, slightly loose from drink, "She has always been... luminous."
Anthony leans back. "You are insufferable when sentimental."
Colin clutches his chest dramatically, repeating, "Luminous."
Benedict points at him, "You will not mock me!"
"I absolutely will."
Anthony watches Benedict carefully. "You are nervous," he says.
"I am not!"
"You are," Colin insists.
"I am not nervous," Benedict says, rising abruptly. "I am—" He pauses. Both brothers stare.
"I am impatient."
Colin smirks. "To marry her?"
"Yes."
Anthony's eyes sharpen knowingly, "Or to see her."
Benedict hesitates half a second too long. That's all his brothers need.
Colin slams a hand on the table, grinning, "There it is."
Anthony checks his pocket watch lazily, "You have been without her for approximately three hours."
Benedict grabs his coat, and Colin squints at him, "Where are you going?"
"I require air."
Anthony lowers his eyebrows, "Through the direction of her house?"
Benedict buttons his coat with deliberate dignity, huffing, "I am perfectly capable of returning home like a rational man."
"Do try not to serenade her," Colin calls after his older brother as he exits the club.
—
The night air hits Benedict immediately. The cool wind whips across his face, but even that does absolutely nothing to calm him. He walks quickly, telling himself he is merely strolling. He turns onto your street entirely by accident, of course. He pauses across from your house and stares at your window. One candle still lit. He exhales slowly, crossing the street like a moth to the flame.
"This is madness," he mutters.
Then he bends and picks up a pebble. He looks around the garden, ensuring the coast is clear. Once he’s satisfied, he tosses the pebble upward. It taps lightly against the glass. He waits. Nothing. He throws another and waits. Finally, your curtains begin to shift.
When you appear at the window, candlelight behind you, he nearly forgets how to breathe. The candle illuminates your hair, and he knows he will be up half the night trying to match the shade with his paints.
You push the window up just enough to lean out. "Benedict?" you whisper sharply. "What are you doing?"
He squints up at you, slightly flushed from drink and cold air. "Testing gravity?” Your fiancé suggests.
You raise an eyebrow, unimpressed, "With stones."
"Yes."
"You are insufferable."
He smiles faintly, "You are awake."
"That is because you are assaulting my window."
He steps closer, lowering his voice, but he is drunk, and even with his attempt, far too loud. "Come down!”
You stare at him as though he has suggested treason, "It is the night before our wedding."
"Yes, that is why I am here."
"That is precisely why you should not be here."
"And yet," he says softly, "I am."
You hesitate, chewing the inside of your cheek. He sees it, that tiny crack in your resolve, and presses his advantage.
"I will behave," he promises, a grin on his face.
You actually tilt your head back and laugh, "You never behave!”
"Tonight I shall," he promises. A beat. Then, "Please."
That seems to do the trick because you slip out through the back door minutes later, shawl wrapped tightly around your shoulders. He is waiting beneath the willow tree. When you approach, he does not immediately tease you. He just looks at you like he is memorizing something.
"You should not have come," you murmur, stopping a foot away.
"I know."
"You have been drinking."
"A little."
"How much is a little?"
He considers, looking you over fondly. When his eyes meet yours, he answers, "Enough to be honest."
Your breath falters slightly at that. He steps closer, close enough that you can smell the faint warmth of whiskey on him.
"I tried not to come," he admits.
"Oh?"
"Yes. I walked halfway home."
"And then?"
"And then I imagined sleeping tonight without seeing you." His jaw tightens slightly, "And I found I could not endure it."
The air shifts. He is not playful now. He reaches for you, slowly, as if giving you time to retreat. You do not, so his fingers brush your waist. You inhale sharply, and he notices. He notices everything about you.
His thumb presses lightly into the fabric of your gown, grounding himself while also pulling you closer. "You are trembling," he murmurs.
"So are you."
He exhales a quiet laugh, "Yes." A beat of silence. Then he confesses, "I am terrified."
Your brows knit, concern taking over you. “Of marrying me?” You ask, slightly fearful.
He shakes his head quickly, pulling you in, “What? Of course not. I am terrified that tomorrow you will stand before me and realize you deserve a steadier man."
