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murdockparker · 2 years

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Foolish Endeavor - Part 2

Benedict Bridgerton x Reader

Summary: Lady Whistledown has done great service to the London season more often than not, but with the prying eyes and ears of the ton on your back, it makes it quite difficult to get anything done.

Word Count: 5.6k

Warnings: fluff, mixed canon, mix of book and show, mentions of nudity (but not in the way you think)

A/N: thank you so much for the love on the first part! i’m hoping to not disappoint with the next chapters to come!

first part - previous part - next part

It had been nearly a fortnight since Lady Cowper’s ball, a fortnight from Lady Whistledown’s—completely untrue—notice of Benedict Bridgerton and (Y/N) (Y/L/N)’s supposed courting. Of course, as luck would have it, Lady Whistledown tended to publish two to three times a week, meaning the supposed courting was terribly old news in the eyes of the ton. The focus this week, so it seemed, was on Lady Cowper’s daughter, Cressida. She had made a rather big stink at the latest ball, falling flat on her face in the middle of the dance floor. She insisted her dance partner—Lord Greenwood, if you could imagine—had tripped her.

No one believed her.

A content sigh escaped (Y/N)’s lips, the gentle breeze of the beginnings of summer flowing right past. Oh how she loved summer, spending hours in the park until the sun had decidedly set amongst the horizon, the warmth so welcoming and inviting, the earth seemingly still. As a child, her mother tried in earnest to rein her daughter in at a reasonable hour to no avail. Lady Kent was blessed with a bullheaded daughter with a penchant on spending every hour of daylight outdoors, even if it made her ill—and it did, on numerous occasions. Yes, it seemed that nothing could foul (Y/N)’s pleasant mood, not with the pleasure of the summer on her skin.

Until, of course, a shadow blocked her precious sunlight.

A tall shadow.

“Benedict,” it was almost a statement, not a pleasantry.

“Enjoying the sun?”

“I was,” (Y/N) leaned to her side, away from Benedict’s shadow, “but for some awful reason, I just can't seem to keep doing so.”

“Well, that seems like a pity,” he tutted, shoving his free hand into his pocket, the other holding a sketchbook. “Though, I can’t say that the reasoning could be so awful, can it?”

“I’m not sure, Mr. Bridgerton,” (Y/N) sighed, content in the new patch of sunlight she managed to find decidedly to her left, “with Lady Whistledown watching, it could be quite the scandal.”

Benedict took the moment to look around, afraid that his friend’s words held any truth. Of course the second eldest Bridgerton had no idea of Lady Whistledown’s identity—that was the point—but he supposed that she was almost right. “I think that the gossip surrounding us has dissipated, you read about Miss Cowper’s fall, correct?”

(Y/N) struggled to keep back a grin—it was most unladylike to laugh at another’s faults. “I did, though Whistledown didn’t do the actual scene any justice. She looked absolutely embarrassed, not a soul helped her to her feet,” (Y/N)’s eyes met with Benedict’s, “but, I suppose the gossip surrounding us has mostly left the mouths of the ton. Though, it wouldn’t be wise for us to be seen like this without a chaperone.”

“Your mother,” he pointed to the needlework beside her, “she’s with you, is she not?”

“You don’t think that this needlework is mine? That I could’ve possibly taken up a new hobby?”

Benedict could hardly contain his snort. “You?” Her eyes narrowed at his foolish grin. “No, you of all people surely do not have the patience for such an endeavor.”

“Which? Needlework or a new hobby?”

“I think you know which I meant,” he fought back another chuckle at her solid expression. (Y/N) refused to concede.

“No, Mr. Bridgerton, I don’t think I do,” (Y/N) said, her voice falling terribly close to teasing. His grin didn’t falter. Damn, how she wished his grin would fall. “But, you’d be correct, the needlework is my mother’s,” she pointed towards the lake, Lady Kent was standing dangerously close to the edge, “she decided to take a small stroll to get some fresh air.”

“Fresh air?” Benedict looked around wildly, as if to prove a point. “She’s already outside!”

“I think my mama was being polite,” (Y/N) admitted truthfully. She held up a rather new looking book, the title escaping Benedict’s sight. “I’ve been reading this all afternoon and I think my reactions have been a bit more,” her cheeks grew warm, “well, a bit more than she bargained for. I haven’t been the most subtle with how much I’ve been enjoying this book. I think she needed a respite from me.”

This, of course, had been true. Lady (Y/N) (Y/L/N) had never been one to keep her reactions at bay, used to the confines of the family library and the solace of being an only child—one grew accustomed to allowing any and all sorts of sounds and smirks go as she flicked through the pages of any novel she came across. The romance ones, however, were those that caused the most of these reactions.

“And what book could possibly be causing you such reactions?”

“The new Austen book,” (Y/N) said, almost proudly, showing Benedict the cover. “My aunt Lucinda recommended it to me—she has such a good taste in literature—I just received it last night.” (Y/N) found herself struggling to keep back a yawn. “I haven’t been able to put it down.”

“You do get wrapped up in your books,” Benedict nodded, rocking back onto his heels. His eyes glanced at the blanket (Y/N) was sitting on, a flurry of blue and white floral embellishments, far too nice to be used as a simple picnic blanket. Though, it looked terribly comfortable, a soft blanket in the seemingly perfect patch of sunlight, great company present, he found it hard to resist the urge to plop his behind next to her and enjoy the comfort too.

