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vanishedinvain · 10 months ago

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𝐈 𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐈𝐓

—𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐭 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐨𝐧 × 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐧!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

ch. ii. of perfect all-american bitch // previous chapter - next chapter

chapter summary: benedict might be getting dragged across the cobblestones right now, but at least his captor is an angel.

content warnings: 18+ minors dni. character death in a flashback, gun violence, blood (so much blood), getting blackout drunk, marijuana usage, sexual content (brief m/f/f threesome), mention of vomit, we're starting to put the "bitch" in "perfect all-american bitch"

author's note: wc: 19k+ (i gotta stop fucking writing like i'm actually making an ep of bton). so yes it did take me until they announced s4 as benedict's season to pull me out from the dead to finish this chapter. but this one's a doozy, strap in everyone 🫡 also trying out something new with the layout what do we thinkkkkk?

It was a week out from the Queen’s ball, and the whole Bridgerton family was gathered in the drawing room. The modiste was running through the details of all the dresses they’d had commissioned, much to Daphne’s and their mother’s excitement and Eloise’s disinterest. Gregory and Hyacinth were locked in a battle of wits over chess.

Benedict was sitting on the settee going over the newspaper, rays of sunlight shining through the window and illuminating his reading. He’d taken to sitting by windows and peering through them over the past two weeks, especially while in the east wing of the house.

For no particular reason.

Eloise remained seated with her book while Daphne and their mother gushed over the dresses. She tried and failed to stifle a yawn. She was in more of a mood this morning than usual, which was most certainly not helped by her drowsiness.

Daphne held up one of the dresses, the fabric bejeweled to the heavens and in the signature Bridgerton blue, against her body for her mother’s assessment.

“Oh!” Violet exclaimed, “Madame Delacroix, you have certainly outdone yourself this time.”

“Merci, Lady Bridgerton. I try my best.”

Violet picked up the bill from the box that ferried the dresses over, frowning as she read it. “Have you lowered your prices? I could have sworn we paid more last season.”

Genevieve gave a polite laugh. “Just a discount to celebrate the bloom of the season!”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have!”

“Trust me, the pleasure was all mine.” Genevieve caught Benedict’s eyes over his newspaper, her tone toeing the line of innuendo. Benedict winked at her, enjoying the lightness he got from harmless flirting.

And then he saw Daphne looking between them back and forth, her eyes widening as she put the pieces together. He suddenly found his tea to be very interesting, chugging it down hastily as his ears grew red.

“I am only glad I managed to get these done before the ball tonight,” Genevieve said offhandedly, but the entire room came to a standstill.

Daphne and Violet exchanged tense looks. Eloise seemed to freeze mid-page turn. She had a far-away look in her eyes as if she were not in the room anymore.

“What ball?” Hyacinth asked, noticing the sudden silence.

Violet cleared her throat. “The Danbury Ball, dearest…We were not invited.”

Genevieve recognized her error now. She had not thought through the logic of why the Bridgertons and Lady Danbury were not on speaking terms. “Oh, I see. My apologies for the mistake.” She looked at Benedict, slightly panicked that she’d just insulted his family.

“No matter, right?” Benedict said, throwing his friend a rope to safety, “These will work perfectly for the Queen’s Ball next week. Thank you for your speedy turn-around, Madame Delacroix.”

Violet and Daphne chorused thank-yous to Genevieve, who looked quite grateful for the swift rescue. She went to pack her supplies and stack up the empty boxes while Violet preened over the dresses some more.

“Eloise, do stand up please. I’d like to see this on you.”

There was some latency between Violet speaking and the words making it through Eloise’s ears. She was stuck in that unreachable part of her brain, the part that stole her sleep.

“Eloise?”

Violet was holding up a champagne colored dress, with small, evenly dispersed crystals as opposed to Daphne’s which had larger crystals concentrated at the waistline. She gestured for Eloise to stand up and hold it against herself, which she did reluctantly.

“You will look splendid, Eloise.”

“I shall look like every other young lady, Mama,” Eloise muttered, “Like a shaking leaf with too many jewels on.”

“There is no reason to be nervous,” Violet said, trying to reassure Eloise, but her daughter’s patience was short this morning. “This was the very color Daphne wore at her first ball last season.”

“And we should like to repeat last season?”

It was out of Eloise’s mouth before she could stop herself, her mouth stuck in a small O-shape as she surprised even herself with her callousness. She kept her eyes trained on the floor to avoid looking at Daphne, whose expression was pained.

Eloise then looked at Benedict, hoping to find a way out. Though their relationship had been strained and bent out of shape, it was not broken, and she still looked to him on instinct for help.

Benedict just sighed, not angry, but disappointed. Out of all of the Bridgertons, Daphne was most often the target of Eloise’s snark, even if it was indirect this time. They were fundamentally different people with fundamentally different values, and they were bound to butt heads.

But this was out of line.

Benedict folded up his newspaper, deciding not to add fuel to the fire by admonishing Eloise when their mother would certainly do that anyway, but not helping her dodge the consequences either.

“Madame Delacroix, thank you for your time. Allow me to escort you out,” Benedict offered, helping her carry a few boxes.

“Merci, my lord,” Genevieve said nervously. She curtsied to his family, and walked briskly out the door, wanting to be far, far away from the mess. Benedict followed closely behind, giving Eloise one last look.

Benedict spoke up once they were out of earshot. “I truly mean it, Gen. Thank you for getting the dresses done and charging us below your asking rate.”

“This is the only time, Lord Bridgerton,” she warned sternly, but without any signs of true irritation.

“I know, I know,” he nodded, face scrunched in embarrassment that he even asked for such a favor in the first place. “To tell you the truth, I’m still getting a handle on our finances. And we sent an extra sum for Anthony’s birthday, so things are tight this month.”

Genevieve chuckled. “Yes, Siena did mention that.”

Benedict paused when they got to the door, and turned to look at her. “Siena writes to you?”

“Oui, bien sûr,” Genevieve replied, as if that were a given. Benedict supposed it was for her and Siena. It took a true friend to put herself in danger to help the other skip town.

“Right,” Benedict said, mood souring, but not towards Gen, “How silly of me to ask.”

Genevieve felt rather sorry for him, but knew it was not her place to push. While she considered Benedict her friend, they did not turn to each other for shoulders to cry on. A romp in the sheets? A shared drink? Genevieve could not think of better company. But she had her business and Benedict had his…everything else to tend to, so neither of them were in any position to give the other emotional relief.

So Genevieve provided the only kind of support she knew. She grabbed the bill from her jacket pocket and a pencil, and scribbled something down. “Lord Bridgerton, there is a fête tonight after the Danbury Ball. At Mr. Granville’s.”

This piqued Benedict’s interest. He took the bill from her hand. It was an address and a time. “Is there? Are you going?”

“Oui, and you should come, too. I heard you were spotted at one of these parties once, and then never again.”

Benedict chuckled ruefully. “He stopped inviting me.”

“Because you kept brushing him off, and he took the hint. Not because you are unwelcome,” Genevieve insisted.

Benedict sighed. Of course he wanted to go. If he were not head of the family, a family that evidently still had many jagged edges, he would have gone without a worry. Instead, he just sat on the fence, wondering if he deserved to indulge himself in this way. “Perhaps. We shall see.”

Genevieve smiled. “I will take what I can get. Adieu, Lord Bridgerton.”

“Adieu.”

He opened the door for her, passed her the boxes, and bid her farewell. He stood in the threshold, his finger tapping on the bill absentmindedly. He chanced a look up at the window of the next door residence.

Nothing. Again.

He hadn’t seen much of Dovie for the past week. She was likely busy with wedding preparations. As the sister of the bride, she undoubtedly had many responsibilities. He wondered if she was going to the Danbury Ball. What she would wear. Who she’d dance with.

Then he tore his eyes away. Just another indulgence he could not have.

The carriage rocked back and forth as it carried the L/N family, the Duke of Brighton, and his sister to the Danbury Ball. Y/N was in a foul mood already. She’d been made to get ready for the ball at the duke’s residence instead of her own with her friends to present a united front upon arrival. Their families were to be joined together in holy matrimony in a matter of months, after all.

Kill me now.

“I do hope you will not be scowling the entirety of the evening, Y/N,” Mrs. L/N said quietly, though within the confined space, everybody heard anyway.

“Then, I should be given something to smile about,” she snarked back.

“The Queen will be in attendance, you must—” “Comport myself, I know. You need not remind me, Lady Danbury’s cane is a far more effective deterrent than any chastising from either of you,” she replied, gesturing between her mother and her sister.

The duke cleared his throat. “You are a lady of the ton now, so perhaps you may find a suitor. There will surely be many eligible men of good standing since nearly everyone attends at least the first ball.”

Y/N burst out in a short fit of laughter. Olivia shot daggers at her with her eyes, so she covered up with a cough. “We shall see, Your Grace.”

The idea of marrying an English nobleman was preposterous. Olivia may have found a match with one of them, but Y/N never saw eye-to-eye with the duke or any of his friends when the band traveled over to America. They were polite enough, but perhaps a bit too polite. They never seemed to say what they meant plainly, dressing all their words in flowery language until their true intentions were indecipherable.

Staying in Mayfair only proved that the duke and his friends were on the friendlier side. Everybody had been cold to the Doves the day they set foot on British soil for being untitled and nouveau riche. How could any of them, boisterous and lively as they were, possibly find fulfillment with one of these unfeeling aristocrats?

Olivia was once a wild child, but that all went away when she met the duke. Y/N would not be tamed so easily.

The carriage came to a halt, and the driver knocked on the door to indicate that they had arrived. The duke got out first, helping the ladies down. Y/N froze when she looked up at the venue, so lost in its grandeur that Lady Vivian had to tap her to get out of the way.

The ball was at a conservatory, which was made entirely of glass barring structural necessities. Just from the outside, one could see the amber glow of countless candles weaving, winding greenery along the columns and spandrels.

“Beautiful, is it not?” Lady Vivian asked from behind.

“Yes, quite. I do not believe I have ever seen so many flowers gathered in one place.” Truthfully, she only appreciated flowers as much as she appreciated other beautiful things like a sunset or a well-placed ribbon. But looking at the bursts of color that sprouted from floor to ceiling, she could see how they could capture one’s special attention.

“What is Miss L/N’s favorite flower? I should know these things for the wedding bouquets,” Lady Vivian remarked. If she noticed Y/N seething, she did not comment.

“Lilies. The white variety.”

“Oh my!” Lady Vivian replied. If she had pearls, she’d be clutching them. “Those are mourning flowers. We cannot have them at a wedding, even if they are her favorite.”

“Then why did you even ask?” Y/N snapped.

Lady Vivian was momentarily caught off-guard before glaring right back at Y/N. Whatever she was going to say was cut off by her fake, plastered smile when she noticed the carriage of the Doves arriving.

Y/N let out a sigh of relief seeing her friends again though. She ran up and hugged Mina as soon as she set foot on the ground, the other girl letting out an oof upon impact.

“Ugh, I missed you all!” Y/N proclaimed dramatically.

“Oh Christ, we were apart for six hours maximum,” Mina pointed out. Her dress was a soft lavender with a sheer jogakbo overlay in deep indigo with puffy shoulders, big and bold like the peacock she was nicknamed for.

“I already felt touched in the head after but one hour at the Brighton estate. I would rather be repeating my Latin lessons with Harry,” Y/N muttered for Mina’s ears only, and the girls shared a giggle.