Your heart aches. You raise your hand to his cheek, tracing over each freckle. "I do not want a steadier man," you whisper like a confession.
His eyes lift to yours, "You do not?"
"No! I want you, steady or wobbling," you tease, making fun of his drunken state.
Something inside him breaks open at that. He steps closer, closer than propriety allows. Though propriety would most certainly forbid him from being with you in the garden at all.
"You look at me," he says, voice lower now, warmed by drink and feeling, "as though I am extraordinary."
"You are."
"I am not."
"You are to me."
His composure wavers. He lifts a hand to your cheek, slower this time, more deliberate. "I have imagined tomorrow," he confesses. "Far more than I should."
Your pulse quickens. Looking up at him with flushed cheeks, you ask, "Imagined what?"
His gaze drops to your mouth, and his voice is lower when he speaks, "Closing the distance without restraint."
Your breath catches, murmuring, "Benedict."
"I know," he says, but he does not step back. His thumb traces lightly along your jaw. "I have been very disciplined."
"Yes."
"Tomorrow, it shall all be worth it." Your face warms. He leans in slightly, not kissing you yet. "Do you know how difficult it has been," he murmurs, "to kiss you gently?"
Your hands grip his coat instinctively, teasing breathlessly, "You do not kiss me gently."
"I exercise monumental restraint."
You laugh softly, and the sound undoes him. His forehead rests against yours.
"I do not wish to wait until tomorrow," he admits quietly.
The confession hangs between you. You feel it too. The pull. The wanting. But you also feel the weight of tomorrow.
"I know, but we will," you whisper.
He closes his eyes briefly, answering, "Yes."
He steadies himself, but instead of stepping away, he presses a kiss to your lips, and it is not reckless. It is not hurried, but it is deeper, hungrier. His hand tightens slightly at your waist. You feel the restraint in him, the effort not to pull you closer. When he pulls back, his breathing is uneven.
"If I remain," he says roughly, "I will begin making very poor decisions."
You swallow, "Then you should go."
He doesn't move immediately, admiring the way you look in the moonlight. "I adore you," he says suddenly.
You blink, your heart seeming to flutter in your chest. "You have never said that," You breathe.
"I know," he agrees, twirling the ends of your hair in his fingers as he repeats, "I adore you."
Your eyes sting slightly. "I love you," you answer.
Your words nearly destroy him. He exhales like he has been struck. "Say that again."
"I love you."
He kisses you once more, reverently. When he forces himself to step back, his eyes remain closed for an extra moment as he catches his breath. He backs toward the gate, never taking his eyes off of you. "Tomorrow," he says.
"Tomorrow," you echo.
He's almost to the gate when you call his name. His face lights up in expectation, and you can't help but lift your nightdress over your ankles. Then, you're running across the field, closing the distance between you.
He's grinning in delight by the time you reach him, and your breath is coming out rapidly. Benedict scans you again, taking note of your bare feet and the goosebumps up and down your arm.
"You are mad, my love," He chuckles, rubbing his hands up and down your arms in an attempt to warm you.
You laugh, nodding, "Perhaps, but I suddenly could not bear you leaving without one more kiss."
Benedict's face softens, enamored by you. Someone so full of unadulterated joy, and you still wanted him.
"Only one?" he murmurs, leaning in.
You giggle against his lips, meeting him halfway. He hesitates once more when he pulls away, just long enough to look at you like he is about to step into something sacred. Then he disappears into the night, and you stand there, breathless, knowing that tomorrow he will walk toward you. Not because he must, but because he burns to.
—
The church is quieter than it will be in an hour. Sunlight spills through stained glass in muted blues and golds. Footmen move in hushed efficiency. Flowers are adjusted. Programs are placed neatly along polished pews.
Benedict stands near the front, staring at absolutely nothing. His cravat is perfect. His coat is immaculate. His posture is composed, but his mind is in chaos. He flexes his fingers again, then stops when he notices he is doing it, exhaling slowly.
"You will crease your gloves."
He turns. Violet Bridgerton stands a few paces behind him, gaze soft, but knowing.