“Benedict?” (Y/N) called his name quietly, snapping him out of his slight trance. “You look like you’re a million years away.”

“A million and one,” Benedict said, trying to force a charming smile. He found himself gripping his sketchbook slightly harder than before, his fingers digging into the leather cover. “I thought the weather looked lovely enough to enjoy it,” he nodded towards the various other couples and families amongst the park, “I suppose I wasn’t alone in that regard.”

“No,” (Y/N) shook her head lightly, “after the rain we’ve had the last two days, I think everyone was itching to get outside.”

“I also thought perhaps the weather could cure this illness of mine,” Benedict sighed dramatically, his weight shifting to one side. “You see, I—”

“Mr. Bridgerton!” Lady Kent chimed, her grin nearly touching her ears. She magically found her way from the edge of the lake to their blanket in two ticks, seemingly just as Benedict’s presence was known. “How lovely of you to join us this afternoon.”

“Oh he wasn’t joining us, mama—”

“Nonsense,” Lady Kent waved dismissively, “you’d be hard pressed to find a more pleasant spot in the park today. I scoped it out myself, you know,” she hummed contently.

“It does look like the perfect spot—”

“So you’ll be joining us, then!” Lady Kent clapped, her eyes finding the book in Benedict’s hand quickly. “I assume an artist such as yourself can draw just about anywhere, no? My daughter has told me all about your wonderful talents.”

“Oh, you flatter me, Lady Kent,” Benedict felt his cheeks heat up at the mention of the word ‘artist’.

“Mama, I think that Benedict would be most pleased to enjoy the calm, quiet,” she nearly hissed, “afternoon elsewhere.”

“I can’t find myself enjoying the afternoon anywhere else,” Benedict shot (Y/N) a knowing smile, sitting down beside her, “I think I will be joining the two of you, after all.”

“Splendid,” Lady Kent nearly sang, grabbing the basket beside her. “Our cook made a few too many sandwiches, please,” she pushed it towards Benedict’s knee, “help yourself.”

“Oh how I love a good sandwich,” Benedict drawled, his eyes decidedly not meeting (Y/N)’s, which he knew bore the heat of a thousand suns against his side. The sandwich looked absolutely delicious, the crust cut clean off, his eyebrow quirked. “No crust?”

“(Y/N) has never been one for crust, I’m afraid,” Lady Kent said, not looking up from her needlework, she was rather focused on the pink flowers at hand. “Rather fond of finger sandwiches in that regard.”

“Mother,” (Y/N) hissed, “you make it sound like I am nothing more than a picky child.”

“There’s no shame in being picky,” Benedict assured (Y/N) quickly, taking a large bite of the sandwich, half in one go. He managed to chew and swallow it quickly, determined to finish his thought before (Y/N) chimed in. “I suppose it’s to be said that you are picky, seeing as you’re on your third season in the marriage mart.”

(Y/N) felt her cheeks flare, her chest grow heavy in anger. “I do beg your pardon, Mr. Bridgerton,” (Y/N) set her book down at her side, ready for war, “but you also are not wed, and you are how many years older than I?”

“I’m a bachelor,” Benedict smiled coyly, as if that was all he needed to say, “I am not expected to wed until I want to.” He glanced at her mother, politely trying to avoid the conflict the two beside her. “Which,” he leaned closer to (Y/N), his voice not higher than a whisper, “like you, I do not truly wish to wed. Not anytime soon, anyway.”

“Benedict,” (Y/N) smiled sweetly, her tone anything but, “don’t you have something else to occupy yourself?” Her hand rose to his sketchbook, now sitting in his lap. “Something other than getting under my skin?”

“(Y/N),” Lady Kent warned, again not looking up from her needlework. “Mr. Bridgerton is our guest this afternoon. Please be polite.”

“Yes, (Y/N),” Benedict nearly sang, “do be polite. I am being nothing but pleasant.”

“Mama,” (Y/N) turned to her mother, ignoring Benedict’s quip. “Benedict is no suitor, there is no need to treat him as such.”

“And yet you call one another by your given names,” Lady Kent finally glanced up. “If anyone were to hear, why, they’d think otherwise.”

“The ton already thinks otherwise, Mother,” (Y/N) nearly groaned, “Lady Whistledown seemed to make it so.”

“And you yourself have said that Mr. Bridgerton is nothing more than a friend,” Lady Kent mused. Benedict couldn’t take his eyes off of the tension between the mother and daughter, their conversation acting as if he wasn’t there at all. “If that is to be true—”

“Of course it’s true!” (Y/N) exclaimed, her temper rising. “Mother, I would,” she took a deep breath, calming down, “I would appreciate it if we were to stop talking. I think Be—Mr. Bridgerton—would appreciate our squabbling to cease.”

“I don’t mind,” Benedict rose his hand in admission, “I am quite used to the familial arguments, you seem to forget I come from a family of nine.”

“Would you also like to have a large family one day, Mr. Bridgerton?” Lady Kent asked unashamed, her motives clearly present and known.

“That’s it!” (Y/N) quickly rose to her feet, book in hand, “I think I’ve had enough of these pleasantries and sun. I’m going to go back home to our library to read in peace.”

“No!” Her mother rose beside her, grabbing her shoulder quickly as if she was afraid her daughter would run away. She very well was close to, anyhow. “I mean,” Lady Kent cleared her throat, “I understand how my questions have upset you, darling, but do not let my presence ruin a perfect afternoon. I will simply move myself to the bench over there and chaperone from afar.”

