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The crescent moon hung in the sky, wrapping the night in silver waves as Benedict decided to take a stroll, escaping the burden of entangled thoughts. He needed to be alone, to be in peace just for a few minutes if not hours. But god forbid if Benedict Bridgerton could find any secluded corner ever. Just by the sound he recognised that Eloise was sitting on the swing, slithering her feet against the ground. But he also could not go back inside because he needed air and apparently, Bridgerton house was not providing any. So bargaining between the darkness of his room and the shine of stars, he chose the latter, even if he had to bear his sister’s presence. Of course he loved spending time with his siblings and Eloise was the closest to him, arguably. But sometimes a man with seven bickering siblings and a nagging mother would need solitude.
“What are you doing here?” Eloise clocked his presence just as he approached the swings.
“You do not own the garden,” he informed his authoritative sister. Taking the swing next to her, he sat leisurely as usual.
Turning to his side, she crossed her ankles, hands around the ropes. “I hope you are planning to exit in a few minutes.”
Just to tease his sister, he sat more comfortably, well as much comfortably as a grown man like him could sit on a small wooden plank. “Why are you so eager to send me away?” Her haste triggered his curiosity and anxiety alike. “Are you doing something other than smoking? What is it, El?”
“Relax,” she rolled her eyes way far back to her empty head. “Penelope is about to come to meet me—”
“In the middle of night?” Crossing his arms, he tried to be the big, sincere, intimidating brother.
But it was of no use. “Why? You meet all your friends late at night! No one says anything to you-”
“Shhhhh,” he leaned forward, whispering, “are you trying to get me killed by our mother?”
Eloise merely shrugged, “maybe.” Then, she turned all serious, searching his face while all he could see was her overgrown hair hanging on the forehead. “Now, hurry, tell me what is bothering you, so I can solve it and you can leave to meet my friend in peace.”
If he would not tell her then she would keep nagging. And he also needed to share his misery with someone. “Mother is talking about finding me a wife.”
“Then find one—”
“I do not want to.”
“Then do not.” It was so simple in his silly sister’s non existent brain.
Tracing the rope, he searched the stars for some support. “I think it is too early for me to marry.”
Eloise’s sigh was heavier than any rock. “Blah blah I am a man, I can marry late, I am so privileged—”
“I am serious, El,” he urged his sister to have some mercy on his poor soul. “I have never liked a real woman with such intensity that I would want her to be my wife, to be with me for life.”
Even in the feeble dark, he could see the wheels turning in Eloise’s hollow head as she squinted her eyes. “What do you mean by ‘never liked a real woman’?” Good. His family had a stubborn habit of focusing on the wrong part of things. “What unreal woman do you like?”
“Can we not?”
“Is it someone from paintings? Some character from a novel? Some fairy? Some nymph? Someone in your imagination?”
“Lady Whistledown,” he blurted just to shut her mouth.
And much to his surprise, she really went silent. Overbearingly silent. Hauntingly staring into his very poor soul.
Benedict thought she was not understanding why anyone would harbour feelings for the scandalous author, so he needed to present his case. “Lady Whistledown, whoever she is, I am so fond of her wit. And the insurmountable courage she possesses to use her talent in such creative ways.” He was really besotted with a woman whom he had never met, never even seen, did not even know if she was actually a woman. But the way her words had woven magic over his heart, he could not stop imagining her. “No one knows her yet she rules the ton. She turns the tides of society with one word. I think I would fall to my knees if I ever met her. And if in some wildest fantasies, she were to accept me, I would make her the happiest woman.” There were also some very indecent wishes that he did not want to express in front of her sister. The same sister who looked as if she was sentenced to marry an old, haggard lord.
Then, it struck him that maybe she was upset because the infamous writer had published about her last season. “El, I know she offended you but I truly think that she was merely doing her work. If anything, she has saved our family so many times in her own ways.”
His sister sat still. Like a marble sculptor, a haunted one.
