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grindewaltz · 3 years ago

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a love story (benedict bridgerton x fem!reader)

summary: Benedict finds (Y/N) in the library, hiding from the party occurring just outside.

word count: n/a (EDITING)

a/n: if you’re interested in a part two, please comment! enjoy your read!

credit: @gifshistorical

Lord Egerton was certainly a most excellent host, thought Benedict.

Blackburn Hall (Egerton’s country estate) was populated by several “esteemed” members of London society; weeping widowers, longing spinsters, an array of almost-debuted ladies (their mothers behind them like puppeteers), and “wife-seeking” gentlemen frolicked in the grand ballroom.

Strange people, the second eldest Bridgerton thought. Perfectly intolerable, yet somehow entertaining.

From the corner of his eye, Benedict studied them. He surveyed the attendees, making a mental note of which to avoid and which to engage with in civil conversation (though that list was predominantly shorter).

Lady Dowding (a significantly large woman) struggled to find a man suitable enough for her daughter, Victoria. Or rather, Lady Dowding couldn’t find a gentleman that could withstand Victoria’s blubbering mouth for any longer than a mere minute.

Lord Godwin (of five and fifty) drowned himself in the lemonade, having been widowed the previous week. Though, “widowed” and “being left for the innkeeper” appeared to have been one in the same in Lord Godwin’s mind.

Lord Egerton definitely attracted a crowd, Benedict mused.

“Poor Lord Godwin,” Eloise muttered, startling Benedict (as he hadn’t noticed her presence). She stood at his side, rocking back-and-forth on her heels. “I’ve heard from Lady Whistledown that he nearly wet himself at Lady Keats’ engagement party last Tuesday.”

“Lady Keats is engaged?” asked Benedict, looking down at his sister.

“Yes,” Eloise stated. “Though, for the third time.”

Benedict nodded, catching sight of the Lady Keats (previously Lady Langley, non-Lady Moore) as she clung to an absurdly older man (presumably Lord Keats). The woman flaunted her large, sparkling engagement ring to the party in attendance.

“Where’s Mother?” Eloise asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Flaunting Daphne, of course. Her debut is tomorrow, remember?” Benedict searched the gallery, spotting his mother and eldest sister. “Unless, you’ve forgotten.”

Eloise scoffed.

“I haven’t forgotten,” she stated. Eloise followed Benedict’s gaze, watching as Daphne charmed the gentlemen surrounding her. “I just don’t care.”

Benedict laughed, nudging Eloise with his elbow.

“This is dreadful,” she muttered, referring to the party. “Might I ask you to plead to Mother for my release?” Eloise asked Benedict, tugging on his arm.

“And rid myself of this enthralling experience?” Benedict’s tone was laced in sarcasm. “Never.”

Eloise dramatically released his arm, groaning in annoyance.

Benedict snickered.

“You don’t find Lord Cambridge’s terrible dancing the least bit entertaining?” he asked. The two Bridgertons glanced at the said-Lord, giggling as he stepped on the feet of a young woman. “Poor girl,” Benedict whispered.

Eloise nodded, beginning to feel a dryness in her mouth. She smacked her lips, quite “un-ladylike.”

“I’m rather thirsty,” she announced. Eloise looked to the refreshments table, and her eyes went wide in horror. Lord Godwin (howling about his “late” wife) had buried his nose in the lemonade bowl. “On second thought,” she murmured, “I’m suddenly thoroughly hydrated.”

Benedict followed her eyes, watching as Lord Egerton escorted the old, sodden fool away from Blackburn Hall.

“I’m beginning to see from your perspective,” he stated.

“You always do,” Eloise triumphantly said.

Suddenly, Benedict heard a shrilling “Lord Bridgerton!” from the other side of the room. To his dismay, Lady Dowding was approaching him (her daughter at her side).

Eloise winced at her attire, as it was almost painful. She felt nauseous at the green—no, chartreuse shade of fabric Lady Dowding chose to adorn.

“Fantastic,” Eloise mumbled.

“Lord Bridgerton!” Lady Dowding shouted, despite being a near few feet away from him.

Out of respect, Benedict bowed.

“Lady Dowding.”

