Chapter Text
“Oh, goddamn! my pain fits in the palm of your freezing hand, taking mine but it's been promised to another. Oh, I can't stop you putting roots in my dreamland. My house of stone, your ivy grows, and now I'm covered in you.”
You were ill of pretenses.
“You should smile more.”
And you were sick of James Brooke's sanctimonious behavior.
“Perhaps, you should keep your unwanted judgment to yourself.”
You saw the glint of amusement in his forest eyes at the malice in your tone. His grip on your waist tightens as he spins you around, the luxurious collar diamond sparking under the warm undertones of the candlelight ballroom- an embodiment of Lord Brook's filial loyalty. The warmth of his broad chest against your back feels suffocating, like a hand gripping your throat, impeding you from freely breathing.
“Smile,” his hot breath tickles your neck, and with every ticking beat the urge to get out of his grip and run away becomes more wanton, regardless, the urgency in his tone keeps you in place. The corner of your lips raises in a practiced charming smile, eyes glinting with false happiness. Somehow there is a sort of trust and loyalty between you.
Two halves of the same farce.
A perfect scheme orchestrated for the woman with the penetrating stare standing in one corner of the grand ballroom.
Lady Laurence has always been a woman of strong character, a widower who gained her reputation and wealth with blood, tears, and sweat. A childless woman who put all her hopes on you. Her gaze doesn't waver for you, even when she takes her time to bow to Lady Cowper and other irritating ladies of the Ton - a complete sense of ridiculousness in her behavior. A genuine chuckle escapes your lips. Of course, would Lady Laurence relished in the begrudged stares in a proud stance of chin raised, frail shoulders leaned back, and a pleasing yet mocking smile curving in her thin lips.
A clear portrait of victory .
“Isn't Lady Laurence a force to be reckoned with?” Jame´s deep voice takes you out of your observations. At the compass of the waltz, you turn around, faces closed to each other. You have to admit that your betrothed is a sight to behold. Underneath the golden shower of the candelabrum, he resembles all the Greek sculptures you are always fascinated to admire in the art galleries around Europe. Your gaze follows with artistic fascination the cupid bow of his slightly chapped lips, the freckles on his tall nose because of all the hunting trips in the countryside, and the strand of rich blond hair falling carelessly on his forehead.
He looks so much like the child who used to chase you around your countryside house backyard. A dear friend. A brother chose beyond blood. A victim of your Machiavellian plans.
“A woman to be afraid of.”
He laughs, yet, an unspoken sadness resides heavenly in his eyes. As if the mere sight of your aunt's watchful stance reminds him of the truth and the unpaid debts of the past - about the tormented heart of the beautiful and elegant woman watching in some place of the ballroom. Hands fidgeting. Longing gazes.
Two hearts broken. Two hands bloody.
You wish to tell him all your regrets and apologies. You hope that he can see it in the trembling of your hands, the shame you hide in the bow of your head at the end of the dance, and the avoidant of her gaze. The woman he calls out in dreams, the one that has been banished in the eyes of his family. The daughter of a merchant, who is not enough for a man of his position. His true love.
Selfish girl. The voice of your wickedness whispers, but are you that selfish when love is the root of your decisions?
Immediately, you search for the figure of the object of all your affection. Your mother's tired smile sends a pang of hurt to your heart as she dismisses the help of Penelope's Featherington to serve her a glass of fresh lemonade sitting on the refreshment table. You let go of Jame’s arm, rushing to her side while sending a grateful smile to Penelope. The girl returns it without a single word, and you are more than thankful for her lack of mention of the faltering strength of your mother to do a simple task.
“Mama, let me help you with this.” You say while taking the glass off her hands. Her only response is a gentle touch on your back. Motherly and soothing.
“Mr. Bridgerton has been watching you all night.”
You halt your movements abruptly, a bit of the lemonade spilling on the table, leaving a faint stain on the elegant tablecloth. Still, you chose to remain silent, convincing yourself that the knot in your throat at the mention of him is not the reason.