They began walking towards the venue. Bronwyn, Estrella, and Olivia stayed in step with each other, huddled over a deck of miniatures, shuffling and studying them with great detail. Surely, neither Bronwyn and Estrella were joining the marriage mart in earnest, right? Y/N caught up to them to listen in on the conversation.

“Lord Kallel?” Bronwyn asked, having stopped at a photo of a man with deep-set eyes and the truly most insane set of mutton chops they’d ever seen.

“Not bad,” replied Olivia, “He is only a baron, but on the wealthier end to be sure.”

Next. “Lord Tao?”

“Aiming higher, he is a marquess.”

Bronwyn hummed, intrigued. She took his picture off the top, and handed it to Olivia for safekeeping. Oh God, she was serious.

“Lord Bridgerton?”

Y/N was not particularly taken by any of the eligible suitors thus far—they sort of all blurred together into a moving picture of frowns and scowls—but she did a double take on Lord Bridgerton’s photo.

That was the man from the garden. The one who ripped up Whistledown and smiled at her. She wanted to grab the card to inspect him closer, but forced herself to remain cool.

“Absolutely not,” Olivia stated grimly, “The Bridgertons are still reeling from their scandal last season. I must have forgotten to take out his photo. They will not be in attendance tonight.”

Y/N cleared her throat. “They are our neighbors, right?” she asked, trying not to sound too curious.

Unfortunately, Olivia caught on, and narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Yes, they are next door to us.”

“What’s their story?”

“Did you not read the Whistledown before you tore it up a fortnight ago? About Viscount Bridgerton—or I guess he would be just Anthony now. He was stripped of his title.”

“What was his transgression? Tripping on a morning stroll?” Y/N quipped flippantly.

“Anthony Bridgerton killed the Duke of Hastings, Lady Danbury’s godson, in a duel,” Olivia stated, dropping the information like an anvil. She looked rather self-satisfied when she saw the surprise on her sister’s face, finally being the one to shock her into silence instead of the other way around for once.

“This man,” she continued, grabbing Lord Bridgerton’s card, “is his brother. The new viscount. Whether or not he is a good viscount remains to be seen.”

She tossed the card behind them, floating behind in their wake. “Even if he does show face at other balls, it is not in our best interest to associate with him.”

Y/N was rarely shaken; she preferred to do the shaking. But she had to admit that this reveal sent her reeling a bit. So this was why that man—Lord Bridgerton—seemed so drained. What an awful tragedy to reckon with. Everything he knew about his path in life was gone in an instant, as fast as a bullet.

She and Olivia had been at odds for quite some time, but if her sister disappeared the next morning, Y/N would burn everything and everyone in her path in coping with the loss.

The whole party had come up to the entrance, a tunnel shrouded in black fabric leading into the main dome. They were signaled by the ushers to step behind the curtain and into the tunnel.

There were still flowers and greenery within the tunnel, but they were far moodier. Black dahlias, serpentine vines, roses with the thorns uncut crept along the floor up to the ceiling, and wrapped around the candlesticks. They illuminated two long tables spanning the length of the tunnel on opposite sides. One held white masks decorated in pearls and crystals, almost like teardrops, and dance cards. The other held black masks with a feather of the same color sticking up on one side, and pencils.

“What circle of hell have we stumbled into?” Y/N asked in a whisper, rather disconcerted.

A man in a black mask entered from the other side of the tunnel, and Olivia shushed her.

“Good evening, ladies. Your Grace,” the man greeted, bowing to the duke standing behind the ladies. “Welcome to the Danbury Masquerade Ball! To your right, you will see white masks and dance cards for the ladies. To your left are black masks and pencils for the men. Here are the rules for tonight.” He gestured to the signs above each of the tables.

Do not give out your true name. Your aliases are written on the inside of the masks.

When the final dance is announced, find the partner that was your best match.

After the final dance, you may remove your masks and give your true names.

They all picked up their masks, adjusting them on their faces, the ladies affixing the dance cards to their wrists.

“Enjoy your evening,” the man said, “and good luck.”

“How useful are those miniatures now?” Y/N whispered to Bronwyn, who elbowed the younger girl’s side.

“We must secure a new lady’s maid for Eloise, now that she is out.” Benedict told Jackson, the estate manager, as they made their way into his study, “Ensure she is even more strong-willed than the last.”

Her last one walked out crying.

Jackson nodded, and put down a stack of papers as Benedict took his seat.

“What are those?”

“Accounts requiring your signature, my lord.”

Benedict’s long night just got longer. “Right, thank you.”

He started reading as Jackson opened the door to leave.

“Lady Bridgerton.”

Benedict looked up, and it was his mother coming into the doorway as Jackson left. “Good evening, Mother.”

“Good evening, Benedict. I just wanted to drop this off.” She handed over a piece of parchment, and he skimmed it briefly.

Miss Goring - proficient on the harp and pianoforte

Miss Umelo - knows a great deal about art

“Mother, what is this?” Benedict asked, though he had a very strong suspicion what this was about .

“Oh, just a list of eligible ladies for this season. In case you were interested at all,” Violet told him, feigning nonchalance.

Yes. The whole marriage thing. Benedict would be eight and twenty come July, still younger than Anthony was before he whisked away to France. His eldest brother was certainly in no rush to get married at that age, gallivanting with Siena for most of his leisure time.

“Thank you for your…” Benedict began slowly, setting the paper down at the corner of his desk, “interest in my prospects, but perhaps it might be better to get Daphne wedded off first.”

“Who said both might not happen this season? One does not choose when love should strike, it simply does.”

“Love? You are holding out hope that I will find love?” Benedict asked in disbelief.

Violet frowned. “I know you will find love. We all must do so one day.”

Much like his mother, Benedict was a romantic once, in his artistic influences and his love life. The rules that fixed advantageous matches were in direct contradiction to romance and fulfillment, hence why he went outside of society for emotional and intellectual connections, even if they never turned serious.

But that was then. As much as his mother wished for him to have love in his life, there was no skirting around the fact that his wife would be the new viscountess and the mother of the next Viscount Bridgerton. It was far more important to secure the line with a woman of excellent breeding and character, even if Benedict felt little affection for her. His father was lucky to find both the love of his life and the most suitable viscountess in the same person, but they were the exception, not the rule.

These were a few thoughts amongst many he could’ve voiced, but he feared they would only break his mother’s heart. So he went with, “I will look at the list before the Queen’s Ball. Good night, Mother.”

Violet was taken aback slightly. As much as Benedict had begun to shield parts of himself from the world, there were simply some that she could still read like a book. He had something more to say, but the more she pried, the more he would clam up. He was unfortunately learning all the wrong lessons from Anthony.

Violet waited until she reached the threshold to turn around and tell him one last thing. “Just so you know. The right woman will accept the fortunes and misfortunes of your life, and love you all the same. Lord knows your father wasn’t perfect, but we were perfect together. Good night, dearest.”

She was gone before he could say anything back.

Benedict picked up the list again with a sigh. None of the Bridgerton children ever had to worry about pressure from their mother to marry just for the sake of it; that was the upside to her being obsessed with epic love stories. While his mother was trying to nudge him in that direction, she would never shove unless he was head-over-heels, puppy-dog-eyed, reciting-bad-poetry in love with someone.

But Benedict was not so sure it was possible anymore. Any one of these young women would be perfectly suitable as the new viscountess, but could he really fall in love with any of them? Was he simply too beaten down, his heart still too full of grief, to feel anything bordering on romantic or passionate? Or perhaps, the universe would be doubly cruel and let him fall in love only to be rejected because his deficiencies were too obvious. Who could love damaged goods?

He moved the list of ladies to the bottommost drawer, trying to lock it and his self-loathing away for long enough to focus on the papers, when he noticed what was underneath his mother’s list.

The bill Genevieve gave him, with the address and time of Henry Granville’s party.

He checked his pocket watch. The ball would likely end in about half an hour, allowing Granville and any attendees of the ball to freshen up and slip into something more comfortable before heading to his studio.

He thought about the last party of Granville’s that he went to. The night took an awful turn, but it began beautifully. He felt intellectually fulfilled discussing the merits of various artistic movements of eras past, meeting people who had traveled all over, a far cry from the bounds of Grosvenor Square.

He was essentially given the freedom to draw or paint what he liked. Granville liked what he drew, even if Benedict didn’t himself; he felt a bit guilty now about shutting out someone who was once a gateway into a vibrant, liberating world.

The season was already well underway, even if the Bridgertons would be getting a late start. He had never steered his sisters through a season before, and he can’t imagine it would allow him much leisure time once they were well and truly in the thick of it. Not to mention, once he got married, his wife would not appreciate him disappearing into late hours of the night to play out some fantasy of a different life.

The ball was going about as well as Y/N could’ve expected. She had danced about three times over the course of the night, and they all went like this:

First, a man would notice she had no partner and come over to put his alias for the night on her dance card. Then, they would dance for a few bars, wordlessly swaying and spinning to the string ensemble. Finally, he would ask her a question, and she would just watch the smile melt off his face as she answered and her accent was made known. They were too polite to leave her jilted mid-song on the dance floor, but conversation fizzled out quite quickly after she revealed herself.

She felt neutral towards the men who rejected her, but it hurt all the same to be rejected. Last season was middling; she did not make an utter fool of herself but did not excel either. The comparison to her sister did not help. Both sisters were well-read, multilingual, danced perfectly well, and properly educated. But Olivia knew and understood etiquette like it was born in her. She always knew what to say and when to say it. One could not say the same about Y/N.

Even across an entire ocean from their home country, everybody could see what was missing in the younger of the two.

This trip was supposed to allow her some respite, a chance to live before getting thrown in the vipers’ pit again. She was supposed to come back refreshed, and most importantly, better. But now, she was stuck at the lemonade table, with the walls and the flowers and the wallflowers.

“If it isn’t Penelope Featherington. Back in a dress the color of a putrid citrus fruit,” said a voice a few paces away.

It was a tall, blonde woman with buns and twists in her hair that stretched high enough to reach God, even if her sour attitude suggested she may never reach Him herself. Her dress, a clash of soft pink and bright fuschia, had one or two or ten too many adornments on it. She was speaking to a red-haired girl who was, unfortunately, in a too-bright yellow dress that did nothing for her complexion.

“Just leave me alone, Cressida,” Penelope gritted out.

She knew nothing about these girls and their relationship nor did she actually really care to decipher it, but she saw an opportunity to be a hero, to save Penelope from the clutches of this bully.

Cressida continued with her cruelty. “I suppose in the same way one cannot gild the lily, one cannot gild insipid wallflowers either.”

“That hardly makes sense as an insult,” Y/N spat out, surprising both girls who hadn’t been aware she was listening. “‘Gild the lily’ means that you are painting something already beautiful with gold, so it’s actually a compliment,” she continued, “And it is a common misquotation. The line goes, ‘To gild refined gold, to paint the lily.’ Nobody is gilding the lily.”

It came out of her mouth in one blurt before she could stop herself, like Cressida’s ignorance had yanked it out from the depths of her soul. She just couldn’t stand someone being both rude and stupid.

“Oh, one of the Americans. You think you’re so clever, hm?”

“I am actually.” She took a step towards Cressida, challenging her and boxing out Penelope, who had retreated back to the wall.

“Have you ever heard of the story of Icarus?” Cressida asked condescendingly, “I ask instead of assuming since I do not know how Americans are educated, let alone ones of your…status.”

“I do not believe I know the status of which you speak, considering we are one and the same economically. So yes, I did receive a proper education, and I’ve retained it better than some people in this room.”