"Good morning, Mother," he says, attempting lightness.
The two of them just stand together for a few minutes, the silence steadying Benedict. Finally, Violet begins to speak, "I have watched you these past years… The way your voice changes when you say her name. The way you stand differently when she enters a room. As though bracing for impact."
He almost laughs. "It does feel rather like impact."
"Yes," Violet smiles gently. "Love does have that effect."
"I worry," he admits finally, voice low, stripped of bravado, "that one day she will see through me."
Violet's brow furrows slightly. "See what?"
"That I am not as certain as I pretend. That I... waver."
She steps closer, resting her gloved hand over his heart. "Do you know what I saw when your father wavered?"
Benedict stills.
"Devotion," she says. "Your father was not a perfect man. He doubted. He worried. He failed in small ways," she laughs softly. "We both did, but he loved me without hesitation." Her eyes glisten faintly at the memory. "And I never once questioned whether I was cherished."
Benedict's expression softens.
"You do not need to be unshakeable," Violet continues. "You need to be honest and willing to devote yourselves to each other through everything life throws at you.”
"I am willing," he says immediately.
"I know."
She reaches up, smoothing a stray lock of hair from his forehead like she has done since he was a boy. "You think too much," she murmurs fondly.
"It is a burden."
"It is self-inflicted."
He huffs a small laugh. Violet's tone shifts slightly, then becomes more serious.
"Marriage is not sustained by grand declarations, Benedict. It is sustained by small choices. Daily ones. To remain. To listen. To forgive. To reach for one another even when one's pride suggests otherwise."
He nods slowly, listening to every word carefully.
"You adore her," she says plainly.
His eyes flicker. "Yes."
"Then show her. Not just today. Not just when the world is watching. Show her when she is tired. When she doubts herself. When you doubt yourself."
He exhales, "I do not wish to fail her."
"You will," Violet says gently.
He blinks, brow furrowing.
"In small ways," she clarifies. "And she will fail you. That is not the tragedy you imagine." Her thumb presses lightly against his lapel. "The tragedy would be withholding your heart out of fear."
Footsteps echo faintly in the distance, the first guests beginning to arrive. Violet straightens, regaining her composed elegance.
She presses a kiss to his cheek. "My beautiful, complicated boy," she murmurs. "Go and be happy."
—
The room smells faintly of lavender and starch. Your gloves are already on. Your veil rests in your lap, but your pulse will not slow. Outside, you can hear the faint murmur of arriving guests. The distant swell of strings tuning. The day has begun, whether you are ready or not.
You stare at your reflection, twisting your hands together. You cannot help but run through every possibility in your mind. The knock is soft but impatient. Before you can answer, the door opens, and Eloise Bridgerton steps inside like she owns the air itself. She takes one look at you and stops.
"Oh," she says flatly. "You're spiraling."
"I am not spiraling."
"You are twisting your gloves as though they have personally insulted you."
You immediately stop. Eloise shuts the door behind her and leans against it, arms crossed. "Well?" she demands.
"Well, what?"
"What catastrophic scenario have you invented?"
You hesitate. She narrows her eyes, raising an eyebrow, "Y/N."
You sigh, asking quietly, "What if I am not... what he expects?"
Eloise blinks once. Then twice. A laugh escapes her, "That is the concern?"
Your mouth falls open in offense, "Yes!"
She pushes off the door and crosses the room, stopping in front of you. "You believe my brother is standing in that church thinking, 'I hope she is more impressive than advertised'?"
"I do not know what he is thinking."
"I do," Eloise says firmly.
You look up.
"He is likely attempting not to faint," she continues. "Anthony is pretending not to notice. Colin is making it worse. Mama is misty. It is chaos."
Despite yourself, you smile faintly. Eloise stops in front of you, taking your hands in hers so you cannot avoid her gaze. "You are worried you will disappoint him?"
You nod. She exhales sharply, almost offended on your behalf.
"You do not see yourself the way he does," she says more quietly.
"How does he see me?"
She studies you, waving her arms about as she searches for the words. Eventually, she decides, "As inevitable."
That stills you; you look up at her, listening more openly.