(Y/N) gave her mother a look, one of almost disbelief. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” Lady Kent nodded, picking up her needlework. “You two should enjoy the picnic, enjoy your friendly time together. I do believe I see Lady Jackson, I should go and catch up.” With that, Lady Kent was off, her sights set on the bench nearest their blanket and sat down. Lady Jackson was inclined to join, both sets of eyes trained on (Y/N) and Benedict.

“My mother has no shame,” (Y/N) shook her head, her eyes narrowing at her mother in the distance as she sat cautiously back on the blanket. Lady Kent quickly turned her head down to her needlework, trying to avoid eye contact with either party.

“She just wants you to marry,” Benedict sighed, leaning his weight to his hands, head pointed up towards the sky. “She only is looking out for you, as most mothers do.”

“Alright, how much did she pay you to say that?”

“Five pounds,” he jested.

“You should’ve asked for more,” (Y/N) hummed contently, deciding to turn her attention back towards her book.

“My mother has been the same as of late,” Benedict admitted, the need to play along with (Y/N) nearly vanishing, “ever since Daphne married—she’s with child again, you know—our mother has been on Anthony and I more than ever.”

“Oh that’s wonderful news!” (Y/N) smiled sunnily. “For Daphne, I mean,” she quickly added, afraid Benedict would misinterpret her words. “Though, hasn’t Violet been on both of you—Colin too—about marrying the last, what, four seasons?”

“Feels like a lifetime,” Benedict sighed. “It’s rather taxing.”

“You think your seasons have been taxing?” (Y/N) nearly scoffed, now fully ignoring her book. “To be a lady in the season is arguably more exhausting and strenuous.”

“I wasn’t arguing that,” Benedict’s hands rose in admission, afraid of starting a feud out of nothing, “I was merely expressing my disdain for a discomfort we both share, (Y/N).”

“I—sorry,” (Y/N) felt her shoulders slump, “my mother has gotten me in the worst headspace, I should be enjoying the afternoon but—”

“You haven’t since I’ve joined you,” Benedict finished. (Y/N) couldn’t find the words to correct him, her mouth like a gaping trout. “I apologize greatly, (Y/N). I should’ve known that pursuing a conversation with you so soon after Whistledown would be met with some tension. I didn’t assume it would be this much.”

“I do not hate your company, Benedict,” (Y/N) assured him, placing a hand atop of his. The touch alone felt like a searing burn, hot and blistering. “Far from it, but yes, since Whistledown things have been… different.”

“Lady Whistledown has such a grip on the ton, she even has gotten into Anthony’s head about his marriage prospects.”

“Anthony?” (Y/N) scoffed. “You’re joking. As long as I’ve known that man, he hardly allows anyone’s opinion to matter to him, let alone it to be an anonymous gossip rag.”

“He’s trying to court that Miss Sharma, the diamond of the season,” he nearly sang, opening his sketchbook, trying to find the inspiration to draw. The lake looked nice enough. “Not that you wouldn’t know, anyhow, seeing as it’s been in Whistledown the last few weeks.”

“Does he like her? Miss Sharma?”

“Hard to say,” Benedict shrugged, twirling his charcoal lightly. “I think he thinks he likes her. But, he has to do it out of obligation, you know. He needs to find a viscountess, sire an heir,” he nearly grunted, “familial duty and all that.”

“Yes,” (Y/N) drawled, her tongue holding much too long on the ’s’. “Of course, he’s the head of your family, the one with the title that must be passed on.” She knew too well about the familial duty, almost painfully so.

“Thankfully, I don’t have to worry about those things, I’m free to enjoy my bachelor days and do the things I enjoy,” he turned his sketchbook over towards (Y/N), “like this.”

The page could’ve been deemed a simple collection of charcoal smudges on paper, but (Y/N) saw much more than that. It was a sketch of the lake, the reeds and the lilies that floated near the edge, the large tree near them. It wasn’t particularly clean, as it had been done in a matter of minutes, but it was legible enough and had an excellent composition.

“Have you been practicing? It’s lovely.”

“I’m trying to practice more,” Benedict nodded, turning his attention back to the book. He continued his ministrations against the coarse paper. “That’s the illness I had tried mentioning to you before, I’ve hit some sort of artist’s block so to speak. I cannot, for the life of me, find anything worth drawing without growing angry or vexed. Even at the academy.”

“You seem to be drawing the lake just fine,” (Y/N) peeked again at his sketchbook, now flourished with more details in the short time she had seen it before. “If it is practice you’re looking for, just draw that of what you see. It could be as simple as that, no?”

“Yes,” he hummed, “you’re right. I seem to be feeling particularly inspired.” The decision to come to the park this afternoon was a good one, Benedict had decided. The company of his dear friend made him feel at ease, calm his mind of all the doubts that wracked his brain and allowed him to just draw. She always made him feel at ease, with almost no trial and effort at all. He felt his cheeks warm at his realization. “I suppose the fresh air has done the trick.”

“Fresh air always seems to help,” (Y/N) agreed, her eyes flitting back down to her almost-forgotten novel. She hadn’t seen Benedict’s reddening cheeks, much to his relief.

Why was he relieved?