He certainly needed to make his case stronger for her to see why he was such an ardent admirer of Lady Whistledown. “Lady Whistledown is an artist, she uses her quill to pull the strings of society as if orchestrating a play. God, she is such a powerful woman. Every person in London knows her but no one knows about her. Her secrecy intrigues me.” The attraction was not a face, not a body but the personality that he had only known through words. But somehow, this faceless woman owned him. Day and night, he was drowning in her thoughts. “If she were to reveal herself today, I would marry her in a heartbeat. I mean I am not deserving of her but I would kiss the ground she walks on—”
“Shut up!” Eloise finally found a voice but not a very reasonable one. “Just shut up,” she left the swing and started pacing frantically. “You are having very wrong thoughts brother—”
“There is nothing wrong in having feelings for someone.” He swayed his swing, there was no way he was going to take Eloise’s over-dramatic reaction seriously. It was not like Lady Whistledown was her friend. He was well within his rights to swoon over one of the most powerful women of London.
“But you cannot have anything.” She stopped, turned to him and pointed her finger in warning, “you are not having anything for Lady Whistledown.”
Only a fool would get scared and Benedict was no fool…well, a fool for Lady Whistledown. Crossing his arms, he straightened his shoulders and faced the threat. “I am. You cannot tell me what to feel and about whom to feel.” Just to tickle the fire, he added, “maybe Lady Whistledown is the one I should marry—”
“Shut. Your. Idiot. Mouth.” Eloise was yelling in hush, thanks to the night. He saw blood and violence in his…..well, she was not very peaceful usually….so it was not something new.
He was busy in weaving dreams, “the scandalous author and a spare, love story of the century—nah, too much—but definitely, love story of the decade—”
“Penelope will never love you—fuck!” All blood drained from Eloise’s body, she stood paler than the moon.
Benedict could not believe a single word he just heard. To feel the stable ground, he stood up, “wh…what do….you mean…Pene….Penelope will never….lo…lo……love me?”
Tucking clasped hands under her chin, she started praying to him, “please, I do not mean anything, I just blurted out, I never even make sense, I keep saying anything all the time, my brain does not work, I would say anything…….oh I was smoking before you came, it is the smoke speaking.” She nodded frantically, “yes, yes, it is the smoke…”
“Penelope is Lady Whistledown.” He stood frozen.
“No…no…no….there is no proof….”
“Is that why you were not speaking with her after the Featherington ball? You found out—”
“There was nothing to find out,” there was no weight to her words. Unfolding her hands, she fisted hard, knuckling white hard. And he knew a punch could land on his pretty face any time. “We fought over some…..some….some…book…she was so wrong about characters…very wrong. But as good friends, we made up through patience and forgiveness—”
“Our Penelope is Lady Whistledown.” Benedict could not decide if he was in heaven or hell.
Well, his sister was definitely some demon summoned straight from depths of burning hell in that moment. “Ouuuurrrr Penelope? Our? Our?”
“Yes.” He checked the temperature of her forehead, for she sure looked very sick, “do you need a doctor?”
Swatting her hand away, she spat absolute fire, “she is not yours. She was never yours. Keep my friend’s mouth out of your fucking mouth—”
“Stop cursing otherwise I will tell mother.” Even he winced at the warning, what grown man, looking to marry a scandalous author, give such useless warnings. Then, it struck him like lightning in the middle of moonless night. Spark flooded the brainless head. Smirking, he stood with utmost confidence, “you are going to help me to impress our Penelope otherwise I will tell mother that you smoke—”
“No.”
“And meet our Penelope at ungodly hours—”
“No.”
“And every other secret I have kept safe for years.” He knew he succeeded when Eloise looked at him like Anthony looked at the target during the hunt.
“No way in hell,” her voice lost any strength.
He ruffled her overgrown hair, “good thing we are in heaven.”
“Forget about it,” she was so desperate.
“No.” He was more desperate to have the love of his life.
“Please—”
“Eloise?” A delicate whisper from soft, luscious lips. And there she came, making Benedict’s dreams a reality. Giving shape to his desires. Finally, the blind heart could see.
“Pen,” Eloise was still looking like a ghost who herself was scared.