“Well, good. Then, you will understand what I mean when I say that you best not fly too close to the sun with those wax wings, little dove. You might find yourself falling back down to whatever backwater slum you crawled out of.” Cressida sneered.

Y/N could take the more mature path, and walk away. She had been heeding Olivia’s warning all night about not causing a scene. But where was the fun in that?

“Thank you for the sage advice,” she started off, passive aggressively, “Have you ever heard of the story of the three blind mice? Perhaps they would make fairer maids, and improve that nest you call hair.”

Penelope choked on her lemonade, and Cressida opened her mouth to rebut, but Y/N was not yet finished.

“Though I’m sure no rodent, seeing or otherwise, could help you hide your uncanny resemblance to a common bitch.”

Cressida gasped and then her face pinched in anger like she’d eaten something sour, but Y/N did not stay to hear what else she had to say because it would surely be nothing of importance.

She rushed out of the scene she’d caused, and up the closest flight of stairs. Her face felt hot, palms sweating in her satin gloves. She was angry—angry at Cressida for trying to make her feel small, angry at everything and everyone that led her to be at this ball at all.

But she also felt strangely exhilarated. It was cathartic to let Cressida just have it. Olivia might get mad, but what else was new? She could say and do what she wanted, and no one in New York would hear about it until months later.

What if she grabbed some cake by the fistful? Drank champagne from the bottle and let the fizzy liquid spill all over her dress? Shed all her clothes and run into a lake? There was a restlessness coursing through her body, a pleasant tingling feeling in her limbs that contrasted the ennui she felt for the past fortnight.

There were a handful of stragglers milling about the interior balcony that overlooked the atrium, but for the most part Y/N had a great deal of space to herself up here, and a high vantage point to view the entire scene.

“Miss Edwina is certainly charming the whole room, is she not?” said a voice from below.

“Yes, I suppose she is,” replied another voice, “Though, there is another serious contender for this season’s diamond. The one in the teal and red dress.”

Y/N’s eyebrows shot up. No, it couldn’t be, she thought. She ducked behind one of the pillars, so that neither of them would look up to see her eavesdropping. She slowly stuck her head out, ready to pull it back at a moment’s notice.

Below her was the Queen’s perch, sitting high and mighty above all her subjects. It was quite funny to Y/N that she was technically higher than the Queen at the moment. Beside her was Lady Danbury, cane in one hand, handheld mask in the other.

Looking out into the dance floor, couples were spinning around the conservatory, large swaths of silk and organza twirling about. There were also some bubbles forming on the outskirts. They were mostly mamas keeping close eyes on their daughters, or established friend groups finding each other in the sea of masks.

However, there were two groups on opposite sides of the floor of one woman and four or five men vying for her attention.

One was a young lady with rich brown skin that popped against her pink dress, hair in a tightly curled updo. She was fielding each man’s question with the poise and ease that reminded Y/N of her sister.

The other was indeed in a teal and red dress as the Queen described. She was visibly more nervous than the previous girl, fidgeting with her gloves and dance card, but still held herself high amongst the hopeful suitors. The rich jewel tone complimented her dark skin, and her long, thin braids were twisted back away from her face.

The pop of red, which was more of a maroon, was only one layer hidden under the other layers of azure silk. When she spun around on the dance floor tonight and red was revealed, it would be the most exquisite surprise that would put these other debutantes to shame.

Or at least, that is what Y/N said to—

“Miss Estrella Alcantara. One of the American girls,” said Lady Danbury.

“My, my,” replied the Queen, “She does acquit herself very well. Unlike some of her cohorts.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. A girl climbs out of a window one time, and it is all she is known for.

“You know, I was quite surprised when you granted the Duke of Brighton’s request to have the Americans join the season. Especially when I was already bringing my own special guests.”

“Now Lady Danbury, I am just as surprised as you are that these new money girls have someone of such lovely countenance in their midst,” the Queen reassured, “I mean, did you not see the younger L/N girl accost Cressida Cowper just now? That is all they are good for: a show.”

“Hm, so Your Majesty simply wishes to be entertained?”

“After the…tragic ending of last season, we needed a spectacle. Something garish to ogle, or for Whistledown to wield her pen at. They are my pawns, and I shall use them to usher in a rousing opening. As for Miss Edwina and Miss Estrella, whoever sparkles the most shall be the one I extend my favor to in exchange for a brilliant endgame.”

“Fair play, Your Majesty. I do relish a challenge.”

Y/N pulled her head back, and leaned against the pillar. She had been playing into the Queen’s hand all along. This was it. This was the game Olivia insisted that they all must play, and in her attempts to refuse entry, she had subsequently found herself among the Queen’s most valuable players.

She poked her head out again, seeing Estrella on the dance floor. She spun elegantly, red and teal fabric haloing out, with some man who could never measure up. Estrella had bloomed beautifully since her first season when her dresses were cheaply made and she stared at the ground more often than meeting anyone’s eyes.

It would’ve made Y/N most proud to see her Duckling this confident in New York instead of here, under the watchful eye of the Queen. If Her Majesty decided to curse Estrella with her favor, she’d have to bend to her every whim. God, what if she had to marry whoever the Queen set forth for her? Estrella would have to move to London.

No, no, no, this simply would not do. They would not play into the Queen’s hand. She would not get any show at all.

The sound of two men laughing echoed and grew in volume from a hallway. They walked into Y/N’s line of vision, two gentlemen with their masks off. One of them was lithe and dandyish with sideburns that stretched down to his chin, and the other was older with gray hairs beginning to creep in.

“Are you still hosting a party tonight, Granville?”

“Yes, Wetherby. I should really get going if I am to set up before the guests begin arriving.”

The two men pulled the masks down over their faces again when Y/N approached them, seemingly out of thin air from their perspective.

“Excuse me,” she said, “There is a party happening?”

The men looked at a loss for words, having been all but ambushed.

“That conversation was not meant for your ears,” said the older gentleman, Granville, “It is also most improper to be up here unchaperoned with two strange men.”

“Well, I did not think you were strange until you called yourself such.”

The other man, Wetherby, tried to stifle his laughter before schooling his face into something more serious. “I can handle this,” he said to Granville. He turned back to Y/N. “The last dance is going to start in ten minutes or so. How about I put myself on your dance card?” Wetherby gave her a crooked smile.

“I’d like that about as much as I’d like to climb onto this railing right now,” she replied, grabbing said railing.

For a moment, she wanted to kick herself. Insulting this man—Wetherby— was not the way to get an invitation, even if he deserved it for thinking she could be placated so easily.

To her surprise, however, he was laughing. “Oh, let us not make a habit of perching from great heights.”

Granville sighed, far less amused than his friend. “Listen, I know you think of yourself as some sort of rebel, but trust me, this party is not suitable for young ladies of your station. I shall bid you goodnight.”

The two gentlemen turned and started walking away. Y/N racked her brain quickly for anything that might turn the tides in her favor. As she followed the men halfway down the stairs, she did manage to think of one thing. She’d been hoping to keep it for herself, but…

“What if I could offer something that will heighten the festivities? Something that has not made its way, at least in abundance, to English soil yet?”

Mr. Granville stopped, and slowly turned around. “I’m listening.”

Y/N smiled smugly. “Have you ever heard of cannabis?”

Mina and Will were easy enough to convince; they’d been dancing with only each other the whole night, which was a borderline scandal to the ton, so they were ready for a change of scenery. They agreed to go find a carriage, and meet at the far west side of the building to be as discreet as possible.

Estrella and Bronwyn were surprisingly more challenging to persuade.

Estrella and her partner had just come off of the dance floor, breathless and giggling, much to Y/N’s confusion.

“Duckie, there you are!” she exclaimed.

“Dovie! This is Lord Russo,” Estrella replied, gesturing to the man beside her, a slight fellow with tan skin and strong eyebrows.

“I am technically Yellow Pony for tonight, but I’m sure one could forgive my forgetfulness for the rules when dancing with a beautiful young lady such as Miss Estrella.” He was beaming down at her. Then, he seemed to remember himself and turned back to Y/N. “You must be Miss Y/N. Pleased to make your acquaintance—”

“Charmed,” Y/N deadpanned, confusing Lord Russo. “Duckie, I must speak with you in private.”

Estrella hesitantly curtsied to Lord Russo, who gave her a forlorn look as Y/N directed Estrella to an alcove.

She then explained what had occurred. How she ran upstairs, and managed to score the Doves an invite to an exclusive artists’ party with all the libations they’d grown accustomed to back home, but without risk of rumors spreading among the eligible bachelors of New York, the ones that actually mattered.

She’d left out the conversation she had overheard between the Queen and Lady Danbury, about how Estrella was in the running to be the season’s diamond. “Diamond” was far too gracious of a title for what it truly meant; Estrella, in her naivete, might mistake it for something to be sought after. And if Olivia caught wind of that, she would push Estrella into vying for the Queen’s favor and whatever rich dunderhead Her Majesty would have her marry.

Y/N already lost one sister, and she would not lose another.

“We must leave now if we are to catch the party at its peak.”

Estrella’s smile faltered. “Now? Before the last dance?”

“Yes…Is there a problem?”

Y/N raised her eyebrows, trying to prod Estrella into elaborating.

“I only wished to be able to have the last dance with Lord Russo.”

The older girl nodded, but her smile did not reach her eyes. “The last dance is quite a statement. I did not realize he had made such an impression on you.”

Estrella fidgeted with the edges of her dance card, worrying the parchment down. “Do you not think it wise to save the last dance for him?”

“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly make that decision for you,” she insisted, not meeting Estrella’s wide, pleading eyes.

“...I do really like Lord Russo.”

“He seems like a perfectly…fine man. If a bit of a charmer,” she remarked, making what would usually be a compliment into a thinly-veiled jab at his character with just her tone.

“I suppose so. And I’ll miss the party.”

“Yes, there will be other suitors, and there will be other parties. I trust you’ll come to your own conclusions. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Y/N said, removing herself from the alcove. Her words were carefully chosen, but her tone lacked the warmth or softness she usually used towards Estrella, leaving the younger girl in a lurch.

She approached Bronwyn, who was also with a man unfortunately, with the same proposition. She was met with a similar resistance, so she regarded Bronwyn the same way she regarded Estrella; with thinly-veiled judgments about her suitor, and leaving her wanting more.

As Y/N walked away, Bronwyn said, “You cannot sway me with a withering look. I’m not Duckie.”

She turned around. Bronwyn looked at her shrewdly; she knew when her strings were being pulled.

“What is that supposed to mean?” asked Y/N.

Slowly, Bronwyn closed the distance between them, never breaking eye contact. “It means that no matter how passive-aggressive you are about me participating in the social season in earnest, I am staying. Not all of us have brothers to take over the family business or duchesses for sisters.”

Y/N clenched and unclenched her fist. She’d been caught out. Bronwyn loved her like a sister, but she was not entirely convinced that Y/N was genuinely ignorant of the reverence Estrella held for her as she certainly had no qualms about using it to her advantage.

The younger girl sighed, resigned to the fact that she couldn’t argue her way out of this one. “Will you please at least be our alibi?” Bronwyn scoffed, but she continued. “If Dove asks, just tell her that I caught a chill and the girls and Will were kind enough to see me home. Please?”

Bronwyn tapped her foot as she weighed up her options. “Fine. You owe me.”

“Thank you! Have fun with…”

“Lord Emery.”

“Yes, him.”

The two parted ways, with Bronwyn headed off with Lord Emery and Y/N off to meet with Mina and Will. As she headed out, she passed the main entrance, curtains left half-open. Something caught her eye, and caused her to double back.