—

Benedict’s inspiration had continued to flow through him long after his afternoon picnic with a one Lady (Y/N). He all but holed himself up in his room, his hands sketching with reckless abandon, strokes and lines so sure and so confident, Benedict didn’t care if they were messy. They were his. He practically filled an artists pad in a day, solely with all things he felt like drawing. (Y/N) was right, as he found she nearly always was, he needed to sketch what he saw, practice from life as all great artists before him had done. Or so they claimed, anyway. Some sketches were boring, a water pitcher in the drawing room, flowers his mother had received from Anthony, the chess set Eloise all but threw at him the last time they had a match, yes, nearly every page was filled with the boring objects in his life. Nearly.

He had forced himself to try his hand at portraits, to practice the human form. It wasn’t the first time he had tried, of course, but the human shape was trickier than a bouquet of flowers. Hands, faces, hair, everything about portraits made him nearly scream at his inadequacy. He could never get the lines right, the feel of the person or perhaps their very essence in the drawing, their spirit. So practice he did.

His first real try of a portrait was of Eloise, Benedict did it without her consent or knowledge, knowing she’d be alright with the endeavor regardless of permission. His sister was amidst a heated debate with her good friend Penelope one afternoon, her posture was something that was practically screaming at Benedict to transfer to his paper. It wasn’t the most elegant of drawings, nor was it the most flattering of portraits, but it was unlikely that this drawing would end up in their family gallery anyhow.

His second try was of his mother. With the near-violent way Eloise reacted to his rather accurate depiction of her, he found it best to ask their mama for permission after all. Though, the bruise from the book corner on his shoulder Benedict had suffered was one of honor, his drawing had been a great likeness to Eloise. Violet Bridgerton sat perfectly well for her son, hands folded neatly in her lap, posture rivaling that of a statue in the chapel. He took the job of depicting his mother rather seriously, it had been the most important piece thus far in his artistic career and he did not take the pressure lightly.

Lady Bridgerton nearly sobbed at the sight of the finished piece.

As all good things, his portrait trials came in threes. His final practice of the week was of none other than Lady (Y/N). It wasn’t the first time he tried capturing her beauty—he had an endless amount of failed attempts littered across his room, something almost off in every one. Of course, those attempts were off of memory alone, never did he get the chance to sketch her as an acting model. He couldn’t put his finger on what each sketch was lacking, almost as if he didn’t do his dear friend justice. Lady (Y/N) was a beautiful girl indeed, he would be a fool to admit anything otherwise, her demeanor unlike anything he had the pleasure of knowing before. It would be his greatest challenge.

A challenge that Lady (Y/N) (Y/L/N) was keen on allowing him to attempt.

“You know,” Benedict shuffled in his seat, crossing his legs, “you don’t have to keep sitting like that.”

(Y/N) allowed her hand to fly to her forehead in a fake swoon, relaxing her body against the lush green chair. “Would you prefer something like this, perhaps?”

“Well, now that’s entirely different than the one from before,” he was entertained by the new position, “but if it pleases you, feel free to continue.”

(Y/N) moved herself back to her posture she started at—a relaxed pose with a book—humored with Benedict’s smile. She had been sitting and posing for him for the better part of twenty minutes, immediately agreeing to his rather shy proposition. “Women at the academy do this daily? Sit and pose whilst the hungry eyes of the learning artists around sketch her form?”

Benedict only hummed a response, not looking up from his work, he nearly had finished the details on her hair.

“How painfully boring.”

“They seem to have good fun,” he shrugged, hyper focused on the shapes of her eyes. He simply couldn’t get them right, couldn’t do them justice. “Though, I reckon the artists have more of the fun.”

(Y/N) noticed Benedict’s wicked grin, it was devilish, almost. “I can’t imagine anything that could be more fun than this,” she motioned down her entire body, “other than the obvious passion of art, how could any of this be fun for the artists? Pouring your energy into endless sketches can’t possibly be the epitome of fun.”

“Typically,” Benedict took a moment to glance up, “the subject is what makes the work rather enjoyable.”

“Are you insinuating that I am not making your work enjoyable?”

“Of course not,” he laughed, “I’m merely answering your question.”

“You didn’t answer anything.”

“I shouldn’t find myself humoring you with the true answer, (Y/N). You’re a lady.”

“I’m not as green as you make me out to be, Mr. Bridgerton,” (Y/N)’s eyes narrowed, her lips curling into a small smile.

“Do you ever wonder why I don’t care to show anyone my work from the academy?”

“No,” she shook her head, “I just assumed that you’re embarrassed with your practice work, all artists and wordsmiths are.”

Benedict rose from his chair, a good chance to stretch his legs. He had found a good place to pause the portrait anyhow, it seemed that he would have little luck on her eyes today. “I would argue that some of my best work,” he took a step closer to (Y/N), “is from the academy.”

“Pray tell, why don’t you share it with anyone, then?”

“Must you know?”

“I feel like I must now,” she crossed her arms, firmly rooted in her seat. “Seeing as you’re being so withholding of the truth.”

“Most of our models at the academy,” he took another step, “they’re rather beautiful, elegant,” another step, “but above all else, they’re entirely as God Himself allowed them to enter this world,” he paused, as if for effect.

She had no response.

“Nude.”

“Oh,” she nearly squeaked. As if she had been sitting in the sun for too long, her body felt as if it was on fire. “I-I suppose to learn the human form—”

“It’s best to get the basics and fundamentals of the form, yes.”