“Am I late?” Penelope was so adorably beautiful in her blue nightgown, moonlight whispering sonnets around her face. Stars shone in her ocean eyes. Her autumn curls swayed in the wind as waves of fire. Lady Whistledown and Penelope were one. He had ignored her sinful curves, unholy breasts till now, merely because one would not want to be murdered by their family over lustful thoughts. But not anymore, he loved Lady Whistledown and what fool would not love Penelope. Maybe his mindless brother. But not Benedict. As a former failed artist, he knew the value of precious art pieces. And Penelope was the most precious flower, hiding thorns behind softest petals.
God, it filled his body with newfound thrill, undying desperation that the woman he had understood to be most innocent was Lady Whistledown. Her love for scandals and thirst for chaos had him entranced.
“You are leaving, right?” Eloise shook his arm, way too violently. “Leave now. Pen is here.”
Ah, yes, Penelope, she stood as innocently as a swan. But now that Benedict knew that she was no saint but a sinner, he could not wait to paint her more unholy. The things he could teach her, the way he would submit and she would command him as the goddess of quill—
“You are making Pen uncomfortable,” Eloise nudged his arm.
Meanwhile, Penelope looked less uncomfortable and more confused. “Did I come at the wrong time?”
“No,” Eloise stated. She stood by Penelope’s side as if to shield her. “It is my buffon brother who came at the wrong time, at the wrong place and is just absolutely wrong in all ways.”
Ignoring his sister, as all the siblings must do to each other, Benedict focused on the love of his life. He might have set the record for falling so fast and hard in love at the first…….first reveal?
“Penelope,” he had every right to call her by maiden name.
“Mr Bridgerton—”
“Benedict,” he corrected. “You should call me by my name—”
“It is a foolish name,” Eloise had to poke her pointy nose everywhere. “No need to listen to him.”
“I request,” he focused solely on the prettiest redhead who would soon be his redhead. She would be shy and blushing in public but would absolutely devour him behind the doors. “Please,” he took a step closer.
Eloise pulled her friend back, forcing Benedict to use the verbal weapon, “should I call mother, El?”
The said sister made the most disgusted face. “Say his name, please so I can sleep in peace.”
Penelope’s doe eyes set on him as he instructed, “say my name.” An intense shiver danced down his spine at the thought of instructing her in the bedroom.
Penelope glanced at his lips. “Benedict.” He felt divine and unholy, all at once.
“Now go,” the demon interrupted the sweetest dream.
“On one condition,” he knew how to play.
“What?” Penelope asked in a tender voice, her gaze tethered to his.
“You will have a dance with me at tomorrow's ball.”
“Whhhhhyyyy?” Eloise whined.
“Why?”
Well, when Penelope asked, he had to answer, “because I want to.”
“You want to use me to escape from debutantes and their matchmaking mamas,” she said too plainly but he could sense the hurt.
Benedict took a step closer. “It is not about who I want to escape from, it is who I want to escape to.” Tracing her temple, he tucked some curls behind her hear while urging, “let me escape to you, Penelope.”
Her lips parted, eyes gleamed, beauty rivaling that of moon. “I will allow you, Benedict.”
“Thank you—”
“Now, get out of here,” Eloise was about to wage war.
And Benedict thought it was in his best interests that he would not poke the bear much.
“Your cravat is going to blind me, Ben,” Eloise was ever so dramatic, unappreciative of Benedict’s efforts to impress a certain Featherington.
It was the first ball of the season and Benedict was escorting his silly sister away from their overbearing mother and lovesick newlyweds.
“It is not that shiny,” he defended himself as they found a place in the organised chaos Danbury ballroom. He could not decide if he was anxious or excited, eyes glancing at stairs again and again.
“You know Pen is never going to fall for your trap,” she murmured, leaning to his side. “You are wasting your time.”
“No one is immune to Benedict Bridgerton’s charm,” he was confident. Almost. It was one thing to be charming and attractive but it was another debacle to use those qualities skilfully in the marriage mart. Who would have thought that the man who avoided young debutantes like plague would be so eager to marry. Lady Whistledown was known to wreak havoc and she had certainly wrecked Benedict's heart.
“You are going to all flat on your face—”
“Yes, between her breasts—I…I mean….” God! He was really thinking out aloud.
For the first time in her life, Eloise was too stunned to speak. He could literally witness his sister fighting for her life.