You extend the glass, and she takes it with fragile and trembling fingers.
For a brief moment, you tell yourself that you don't care if Mr. Bridgerton has been gazing at you all night, that it doesn't matter how the image of his cerulean eyes burns in your mind, how much you long for his touch, how a single glimpse of him again could set your miserable heart in flames. There is no more room for foolish dreams and aspirations, or dirtied dresses and paint-stained hands. There is no acceptance for sneaking around in places a lady like yourself never must dare to go, and Aunt Carol pleading your case for you to be in a place where a woman is not meant to be.
No more being an impostor. No more being a failure. No more him .
The fire inside you extinguished at the realization of your mediocrity—the reason for all your endurance in this pretense of shy smiles and lovesick gazes.
As you take a deep breath, you realize that you have been fidgeting all this time with the ring placed on your hand, your fingertips tracing the shape of the jewelry while a bittersweet smile curves on your lips. You remember seeing it in much stronger and larger hands. Rough palms covered in charcoal. Long fingers holding a brush in between them.
You do this for him .
“You know, my dear, Mr. Bridgerton always reminds me of him,” your mother's face melts with love at the thought of your father like it always does when she thinks of him. The memories feel like weapons because, after all these years, the tomb would not close, and the pain is still the same.
His ghost still haunts you to this day. You wonder which is more painful.
“Mama-”
“He is watching you now, dear.”
It takes all the bravery in your bones to raise your gaze. Blue eyes meet yours and for a brief stolen moment, time halts. The chattering and the string quartet playing, are replaced by the sound of your own frantic beating heart.
You are foolish. All these months of lying to yourself about that magical summer night, just for the mere sight of him to take all your breath away. In his eyes, you still see the ghost of his desire, the same dark spark full of passion that you saw that warm night in June. It brings all back to motion. The lingers of his touch on your skin, the burning pleasure that consumed you from the insides, and the intoxicating taste of his mouth that keeps you awake on the loneliest nights. So sinful, so vibrant, so sweet.
He has ruined you, is the bitter realization you come to. He has ruined you from other men.
Eloise at his side, dressed in a signature blue sparkly gown, touches his arm, yet, his magnetizing eyes don't waver from you. Does he see it? How his ivy has covered all your stoned heart, covering you.
“Miss Laurence,” you feel the familiar touch of rough fingers on the naked skin of your elbow. You raised your head encountering James's pitiful eyes. His touch is meant to be comforting and tender as if he was trying to pick up a wounded animal, but it only crescents the pressure in your chest. Has breathing always been a difficult task?
He is here with you, but his eyes are not the ones you want to gaze at on your loneliest nights.
“Benedict!”
You heard it before you saw it. The collective gasp of the mama and her daughters. The high pitching of Eloise's voice, the crack of glass, and the soft call of your name came from your mother's tinted lips. You see the desperation and fury in his gaze. The shredded glass on his feet and the gold ricochet of the champagne mixing with the maroon liquid staining his hands.
How poetical.
Four hearts were broken. Four hands bloody.
He takes a menacing step toward you. A forbidden question in his eyes.
“Excuse me for a second, Lord Brooke,” you know it's time to go, “Mama.”
You don't wait for the answer. Doe eyes and sweet smile are enough armor for you to flee from the scene in a desperate attempt to bury the past - silhouette disappears behind the open doors leading to Lady Danbury's garden.
The night sky's dull black, accompanied by the coldness of the air on your flushed skin brings a false sense of peace that you haven't felt in months. You relished in the feeling, even when the murmurs and vivid music coming from inside the ballroom, sounds like a mocking requiem of your misery.
You close your eyes for a moment.
But you should have known better. Whatever you stray, he follows.
“I know I will find you here.”
You stay rotten to your spot, helplessly hearing the sound of his footsteps coming closer, the warmth of his body near you followed by the touch of callous fingers, bringing forth a tarnished incandescent glow. “Do you despise me so much that you refuse to see me?”