“Well,” (Y/N) took a deep breath, a chance to regain her shaky composure. “I do hope you don’t assume that I will be partaking in the same manner of modeling that your academy models do.”

“I would never ask that of you.”

But he would never say no to it, either.

“I’m sure it is rather… freeing for the models, though, I can’t say that I would feel the same.”

“I find that the models have a sense of pride in their work, yes,” Benedict hums, trying to make heads or tails of (Y/N)’s indifference to this new information. It was if he had grown two tails and sixteen fingers with the way she was looking at him.

“And you, of course, have seen many a naked women I’m sure—”

“‘Of course’? Why do you assume—”

“As I have mentioned before, I’m not as green as I look, Benedict.” (Y/N) rose from her seat, feeling even more embarrassed under Benedict’s gaze from above. Her cheeks were practically on fire. “I may be a lady, but I’m a lady of the ton, and the ton seems to have quite a bit of knowledge about you and your brothers rakish ways.”

“You think of me as a rake?”

“It’s hard not to do such,” she said honestly, “not as large as Anthony, of course, his name is practically synonymous with the term.”

“I can’t say that I’m entirely shocked,” the confidence that he had felt before suddenly dwindled, “though, many men in London could be considered rakes.”

“That… is true, yes,” (Y/N) hesitantly nodded. Why were they even having this conversation in the first place? “It is not my place to say what a man can or cannot do with his free time. I just assumed,” she took a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding, “I just assumed that the whispers were correct, that is all.”

“I would be lying to you if I said they weren’t,” he pushed out, his posture deflating. “I hate to be anything but honest with you, (Y/N).”

She took a moment to really look at Benedict Bridgerton. A man she had known to be so tall, so sure of himself, why, he looked as if he were two feet tall. He seemed defeated, forlorn, almost as if he had kicked two—no, three—puppies. “I adore you for that fact, Benedict.”

Adore you.

The words rattled in the second eldest Bridgerton’s mind. Such strong words, words that held sentiment and feeling, ones that had been laying on his lips for longer than he cared to admit. She had been the one to say them, she had bested him, beat him to it. She was rather good at beating him to the punch.

“You’re a very dear friend to me,” (Y/N) quickly added, hoping to ease the sudden silence that had covered the room. His eyes widened like saucers, struck like lightning at her words. “You’ve been nothing but an honest and kind friend all these years. This admission is only proof of that fact.”

Friend.

If Benedict thought that her words from before had rattled him, that word alone shook him to his very core. “Of course,” Benedict found some form of words to say, to maintain face. “Though, it cannot be helped that I am still rather embarrassed to even be talking to you about such… matters.”

“What? The matters of the flesh?”

“(Y/N)!” he nearly hissed, shocked at her wording.

“Is that not what all that is, anyway?” (Y/N) found a great humor in watching the way Benedict’s face turned red. It started from the tips of his ears, she noticed, working its way down to his cheeks and neck. “Again I’m not—”

“As green as you look, yes,” Benedict monotonously repeated the phrase he had heard her mutter twice in the conversation previously. “I am starting to become well aware of that fact.”

“Good,” she was pleased that the notion her pleading and prodding had been recognized. “Now, if you’d be so kind—and I know you are—could you show me your sketches from the academy?” Benedict remained silent, unmoving. “Oh my God, it is not as if I haven’t seen any of what you’d show me anyhow.”

“I don’t think you understand my hesitance, (Y/N). I am fully aware of your own knowledge of the female form,” his eyes couldn’t help but sweep down her body, “but I worry about your lack of understanding of the male form.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “I didn’t realize—I guess I should’ve known that there would also be male models too,” she laughed humorlessly.

“It would be most improper for me to show you those, seeing as you’re a lady and I am nothing short of a gentleman,” Benedict felt (Y/N)’s gaze narrow on him. “Rakish ways aside.”

“Perhaps you could show me when I am married, then.”

“Married?”

“Yes,” (Y/N) nodded slowly. “I suspect once I’m married, I’ll have seen my husband… well, in that capacity. It would not be as scandalous, I would think, anyhow.”

“So,” Benedict cleared his throat. Had it grown hot in his chambers? “I’d have to wait at least another five years to show you?”

He felt her book hit his side. Hard. How had he forgotten she was still holding that blasted book? He had spent the better of twenty minutes drawing her holding the text. Books hitting Benedict seemed to be a theme his week, not that he didn’t deserve the theme, but it was most unwelcome nearly every time.

“You know better than I that I will be wed by the end of the next year,” (Y/N) said, watching Benedict try to console the pain in his upper arm. She was pleased. “My father is to arrange something on my behalf by then.”

“To some baron or duke, I take it?”

“What? No,” she all but laughed at his assumption. “It’s best that my husband have no title at all, no nobility.” Her voice dropped to nearly a mumble, “my parents are almost hoping for that fact.”

“Why would your parents urge you to marry a man with no—”

It dawned on him. The Earl of Kent had no male heirs, only his precious and wonderful (Y/N). Her marriage—her son—would ensure the continuation of their noble line, lest the title be vanquished from nobility altogether. To Benedict’s small knowledge of the (Y/L/N) family tree, (Y/N) hadn’t had any uncles or male cousins on her father’s side, their family tree was a rather barren one, it was any miracle that her parents were blessed with their daughter at all.