“El, I did not mean—”
“Do not talk to me anymore,” she refused to even look at him. “And do not open your foul mouth in front of Pen—”
“My tongue slipped—”
“No, your brain slipped from your head.”
Well, that was a thing of great concern because how was he supposed to impress Lady Whistledown without a brain. Brushing off the non-existent lints from his jacket, he asked for some assurance, “please tell me I am sane enough to be liked by Lady Whistledown.”
Eloise finally turned to him and surprisingly, showed some pity. “Oh, you poor man, you are already thinking wrong—”
“Wh….what do you mean?”
It was mandatory for her to roll eyes at every question. “Ben, Lady Whistledown is a part of Penelope. Penelope is the real woman, with all her aspects, flaws and all.” He did know that but might not understood the actual meaning of it. “If you are only attracted to Lady Whistledown then do not pursue Penelope. You will end up hurting her just to fulfill your fantasy.”
Benedict did not expect such raw honesty from his sister. But he definitely needed it.
Before he could think, Penelope descended the stairs, wrapped in emerald silk, dressed as sin. And while he could see her blooming into a new woman, coming to her own, he could see the traces of a shy wallflower too. She walked with confidence but her smile was hesitant. Her posture was proud but her eyes were seeking validation.
Benedict was never blind to Penelope, he had seen her from the corner of his eyes. It was true that she was never the focus but to say that she was not on the canvas would be a lie. From her tender smiles to bubbly giggles, from her awe filled stares to stolen glances, from blurted remarks to hidden wit, he had noted it all. Somewhere in the corner of his heart, there was a girl who whispered hope in the dark, recited poetry without words and kept secrets in her ocean eyes.
It was about damn time that he surrendered his heart to the woman it belonged to.
Symphonies from string quartet enveloped the air as Benedict led Penelope to the dance floor. Disbelief simmered in her gaze as he held her hand while resting his free hand on her waist.
“What are you thinking?” He asked while she looked at him through lashes.
It took her a moment as she found a place for her hand on his shoulder. “I did not know you were serious yesterday.”
He twirled her around, an emerald moon gracing the earth. “You doubted me?”
“I thought you were drunk,” she said, searching his eyes, as if to find hints of alcohol.
Tightening his hold, he tugged her closer, all within boundaries of propriety. He leaned in, “I was drunk. I still am—”
“I knew—”
“Your beauty is too intoxicating, Penelope,” he poured all sincerity and affection.
Yet, her frowns were not melting. “What do you want?”
Daring to trail his touch a little lower on her back, he held her eyes, “I am falling for you.”
“Why?” It was indecipherable if it was a dream for her or a nightmare.
For a moment, Benedict thought of weaving some sonnets in her praise, singing some poetry to charm her or even to describe his indecent desires. But if he were to pursue her seriously, he needed to build their relationship on honesty.
So, even though every part of him screamed no, he could not hide the truth. “I have lost my heart to Lady Whistledown.”
Penelope’s steps ceased.
With a scared heart, he tightened his hold, refusing to let go. “I seek to win your heart in return.”
Penelope stepped back, her hand slipped from his loosening hold.
Benedict stood bereft, urging her to accept his worthless heart and make it precious. “Let me fall in love with you.”
“Ben—”
“All of you. I will love every thread of your soul, every inch of your body,” he confessed. Urged. Begged. “You are the only dream that I desperately want to achieve. I will always honour your being with my words and deeds. Be my inspiration, Lady Whistledown. Be mine, Penelope.”
She stood still while his world went upside down. “No.”
“Why?”
Penelope inched closer but just to shatter his hope, “I am not a goal to be achieved, not a doll to be owned. I am not an inspiration to be cherished, not some art to be romanticised.”
Each word held his soul hostage.
“You are interpreting it all wrong—”
“Good night, Mr Bridgerton.” She left and he could not stop. Not this time at least.
Benedict needed to prove her wrong, to untangle the twisted mess in her head, to make an honest woman out of that stubborn author, respectfully so. He failed to prove himself in the glory of ballroom, so he needed to steal moments under moonlight.
“The night will not be good,” he vowed, “it will be glorious, my love.”