"As though the world makes more sense when you are in it," she continues. "As though he is still kicking himself!" She exclaims, and the two of you giggle. She smiles, knowing she's getting through to you. "Truly, as though he is still in disbelief that you have chosen him."
Your throat tightens.
"He does not love you because you are flawless," Eloise says. "He loves you because you are you. You laugh at him. You challenge him. You look at his ridiculous paintings like they are masterpieces."
"They are masterpieces," you protest softly, a smile tugging at your lips.
The music begins faintly in the distance, the first signal that guests are arriving. Your breath catches. Eloise stands quickly and adjusts your veil with surprising gentleness.
"For what it is worth," she adds, voice softer now, "I am very glad it is you."
You feel tears fill your eyes, overwhelmed with gratitude. You had been so worried that Eloise would disapprove of the match. That she would be angry with you for marrying her brother, but it is clear that you could not have been more wrong.
"You make him better," she says plainly. "And you make this family louder in the best way."
Emotion spills over. Before you can stop yourself, you throw your arms around her. She stiffens for half a second but softens into your hug, returning it tightly. After a moment, she pulls back and wipes under your eyes carefully.
"Do not smudge."
"I am trying not to!"
Your heart steadies. It is time. The doors open slowly, deliberately, and the sound of them seems louder than the music. Light spills down the aisle in warm, fractured colors through stained glass, pooling at your feet like something sacred waiting to be stepped into. Benedict is standing at the front, immaculate yet entirely unraveled.
He had prepared himself for this moment. Composed his breathing. Practiced stillness. Even listened to Anthony's quiet instructions on dignity. It has all deserted him. The instant his eyes find you, the careful mask slips. His expression shifts not into awe exactly but into something deeper. Relief, as though he had been bracing for years and had only just now allowed himself to exhale.
You begin to walk. The church fades at the edges. The guests blur into color and shape. The only thing that sharpens is the look in his eyes. You do not look away. You do not lower your gaze. Each step feels like a choice, and you are making it again and again.
When your hand is placed into Benedict's, his fingers close around yours instantly. Your racing heart slows, comforted immediately by his touch. Up close, Benedict looks almost breathless.
"You are..." he begins softly, then stops. His voice lowers, "You are everything."
"You are staring," you murmur, though your own pulse is racing.
"I cannot seem to help it."
The officiant begins the ceremony, his voice steady and measured, filling the space with ancient words about devotion and constancy and shared burdens. You hear them, but they pass through you like wind through open windows. What anchors you is the feel of Benedict's thumb brushing absently over your knuckles as if reassuring himself that you are solid, that this is real.
The rings are brought forward. Anthony steps up briefly, offering Benedict the band. Benedict's hands are steady now. He slides the ring onto your finger slowly, reverently, as though marking something permanent not only in gold but in memory. You do the same, your fingers brushing his skin in a way that feels grounding rather than terrifying.
The officiant smiles, announcing, "By the authority vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife." There is a suspended heartbeat. A single moment where the world seems to inhale. "You may kiss your bride."
Benedict does not hesitate. He lifts his hand to your cheek, thumb brushing gently along your jaw as it has before — beneath moonlight, beneath willow branches — but this time there is no fear of departure afterward. No looming restraint. He kisses you slowly, deeply, not in spectacle but in certainty. Your hands curl into his lapels. His arm tightens at your waist. When he pulls back, his forehead rests lightly against yours.
"You are my wife," he whispers, as though still astonished.
"Yes," you breathe.
The church erupts, applause breaking like a wave. Colin cheers without shame. Violet presses a trembling hand to her lips. Anthony's clap is firm, measured, deeply satisfied. Eloise is furiously wiping away tears. Benedict turns with you to face the congregation, his arm secure around your waist. Not possessive. Protective. Proud.
As you walk back down the aisle together, petals scatter across the stone floor. The music swells. Light floods around you, but this time, there is no tremor in your step. Because you are not walking alone.
—
That night, the door closed. The latch clicks softly into place, echoing louder than it should. You stand very still in the center of the room, hands clasped tightly in front of you. All day, you have smiled. Walked. Curtsied. Accepted congratulations. Now the silence presses in.