With words pathetically stuck in your throat, and weak sudden courage running in your veins, you turn towards him. “Mr. Bridgerton,” you acknowledge with a curtsy bow, hands shaking at your sides. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”
Slowly, you raise your fearful eyes to look him in the eye, feeling a sudden shyness engulfing you. He is a sight for sore eyes. You decide at that moment as you watch how the strands of chestnut hair fall over his eyes as the wind blows and how his opal eyes seem so vibrant under the moonlight, that Benedict Bridgerton has the air of a true muse. A man incapable of being forgotten. A lover whose memory will always haunt the woman who has spent the night in his arms.
“You did not answer my question. Do you despise me so much that you refuse to see me?”
It is almost natural the course of your actions. The soft cloth of your handkerchief goes directly to the open wound in his large palm, crimson red staining the initials of your family's name embroidered in golden thread. The silence is excruciating, but what answer can you give him? So you decide to remain silent, enjoying the glimpse of unrequited love you gave away.
Benedict's hands are cold against yours. Elegant fingers were gripping the one with the silver gentleman's ring.
“Is this his ring?” The darkness in his tone sends a cold shiver down your spine. “I thought you were going to refuse his hand,” He breathes out, hands abruptly letting go of yours. “That night you told me you were going to refuse his hand, and tonight I found you giving him the privilege of your company. What is the meaning of this?”
You let out a shaky breath, “I changed my mind, my lord.'' The words leave behind a bitter taste. You want to scream how he took the vanity of you and your foolish dreams about his love. “I decided to reconsider, and decided to do the best for my family and me.”
“The best for your family? Marrying him is the best for you?”
The disdain in his voice makes your blood boil.
“I think that is not of your concern.”
He recoils at the aggression in your voice.
“Not of my concern? Do you think it is not of my concern after that night?”
The air around you changes for a second. The crescendo when souls intertwine and hearts connect in a way that is meant to never be separated again linger in your memories. If he remembers it all too well then why didn't he act when there was time?
You cannot hide the resentment in your answer. “My lips have been shut, Mr. Bridgerton. You don't have to worry about your family's honor and reputation being ruined.”
“And what about you? Your honor? Your value?”
“Soon, I will be a married woman, and I assure you, my lord, my husband will not care about the meaningless whispers.”
You wait for the morbid satisfaction that the fallen expression on his beautiful face would bring. It never comes.
“So you would go through this?” the bend of your head and cryptic silence is enough to answer. An expression of incredulity passes through his face before he lets out a deep sardonic laugh. “And what about your art? You cannot simply abandon all your aspirations for this nonsense.”
You raise your head, taking a turn to look perplexed. Something you later will identify as disappointment touches your heart.
“I told you already, My Lord. The big masterpiece will never come.”
“So this is what you are going to do? Marry that man for his wealth.” there is venom in his tone, the words feel foreign on his tongue. The burn-in of his opal eyes and the twist of his beautiful factions in a scowl leaves you speechless for a second. “I never thought you would be so frivolous, and cold-hearted.”
You see red.
“You have no right to judge my choices!”
You tell yourself that not a single tear should fall in front of him.
“I am speaking for what I see, Miss Laurence.”
“You speak from your selfishness.”
“My selfishness?” True confusion shines in his eyes. Of course, a man like him could never understand.
“Yes. You can not possibly understand what is for me and what is expected.” Your lips tremble as you speak. And you can hear it again. An invisible clock ticking in your ear. The sound of the sand quickly hitting on the other side of the glass.
“You are making yourself a martyr. You know damn well, as I do, that you are one of the more talented artists I have the pleasure of meeting, so I don't -”
“Talent is not genius, Benedict.” the boom of your voice silences him. The call of his first name appeased the unjust fury burning in his gaze. “I have talent but it is not enough. I want-” you swallow down the knot in your throat, “I need to be great or nothing. I am not going to be an impostor and a mediocre if I could not be the great artist I always wanted to be. I won't do it.”