A drop here and there melted down the sky while moonlight barely reached the congested alleys of Bloomsbury. The stench of mud blended with the scent of wood and parchment as Benedict followed Lady Whistledown to the printers. Sounds of carriage wheels and horse hooves trickled from somewhere near while chatter of drunk men poisoning the serenity of night.
In a dark hooded cloak, she mapped the dimly lit alleyway with cautious steps while he walked hushedly, even though his boots were making it extra difficult to be quiet on the cobbled street. Adjusting his coat, he stopped as Penelope slowed down before turning a corner.
Sensing no hint of movement, he stepped further, turning the same corner—
“AGH!”
A sharp pang erupted near his eye and spread to every nerve like molten, piercing lava. Benedict’s head was about to split in half, everything went too numb, too dark. Ground wobbled under his feet. Clutching the side of his forehead, he bent down in half, a guttural sound of heart wrenching pain escaped his mouth.
“BBB…….Ben……Benedict…” her voice low and quivering. With trembling fingers, she touched his head, “I….I did not know…it was you…..I got scared…..”
He could only whine and moan, the wound throbbed violently.
“I….I…I am sorry,” her tone was too teary, too broken as she stroked his hands that were pressing his temple. With much difficulty, he stood up and the moment he saw tears flooding Penelope’s eyes, all the pain diminished away.
“It is fine….I am fine,” he definitely was not as his vision was still blurry. Removing his hands, he shook his head, blinking to see her face clearly.
When the fog finally lifted, Penelope’s face was as white as snow, eyes stuck on his temple, lips quivering. “You…..you are bl….blee…..bleeding..”
He did feel something liquid sliding down the side of his face. And when he smudged it with his fingers and brought them in front of his eyes, it was red too, deep crimson actually. “Oh, yes, it is blood.”
Before he could think anything further, Penelope started crying bitterly. “I…I am so….sorr….” Sobs strangled her throat.
“I am not dead, Penelope!”
She turned to wailing and whimpering. His head was aching more from her cries than the wound. Stepping closer, Benedict tried to calm her down. Cradling her face, he leaned in. Stroking her tears away, he realised too late that his hands were tainted with blood. And now, her face had traces of his blood.
Benedict deemed that it was his turn to apologise, “I am sorry.” Sighing, he stepped back.
Penelope stared at him with glistening eyes, “why are you saying sorry?” She barely controlled the sobs.
Wiping his hands on the coat, he listed the reasons, “for stalking you. For scaring you. For forcing you to attack. And for smudging your face with my blood.”
“You should be sorry,” she muttered while pouting. “I was so scared–”
“I should have thought this through–”
“But you do not have much of a brain to think,” her tears receded with every word. “And I injured whatever little brain you had.”
Benedict could not believe his ears. Hands on hips, he thrashed the shameless woman, “are you seriously insulting the man you have just attacked.”
Crossing her arms, she faced him sternly, “You brought it upon yourself.”
“I could have died….”
Penelope’s gaze dropped from him, her arms loosened and her face paled as if she had seen Lucifer emerging from the pits of hell.
“I was jesting. I am completely fine,” Benedict tried to assure but she gave no response. Following her line of sight, he realised that she was looking past him.
When he turned, there was a literal devil himself. In a dark, threatening uniform, a bow street runner was strolling near the alleyway. With a mammoth build, the man was no less than a beast. Just when Benedict thought it could not get any worse, the beast’s steps ceased and his head turned to them. Squinting his eyes, he walked ahead—
Sky thundered and raindrops hit the ground like stones. The monster in uniform flinched back. Benedict turned to Penelope who was standing too still, getting soaked. He lunged ahead, grabbed her hand and ran. Even with her two apples tall build, she ran for her life while he tried his best to adjust to her pace. Rain pelted above them, scratching his wound anew. But there was no time to feel pain.
Amidst the haste to escape and the haze of downpour, Benedict saw a golden glow whispering behind an ajar door. Wrapping his arm around Penelope's waist, he held her tightly and barged inside. Spinning them around, he stacked her against the back of the door and latched it hurriedly.
Clutching the lapels of his coat, Penelope clung to him, their hearts beating with the same scared rhythm. Her breaths ragged, breasts heaving against his stomach as she curled up against him in the feeble dark, rain crashing outside.