Benedict turns toward you. You are his wife, and suddenly you are acutely aware that you are alone together, truly alone, for the first time without supervision, without propriety hovering like a watchful aunt. Your pulse flutters wildly. He notices immediately. He steps closer, but not too close.
"You look frightened," he says gently.
"I am not frightened," you insist quickly. He tilts his head slightly.
You falter. "...I am simply unsure."
That softens him. "Unsure of what?"
You hesitate, embarrassed, heat rising to your cheeks. "I do not entirely know what is meant to happen now."
There, it is spoken.
He goes very still, not shocked, not amused. Just attentive. "What do you believe is meant to happen?" he asks carefully.
You swallow, "I know that... that married couples..." You trail off helplessly, waving your hands. "And that children eventually... but I do not know precisely how one arrives there."
For a moment, he says nothing. Then he steps close, slowly, and takes your hands. "You may ask me anything," he says quietly.
Your eyes lift to his. "Will it hurt?" The vulnerability in your voice nearly undoes him.
"It may," he answers gently. "Butif it does at first, only briefly. I will be careful."
"You promise?"
"I promise."
His thumb rubs small circles against your knuckles. "We do nothing you do not wish," he continues. "And nothing you do not understand."
You nod slowly. That steadies you.
He lifts a hand toward your cheek but pauses, "May I?"
You nod again. His palm cups your face, warm and grounding.
"You are safe with me," he murmurs. The tightness in your chest loosens.
"I trust you," you whisper.
He exhales slowly, as though that trust is something precious and fragile in his hands.
"Then we shall go slowly," he says.
He kisses you, not with hunger, not with urgency, but with patience. You feel the difference immediately. This is not like the kisses stolen in gardens. This one lingers, teaches. His lips move carefully, giving you time to respond. You hesitate at first, then soften. Your hands rise uncertainly to his chest. He smiles faintly against your mouth.
"Like that," he murmurs.
When he draws back, your breathing has changed. "Is this..." you begin shyly. "Is this how it begins?"
"Yes," he says. He guides you toward the bed, not lifting you, not overwhelming you. Just leading. When you sit, he kneels before you. The shift startles you.
"Benedict—"
"I am only removing your shoes," he says gently, and you feel almost foolish for your alarm.
"Oh," you murmur, flushing.
Rubbing over your ankle with his thumb, he asks softly, "Is that alright?"
You nod, swallowing nervously. He unties the ribbons carefully. Each touch is deliberate.
"You may stop me at any time," he reminds you.
You nod once more. When he reaches the corset at the back of your gown, he pauses again. "May I?"
Your hands tremble slightly as you nod. The first lace slips free. Then the next. Your breath grows shallow, not from desire yet, but from vulnerability. He senses it.
"Look at me," he says softly.
You do. His expression is not greedy, not impatient. Only warm. Proud, almost. The gown loosens and falls away. You instinctively cross your arms over yourself. He gently lowers them.
"You need not hide from me."
"I feel... exposed."
"You are," he says honestly. "And that is a brave thing." His praise steadies you. He removes his own coat and waistcoat more quickly, perhaps so you do not feel alone in your vulnerability. When he stands before you without the layers of formality, you blink in surprise.
"You are staring," he says softly.
"I did not realize..."
"What?"
"That you would..." You falter, eyes darting away.
He smiles faintly. "Be a man?"
You nod, mortified. He crouches slightly so he is level with you. Heat spreads across your cheek, and he smiles at the sight, running his finger over its path. He climbs onto the bed beside you, not over you, drawing you into his arms slowly.
"Nothing happens all at once," he explains softly. You look up at him, relaxing into his grasp. Benedict runs his nose up your jaw to your ear, pressing a feather-light kiss to your skin that sends tingles down your spine. "We begin as we have always begun."
"With kissing?" you whisper.
"Yes." So he kisses you again, longer now. Your body begins to respond in ways you did not anticipate. Warmth pools low in your stomach, a strange ache that is not unpleasant.
You pull back slightly. "What is that?" you ask quietly.