There was a single black mask still left on one of the tables. As bothersome as her own mask was, she had to admit they were quite fun. Perhaps Harry would like to play with them.

She snatched the mask off the table and scurried away. She moved quickly, scouting the area to see if anyone had caught her. Unfortunately, while she was facing the other way, she felt something tug at the back of her dress. She stumbled, tumbling forward into a nearby tree, and dropping the mask.

It was Cressida with a smug smile and her heel dug into the ripped fabric of the dress.

For once, Y/N said and did nothing, except shoot daggers at the girl. She would be going to a party. She would be having fun with people who actually enjoyed her company, and Cressida would be stuck here.

She picked up the mask. Several beads and a whole feather had been knocked off in the scuffle, but she didn’t have time to do anything about that. Penelope, ever quiet, attempted to come off the wall to say something, but she hesitated, and Y/N brushed right past her.

She rushed out of the side entrance into the inky night, accidentally clashing shoulders with a lady in a silver dress in her haste. She muttered an apology and continued walking briskly past the woman when she spoke up.

“For what it’s worth, she had it coming.”

Y/N turned around to face her. Upon closer inspection, the skirt of her dress had a pattern of tessellated, glittering rhombi. Her waistline was adorned with crystals in the pattern of bursting suns. And though the top half of her face was obscured by the mask, it did not hide her olive skin, shiny jet black hair, and half-smile.

“I’m sorry, I do not know who or what you speak of,” Y/N replied.

“What you said to Cressida earlier,” the woman clarified, “I typically do not endorse such cutting words, but she was the one who approached Penelope. Someone was going to put her in her place soon enough. I’m only sorry that your dress was one of the casualties.”

Y/N let out a huff of a laugh. She was glad someone noticed her good deed. Being the hero was beginning to feel thankless. “I imagine I’ll be in Whistledown come morning. I haven’t the faintest idea who anyone is.” She jabbed her thumb in the direction of where she just came from. “Just watch her turn out to be a princess.”

“Ha! A princess she is not, don’t you worry.”

Y/N cocked her head to one side. She mirrored the woman’s position, leaning against the glass wall of the conservatory, concealed by the bevy of plants inside. She could still see that blonde chit through the gaps of the Monstera plant in front of them. “I take it you know her.”

The woman sighed heavily. “My stepsister.”

“Christ, you poor thing.”

She shrugged. “Cressida is actually the kindest person in the whole family, if you can believe it. Her mother only allowed me to attend this ball tonight because my face would be covered and they would not have to answer for my existence. Who knows how many more I shall be allowed to attend this season?”

“She should choke on rocks then,” Y/N spat out without really thinking.

The woman’s mouth was parted in shock, and if she hadn’t been wearing a mask, Y/N was sure she’d see her eyebrows raised, too. “Well, I wouldn’t say that—”

“Which is why I said it for you.”

There was a pause in which Y/N thought she’d managed to offend someone by accident this time, but then the woman laughed. “You’re really something. What’s your name?”

“Y/N L/N. The loud, annoying American,” she replied in an exaggerated English accent before she realized she should probably not poke fun at the first kind English debutante she’s met.

The woman did not take offense, thankfully, and even let out a laugh. “Mind your R’s, Miss Y/N,” she volleyed back.

“I’ll keep that in mind. What about you? What’s your name?”

Peculiarly, she seemed like she was wrestling with what answer to give. “Sophia Cowper. On paper, at least.” She muttered that last part.

“What is the name you call yourself in your mind? In your heart?”

“Sophie Beckett. Beckett was my mother’s name—my real mother.” She smiled when she spoke about her mother, the warmth spreading to relax her posture and let down her guard.

“It suits you. You may call me Dovie then; that is the name in my heart.”

“It’s a pretty name.”

They stood in companionable silence, looking out into the vast gardens that put the bevy of greenery inside to shame. The flames of the torches that lined the path swayed in flashes of yellow and orange.

“So, Sophie Beckett. Why are you hiding out here?”

Sophie sighed. “I’m growing rather weary. This is going to sound stupid or—or fanciful, but…I thought I was going to meet someone tonight.”

Her face grew wistful as she turned back to peering through the glass walls, watching bodies whirl around through the gaps of large leaves.

“My grandmother read me love stories when I was little. I hardly remember the specifics, I was so young. But for as long as I could remember I was convinced that some knight in shining armor or a prince would come in to save me from my circumstances.”

“Do you still believe in such tales?” Y/N asked.

“I suppose time will tell,” Sophie replied. “Maybe I was not meant to meet the love of my life tonight. Perhaps tonight was reserved for new friendships.”

The two exchanged smiles, grateful for the unexpected camaraderie they’d found in each other within the short time they spent outside.

The string ensemble were beginning to take their seats again, re-tuning and preparing for the last dance.

Sophie stood up straight, smoothing out her skirt. “I should get back in there. It was good to meet you, Dovie.”

“Likewise.”

And with that, Sophie left.

“Dovie!” Estrella shouted, coming toward her from an exit on the opposite end of the conservatory, “I thought you’d left without me!”

Y/N stood up straight, and played it cool. “I’m waiting for Will and Peaky to find a carriage for us. I thought you decided to dance with Lord…uh…”

“Lord Russo,” Estrella supplied, “And I decided that I will go to the party tonight.” She grabbed Y/N’s hands. “I can always find a suitable match another time. Perhaps back home.”

Benedict knocked on the door of Henry Granville’s studio, trying to push away the feeling of déjà vu.

Much like that night, Granville opened the door with a drink in his hand and a look of surprise on his face.

“Mr.—Lord Bridgerton. After all this time, I certainly was not expecting you.”

“I heard about this…” Benedict trailed off. He wasn’t entirely sure he belonged in this space anymore. Did he ever really? “I, um, I do not wish to intrude—”

“Nonsense! Get in here, make yourself at home,” Granville insisted, pulling Benedict out of the cold evening air. Benedict was the last person Granville expected to turn up tonight, but he was truly always welcome.

Benedict took in the lively studio as Granville directed him towards the back where he was last time with the easels and the models. It was a lot more crowded than the last time he was here, a proper party instead of a—how did Granville word it?—gathering of like-minded souls.

There were more disciplines being practiced apart from painting or sketching. Some people brought their musical instruments. Some were dancing, all eyes closed and fluid limbs, a far cry from a quadrille. Forgotten bottles of liquor were strewn throughout the place. People were using the candles to light up their cigarettes. Multiple couples were half-dressed in an amorous embrace just right there in the hallway.

“Look who actually showed up,” came a voice from the shadows. Genevieve emerged with a smoking pipe in hand and a flirtatious smile.

“Ah! I take it you two know each other,” Granville said.

“Yes, we became…acquainted last year,” Benedict informed, already feeling more at ease with her around. Smuggling two people out of the country had a funny way of quickly building a companionship, a companionship that turned into a physical stress reliever.

Granville picked up on the subtext. “Then, I will entrust Genevieve to get you comfortable. I would stay and chat some more, but—”

There was a knocking at the door, the sound of several fists against wood.

“Host duty calls,” Granville finished. He scurried off, and then there were two, standing on either side of the threshold of the main chamber where Benedict sketched last time. The easels were bunched up together for space. Models in various states of undress, fruit bowls, and vases were on display as subjects in the middle.

“So,” Genevieve began, “You heard the man: get comfortable. Avail yourself to any of his supplies. He mentioned there is a fresh, untouched palette of watercolors for anyone to use,” she explained, gesturing into the room with her pipe, smoke billowing out and lagging behind her movements.

He chuckled nervously. “I must insist, ladies first. Do you paint, Gen?”

“No, my artist’s implements are needle and thread. I’m afraid I possess little talent or interest in any other medium.”

“Oh, then why do you attend these parties?”

“The company.”

“Then I should not sequester myself in a corner when you were the one who graciously invited me.”

Genevieve frowned. “T'en fais pas. I will not latch onto your side like a vicious mama, you are free to do as you wish.”

He felt a bit trapped suddenly. Art used to make him feel free, and she was offering it up to him on a silver platter, so why was he so reluctant to participate?

His hands began to shake, imperceptibly to any passing observer, but it traveled from the tips of his fingers and up his arms. He hadn’t touched any of his art supplies in months. They sat collecting dust in his old study, the one he tries not to look at when he passes its door.

An old fear crept up like hairs standing up on the back of his neck, the one that told him you’re not an artist. You’re not half as good as any of them. That was his biggest worry a year ago, a worry that Eloise pointed out could be rectified by using his free time productively. Hiring a drawing master. Practicing day in and day out. He was undoubtedly worse now that he was out of practice.

There was a new fear, though. It came barrelling in when he saw all the artists, the bohemians, creating life out of pigments and water in this room. What if attempting to paint or draw again revealed something he would’ve rather not known? What if getting a taste of the life he might’ve known plunged him deeper into the misery threatening to overwhelm him every time he was left alone with his sober thoughts?

“Benedict, are you well?”

He clasped his hands, one on top of the other to get his body to stop vibrating. “I’m perfectly well. Just in need of a drink.” He brought his flask with him, though he hardly ever parted ways with it anymore, but did not want to take it out in front of Genevieve. He feared he would not be able to hide just how desperately he needed a sip.

Genevieve knew it was not her place to push. She saw someone behind Benedict and waved her over. “This is my friend Lucy. She is a frequent attendee of these soirées, so to speak.”

Benedict turned around and saw a woman with large eyes and larger hair, but it did not overwhelm her dainty frame. She greeted Genevieve with a kiss on the cheek before turning to him.

“I don’t believe I’ve seen you around. I’d remember a face as handsome as yours.”

He grinned devilishly; he knew this dance well. “I’m afraid I have been skipping out, but I certainly would have visited more often if I knew you would be here.”

Lucy chuckled, a husky, low tone unlike the faked titters of debutantes who would’ve laughed at anything he said. Though he was not exactly a rake like his brother, he used to be a massive flirt—still was whenever the mood struck him. Half the time, he enjoyed the thrill of it, the tête-à-tête, more than actually reaping the rewards of his flirtation. This felt nostalgic, like slipping into worn shoes.

He smiled, genuinely. “You’ve been holding out on me, Gen.”

“Perhaps I just wanted to keep you to myself. What is that saying? Two’s company, three’s a crowd? Though, looking at us all together, three might be a perfect number.” She took a long drag of her pipe.

Benedict watched while Lucy plucked the pipe from Genevieve’s hand, and smoked on it as well. He was feeling a familiar warmth go through his body, particularly down south. “I could not agree more.”

“Might we head to the library? Henry has a well-stocked drinks cabinet, and I am in the mood for some literary stimulation,” Lucy suggested.

“Lead the way,” Benedict agreed, knowing full well none of them would be reading a single word tonight.

The three of them headed down the hall to the library. Meanwhile, Mr. Granville had greeted the group of excitable American girls (and Will—he was a Dove at this point) at the door.

They had gone home first to change into more comfortable clothing, and part ways with their elaborate jewels. Though her mother had questioned what she was doing with dresses she’d outgrown, Y/N packed them anyway. They were remnants from a simpler time in her life. No frills, deep maroon that contrasted the more fashionable pastel dresses in the ton, and hems a couple inches too short.

She felt like a princess in those sparkly frocks, but she felt like herself in her plain cotton dresses.

“Oh, this is capital!” she exclaimed, taking in the sights of the party and the sounds of loud chatter, “Do you really live like this, Mr. Granville?”

He nodded, amused by her enthusiasm. “It is more of a retreat than anything. The trenches are those balls we are all expected to attend.”