The chime of the grand clock shook him out of his daze, focusing on how (Y/N) smoothed the skirts of her dress. She didn’t want the hard wrinkles to set from all of the sitting she had done. It was a rather nice color on her, a sage green, floral embellishments flowing down the gown. He much preferred this to that horrendous pink frock she had donned at the Cowper ball, it was ill suited for her personality. Yes, the light green was more fitting to her, gentle and quiet as the summer breeze, always soft and entirely welcome.

“Oh,” (Y/N) looked to the clock, “is it already two? I promised Eloise that I would accompany her on a promenade this afternoon.” She practically floated over to a nearby mirror, fussing with her hair. “She said she was in desperate need of a distraction,” she turned her gaze to Benedict in the mirror, who had been standing still as a statue, “lest a suitor were to sweep her off her feet.” The sound of (Y/N)’s chuckles filled the room, hoping to encourage a similar sound from Benedict’s lips. He didn’t join in. “I hope,” she turned, “that my posing was sufficient for your practice today.”

Benedict’s mouth was dry, unable to open and speak. He was in desperate need of a drink—lemonade, water, brandy, he didn’t care—he just needed to quench his sudden thirst. All he could do was nod.

“Well, I suppose Eloise is waiting for me in your drawing room,” she clasped her hands together, “I should call upon her nonetheless, she probably isn’t expecting me to have already been here.” Another light laugh escaped her. “Though, one would expect nothing less considering our family’s great friendship—our great friendship.”

“Yes,” Benedict managed to make out. “It would probably be best to call upon her.”

(Y/N) nodded lightly, seeing herself to the already cracked open door—even though they had been nothing but friends for years, they were still an unwed lady and gentleman, it would be scandalous to have the door completely shut. Of course, none of the Bridgertons—save for Anthony—really felt the need to chaperone the two at every given moment, as it was clear that Benedict and (Y/N) were capable of acting friendly and honestly without the watchful eye of another. But, the door was to still be cracked, as per the norm and Anthony’s ruling.

How Benedict loathed that crack.

“I do,” (Y/N)’s fingers gripped the brass door handle, “hope that you show me the end result, I am most excited to see your work, it is going to be excellent as always, I’m sure.”

“An artist is only as good as his subject,” he managed to force a smile. “With you, it could be nothing less than perfect.” He could’ve sworn he saw a pink rise to her cheeks as she left, the color different than the light rouge she had been wearing.

Perhaps pink was a fine color on her, after all.

#Benedict Bridgerton #Bridgerton #Bridgerton x Reader #Benedict Bridgerton x Reader #reader insert #ayyyeee part 2 bb

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softguarnere · 1 year

Text

Like A Girl (Like A Man)

Shifty Powers x OFC

Chapter Seven: Nvwatohiyadv & Saoirse

Summary: If this is what Hell feels like, at least it’s not as lonely as all those days back home in her room.

A/N: An update? After all this time? I'm just as shocked. I'm trying my hardest to keep up, but I have so many papers and projects due this semester that updates may be a little infrequent for the next few weeks.

Also a massive thank you to the wonderful @latibvles for supplying the name of Zenie's first kiss 🫶🏼You are so beloved And for those of you who like chapter titles, nvwatohiyadv is the Cherokee word for liberty, while saoirse is Irish for freedom - just trying to combine both parts of Zenie's heritage

Warnings: alcohol, smoking, religious trauma, period typical attitudes and terms in regards to race, homophobia, improper binding techniques, language, brief mention of vomit

Taglist: @liebgotts-lovergirl @latibvles @mrs-murder-daddy @lieutenant-speirs

August 1943, New York

Most of them are spilling their alcohol soaked guts onto the docks with retches that hurt to listen to. The few of them that didn’t partake in the guzzling of whiskey the night before are strong stomached until they step onto the SS Samaria, and then they too are sick to their stomachs.

Hardly any of them have ever been on a ship before, and it’s taking them a while to get their sea legs. Funny, how they can fling themselves out of perfectly good airplanes, hurling themselves toward a cold and unforgiving ground, but a ship against the rocking of the waves is what makes most of them feel ill.

But something else is getting to Zenie. Not the usual nerves that send a chill down her spine whenever she spares the occasional moment to be anxious about the possibility of being found out. This is something else. It’s almost like homesickness, or tender feelings for the place she’s about to leave behind.

Life jackets on, they all pack together on the deck as the Samaria leaves New York. She’s short enough that she manages to claim a place by the rail without anyone complaining that they can’t see. After all, just like her, everyone is vying for a peek of Lady Liberty herself.

She’s beautiful. Tall. Elegant. Set against the hazy backdrop of orange sky and mist rising from the waters around her, she’s more of a figure, looming larger than life as they sail by.

Zenie has only met her paternal grandparents a handful of times, but now a memory of her grandfather’s voice whispers to her in his thick accent. “. . . I looked out across the water, and there she was. Her torch guided the ship like a lighthouse, pullin’ us in. All my doubts about leavin’ Ireland left me then. How could I be nervous, with such a lass watchin’ over me?”

Guilt turns into a rock in her stomach. Her father’s parents worked hard to get out of Ireland, to get themselves and their descendants to America. And here she is, willingly going back to the place that they fled.

And now the fine lady watches Zenie as she goes in the opposite direction – leaving America for Europe. If the statue were real, she might recognize something of her Irish grandparents in Zenie and offer her the same strength that she did them so long ago.

What about her other grandparents? The ones who are one hundred percent all-American, whose parents and their parents and the ones before them had been in America since time immemorial. Lady Liberty never welcomed them – they were already here.