He brushes his thumb along your jaw. "That is your body understanding before your mind does."
You flush deeply. "Is that improper?"
He laughs softly. "No, my love. It is natural."
His hand drifts slowly along your arm, your waist, watching your face carefully for discomfort. When you tense, he pauses. When you relax, he continues. Every new sensation makes you inhale sharply. He murmurs reassurance against your skin.
"Still well?" "Yes." "Still certain?" "Yes."
When he finally explains what must happen next, you listen intently, brow furrowed in concentration. "That is... rather close," you finally breathe.
"Yes."
"And you will not hurt me?"
"I will try very hard not to."
You nod, drawing him down toward you. “I trust you.”
He kisses you deeply then, not driven by impatience, but by emotion. When he joins with you, it is careful. Slow. You gasp, mostly in surprise, though you're certainly aware of a small amount of pain.
He stills instantly, his forehead pressing against yours, "Are you hurt?"
"No," you breathe. "Only... aware."
He exhales shakily, a crease of concentration between his brows. "You are doing beautifully," he murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to your neck. "You feel better than I ever dreamed."
You clutch at his shoulders, adjusting slowly, allowing your body to learn. He does not rush you, peppering you with kisses. He tucks a stray strand of hair away from your face, admiring you like this. He does not move until you nod faintly. When he does, it is gradual, guided by your reactions. It is not overwhelming nor frightening. It is a discovery.
You've never experienced anything like it. The pain had faded, and now, all you felt was an overwhelming desire for more, more, more. Benedict studies your face as he must memorize it. Growing shy, you turn your head to the side, squeezing your eyes shut.
Benedict doesn't scold, only kisses your cheek. His lips move to your neck, then your shoulder, before he murmurs, "Please, do not hide yourself from me."
You hesitate, but turn your gaze back to him with wide eyes, overwhelmed by indescribable pleasure.
"You are doing so well, my love," he breathes, nothing but adoration and desire in his eyes.
A noise of pleasure escapes you, your body tensing at his words. He hisses, his eyes squeezing shut. He didn't want this to end.
When pleasure builds, you look at him in startled wonder. He smiles softly. "Yes," he whispers. "That. It's alright, darling. You must merely feel now."
When it crests, you bury your face against his shoulder, breathless and astonished. The sight of your pinnacle causes his breath to catch, and his movements falter. A gruff moan falls from him, panting against your neck. The pleasure begins to overwhelm you, and he shushes you with another kiss.
"So well," he repeats against your lips, his words broken. As his pleasure comes to a peak, he withdraws suddenly. An action you protest with a tired whine, reaching for him.
He laughs breathlessly, still panting through his release. Benedict doesn't need to see you to know you're pouting. He returns quickly with a soft rag from the wash basin. He raises a playful eyebrow at your expression.
"Do not tell me you are already cross with me," he muses with a teasing grin.
You crack a smile, shaking your head.
"No, but I am rather cold," you remark playfully.
A bark of laughter echoes through the bed chamber, "Well, I cannot have my wife catch a chill on our wedding night, now can I?"
He settles onto the bed beside you, stroking your cheek with his thumb. "Let me clean you up, then I shall endeavor to keep you warm, hm?"
You cover your face as it turns red, suddenly embarrassed. Benedict laughs again, boyish and amused. He doesn't tease, though, just wipes you down gently, pressing a kiss over each inch of skin afterwards. Afterward, he does not roll away. He gathers you close.
"Are you well?" he asks again.
"Yes," you say softly. "I think... I understand now."
He laughs gently against your hair. "I should hope so."
—
You wake slowly, as though rising through warm water. At first, there is only comfort. A pleasant heaviness, the faint scent of linen, and something distinctly him. As you wake up, awareness sharpens, and you realize you are not lying in your childhood bed, nor in the carefully prepared bridal chamber alone.
You are wrapped, completely. Your cheek rests against bare skin, warm and solid beneath you. An arm is draped securely around your waist, the weight of it possessive even in sleep. One of your legs is tangled loosely with his beneath the sheets, anchoring you so thoroughly that retreat would require negotiation. You go very still.