Y/N spotted the chamber of artists, some in deep concentration, some holding a brush in one hand and a drink in the other. She pulled Estrella off with her to stand at the threshold, peering in from either side. There were nude models standing perfectly still, breasts and buttocks immortalized on parchment.

None of them had ever been anywhere quite like this before, though Y/N would sooner die than admit she was inexperienced in any way. This was the perfect storm of people with Grosvenor Square money but without the typical Grosvenor Square hang-ups about propriety.

“Are you artists yourself?” Mr. Granville asked.

Y/N caught Estrella’s eyes; they really were not, but, “We could be,” she answered. They were just here to do whatever fit their fancy for the moment.

“Let’s find you some canvases then.”

“Oh, I actually have these masks from the ball. I was thinking of drawing or painting on them for my brother.” She held up the white and black mask she had pocketed.

Mr. Granville raised his eyebrows. “First, you bring drugs overseas, now theft against Lady Danbury of all people.”

Speaking of drugs. “Oh! Here.”

She produced a pouch containing the promised cannabis. It was more or less nonexistent in England. It was not exactly an abundant plant in America either, but she supposed a perk of being wealthy was that people just had connections for everything, including inhibition-lowering plants.

“For your hospitality. Let me roll one for you,” she offered, grabbing some generous pinches.

There was a fire roaring in the corner when the trio walked in, which made Benedict think that perhaps Lucy or Genevieve or both planned this all along. But with Genevieve’s hand tracing down his bare torso towards his bulge in his pants, and his own fingers in Lucy’s warm, wet cunt, he was not complaining.

There were forgotten glasses of liquor strewn about the room. One on a side table, two on the shelf in front of a probably priceless copy of Candide, and one more on top of a collection of Byron’s poetry, which could never be worth whatever Granville paid for it.

Benedict turned his head to kiss Genevieve as her hands reached their destination in his breeches. He broke the kiss with a moan as she teased his cock, feeling it lengthen and harden in her slender fingers. She then let go to move to the other side of Lucy, gently squeezing her breasts. He picked up his pace, pumping his fingers in and out of her faster.

His head was spinning. Maybe it was due to the two drinks he downed in quick succession. Maybe it was the touch of two women at once, limbs blending together as if the fire melded their bodies together. It overwhelmed him, numbing his mind to the guilt and dread that usually followed him. He left all of that at the door. He could be free for one night.

He encouraged Lucy with filthy words in her ears, bringing his thumb to rub against her clit. He relished in the immediate feedback as her panting gave way to audible moans. It was like a puzzle. What would happen if he kissed her here? Bit there? Curled his fingers just so?

He often felt like a failure. A subpar viscount at best. Certainly not an artist anymore, and he wasn’t sure he ever deserved to be called one before. Held his own family at arm’s length. But at least he was still good at this, and he would take his victories where he could get them.

Her moans climbed in pitch and volume until she clenched tightly around his fingers, pulsating as he worked her through her orgasm. He was deeply satisfied seeing her blissful expression, more satisfied than if he were coming himself.

Y/N was painting the inside of the black mask, turned away from the models and fruit bowls in the middle of the room. She wanted to start with something easy without too many intricate details, so she positioned herself at the bay window, and painted the inky midnight sky.

Or she was trying to.

The blue she originally started with was too bright to mimic a night sky, so she went over it with black, which muddied the whole thing. She also forgot to do the moon first, so when she attempted to trace out a crescent shape in yellow, it hardly showed up.

Perhaps it was the light, mellow feeling she got from the smoke or her baseline level of healthy delusion, but she did believe it was salvageable even if Mr. Granville did not agree.

She saw his reflection in the window, and paused so that he could assess her work.

“Oh,” was all he said, though his tone conveyed a thousand words.

“It is not that bad!” she insisted, “I could fix it.”

“I so admire your confidence,” he replied, the shady devil.

She rolled her eyes, and sighed. “Perhaps a drink would make me a better artist.”

“Help yourself, I’ve got a cabinet in the library you could rummage through. Last door on the right,” Mr. Granville informed, gesturing out of the room.

She hopped off the stool, wiping the paint off her hands onto her dress. She walked down the short hallway, a usually wide space that was being taken up by models, dancers, and artists lounging about in the haze. She reached the door Mr. Granville gestured at, opened it, and what she saw floored her.

Three bodies in various states of undress, two women and one man, were writhing together on the plush rug in front of the roaring fireplace, which made the already warm environment positively sweltering. They all gasped and looked at the intruder, stopping whatever ministrations they were in the midst of.

There were many couples—or groups—on the verge of committing the marital act scattered throughout the party, so this was not why she stood there stock-still and shocked to her core.

No, she was shocked because she actually recognized a few of them.

She recognized the modiste, Madame Delacroix; she’d been to a fitting prior to the ball. She was the most clothed, wearing trousers and a cleavage-accentuating corset, and thank God for that because Y/N did not know if she would’ve been able to return to her shop with a straight face otherwise.

She recognized the man who was situated between the legs of the woman lying on the floor as Lord Bridgerton. Her neighbor. The man she’d been told to avoid.

His expression was slack-jawed, and she had a sneaking suspicion that he was aboard the same train of thought. His hair was sticking up at funny angles. His lips were slightly swollen, and smeared with lipstick. Stripped of waistcoats and thick wool jackets, she half-expected him to seem smaller, but he remained robust and broad-shouldered, lean muscle rippling beneath his pale skin. His pants remained upon his hips, but the buttons were undone, and there was an obvious bulge at the front.

Then, she realized she’d been staring for far too long, and slammed the door shut. Her face was hot to the touch, and she was breathing heavily from the adrenaline, embarrassment, and some other sensation that she dared not name.

“Sorry!” she exclaimed. She walked a few steps away before running back and shouting against the mahogany, “But you should really lock the door!”

She walked back in a haze, both metaphorically and literally, waving her hand fruitlessly to part the smoke for long enough to get back to the painters’ room.

Estrella was back in front of her easel, opting for charcoal as her implement. She’d been splitting her time between watching the men down the hall gambling, and working on her drawing with Y/N. Even with only half the time spent on it, her fruit bowl drawing was leagues more coherent. Granville was standing there telling her as such.

He looked up when Y/N entered the room, not noticing her quickened breaths or faraway look. “What happened to the drink? Were you not able to find the room?”

“I, uh…” she trailed off, but Mr. Granville, ever the hospitable host, was already on the move, moving past her.

It took her a few seconds, but she snapped out of it when it finally clicked to her what exactly he’d be walking in on. She spun around and followed him, running. “Mr. Granville, wait!”

Her warning fell on deaf ears. His long strides made it basically impossible for her to catch up. “Don’t open that!” she yelled once more, as a Hail Mary, but his hand was already on the door knob, and she was a few paces too far to physically stop him.

When he swung the door open, Benedict was right on the other side, hand extended as if he were also going for the door knob. His shirt was back on, but not yet buttoned up. He looked sheepishly at Mr. Granville, knowing exactly what the scene behind him looked like.

He opened his mouth to speak before his eyes traveled over to Y/N, who had finally caught up, standing behind Granville. She was wincing, brows upturned and mouth in a flat line, looking at him apologetically. What did she have to apologize for?

All eloquence left him as soon as he laid eyes on her, and the only thing he could say was, “I was going to lock the door.” It was his turn to wince when he realized that it sounded like they planned to continue when he actually just wanted privacy for them to get dressed. He begged whatever part of his brain that enabled him to be suave and confident in front of pretty girls to come back at once.

“Well,” Lucy said from behind. She got up from the floor, robe already tied together when the door was flung open. “It appears my husband needs the room.”

“Husband?” Y/N and Benedict exclaimed at the same time. Madame Delacroix did not appear to be surprised at this revelation, and Lucy was mostly just amused.

Mr. Granville appeared remarkably unphased for a man who just walked in on his wife half-naked with another man and woman. He moved past Benedict into the room. “I’m just grabbing a drink for my new friend here—”

“Dovie,” Benedict said softly. His eyes went slightly wide as he realized he’d said that out loud.

Y/N appeared equally shocked. She remained still even as Lucy and Madame Delacroix exited the room, letting Benedict know of another room they could use to continue their rendezvous if desired, which made him blush profusely.

“Ah!” Granville exclaimed, head still poking around his extensive drinks cabinet, “So you are familiar with each other?”

“No,” Y/N said, “We’ve never met.” It was more terse than she intended, and she felt a pang of guilt immediately when she saw his crestfallen expression—God, did he really need to project every emotion on his face like that?—but Dovie was the name in her heart. She could not give it out to just anyone.

Mr. Granville returned to the threshold, practically throwing the bottle of whiskey into Y/N’s arms. “Well, Miss Y/N L/N, meet Lord Bridgerton. Lord Bridgerton, Miss Y/N.”

With that, Mr. Granville disappeared into the crowd as he saw another attendee in need of something, leaving Y/N and Benedict to deal with the aftermath of the whirlwind.

She stood there hugging the liquor bottle against her body like a child with their blanket. A slight breeze from a window that was left cracked open sent a chill through Benedict’s body, reminding him that he was standing in front of a lady with his shirt completely open.

“I should—” he began.

“Yes, you should—”

“Alright.”

He slammed the door shut, and began redressing. He cursed himself as he buttoned up his shirt. At Granville as he put on his waistcoat. And at God—because why not?—as he tied his cravat for such an unfortunate first impression on his neighbor.

Because they were just neighbors, and that was all they could ever be to each other.

All of Y/N’s friends were in the far end of the hallway watching the men play a game of Faro, groaning and cheering as cards popped up from the little wooden box. She walked up behind them, gesturing for them to present their glasses. She poured each of them a generous amount of whiskey.

“Where on Earth did you get your hands on a bottle of Kenson’s?” Will asked, inspecting his glass.

She poured just a second too long into Mina’s glass as she pondered what to say. How does one explain that this was the result of walking in on a ménage à trois?

She blew out a long breath, puffing out her cheeks. “You would rather not know,” she replied, walking away, and taking a swig straight from the bottle.

She was sitting at a table down the hall and to the right, trying her damndest to roll another joint with a dance card she’d found on the ground when Benedict approached her. He was such a pretty rich boy in his expensive waistcoat and matching cravat, but his expression was so guileless and apologetic that she felt guilty for reducing him like that in her mind.

“I’m terribly sorry for the scene. I do not know why Mr. Granville thought it appropriate to—” he cut himself off, wringing his hands. “It was not a sight for a lady like yourself to see.”

The parchment under her fingers burst open, refusing to be rolled. She sighed. “Considering I was only informed I would be a lady of the ton less than a fortnight ago, I suppose I could forgive you for your transgressions. If you have a drink with me.” She cocked her head to the bottle next to her.

Slowly, he smiled, the same lopsided grin from that day he saw her climb out of her window. It was like watching the first rays of sun appear at the crack of dawn. After weeks of being gawked at for any number of reasons—her dress, her hair, her jokes—it was refreshing to just be seen.

He grabbed two glasses out from a nearby dining hutch, and placed them on the table. “It would be my pleasure.”

She smiled shyly as she poured them both drinks, brushing her hair back from her face. She felt a bit ridiculous, like she had become exactly like all the other debutantes of the ton, but she blamed it on the back-to-back swig of whiskey and a smoke.

She waited for him to start drinking first before she asked her first question:

“So do you typically sleep with married women?”

He choked on his drink. She smiled like a cat that got the cream.