Controlling his own frayed breaths, Benedict bent his neck while folding his free arm around Penelope’s shoulders. Stroking her back, he tried to assure. “You are safe, Penelope. It is all fine,” his voice muffled against her wet curls. He wanted to but did not dare to brush his lips on her head.
Slowly, she lifted her face and he loosened his hold but none of them moved away. Glancing at his lips, she met his eyes and he got lost in the maze of cerulean irises. Their breaths followed each other while lips hesitated.
“Pen,” he breathed, leaning in.
“You are bleeding again,” she broke the spell.
Unfolding his arms, he stepped away and instantly missed her warmth. “Yes, I am,” he could only whisper, the weight of an unknown place and unassured feelings weighing him down.
“Sit down,” she urged hesitantly, her voice shrouded with raindrops hitting the window glass.
It took a moment for Benedict to come to his senses. The musky, overpowering scent of paper and ink clouded his mind. And that was when he noticed the shelves and stacks of printed papers. A few candles were flickering inside the lamps, the light was not much but it was enough to highlight the rusted floorboards. It seemed to be the back of some printer shop.
“Sit down on the chair.”
On Penelope’s command, he looked behind him and there was an old chair. It cracked slightly as he settled. But everything went silent the moment she dipped her hand inside her deep neckline.
“Wh…what are you doing?” Benedict’s heart skipped a full beat.
“Just sit,” she said while her hand wandered around her luscious bosom. He tried his best but could not move his eyes away from the unholy heaven.
At last, she pulled out a flimsy piece of fabric. Benedict could not believe that he was jealous of some handkerchief. A deep breath escaped him as she stepped closer, instructing, “Sit still and let me clean.”
Benedict sat very very still while Penelope pressed the warm fabric against his wound. Of course, it stung and he hissed but his face was exactly an inch away from the most perfect breasts, so he welcomed pain with open arms.
Tracing every rise and fall of Penelope’s sinful breasts kept him distracted while she cleaned the blood.
“Is it hurting?” She asked tenderly while inching closer.
“You are so warm,” the words tumbled down his mouth before he could think. Grabbing his chin, she tilted his face up and forced to meet her eyes. What else could he do than wink. “So warm.” In his defence, Benedict tried earnestly to not smirk but he failed badly.
Even her harsh grip on his chin was too soft. “Are you not concerned about the wound?”
“Kiss me and it will heal.”
The only kiss that happened was between his innocent cheek and Penelope’s punishing hand. Even her slap was so tender.
“Try harder,” he begged.
God, the way her lips parted and breaths hitched, the night was certainly going to be a glorious one.
“You are shameless,” thrashing adorably, she rolled her pretty eyes.
“You are beautiful,” he just could not stop admiring. The enticing curves of her lips, the teasing arch of her eyebrows, the cute shape of her nose, everything was worth enduring a thousand wounds. “I have never seen someone so beautiful,” he confessed sincerely.
But Penelope’s gaze accused him of lying. “I think I hit too hard, you have gone mad,” there was discomfort in her words as if she did not know what to make of the compliments.
“Mad in your love,” the words left his mouth and it snatched all colour from Penelope’s face.
“Give me your cravat,” she ordered plainly and it hurt more than the open wound she had given him.
“Did I offend you?” Benedict asked, hoping the answer to be a no. “I am not dishonest,” he poured all affection and sincerity in a few words, “but I will not bother you again if you cannot find in yourself to believe me.”
She took a deep breath, stealing air from his chest. “Give me your cravat.” He untied the silk from his neck while his heart fissured. Handling her the cravat, he averted his gaze when she came closer. And this time, it stung too much when she pressed the cloth on the wound, wrapping the cravat around his forehead.
Biting back on unshed tears, he flinched as she tightened the knot. She leaned closer and closer but he kept his face away from any part of hers. No matter how much he tried to stifle the hurt, he could not stop himself from asking, “do you still have feelings for him?”
Adjusting the cravat, Penelope stepped back, putting the handkerchief back under her dress. “For whom?” Her tone was too cold, colder than the ambience rain had locked them in.
“Colin.”
“No,” she answered without losing a beat.
“Is there anyone else?” He asked even if he did not want to.
“No.”