“Miss Bridgerton,” the old woman quickly (and rather haphazardly) acknowledged Eloise’s presence. But swiftly, she reverted her attention back to Benedict. Lady Dowding clumsily pushed her daughter forward, nearly causing her to trip and fall (a sight that Eloise wouldn’t have minded seeing). “My daughter, Victoria. Have you met?”

Victoria was fairly handsome, but the assortment of colorful feathers throughout her hair did not compliment her features.

She looks rather like a goose, Benedict thought. Or a peacock.

Benedict shook his head, forcing his face not to contort into a frown.

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” he stated. “Lady Victoria.”

“Lord Bridgerton!” Victoria exclaimed. “It is a beautiful night, is it not? So dark, yet so bright! Romantic.”

At this moment, Benedict pondered death. He’d thought about drowning himself in the lemonade, too.

“Yes,” Benedict muttered. “Quite.” He turned to the side, catching Eloise with her gloved hand to her mouth (preventing her from laughing).

“Victoria is a splendid dancer,” Lady Dowding said. “She was the talk of Lord Byron’s Spring Ball, just last season!” she victoriously declared.

“It’s true!” Victoria agreed. “I’ve the ‘legs of swan,’ or so Mama says.”

“Yes,” Eloise chimed in. “And the hair of one, too.”

Snapping her head in Eloise’s direction, Lady Dowding produced a terrible scowl.

Benedict pulled his sister to his side, causing a loud “oompf!” to leave her lips.

“Pardon me, Lady Dowding. My sister has a special sense of humor,” he said in an attempt to ease the tension. “I say, is Mother asking for our presence?” he asked.

“What?” Eloise asked, confused.

Benedict leaned down, so only Eloise could hear him.

“Go with it, will you?” he whispered.

“Oh, you’re quite right!” Eloise quickly shouted. “She’s just there!” she lied, pointing at the sea of patrons.

Benedict smiled, turning to the Lady Dowding and her daughter.

“If you’ll excuse us,” he said. “We cannot keep Mother waiting.”

“You’re absolutely right, brother. We cannot,” Eloise concurred.

The (poorly dressed) Dowding women nodded, and Benedict did not ignore the disappointment that painted Victoria’s face. He felt relived, in truth.

“You’re a menace, you know?” Benedict spoke to Eloise, walking away from Victoria and her mother. “You must think before you speak.”

“But I did think,” Eloise defended. “I thought she looked like a bird.”

“With that, I cannot disagree.” Benedict sighed, looking into the crowd. “We’ve lost them.”

Eloise sighed, crossing her arms over her chest.

“For now,” she stated. “I’m forever thankful that Mother has delayed my debut.”

“As are the men of London,” Benedict joked.

Eloise stared at her older brother, jaw slack.

“Cruel, Benedict. Just cruel.”

Benedict’s eyes crinkled as he laughed, a beautiful crescent shape gracing his features.

“Oh!” Eloise exclaimed. She looked over Benedict’s shoulder, waving frantically. “There’s Penelope.”

Benedict turned around, spotting the Featherington girl. She wore a yellow dress, as usual (her mother did enjoy “happy” colors). It did not compliment her complexion, nor her red hair.

“Good luck, brother. You’ll need it,” Eloise said.

“Whatever for?” Benedict asked.

“The women of the ton, mothers and daughters alike. Do you forget your public status, Benedict?” the chestnut-haired girl asked.

Benedict chuckled.

“Of course not, Eloise. I am a Bridgerton.”

“Ah!” Eloise exclaimed. “There’s a potential bride, now. Multiple brides, rather.” She gestured to a group of women, all whispering and glancing at Benedict. “You’re right. This is enthralling,” she sneered, then left to join Penelope.

As Eloise disappeared, the group of women slowly approached the handsome Bridgerton.

“Bollocks,” Benedict mumbled. He desperately searched for an escape, wanting to flee from the wanton pleads for his hand and courtship.

Finally (and thankfully), he noticed an empty hallway to his left.

Without hesitation, Benedict abandoned the dance floor. He could hear the various, feminine shouts of “Lord Bridgerton!” behind him, but he thought nothing of them.

Benedict found a door at the end of the hallway, and (thinking it to be a safe option) opened it.

Quietly, he shut the door behind him. Benedict took a moment to breathe; his forehead rested against the dark wood of the door. Relief washed over him, and he slowly turned around to face the room.