Whenever one of them did not want to answer a question, they would take a sip of their drink. At first, it was just a way to stall or change the subject, but obviously they both caught onto the other soon enough. So, it became a little game.

But Benedict found himself wanting to tell her everything. Or nearly everything, at least. What a relief it was to be face-to-face with someone who did not have some preconceived notion about him, to not start off an interaction on the back foot.

“Seven siblings?” she’d exclaimed, “That’s too many!”

He chuckled at her dramatic jaw-dropped expression. “You want to know something? We’re also named alphabetically.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ, of course you are.”

He laughed so hard he had tears in his eyes.

There were, however, still some things he did not quite know how to answer.

“Are you one of the artists that comes to these regularly?”

He laughed nervously, the same shakiness returning from when Genevieve asked him something along these lines. “Not regularly, no.”

“How do you know Granville then? He doesn’t seem like much of a society man.”

Drink.

She hummed noncommittally; she would not push. “He thinks my paintings leave much to be desired, but they are not so horrid, I don’t think.” She held up the mask she painted closer to the candles to see it better.

“Uhhh…” he started, scratching the back of his head. Is it bad that he couldn’t even tell what it was supposed to be?

Her head shot up, and her gaze narrowed. “Et tu, Brute?”

“Mē paenitet,” he shrugged, giving her a sheepish grin.

“No, you’re not.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Are you courting anyone?” Benedict asked, feeling a bit too bold for his own good. Y/N finally managed to roll a joint for him, and he became so relaxed in his seat, he was practically boneless.

“God, no.”

He tried his damndest to suppress his smile. “Really? I thought you were with a man called Will?”

“Will?”

He flung his arms out and looked at her quizzically—is it such a ridiculous assumption? He accidentally smacked his hand into the bottle, which she steadied. “You just seemed very familiar with him.”

“I’ve known him since we were babies, that’s why.”

“And you’ve never…?”

“Ne-ver,” she implored, “He’s married to Mina. I was actually the one who got them together.”

“Oh, that’s sweet of you.”

She shrugged. “It gave me something to focus on that season other than my sister. Also, Mina is far too interesting and fabulous for her own good. If she hadn’t gotten married, there would’ve been no hope for the rest of us.”

The corners of her mouth upturned ever so slightly as she spoke fondly of her friend, even if it was masked in sarcasm and a little slurred. She switched to cigarettes when Benedict offered them earlier, taking a long drag from one as she finished speaking. He needed to stop looking at her mouth.

There was something in her eyes when she mentioned her sister, flashes of love and fury and grief all at once. He knew a thing or two about complicated sibling relationships so he knew better than to poke that particular bear. “And that is something you wish for yourself? Marriage?” he asked.

“Well, we all must do it one day, don’t we? I certainly am not marrying this season, not to an Englishman—no offense. I just cannot bear to leave home forever.”

“None taken.” And that was the truth, he did not feel some sort of obligation to defend his fellow Englishmen—not all of them deserved defending frankly. But he did feel a dull ache at the confirmation that he would have to put any feelings bordering on attraction towards her to the wayside.

“But I do intend on marrying next season.”

He leaned forward, practically inspecting her with his gaze. She had trouble meeting his discerning eyes—it felt like they could pierce right through her very being. “So you dislike society. You skip out on balls, and you find your way to scandalous parties like these, but you fully intend to participate in the marriage mart in New York. How come?”

She pondered on it for a moment before draining the rest of her glass. There was no clear cut answer. Any explanation would come out sounding like the ramblings of a drunk woman, and it would bring up too many details about her old life, the one without the wealth and the strings it came attached with.

She cleared her throat. “So, Lord Bridgerton—”

“Would you please call me Benedict actually? I don’t…” He trailed off, but she waited patiently for him to gather his thoughts. “My name is Benedict.”

“Benedict,” she repeated back, savoring each syllable, “Will you call me Dovie then?”

He smiled at her, understanding the weight of what she just offered. She took another drag of her cigarette, blowing out a dark, amorphous cloud that wafted up in front of her face. Perhaps, under cover of smoke, he could safely sneak another glance at her lips.

They learned quite a bit about each other over the course of the night. He held onto each new piece of information the way he held onto the scraps of Whistledown she threw out her window that fateful day. Her family came up through the railroad business. She was the middle of three children, an older sister who she was reluctant to talk about and a much younger brother.

He did eventually reveal that he had some interest in the arts a long time ago, but none of those ambitions ever came to fruition; the only surviving relic of that time was his friendship with Mr. Granville.

He was worried he had become boring over the past year without much room for hobbies, but she listened with the same rapt attention as he recounted his viscount duties. It was strangely comforting to her, reminding her of when she taught herself chess in the corner of her father’s office as he created the five-year business plan that would thrust them into the upper echelons of society.

They even got to the trivial things. Favorite foods, first house they remembered living in, middle names or lack thereof, did they wake with the sun or drag their feet in the morning, has he ever read Tales of the Dead because she thought he might like it, how did she get the name Dovie, and so on, and so forth.

Revelry was taking place all around them, revelry that they would usually try to get involved in, but there they were. Just sitting quietly in a corner, talking. He saw the hands of the grandfather clock tick away as they talked for hours. But of course, they did eventually hit a lull, having exhausted every subject under the bright moon.

“Your turn,” Benedict pointed out after several moments of silence.

She tapped her fingers on her glass, pondering, but it was not because she was at a loss for words. Benedict had seen that firsthand when she walked in on his ménage à trois, her eyes doe-wide, and this was not that.

“You have more questions, I can tell,” he said, “You have not been shy since you set foot in London, so why are you starting now?”

She laughed nervously, which rather worried him. What had he done to make her apprehensive suddenly? Weren’t they just enjoying themselves?

“We are having a good time. I do not wish to spoil it,” she replied, choosing her words carefully and slowly. She leaned back against her chair, distancing herself, as she waited for him to catch on.

And he did. His smile slowly fell off his face, like ice melting. There was really only one last thing left to ask about. There goes that other shoe, clattering on the ground. “You want to know about my brother’s duel,” he stated evenly.

She did not answer immediately, which was really an answer in itself. Warm candlelight illuminated only half of her face, the other half shrouded in darkness. She looked like the moon when it was half-full, torn between disappearing and forging onward.

Benedict wished he had the means and faculties to capture the image. How often is a subject’s expression and emotion reflected in her surroundings like this? Even rarer does the artist feel those same emotions at the same time. It was all rather serendipitous.

“His name is Anthony, right?” Something as familiar as his brother’s name sounded foreign in her accent. Anth-ony, she said. Not Ant-hony, the way it was meant to be said.

He nodded. “And the man he killed was his dearest friend from university. Him and my sister Daphne had been courting and…liberties were taken. He was the Duke o—” he cut himself off, clearing his throat. “His name was Simon Basset.”

Seeing as he laid down his life to ensure the discontinuation of the Hastings line, it was only right that the duke be referred to by his given name. Benedict could relate. He did not want to be remembered as Viscount Bridgerton; if he had to spend the rest of his life as an imposter, he would like to be free from that torment in death.

Benedict waited for her to continue, but it seemed that she was still uncertain. He leaned forward, arms folded on the table. “Hey,” he started, “It is okay to ask. It is a rather tantalizing story.” He started to reach for her hand, but thought better of it.

“But that is not what—” she blurted out, leaning forward to mirror him. “I do not wish to hear some sordid tale of betrayal or doomed romance or—If I wanted the dramatized version of events, I’d have read Whistledown. I’d have asked someone else in the ton, but I am asking you. I want to know you.”

Benedict frowned quizzically. “What do you mean?”

She frowned back; how much clearer could she have been? “You were not always Viscount Bridgerton. I’d like to know about Benedict. What happened to him?”

There was a pregnant pause where they were just looking at each other, the space between them only as wide as the glasses of whiskey that separated them. She saw profound sorrow in him. It weighed heavy on his shoulders, in the bags under his eyes, even in the gray at the edges of his otherwise light green eyes.

The ton treated the events of his life like their favorite serial, eagerly awaiting for the next issue. She sought to understand him. But would she run once she did?

Anthony and Benedict dismounted their steeds a quarter mile west of the basin of Huxley Creek. Growing up, they’d heard whispers of the sort of matters that were settled here; Benedict supposed his brother and Simon Basset’s duel would just be another in a long line.

The gun box felt like it weighed several stones in Benedict’s arms, though he knew its contents were not truly that heavy. He saw the doctor standing near the tree, looking out at the view of the river. It was almost peaceful.

Anthony approached the man. “Doctor, I appreciate your attendance and discretion.”

“You have my blunt?” he asked with the nonchalant cadence which one would use to inquire about the weather. Anthony handed him the pouch. “Very well. Try not to go dying while I am present.”

“If the goal is merely to wound, where should my brother aim?” Do not lose hope yet, Benedict kept telling himself, Let’s try to keep everyone alive.

And then, the doctor looked at them like they were stupid. “You think you have the skill to guide the path of a moving bullet? Then you are either a fool or the king’s finest marksman. Which is it?”

With that the doctor walked away, knowing exactly which option the two brothers were.

The sound of horses galloping approached with Simon and Will Mondrich, his second. Anthony pulled Benedict aside. “I have one last matter to discuss with you.”

“You have already provided ample instruction. I shall contact the solicitor and safeguard our sisters’ dowries—”“An additional task,” Anthony interrupted. “In the top drawer of my desk, you shall find the name of a lady. If I die, you must ensure she is provided for. Do you swear?”

A lady. That was who Anthony must’ve been visiting when Benedict heard the front door open last night. Who was this woman important enough that Anthony would add her to his de facto will and testament?

“Benedict, do—”

“I swear.”

Anthony looked at him for a long second. Benedict saw a flash of the boy who helped him with knee scrapes and Latin vocabulary. Anthony opened Benedict’s hand and closed it around a pocket watch, their father’s watch. It burned through his gloves.

Benedict tried to keep his breathing even. He was the second, and seconds tried to end duels peacefully. Surely, whatever liberties Simon took with Daphne did not warrant all of this. Many duels have ended simply because both parties were willing to show, and thus, had proven their honor. If Anthony would see reason, he could take it all back. Better to be a coward in private than a murderer or dead in public.

“Brother—”

“That is all,” Anthony cut him off, and walked away before Benedict got another word in edgewise.

Looking back, he had been letting Anthony steamroll him since they were children, usually over petty things. But this particular time...If Benedict could reverse the clock, he’d shake his old self and tell him to be a stronger man because look at the mess his life turned out to be when he was not.

Preparations took place. Mondrich inspected the weapons to ensure they were fit and fair. Benedict felt rather feeble beside the boxer. The doctor was turned away for deniability. His brother and the duke were in an intense stare-off.

Simon had red-rimmed eyes; it appeared that last night was not kind to him either. “For what it is worth,” he began, “I am sorry.”

“Your apology is worth nothing to me,” Anthony bit back.

Benedict sighed. Even the most amiable of mediators wouldn’t have been able to talk down his brother. He and Mondrich handed over the pistols, and walked an acceptable distance away.

Anthony and Simon stood back to back, and began pacing. Benedict kept his eyes trained on Simon, and Mondrich did the same with Anthony, counting ten paces each. Both dueling parties turned to face each other with the precision of a military about-face.

Simon aimed his pistol at the sky to Benedict’s shock. He kept waiting for him to point his weapon forward, but he never did. His expression was solemn, but strangely at ease.

How strange it must be to look down the barrel of a gun and see your dearest friend.

Anthony’s going to lose his nerve, Benedict thought. He was still aiming forward, but his hand shook more and more with each passing second. Any minute now, Anthony was going to realize they could settle this another way and drop his weapon.