It was settled then, Penelope did not believe him one bit. Even when she had no one else in her heart, there was still no place for him. He was familiar with this feeling too well. Art had done the same to him. Benedict was locked away from the places he desperately wanted to belong to. Stranded in the middle of the ocean, there was no shore for him.
Golden shadows danced around while silence stretched between them amidst the rainfall. Tired and exhausted, Benedict relaxed on the chair. Closing his eyes, he tried to escape reality. The wound throbbed under silk. Contrary to his every expectation, he wanted the rain to stop and night to end immediately.
Blood was dripping down his temple, hushed steps reaching near but he did not care to open his eyes. Penelope dabbed the stain with cloth but he could not stand her touch and yanked her hand away.
But she refused to step back. “Let me tend to you—”
“Stay away from me,” he warned and begged at once, their eyes met with desperation and devastation.
“Shut up,” she thrashed with glistening eyes. Closing all distance, she stood between his legs and held his chin with one hand while cleaning the blood with the other.
But Benedict was in no need of care or attention, so he grabbed her hands and pinned them behind her back. “I said, stay away from me.”
Penelope’s eyes simmered with blue flames, face red, breaths hot and heavy. “Release my hands,” her words muffled between the heated space between them, her breasts heaving too close to his face. But he ignored it all. She had no claim on him.
Struggling in his hold, she wriggled her hands but he gripped her wrists tightly. “I can take care of myself.”
Her eyes fell to his lips but he kept his gaze focused. “Stop being so stubborn,” she thrashed too gently, as if afraid of speaking too loud, scared of doing something too reckless. “Benedict,” her tone dipped down, “please.”
“No,” he could only whisper as the emotions became too loud. “Stay away.”
“Please,” Penelope’s voice broke, a tear slid down her cheek and he gave in.
Patiently, Benedict rested his hands on the thighs and kept his gaze down while she wiped the blood. Rain thumped incessantly, golden shadows swayed around them as candles glared from inside the lamps.
When she adjusted the cravat, it scraped the wound a bit, making him flinch and hiss. “You have done enough,” he uttered through the pain, “leave it now.”
But instead of stepping back, Penelope cradled his face in her tender hands. “I am sorry, Benedict,” her voice was too delicate, frayed at the edges, “but I cannot allow you to ruin your life for a mere infatuation.”
“Who are you to decide what my feelings are?” He let his words stab. “How dare you call my affections a mere infatuation?”
Inching closer, she caressed his face with her thumbs, pleading with unshed tears. “Ben—”
“You have rejected me and I will not bother you again,” he assured. “But you have no right to insult my feelings. Call me a rake, call me a fraud but do not call me a liar.” Even though he was not aware of Anthony’s donation during admission, he still felt like a deceiver, taking something that he did not earn.
“You are not a fraud—”
“You do not know anything,” old frustrations slipped out. He tried to turn his face away but she deepened her touch.
“I know,” she breathed. “Eloise told me. I know it was unfair—”
“Yes, I snatched the seat away from someone deserving.”
“No,” she threaded her fingers through the strands behind his ears, moving closer. “It was unfair to you—”
“You do not kno—”
“Shut the fuck up, Benedict Bridgerton!”
Forget speaking, he could not even think.
“I know,” her voice simmered with longing and maybe love too. “I know what it feels like to not be valued. I know how deeply it hurts when the world makes you feel inferior.” Ocean eyes drowned him in while her words tended his soul. “You are not a fraud, Benedict, you were just loved in the wrong ways.”
“Love is a tricky thing,” he wondered, glancing at her lips.
“Messy too,” she leaned in.
“I like mess.” Benedict titled his face as she tugged at his hair.
“Is that why you like me?” Penelope whispered, their lips a thread apart.
“I love you,” he breathed and she stole his breath, tracing his lips with hers.
Gently holding his face, she kissed him with poetic passion, writing sonnets of love on his lips and heart. Enveloping his arms around her luscious waist, he tugged her closer.
Bending her knee on his thigh, she melted into him. Her lips bitten between his, her forbidden touch carried the essence of salvation, she tasted like an innocent sin.
Leaving indolent kisses, feeding a starved heart, she leaned back slightly. “I am falling in love with you.”