It’s silly, really, to wonder whether or not a statue could afford some fondness or sense of protection on a person, but Zenie can’t help but wonder if the figure protects her and her liberties, too, when the world seems so keen on keeping those rights away from her and other Indians.

No. A statue can’t protect anyone, or their liberties. Not really. It’s Zenie and these men and all the other people fighting this war that are protecting those freedoms. The statue is just a reminder of what is often overlooked; it gives an icon to an ideal. If anything, the statue doesn’t represent some omnipresent force that welcomed her grandparents when they immigrated, but rather regular people and their beliefs. The statue only exists because someone believed in something enough to give the world a giant reminder of it.

Well then, what does Zenie believe in?

The lady looming over the water must have some sort of answer. Just as she welcomed Granda into America so long ago, she now watches Zenie leave it – both McGlamery’s traveling towards something that they believe in, though their journeys go in opposite directions.

Go, the godlike figure on the island seems to tell her. Go forth and protect and defend what I represent. For people like your Irish grandfather, who believed in liberty. And people like your Cherokee Granny, who hardly got to see it.

Lady Liberty is stuck in place. Zenie knows what that feels like. But she’s not immobile now. She unstuck herself because of feelings of suffocating in one place. Now she keeps going because she believes in what she’s doing. She believes that she’s a part of something that’s good.

How could she feel guilty with such a lass watching over her?

The longer that they’re on the ship, the more grateful Zenie becomes that she’s not in the Navy, or the Marines, or the Coast Guard. Or any sort of sailor, actually, carrying her secret or not. It’s hot and crowded and miserable. The men stink and personal space is quickly becoming a foreign concept. Her large feet trip her up on the ladders several times, and the only thing that keeps her from tumbling down and crashing onto the decks are the quick hands of her friends that fly out to catch her by the arm.

Toye claps her on the back once after helping her stay upright. She hopes that he mistakes her wince as one of relief and not her dread that he might feel her bandages.

If anything, her secret is only making her experience aboard the Samaria more miserable than everyone else’s. The farther down into the ship they go, the hotter and more crowded it becomes. The binding around her chest makes it harder to breathe, and even though the men all have a few beads of sweat along their hairlines, she feels like she’s glistening with it. All she can do is hope that by some miracle, the ship will reach her destination faster than anticipated, because the second that Zenie sees the hammocks packed together to provide them with a place to sleep, she has a feeling that she won’t be doing much of that – not when the mercury is so high and the oxygen so scarce.

If her feet don’t floor her in this crowded place, the realization that hits her does: where will she change? Clean up? Relieve herself? They’ll toss her out to sea before the ship even sets sail.

“You look like shit, Tommy Boy,” Bill deadpans.

“Gee, thanks.”

“No, I’m bein’ serious. Have a cigarette or somethin’.”

“Maybe you should find Doc Roe,” Luz suggests. He slings his pack over his shoulder and sighs up at the racks above them, resolving himself to climb up to the top where there are still a few that are unoccupied. “If anyone wants to offer a trade, now’s your last chance.”

Toye makes a show of stretching out on his rack, which is close to the ground. “I’m good.”

Bill flips open his lighter and holds it to the end of his cigarette. “Same here.”

Finding Gene is probably her best option. He’ll have some sort of suggestion; he always knows what to do. But right now the boat is hot and she’s exhausted.

A vague memory of a church sermon from her childhood flashes through her mind. The pastor, his booming voice like a canon as it echoed off the walls of the church, lecturing the congregation about the fires of Hell that awaited them if they strayed from the flock. He gave the lecture so many times that she could be remembering any given Sunday of her childhood. As a young girl, the danger of the Underworld seemed to lurk right beneath her feet, the ground threatening to split open and reveal lapping flames that would swallow her up if she so much as fidgeted during the service. The Sunday after she had her first kiss – with that pretty Lucy Jordan from out of town, with the pretty hair and the soft lips – she sweated in her family’s pew as she awaited the inferno to take her. When nothing happened, the fire and brimstone didn’t seem quite so threatening, or even all that real.

The heat generated from the bodies all tightly packed around her does make her wonder, though, if this is what the nether regions of the afterlife feel like. At least she’s surrounded by friends. The thought makes her chuckle to herself as she plops down on a rack. She removes a cigarette from the mostly untouched pack in her pocket, nicks Bill’s lighter, and fills her lungs with the smoke, hoping it will help her nerves.

She glances around, chuckling again as she picks up pieces of scattered conversations from the men. If this is what Hell feels like, at least it’s not as lonely as all those days back home in her room.

Yeah, she thinks. Not too bad.

“My brother’s in North Africa,” Bill’s voice draws her out of her thoughts. “He says it’s hot.”

“Really?” Malarkey snarks from behind him. “It’s hot in Africa?”

“Shuddup.” Malarkey’s hard expression melts as he laughs. Bill rolls his eyes. “Point is, it don’t matter where we go. Once we get into combat, the only person you can trust is yourself, and the fella next to ya.”

Or woman. Lady. Lass. Dame. Whatever slang term Philadelphians use for girls.

Would they trust her, if they knew her secret and then found themselves next to her on a battlefield? Eugene would; he had said she was brave. If there’s anyone I would trust in combat, it’s someone as fearless as you.

Maybe someone else on the ship is fearless in the same way that she allegedly is. Maybe they share the same secret. That’s a nice thought. She would trust these men – these fellas – if the bullets were flying, but if they knew the truth, they would probably never trust her again.