Then, the wind changed direction. Clouds came in front of the sun.

Benedict could spend the rest of his life tossing adjectives around and never quite capture what happened in that moment. It was like the very Earth itself shifted on its axis, throwing them into some misaligned universe. They were not supposed to be here. He felt a pang in the pit of his stomach. There was something in the air; he could feel it, even if he could never put it into words.

Something was about to go terribly wrong.

Benedict heard a rhythmic thumping that he had assumed was his own heartbeat until it got so loud, it sounded like it was coming from outside himself.

Suddenly, a woman on a horse—Daphne, he realized after a moment—tore right past him and Mondrich into the middle of the duel.

“Stop!”

A gun went off, but Benedict did not see whose. The horse, spooked, bucked her off, and she fell to the hard ground with audible impact. She laid in a heap for a second too long, and he feared the worst. “Sister!” he yelled, running over.

Anthony also ran over, trying to see if she was conscious. Colin nearly fell off his horse in his haste, and followed suit. Daphne lifted her head, gasping for the breath that was knocked out of her lungs. “Sister,” Anthony said, high-strung and properly frightened, “Are you hurt?”

Daphne scoffed. “I am not—”

She cut herself off when she looked up, expression warping into something dark. The three brothers followed her gaze.

Simon was rooted in place, weapon hanging limply from one hand and the other grasping at the center of his torso. His waistcoat grew dark, darker than the red of his coat and into muddy, bricky territory. Viscous blood seeped between his fingers and trickled down.

He was staring at his wound, like he couldn’t quite believe it was his body with a hole torn through his organs and expelling that much blood. He looked up, and fixed his dark brown eyes on Daphne’s blue ones, now filled with tears and complete terror.

He staggered backwards and fell to the ground.

“No!” Daphne shrieked, a piercing, painful cry that could shatter glass.

She bolted to him, too fast for any of her brothers to react, blue cloak sweeping behind her. She crouched down next to his body, pressing her own hands onto the wound, but removing them when he winced.

Benedict looked at Anthony, puzzled and panicked. Anthony was breathing heavily, on the verge of hyperventilating. He lifted the gun, allowing them to inspect the barrel. It was smoking, and the unmistakable metallic tang of gunpowder filled their noses.

“Brother,” Benedict said, horrified, “What have you done?”

Anthony, the man he’d been looking to for answers for a decade, was equally as perplexed. But ever the eldest brother, he schooled his face into something more stoic, impenetrable. “I—I don’t…It just slipped,” he replied, uneven voice and shaky hands betraying him.

Daphne let out a particularly distressing cry, snapping them out of their daze. She was pleading with Simon now, tears falling freely. Mondrich had already leapt into action, dragging the doctor by the arm to the scene.

“Ma’am, you must get off of him!” the doctor yelled.

“Miss Bridgerton—” Mondrich began.

Shakily, Simon moved a hand off his wound to wave towards the two men. “Wait,” he commanded, refusing medical treatment.

He was now bleeding all over Daphne’s previously stark white nightgown. He pulled her closer, her body nearly on top of him now. She cupped his face with her hands before realizing they were covered in blood, leaving delicate prints on his face. She started to move away, but he grabbed one of her hands and held it against his face, smiling wearily. The rest of the men stood by helplessly, stock still and bewildered.

“You’re going to be okay. You’ll be happy, it’s okay,” Simon rasped.

“I—No! What are you—No!” Daphne stuttered, “How can I be happy? Simon, please.” She began to sob into the crook of his neck, her once painfully clear pleas becoming nonsensical.

Anthony moved forward briskly, with the brave face and armor of a viscount back on, but the cocking of a gun rang loudly in the field, silencing even Daphne.

It was Mondrich, eyes narrowed in the way Benedict had only seen right before a match, training a gun on Anthony. “Do not take another step.”

Benedict was well and properly terrified now. He looked to his older brother, looking to him to lead. But there was something swirling in his eyes, something dangerous.

“We are just retrieving our sister!” Anthony barked, incensed. Any fear Anthony may have had was manifesting itself as anger. And anger made him irrational.

“Then why are you still holding your gun? Why should I trust that your trigger finger won’t slip again?” Mondrich spat out, nodding his head towards the weapon still indeed in Anthony’s hand. His voice cracked with emotion, standing as the only barrier between his friend and the man who killed him. “Drop it.”

“Drop yours,” Anthony bit back.

Mondrich made no move to do so.

Benedict saw Anthony slowly raising the gun, and before his mind could tell his body to stop, Benedict leapt in between the two men, hands raised in surrender.

“Hey!” Benedict shouted, startling everyone. In hindsight, it was probably the stupidest choice he could’ve made, surprising two men with weapons. “Let us not be hasty here.”

Mondrich glared at him, a stare that had made men twice Benedict’s size cower and that was without a gun in their faces. “It is a little late for that, don’t you think? Boy?”

“Brother, what do you think you’re doing?” Anthony whispered harshly.

Benedict hardly heard him, though. He was staring down the barrel of the gun, going nearly cross-eyed with his intent focus. A single bullet, a tiny little thing really, just killed a man. Could kill him.

Anything Benedict said or did next could either end this now or cause more bloodshed.

He then looked back up at Mondrich. He was a man of honor, but honor in such highly emotional circumstances could be stretched extremely thin. Despite his imposing frame and snarled mouth, Benedict did not see vengeance in his eyes. Only grief and fear.

“Colin, get the gun box,” Benedict commanded, not quite recognizing his own voice.

He did not dare turn back, but he heard the shuffling of feet across grass. Once it stopped, he continued. “Anthony, put your gun in there.”

“And leave us defenseless?” Anthony argued, shocked.

“Brother, for once in your life, please just listen to me!” Benedict shouted, voice bordering on the edge of shrieking. Being at the wrong end of a pistol had a way of bringing a man to his breaking point.

Benedict waited silently, hands still up as a show of good faith, until he heard the clicking of the box. Mondrich and Benedict stared each other down for a few seconds too long for Benedict’s liking. He shut his eyes tightly, fearing the worst was about to come, when he heard a thud on the ground.

Mondrich had thrown the gun down.

Benedict shuddered out a breath of relief as he opened his eyes. The mask slipped off Mondrich’s face, revealing a pained expression. Daphne’s wailing had been reduced to whimpers, her tears mixing with the half-dried blood all over Simon’s body.

It was enough to make tears well up in his own eyes. He grabbed onto her shoulders. “Sister, we must go. Before anyone should see us.”

He tugged on her gently, hoping it would be better to coax her into leaving, but she was not budging.

“No,” she said softly.

“Daph, please—”

“No!” Her voice rose suddenly to a blood-curdling frequency, and she elbowed his ribs in an attempt to shake him off.

The pain hardly registered. There was too much adrenaline coursing through him. Benedict steeled himself before forcefully yanking his sister up and away. He turned her towards him, away from the gory sight in front of them.

The blood trickled into the grass in winding streams from the basin of Simon’s wound. It pooled in the crevices the way ink does when a quill is left in one spot for too long. The smell was metallic, similar to the residue on his brother’s gun, but in a more visceral, carnal way. There was so much of it in the air that Benedict could taste it like he’d bitten down on his tongue too hard.

His stomach roiled, and he looked up at the sky; he was going to be sick. Daphne’s gown was completely drenched in blood, staining Benedict’s clothes as he pulled her away. Her bloody hands pushing against his chest, begging him to let her go, only worsened his appearance.

The doctor rushed to kneel next to Simon’s body, wrapping his largest bandage around the torso. He seemed to bleed through each layer with remarkable speed.

“Doctor?” Mondrich asked.

“He still has a pulse, but it is extremely faint. I can stop the bleeding for long enough to get him home, but after that...” The doctor trailed off, giving up on his sentence.

Mondrich turned to Benedict. “We will transport the duke back to his estate. If he dies, I will alert you, after which, you have 24 hours before I report to the authorities. This is the last mercy I am granting you. Do I make myself clear?”

Faintly, Benedict heard Anthony’s watch in his pocket tick, tick, ticking. “Yes.”

“Good. Now go.”

Benedict kept an iron grip on Daphne, and turned them around towards his brothers, stunned into silence by the scene in front of them.

“You heard him,” Benedict said frantically, feeling every second slip away rapidly, “We must go. Now!”

Benedict’s eyes had been glazed over for the past few minutes as he recounted the story, voice cracking and smoothing itself out as he spoke of being at the deadly end of a pistol. He trailed off at the part where he and his siblings made a run for it.

Neither of them had been speaking for a full minute. She was waiting for him to come back to reality on his own time, but his thousand-yard stare only grew more distant.

She pushed her hand across the table slowly, as though approaching a skittish cat. Her touch on his hand was feather-light, but he jerked it away. He’d snapped back out of his memories, jostling the table.

He cleared his throat awkwardly, wiping away tears that never fell. The whole of him was awkward now, hunching slightly, limbs kept close to the body. He was completely unlike the suave, flirtatious fellow she had been volleying with.

That’s what you wanted though, her mind supplied, unhelpfully. Except it wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted to see the person underneath the wearied exterior the same way he looked past her flashy stunt and bad manners.

But instead, he had molted out of his skin, rendering him more vulnerable and naked than any state of undress could. She felt dreadfully guilty about it.

“It is rather late,” Benedict finally spoke, affecting an air of nonchalance, “I should head home before my mother wakes to find my study empty.”

He gave himself a long pour of what remained of the whiskey, her eyes widening as he kept going. If the lock for Pandora’s box would appear right about now, it would be most convenient.

“Benedict?”

He finally stopped when the glass was three-quarters full, entirely too much for how strong it was. He stood up, and threw on his jacket, putting his armor back on. He picked up the glass and gestured to her with it, an attempt at cheekiness. “You ought to as well.”

He began downing his drink as he walked away in large strides. He weaved through half-dressed partiers, painters with armfuls of supplies, and women dragging silk chiffon through the air. The whiskey filled his body with warmth, and clouded his mind pleasantly.

He thought for a second that he was going to get the last word. And then he heard the clacking of boots behind him, and almost smiled at his wrongness. It would be amusing if he were not trying to distance himself for her own good.

She had lost him briefly in the smoke clouds before spotting him around the corner. “Hey!”

“You should find your friends.”

“Slow down!” Whether she was referring to his pace of walking or drinking, she did not even know herself.

“It is honestly remarkable that nobody has burst in here looking for any of you yet.”

“Benedict, I’m sorry!”

They had come up to the front door now when he stopped and whirled around on her, bewildered. “Whatever for, Dovie?” He was the one who dumped all his baggage on her.

“I should not have asked about…that.”

“You have no reason to be sorry. I was the one who kept going on and on.”

“I would have stopped if I knew it was going to cause this much distress! I would have never even touched the subject. I wanted us to have a good night—”

He suddenly grabbed her face, firm but not forceful, stopping her rambling in its tracks. He was being too familiar with someone who was a stranger hours ago, but he needed to calm her mind and he was too far gone to realize just how intimate this was.

“Hey. I’m alright,” he implored.

Her pupils grew impossibly large and dark the longer they held eye contact, and her lips parted slightly. She was searching in his eyes for proof he was lying about being alright. At some point, though, she became taken by how his green eyes reflected specks of gold in the candlelight. His hand was warm against her face, the pads of his fingers soft and uncalloused.

