Work Text:
The lake glittered beneath the afternoon sun.
Benedict hated it.
Or rather, he hated that every time he looked at it, he thought of Sophie.
Which was ridiculous.
She had refused him.
Repeatedly.
Quite firmly.
And she was currently sitting on the grass beside the water with her skirts spread around her and a book balanced on her lap as though she had not single-handedly occupied every spare corner of his mind for weeks.
He should leave.
That was the sensible course of action.
Instead, he walked directly towards her.
Sophie looked up as his shadow fell across the page.
“Mr Bridgerton.”
“Miss Baek.”
A pause.
A very long pause.
Benedict remained standing there like a fool.
Sophie sighed.
“You realise this is becoming a habit.”
“What is?”
“You appearing wherever I happen to be.”
“I did not know you would be here.”
“You never do.”
The worst part was that she was right.
Benedict lowered himself onto the grass before she could tell him not to.
“Perhaps it is a coincidence.”
“Perhaps.”
Her expression suggested she found that explanation deeply unconvincing.
The silence stretched.
The breeze rippled across the water.
And for one perfect moment Benedict allowed himself to imagine what it would be like if she simply stopped resisting him.
If she smiled.
If she reached for his hand.
If..
“Mr Bridgerton.”
He blinked.
“What?”
“You are staring again.”
“I was thinking.”
“That is precisely what worries me.”
A reluctant laugh escaped him.
Sophie marked her page and closed the book.
“They say that a smart person learns from her mistakes,” she said. “But a truly smart person learns from other people’s mistakes.”
Benedict frowned.
“I fail to see how that applies.”
“Do you?”
Her eyebrow lifted.
“The last time you pursued an impossible idea, it ended badly.”
“I am not pursuing an impossible idea.”
“Then what would you call this?”
She gestured between them.
Benedict opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
Nothing sensible emerged.
Sophie looked unbearably pleased with herself.
And God help him, he loved that look.
He knew he should stand.
He knew he should leave.
He knew that every conversation with her only made things worse.
Or better.
Which was, unfortunately, the problem.
Because Benedict Bridgerton had never been particularly talented at walking away from beautiful things.
Especially not when they were looking at him with sunlight dancing in their eyes.
“This is a bad idea, right?” he muttered.
Sophie laughed.
The sound carried across the lake.
“Finally,” she said. “Something we agree upon.”
And yet neither of them moved.
Neither of them left.
The afternoon drifted by in easy conversation, and Benedict found himself thinking that perhaps the truly smart thing would be to learn from other people’s mistakes.
Unfortunately for everyone involved, he was hopelessly in love.
And hopelessly in love men, he suspected, had never been famous for their intelligence.