The resignation and despair in your voice are unable to hide. And you don't want to, because of all the people, you always thought that the kind man with a soul of an artist would be the one to be able to just comprehend.
Benedict doesn't say anything. His eyes are fixed on every inch of your face.
“I am a woman. I don't have the same liberties as you. I don't have the free will to go around and try to take chances if I am not good enough.” The laughter and mocking stares still follow you every time you dare to stand in front of a canvas. “And I just realized that I simply wasn't.” You think back to a trashed art room full of childish dreams. “As a woman, I do not have a way to make my way in the art world, not when I am not the genius I need to be for me to succeed, and even if I do, the money I could make would never be enough to support myself and my mother.”
Your mother's face flashes in your head. Her pale face, and fragile hands help you to style your hair for tonight's ball. Her false reassurance that she is okay, that you must have seen wrong about the way she barely tries to catch her breath when she walked the short length of the stairs. The weakness of her limbs, and how the simple task of raising a spoon to feed herself seems to exhaust her more and more each day that passes.
“As a woman, I am not allowed the luxury to choose. I need security. I need to look out for the people I love. So don't stand there judging my decision, and calling me cold-hearted when I am only trying to look for myself. Marriage might not be an economical proposition or a place of security for you but certainly is for me.”
You are not able to hold back anymore the sorrow of your soul, sapphire tears finally fall down your cheeks. Benedict's face softens, regrets soaping for his pores at your stance. He takes cautious steps, one hand reaching for your face as tender fingers brush away the salty river. Pathetically, you lean down your cheek against his palm.
“I deeply apologize. I have been cruel in my accusation. I know you are angry and have every reason to be.” You let out a shaky breath the gentleness of his tone. “But I would not retract about the supposed selfishness you accused me to possess. Where does it leave me in your plans? What about what I feel?
Your voice breaks and you whisper. “And what exactly do you feel, Benedict?”
His lips remain shut, even when his eyes reflect the hidden galaxy he is so desperate to guard. Instead, his attention returns to the silver ring on your left hand.
The words fall from your lips carelessly, offering explanations he doesn't deserve. “This is my father's ring. He didn't have any son to inherit it. He gave it to me the night he passed away.”
A smile of sadness and comprehension draws on his face.
“Do you love him?”
“No, but I could do it if I try.”
Both of you know that is a lie.
“Don't marry him.” The grief is visible in his plea. “Don't submit the both of us to this torture, please.”
“Why?” You take a step back from him, backing away from his alluring scent.
“You know the reason why.”
With the condescending in his tone, you let out a bitter laugh. After all this time and all these feelings, he still cannot admit it.
“I have loved you for a very long time, Benedict Bridgerton. I assure you, you are an unforgettable man. But I would not throw away a secure future for me and my mother for a man who is unable to admit what he feels.”
You see the exact moment your words ignite a dangerous fire inside him, and soon the cold and lonely air of the night is replaced by the fervent heat of his lips, and the ardent touch of his hands around your waist, gripping it as if you were his lifeline. You feel again the passion and desire buzzing in every part of your body. The urgency and all the unspoken promises claimed in a starry night where you gifted him your innocence with a heart full of tender love. Unarmed, you surrender to his touch, and just for a wicked moment, you melt between his arms. Hands grasping at his strong shoulders, inhaling his masculine scent, and enjoying the sweet taste of the champagne in his mouth.
For a short moment of loss of judgment, you found yourself praying to the sky for a chance to stay forever in this beautiful lavender haze.
Foolish dreams of a woman in love.
The gold rush is not enough.
You let go of him slowly and painfully, catching a glimpse of disheveled hair and swollen red lips. He is beautiful under the moonlight.
Benedict notices your intentions, quickly gripping your hand before you slip away from him and towards a place he couldn't reach anymore.
“At least let me have a final dance with you.”
Your heart doesn't allow you to say no.
You will have one last dance with the man you love, even when both of your hands are tied.