Surprisingly, it was a library that met his eyes.

It was quaint and rather beautiful, but it wasn’t nearly as elegant as the library at Aubrey Hall. Still, it was beautiful.

Several bookshelves lined the walls, furnished with a wide arrangement of novels. Specks of dust floated throughout the room (highlighted by the orange tint of candlelight), followed by the scent of ink and oak filling his nostrils.

Benedict stepped further into the room, and he felt the wood creak beneath his feet.

It’s an old room, he surmised.

Benedict looked up, impressed by the length of the bookshelves. They were tall, nearly reaching the ceiling.

Drifting to the shelves, he ran his fingers over the books. They were old, too. He noticed the bent spines, the torn edges, and the tea-stained covers.

There must be hundreds, Benedict thought. And a variety of genres, as well.

The Lord Egerton was intelligent, surely. But he couldn’t possibly of had the time to indulge in reading on the regular occasion, as he was a very busy man.

Benedict moved to another shelf, spotting a copy of Mental Philosophy: Including the Intellect, Sensibilities, and Will. He scoffed, picking up the book from it’s place. Lazily, he skimmed through the pages. Benedict took note of Lord Egerton’s sloppy penmanship in the margin, concluding that he’d read the book often.

Boring.

After placing the grievous thing back on the shelf, Benedict meandered to the shelves within the center of the library. Again, he delicately dragged his fingers over the old works. One book (red in color and small in size) piqued Benedict’s interest. He pulled it from it’s home, and he looked at the place from which he took the book. A pair of eyes met his own, and he let out a loud shriek. Following his scream, a sudden “ahh!” echoed throughout the library.

At that moment, Benedict understood the weight of words. Well, mainly because he’d dropped the book on his foot and couldn’t feel his toes (he thanked God it was the small book he’d dropped and not the large philosophy text), but nonetheless. He hopped on one foot, holding the other in his hand.

“Damn!” Benedict shouted.

Eventually, he let go of his foot. He scoffed, unable to flex his toes.

The annoyed Bridgerton bent down, picked up his dropped book, and maneuvered to the other side of the shelf.

“I say—!” he began, but his voice was caught in his throat.

A girl, young and seemingly terrified, crouched in a “fetal position” on the floor. She held her knees to her chest, and she hid her face from Benedict’s sight.

Growing concerned, Benedict slowly approached her.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Am I ‘alright?’” the girl retorted, looking up at him.

As she met his eyes, Benedict felt an unexpected pain in his chest. A good pain, surely. Because his heart started to slam against his ribcage.

What is this?

Benedict took in a sharp breath, examining the girl’s features.

She was beautiful.

“You, sir, gave me quite the fright!” she exclaimed, laughing.

Her laugh, Benedict thought, sounds like music.

The Bridgerton cleared his throat and looked down at his feet, slightly embarrassed.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I believe you frightened me, as well.”

“I would’ve made myself present, but I hadn’t heard you enter.”

“Yes,” Benedict muttered. “My stealth is unmatched.”

The girl smiled, affectively charmed by Benedict’s wit.

She’s smiling, Benedict observed. My God, I want her to always smile.

“‘Stealth?’ You’re not hiding, are you?” she asked, standing.

��Protecting myself, more so. ‘Hiding’ makes me sound like a coward.”

A laugh left her lips, and Benedict (once again) found himself loving the sound.

He looked to the floor, catching sight of a glove beside her feet. Kneeling down, Benedict picked up the fabric, then he stood and rubbed the white material between his fingers.

“I believe,” he held it out to her, “you dropped this.”

Graciously, she took it from him.

“Thank you,” she said.

Benedict nodded, and he glanced at the book in her grasp.

“Pride and Prejudice,” he read aloud. “That’s the romance novel, is it not?”

“It is!” she exclaimed, her tone light and airy.

Benedict took note of the sparkle in her eyes, and he wanted to swim in her gaze forever.

“Miss Austen is a gifted writer, and she’s an inspiration for many women.” She looked to the book, smiling adoringly.

Benedict smiled, too.

“Have you read it?” she asked.

He had.

“I cannot say I have,” Benedict replied.

The girl nodded.

“Have you come here to read, then?” he asked.