“Long as he’s a paratrooper,” Toye says.

Zenie might not be a man, but she is a paratrooper. She went through the same training as everyone else here.

“Oh yeah? And what if that paratrooper turns out to be Sobel?” Luz asks as he hauls himself up the racks. Looks like he couldn’t convince anyone to trade spots with him.

Above them, someone else’s voice sounds off with a response that she misses over the din of whoever is above her shifting his weight, making the rack squeak. Another thing that reminds her of Sundays in church: learning to tune things out. She doesn’t need to get her feelings hurt by listening to them talk about who they do or do not trust – because while Tommy falls into one category, Zenie most likely falls pretty firmly into the other.

The next thing that she knows, the rack beside her is shifting as Bill stands, and then the people around her fall quiet as Liebgott’s voice fills the space. “I’m a Jew.”

“Congratulations.” She can’t see him, but Zenie can hear the smug smirk on Bill’s face when he responds, “Now get your nose outta my face.”

He deserves it, friend or not, when Liebgott swings at him. He should know better than to say something like that, and she’s planning on telling him so when she jumps up to help the others hold the two men apart.

A sharp pain blooms in her chest, sending her stumbling back into the racks. A gasp escapes from her lips. No one notices – they’re all too busy trying to keep the first Easy Company casualties from occurring before the ship reaches England.

She’s never been hit in the breast before. And now someone’s elbow has just jabbed her there, managing to hurt even through the bandages.

That’s it. She’s got to solve this problem.

It’s a miracle that she doesn’t get jabbed again as she pushes through the throng of bodies. The miracle balances itself out with the fact that she doesn’t see Gene anywhere among them, and no one seems to know where he is when she throws the question out to them. Instead she finds –

“Tommy!” McClung yells above the rest of the voices that swirl around them. In a second, he’s pushed through the crowd and caught up to her, Popeye and Shifty right behind him. “Where’re you off to?”

“Any of y’all seen Doc Roe?”

“No.” Popeye tilts his head. “Are you as sick as ol’ Shifty Boy here from all that whiskey?”

“Just eat somethin’,” Shifty suggests with a nod. “A couple of those donuts from the Red Cross girls had me right as rain.”

Popeye claps him on the back and flashes her a winning grin. “He learned that from me.”

“No, it’s –“ She offers a vague, sweeping gesture with her arm. The heat. The tight space. The lack of privacy. “I just need some air.”

“We were goin’ up top, anyways. We’ll come with you!”

It’s easier to push through the crowd when she’s got three friends helping her clear people out of the way. Earl pushes through the crowd like it’s nothing. Popeye calls out greetings to people as he goes. Zenie scans everyone’s faces, looking for Gene, reassuring herself with the thought that he’ll know what to do and he’ll come up with a plan for how to handle all this bandage business.

“Fuckin’ ridge runners,” someone scoffs as they force their way through the crowd.

At her sides, her hands immediately ball themselves into fists. She scowls, looking around for whoever might have said it. Cobb is sitting on a rack nearby, and she’s willing to bet the comment was thrown from his direction.

“Hey.” A gentle hand places itself on her shoulder and urges her forward from behind. “Just ignore him. Been enough fights on this boat for one day.”

“But –“ She feels herself deflate under Shifty’s touch. He’s right; they’ve been called worse.

The salt on the breeze is unlike any kind of wind that she felt back at home. During the more pleasant times of year, mountain breezes feel friendly and teasing as they play with her hair and snap flags on their posts. The wind from the sea that greets them abovedeck carries a sense of adventure. It’s powerful – powerful enough to carry them somewhere new.

It fills her lungs and whispers to something in her soul. All those days of sitting in her bedroom feeling suffocated and sorry for herself. Now she’s the farthest away from home that she’s ever been, and (as long as she’s not crammed in the bowls of the ship with the other men) she can breathe.

“Feelin’ better?” Shifty asks. His hand hasn’t left her shoulder. Zenie finds that she doesn’t really want him to remove it.

“Much.”

Earl gestures to all the space around them. “Look at this! This is way better than being trapped belowdecks.”

“Well, it’s a long way to England. We can probably spend as much time up here as we want.” I know I will be, Zenie doesn’t add as she relishes in the cool breeze and the sound of the waves.

“We oughtta sleep out here,” Popeye says. “Better than sweatin’ for hours at a time and listenin’ to everyone snore and complain about the heat.”

Shifty nods in agreement. “We oughtta.”

So they do.

The first night of the voyage, they return to their racks with everyone else. Zenie stays awake all night, listening to people pant in the heat, grimacing every time a rack squeaks as someone shifts their weight. Some people manage to doze, but she spends the next day groggy and vows that she’ll take Popeye’s suggestion. Her friends don’t take much convincing.

“Like camping.” They’re all sprawled out on the deck, hoping that any non-coms or officers that catch them won’t send them back below. The waves slapping against the side of the boat are loud but soothing. In the growing darkness, Zenie can just make out Shifty’s smile. He’s in his element. The others agree, and she doesn’t admit that no one has ever actually taken her camping before.

Instead she’s intent to just be there, the ocean sounds sending that thrum of adventure running through her core as it carries her far, far away from that noble statue back in New York. Far away from the loneliness of her room and straight into the next leg of her adventure. Surrounded by friends.

Not too bad.

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