Memory returns all at once. Candlelight flickering low, his voice steady and gentle, your own uncertainty dissolving into trust. Heat rushes to your face, and you instinctively try to draw back, just slightly, to collect yourself.
The arm tightens immediately. A low, rough murmur brushes against your hair, "I felt that."
You freeze, whispering, "You were asleep."
"I was," Benedict replies, his voice thick with morning. "Until my wife began attempting an escape."
"I was not attempting escape," you protest softly. You can’t help but smile, hearing Benedict refer to you as his wife in his morning voice.
"You were shifting with suspicious intent,” He brings his hand up, squeezing your face.
"I was adjusting,” you argue, giggling against his arm.
"Adjusting away from me."
His hand slides slightly lower along your back, as if to prevent further adjustments. You dare to tilt your head up. His eyes are still half closed, lashes heavy, hair thoroughly disordered. Without the careful polish of society, he looks younger. Softer. Entirely unguarded.
"You look different," you murmur before you can stop yourself.
He opens one eye. "Different how? Ruined?"
"Peaceful."
That fully wakes him. He studies you more carefully now, his gaze searching your face. "Are you well?"
The question is quiet, but there is real concern beneath it. You take a moment to answer honestly. There is soreness, a reminder of newness, but no fear. No regret. Only the strange, tender ache of having crossed a threshold.
"Yes," you say. "I am well."
Relief eases his shoulders. His thumb traces a slow, absent path along your spine beneath the sheet. "I scarcely slept," he admits.
"You did not?"
"I kept checking that you were breathing."
You let out a breath of surprised laughter, "Benedict."
"I was not certain whether that was romantic or deeply unsettling," he adds thoughtfully.
You cannot help it. You laugh again, the sound muffled against his chest. "You are absurd."
"I was cautious," he corrects. "There is a difference."
You shift again, this time not to escape but to look at him properly. The sheet slips slightly, and you clutch it instinctively. He notices.
"You need not guard yourself from me," he says gently.
"I know," you answer, though your cheeks still burn. "It is only... strange. Yesterday, I was not permitted to be alone with you without supervision. Today, I have woken in your arms."
His mouth curves faintly. "An improvement, I hope."
You hesitate, then nod. "Yes."
He relaxes fully at that. His hand moves to brush a stray curl from your temple, lingering just long enough to feel the warmth of your skin. Silence settles between you again, but it feels different now, fuller. You trace a cautious line across his chest with your fingertip, exploring without thinking. The muscle beneath your touch shifts.
"You are studying me again," he observes.
"I did not realize you would feel so solid," you confess.
He huffs a faint laugh. "You seem disappointed."
"I am not disappointed," you say quickly. "Only surprised."
"At what?"
"That you are... real." You frown slightly, trying to articulate it. "For so long, you were something I admired from across a room. Now you are here. Tangled in sheets. Complaining about being adjusted away from."
He smiles more openly at that. "You preferred me from across the room?"
"No," you admit. "I prefer this."
His expression shifts, something warm and proud flickering in his eyes. He leans forward and presses a soft kiss to your forehead. Then he tilts his face down and kisses you again, slower this time, brushing his lips over yours in a way that is far less overwhelming than the night before. Morning light spills faintly through the curtains, illuminating the quiet intimacy of the moment.
When he draws back, he rests his forehead against yours. "If you require rest, we shall remain here all day. I will instruct the household that I have taken ill."
You smile faintly. "I understand now why everyone in the ton disappears after their wedding."
Benedict grins, "Do you, now?"
You shift closer instead of away this time, sliding your arm tentatively around his waist. He inhales softly at the contact but does not tease you. You smile, and that seems to ease the last of the tension from him. He rolls slightly, easing you more comfortably against him, drawing the sheets up around you both. The morning feels unhurried, suspended from the rest of the world. You rest your head back against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. His fingers trace idle patterns along your arm, absent but affectionate.
After a moment, he says softly, "Mrs. Bridgerton."
The title sends a small thrill through you. You look up at him, your cheek pressing against his chest, "Yes?"
"I think I shall enjoy waking like this."
You smile against his skin. "So shall I."
---
part three