A bit of a stupid question, Benedict thought. They were in a library.

“For the quiet, mostly.”

The Bridgerton nodded, and he watched as the girl attempted to straighten out her wrinkled gown.

“Do you not like dancing?” Benedict questioned.

“Oh, no!” she said. “I love it, but I’ve grown tired. My mother has me attend every ball—every party, as most young ladies. Each season, it’s the same dances, and the same men, and the same…everything.”

So, tomorrow will not be her first season. How have I not noticed her before?

Benedict nodded, and he came to realize he related to her words.

“But you’re different.”

“I’m happy to be of service,” Benedict jested. “You’re not married, then?” the chestnut-haired boy asked.

However, the girl did not answer.

She only stared at Benedict, trying to process the intention of his words.

“Forgive me,” Benedict said.

Too forward? Too fast? I hope I was not too fast. I’d surely die if—!

“It’s quite alright!” she said. “I’m not married, but I am content.”

I am relieved.

Benedict grinned, boyish and innocent.

“You’ve yet to meet your Mr. Darcy, then?”

She quizzically stared at him, fighting back another smile.

“I thought you hadn’t read Pride and Prejudice?” she questioned.

“Did I say that?”

Had I said that? I don’t remember saying that.

The girl laughed, then she looked at Benedict’s side.

“Poetry?” the girl quired, referring to the red book in his hand.

Benedict raised his brow, then felt the book in his palm. He’d forgotten about the blasted thing, and the aching in his foot returned.

“Oh!” he interjected. “Yes, poetry. Good, good poetry.”

“By who?” she asked.

He hadn’t looked.

“It’s a collection, actually. Various authors,” he lied.

I’m nervous, he thought. Why am I nervous?

“That’s beautiful,” she said.

You’re beautiful.

“I do love poetry,” the girl stated.

“As do I,” Benedict added.

A tremble took over Benedict’s bottom lip, and he opened his mouth to speak before—“knock! knock! knock!”

Benedict’s head turned to the door, and he heard Eloise’s familiar voice.

“Benedict!” she shouted, vibrations traveling through the wood. “Brother, I know you’re in there! Mother has released us from this insufferable prison!”

The elder Bridgerton looked at the girl (the one in front of him), and he laughed.

She laughed, too.

What wouldn’t I do to hear her laugh?

“I can hear you!” his sister exclaimed. “Come on, Benedict! I’d like to be home before I’m of a hundred and three!“

“Alright, Eloise!” Benedict responded. “One moment!”

He heard Eloise’s retreating footsteps grow quieter, and quieter, and quieter.

“She’s gone, I believe.”

Benedict grinned widely, drawing his focus back to the girl.

I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to leave.

“Well, you shouldn’t let her wait.”

Heartily, Benedict laughed.

“No, I shouldn’t. Enjoy your reading, Miss…?” he trailed off, dying to know her name.

She smiled.

She’s only smiling, Benedict thought. She’s only smiling, and she’s stolen my very breath.

“(L/N). (Y/N) (L/N),” she said. “Lord…?”

“Bridgerton. Benedict Bridgerton.”

She nodded.

“Enjoy your poetry, Lord Bridgerton.”

How can a voice sound so sweet? It is Heaven.

“Lady (L/N).”

Hesitantly, Benedict walked to the door. He twisted the knob, hating the weight of it in his free hand.

Benedict turned back, a sudden spasm of energy prevalent in his body.

My soul is on fire.

“Miss (L/N)?” he called out.

(Y/N) peered out from behind the bookshelf.

“Yes, Lord Bridgerton?” she replied.

Benedict thought (just for a moment), then wet his lips with his tongue.

“‘A girl likes to be crossed in love now and then,’” he quoted. “’It is something to think of.’”

(Y/N) smiled, a joyful scoff leaving her lips.

“You have read it,” she surmised.

Benedict playfully smirked, then left the library.

With the door shut, Benedict rested his back against the wood. He stood in the hallway, alone with his thoughts. Specifically, he thought of his encounter with (Y/N).

Benedict closed his eyes, basking in the warm glow of love. He bit his bottom lip, a feeling similar to a sunburn gracing his face.

(Y/N). (Y/N). (Y/N). (Y/N).

Benedict felt—in his heart—that something glorious had just occurred.

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