Benedict took in how her eyebrows creased upwards ever so slightly. He did not know how they’d gotten so close, standing toe to toe, close enough to feel her body heat through light cotton fabric. Experimentally, he dragged his thumb across the apple of her cheek, and she let out an nearly imperceptible gasp. He felt a desire spark in him, a small flame that had the power to be devastating.

And then it struck him how innocent she was. She did not pretend to be a saint and would probably kick him if he suggested such a thing, but the way she reacted to a simple touch told him she was a lot more talk than walk. She was also innocent in the sense that she was not burdened by the weight of his rank and history, which was chained to him by his ankles, impeding him every time he tried to move forward.

He dropped his hand, and stepped back. Her chest heaved against the neckline of her dress like she hadn’t taken a breath in ages. If they were caught being that close anywhere else, her reputation would be ruined. She could act like she didn’t care, but when push came to shove, she would come to care quite a lot. They always do.

As quickly as the fire started, he had to put it out.

“Good night, Miss Y/N. Get home safe.”

He downed the rest of his drink, left the glass on a nearby side table, and headed out into the night.

Y/N remained in the doorway for a minute after Benedict practically ran away, stumbling on the path. She pressed a hand to where his hand was on her face, feeling hot to the touch. She could blame it on the alcohol, but that would only be half-true.

She was hoping he might look back at her, so that she didn’t feel quite so pathetic staring at him like this. She had half a mind to run after him, and at least get him some water.

“Dovie!” cried Estrella, clapping a hand on her shoulder. She’d clearly had a drink or two by this point, and it was hitting her harder due to her inexperience. “You mustn't miss this! Peaky’s on a winning streak!”

She squinted her eyes to see the rousing game of Faro going on in the back. She turned towards the outside, the evening chill hitting her face, and only made out a speck in the distance getting smaller.

Estrella tapped her again. Her poor, little Duckling. Y/N would need to take care of her tonight to make sure she did not overdo it. She put Benedict out of her mind, and allowed the younger girl to drag her back into the party.

Mina did indeed manage to swindle all the Faro players of their money, planting a deep kiss on her husband to celebrate her victory. They had become rather popular. Quite a few attendees were tempted to hop on a ship to America if they could get a stash of cannabis to bring home. The Doves, as usual, were making waves wherever they went. While Y/N would normally relish in this, she spent quite a bit of the night replacing Estrella’s gin with water until her speech became clear again.

As the hour grew nearer to morning than night, the Doves grew weary. The party-goers slowly filtered out, and just like that, the fun times were over. They thanked Mr. Granville for his hospitality, and went on their way back home.

They were just at the edge of Mayfair. They walked arm in arm, taking up most of the road. Estrella in particular was hiccupping and being held up by Y/N and Mina on either side. Y/N had put both of her masks on her forehead when she grew tired of holding them, the white one peering over the top from behind the black one.

“Why in the world do you have two? Surely, you would not want something to remember the ball by.” Will mused.

“I’m not sure she will remember anything when morning comes,” quipped Mina.

Y/N chuckled. “I’ve been holding my drink and smoke just fine so far. Besides, I thought Harry might find them amusing.” Her brother had been growing rather tired of his math lessons and the same three toys in rotation. He might like to play pretend with the masks.

They came up to the alley where they would need to sneak down in order to avoid the nosy residents of Grosvenor Square, or worse, their mothers. Most businesses had closed up shop for the night, but a handful were still open. There was a faint light in a local printing press, the sound of iron machinery clanking.

Across the street was a bar with a wooden sign hanging that said Nell’s with a four-leaf clover painted on. It was also dim, only a few lanterns remaining lit. The chairs had been mostly stacked up for the night. They had an outdoor seating area with one man still sitting—or slumped over, really—at a table.

A man who looked an awful lot like—

“Benedict?”

The man raised his head up from where it was resting on the table with a start. “Who calls?” It was, indeed, Benedict, his green eyes unfocused.

“Is that our neighbor?” Mina exclaimed, brows scrunched in concern and confusion as to why Y/N was acting so familiar with him.

“Are you an angel?” he asked.

“Yes. No,” Y/N said in quick succession, first to Mina’s question, then to Benedict’s.

“Are you suuuure?” He was practically crowing now.

The owner of the establishment came out. “You’ve come to take ‘im home?”

“Sir, how much has he had to drink?”

“Jus’ one from ‘ere, but it looks like he’s been out ‘n about prior. Not to mention the flask he’s got on.”

Oh, this is bad, this is very, very bad, Y/N thought, mind running a mile a minute. She couldn’t just leave him here, vulnerable to physical and social ruin; both forms of harm were unfortunately equally damaging in high society.

Will sprang into action, trying to lift Benedict off the chair, and get him moving. However, with one trip, Benedict’s body slumped over once again like dead weight. He was in an awkward sitting position on the ground, propped up only by Will’s hold on his upper body.

Mina was still acting as a crutch for Estrella, who was doing far better than Benedict, but still unbalanced. “We can’t get both him and Duckie home, not like this.”

As if the universe was playing a joke on them, they heard the unmistakable sound of a carriage approaching, galloping hooves getting closer and closer. It was going to turn the corner onto their street at any moment.

“Fuck!” Mina whispered harshly. “Dove’s going to kill us if we cause a scandal.”

Y/N closed her eyes for a second. She was still coming down from her high, and trying to come up with something off the top of her head in such a state was proving difficult.

Wait. The top of her head.

She yanked off one of the masks off of her head, and wrangled it on Benedict’s face. He was not putting up too much of a fight, which worried her. She then slid the remaining mask on her own face.

“All of you go home now before you are recognized. I can stay with Ben—Lord Bridgerton, and we still have the cover of the masks.”

“You cannot possibly drag him all the way home, I could hardly do it,” Will protested.

“You should not be alone either,” Mina added.

The carriage turned the corner at that moment, the driver’s lantern fast approaching. Their precarious situation would be exposed soon.

“Go now! Leave a window open, and I will run home as fast as I can!”

Mina and Will looked at each other, and then at Estrella; it was more important to preserve her reputation. They could only hope Y/N would save herself and run if Lord Bridgerton were recognized.

They booked it down the alleyway right as the lantern illuminated where they once were. The carriage looked to be unmarked, so hopefully it was nobody from high society. Though, members of the ton could just as easily get a hired hack.

Once the carriage passed, she pulled out some money that she had stuffed into her boot before leaving. “Here,” she said to the bar owner, “For your discretion.”

He waved her off. “You’re not the first woman who’s had to come and cart ‘er husband off. I’ll keep your secrets.”

“I—” she cut herself off; not worth taking the time to correct him. “Thank you, sir.”

“You lot sound like you’re from outta town,” he added, “So some advice? Get ‘im to the inn on the corner of St. Andrew and Hawkeye. Better than dragging ‘im back to the square.”

St. Andrew and Hawkeye. That was about four streets down. Y/N could do four streets. Whether or not Benedict could remained to be seen.

“Thank you, I mean it.” She left a few coins on the table for him anyway.

She grabbed Benedict from under his arms, deciding to let his legs drag along the ground as she walked backwards. The carriage was parked in front of the printing press, and would hopefully not turn back until the two of them got out of sight.

They made their way around the corner, and her back and arms were already starting to ache. She’d tripped twice, the unpaved streets proving to be a nightmare. Benedict was heavier than he looked, and her only physical activity as of late was waltzing around a ballroom.

Benedict’s head lolled backwards in a way that made her eyebrows shoot up in concern, but he seemed more conscious this time. “I only asked ‘cause you look like an angel. You’ve even got wings.”

She supposed the curve and point of her white mask could look like wings if one squinted, and she tried not to think about the fact that he was already asking if she was an angel before she put on her “wings” so to speak. “Fine, yes, I am an angel.”

“Are you here to grant me my life back?” He sounded like a little boy, and it broke her damn heart. Perhaps that was why it was so difficult to drag him down the cobblestones; everything about him from his spirit to his body was heavily laden with his inescapable past.

“I will certainly try.”

Y/N carried on dragging him down the streets, being helped occasionally when Benedict was conscious enough to push his feet against the ground to propel them. He was able to stand about halfway through, though he latched onto her for support. They finally reached the inn, illuminated by a single candle at the main reception desk.

She spotted the prices through the window. She did not have enough to get a room and bribe the innkeeper, unless she’d be willing to keep her mouth shut for a measly two pounds. If anyone blabbed about the American girl in a masquerade mask, it would inevitably be traced to Y/N.

She was going to have to take a swing, and deal with the fallout if she missed. Mind your R’s, she heard in her head.

“Hello ma’am!” she said in her best English accent, walking in as normal as she possibly could with a man leaning on her heavily. “Are there any open rooms?”

Water streamed down the hem of Y/N’s dress as she sat on the edge of the bathtub, trying to scrub away the dirt and grime of London. She felt the beginnings of a headache set in, though it was manageable for now. Benedict laid in bed in the other room, a great deal improved from how he was an hour ago. They’d both pay for this in the morning.

He’d gotten sick pretty much immediately after stepping into the room, vomiting out the window into a side alley. She cleaned him up as best she could, scrubbing his face with a warm towel. He was still stumbling when she popped off his shoes and took his coat off, but was otherwise sobering up.

As far as the innkeeper was concerned, the pair were Mr. and Mrs. Travlock, newlyweds who needed lodging after Mr. Travlock got too drunk at the pub to get home. Of course, the innkeeper surely knew that they were lying about something—those pearly masks and his expensive clothing were dead giveaways—but any gossip that spread would be about an English woman in peasants’ clothes and a nobleman who was present at the Danbury Ball.

Y/N headed back into the main bedroom. He was still lying down, eyes closed, warm cloth over his forehead. He’d undone his cravat and waistcoat in the time she was in the bathroom, leaving him in his loose, billowy shirt, with two or three buttons undone.

She turned around to the table in the corner, trying not to look at the new inches of skin that had been exposed, to prepare some tea for him to help settle his stomach. He looked younger when he was asleep, the way he might’ve looked if she had met him before he was Viscount Bridgerton.

As she stirred the tea bag around in the cup of hot water, she wondered briefly how their meeting might have played out had he remained the second son.

Would they have seriously considered courting each other? He was just as handsome up close as he was from two stories below—perhaps even more so because up close, she could make him smile and relish in the crow’s feet forming in the corner of his eyes. She couldn’t imagine moving to London, but maybe, just maybe, his lack of responsibility as the spare would have shielded her from spending too much time in high society. Perhaps they were compatible.

If they were living in fantasy land.

“Thank you,” Benedict whispered, taking the cloth off, “You did not have to do this.” At least he no longer mistook her for an angel.

“I couldn’t very well leave you stranded, not when I contributed to your discomposure.”

Benedict wanted to protest, to tell her it wasn’t her fault, but he was starting to fall asleep—properly this time instead of blacking out.

“And with any luck, you’ll wake up in the morning and hardly remember any of it,” she continued, “Good night, Benedict.”

She left the tea on the nightstand beside him, and took the key in case someone needed to come pick him up; she would need to figure that out in the morning. As she opened the door, she froze when she heard him very softly say:

“I hope I remember.”

She turned back to look at him, and he was out cold, tiredness finally catching up to him. It’s not like she would’ve known what to say back anyway. It was the ramblings of a sleep-deprived, sobering man, and she shook it out of her head. Locking the door behind her, she slinked off into the night.

perfect all-american bitch masterlist // previous chapter - next chapter

author's note: so benedict in the show doesn't find out granville is gay until s1e5, which is after the duel (news to me tbh) so he has no clue about why their marriage works like that, and i haven't really figured out if and how benedict would find that out lol. also my sophie fancast is myra molloy in case anyone was curious!

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