In the deep blue of her eyes, he found his religion and prayed, “then fall and keep falling. Devour my heart and consume my soul.”
Lifting gaze to his wound, she traced the blood-soaked cravat with her fingers. “Injured poets are romantically dangerous.”
“Because secret authors are lovingly violent.”
Penelope’s smirk faded into unshed tears as she caressed his face, kissing his eyes. To make himself believe that she was indeed real and her touch was not a mere fantasy, Benedict dug his fingers into her waist, afraid to let go.
Brushing her lips to the bridge of his nose, she took a deep breath before unwinding her heart. “All my life I have chased someone or something,” her words delicate, voice fragile, “but you, Benedict Bridgerton, are the first one to chase me.”
Kissing the corner of her mouth, tasting the lifelong longing, he urged, “Be mine.”
For the first time, Lady Whistledown fell short of words. She let him read the answer on her lips, kissing deeply, ardently and a bit too madly.
Two years later…..
Rising sun spilled golden glow over the windows, mellow breeze gusting through the sheer curtains. The writing desk and easel sat idly, covered with wooden toys, tiny gowns and bonnets. In the whirlwind of sheets and rags on the bed, Benedict cradled a few months old Amelia. With the ocean in her eyes and autumn on her head, she was a miniature of her mother but her kitten smile was all Benedict.
Holding Amelia up in his arms, he nuzzled her belly while she blabbered lazily, gripping his fine hair in her tiny hands. He tried to lean back but she held on tightly. He would never be able to understand how such a small baby always managed to have such a violent grip. With half affection and half force, he somehow made it out of his daughter’s teeny tiny fists.
But Amelia was as stubborn as her mother. When she could grab nothing, she started scratching his innocent forehead, her soft yet sharp fingers grazing his scar again and again.
“Ah, sweetling, you are just as aggressive and curious as your mama,” he was trying to make peace with his fierce daughter but she was not interested in listening. She kept reaching for the scar. “I know I know.” He did not know shit, he just needed to keep Amelia distracted so that her mother could rest. “You are wondering which cruel witch scarred papa's handsome face.” His daughter nodded as if she could really understand his plight.
Resting his back against the cushioned headboard, he sat Amelia on his stomach, splaying fingers on her back to support. “It was your mama, munchkin. She attacked your poor, innocent father—”
“Stop lying to her,” Penelope murmured half asleep. Lying on her side, face nestled in the pillow, tangled curls spilled around, she was worn out from a sleepless night with a restless baby.
“I never lie–”
“Liar,” Penelope mumbled, her eyes half opened.
Sliding down, Benedict laid down on his back, settling Amelia on his abdomen while she played with the ruffles of his shirt. “My daughter knows that her father never lies.”
His wife scoffed. Slithering closer, she kissed the scar on his temple before trailing indolent kisses down his face. Sharing the pillow with him, she rested her face near his. “You and your daughter are pure chaos.”
“Ami.” Amelia paid no attention whatsoever, she was busy inspecting the fabric of her father’s shirt. “Thank mama for the compliment.”
“It was not a compliment,” Penelope’s words muffled as she kissed his jaw before using his shoulder as the pillow.
Laying Amelia down on his chest, so she could peacefully play with ruffles, he rested his hand on her back.
“Move,” he urged his wife to give him some space so he could envelop his other arm around her back. She whined adorably, lifting her waist as he slipped his arm under her. Then, without wasting a moment, Penelope found her favorite place, burying her face in the crook of his neck. Caressing their daughter’s back, she kissed under his jaw, her words a loving whisper, “You are always so warm.”
Tugging his wife closer, Benedict stroked her waist, “I know it is the only reason you love to sleep with me.”
Snuggling further, she breathed him in, her petal soft lips tracing his skin, “I love you.”
“Liar,” he teased as the sleep blanketed him slowly. “It is not love. You are just infatuated with me.”
As he caressed Amelia’s back, Penelope rested her hand over his. Her lips carved the sacrament of love on his skin,“infatuated for life and beyond.”
Holding the two precious parts of his heart close, Benedict went to a dreamy sleep. On the side table of their bed, laid the rock that was used by Penelope to attack him on the most glorious night of their life.