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murdockparker · 2 years

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A Million Dreams

Benedict Bridgerton x Reader

Summary: He didn’t believe he could be so taken with her, taken with such a lady of the ton. If only she were to stay in London, stay with him.

Word Count: 3.3k

Prompts: 21. “You said you needed space. You were 5,000 miles away for a year, and you’re still unsure. I’m starting to think that an entire universe apart wouldn’t be enough space for you.”

80.“You’re a big piece of inspiration for this, honestly.”

Warnings: fluff, angst, heartbreak (still has a happy ending I promise!)

A/N: okay so, for the prompts, I loosely followed the first one (aka didn’t use it word for word lol sorry) so.... anywayyyyyy.... enjoy?

Courting came so easily to him, he realized. Benedict Bridgerton didn’t anticipate the possibility of courting this season, but when his eyes met with the ever elusive Miss (Y/N) (Y/L/N), he was smitten. Something in his gut was telling him to go over to her, to ask for a dance, to charm her off her feet. Never had he felt like this, especially at any event of the season, no, it was something purely chemical—magical, even. He couldn’t explain the draw to her—perhaps it was how her laugh that filled the room, or how her smile made him feel as if he were flying—regardless, he felt the attraction all the same and needed to do something about it.

A dance, that was all it took. Unbeknownst to him at the time, but she was just as easily bewitched by Mr. Bridgerton, something about the way he looked at her—about how his presence made her feel—she knew it was something worth exploring, worth humoring.

The exploration led a courtship spanning over a few months, both parties involved equally relishing in its success. Not only had Benedict Bridgerton found a person to whom he could share everything with but how freeing it felt to open oneself to another without the fear of rejection or humiliation. She became his greatest supporter, instantly falling in love with his artistic endeavors and passions. Never once did she complain about sitting for a drawing, no matter how long she had to stay still and listen to his gentle suggestions and poses.

He had fallen in love. He knew this for a fact and within the short months of their courtship, Benedict knew that she was exactly who he needed to have beside him for the rest of his life. He was on the precipice of proposing, knowing in his heart of hearts that she was likely to say yes.

So he charmed her into a promenade, a sweet walk in her family’s garden just as the sun begun to set, the scent of roses and wildflowers enveloped their senses.

“It’s a beautiful night,” (Y/N) smiled lightly, her face rather tight.

Benedict nodded quietly, reaching out for her hand. She took it without any hesitation. They both continued to walk, to enjoy the silence of the dusk and the rhythms of the night coming in like the tide.

“My dearest,” Benedict broke their silence, “I wanted to talk to you.”

“And I you,” (Y/N) said, gripping his hand even tighter.

“Is that so?” Benedict teased. “I suppose it is quite convenient that we are alone in the gardens, isn’t it?”

“It is…” she trailed off, her eyes wandering to the rather impressive statue her mother had commissioned for the garden not too long ago. Cupid, how terribly poetic.

Benedict felt her hand loosen on his, his brows furrowing slightly. “Is everything alright?”

She simply shook her head and sat down, conveniently on a nearby stone bench.

“Please,” Benedict kneeled before her, his hands atop her own, resting on her lap. “What ever could be troubling you?”

“My father,” (Y/N) said, her voice wavering, “do you remember him sharing about his mining endeavors?”

Benedict nodded once, firmly.

“His partners have come across a new place to mine,” she sighed, eyes pointed at their joined hands, “it is said to be rather prosperous, a worthy investment.”

“That,” he said, “that’s wonderful, my love. Your father must be elated at the prospects.” Her demeanor didn’t change, there was more to the story—hesitance practically swallowing her whole. “Why... why would that bring you down so terribly?”

She took a deep breath—to compose herself, in fear of letting tears overwhelm her.

“The mine is in the Americas.”

Oh.

“Oh,” Benedict’s hands nearly fell from her lap, knowing full well what his love was implying with the news. “So… that means…?”

“We are to move by the end of the week,” (Y/N) sniffled, pressing a gloved hand to her nose. “Father is already there and awaiting our arrival. Mama, my brothers and I are to meet him as soon as we dock.”

“You’re—(Y/N), you cannot leave,” Benedict rose quickly from the ground, “your life is in London, your life is here.”

“Benedict…”

“Your father simply cannot make you go,” he started to pace, “you are supposed to stay here, stay with me.”

(Y/N) deflated in her seat, posture becoming what easily her governess would have scolded her for. “My love, it is not as if I want to leave London—to leave you.”

“Then don’t,” Benedict said simply, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. He clawed at his jacket pocket, hand diving into the inner lining. “I had planned on doing this tonight regardless,” he sunk back down onto his knee—one this time—his fingers prying open the rather small box, “but it seems time is of the essence and… well?”

“Benedict,” she was speechless, her heart had leapt to her throat, tears already spilling down her face.

“I love you, (Y/N) (Y/L/N). I wish to spend the rest of my life with you, if you would let me,” Benedict—now feeling the tears well in his eyes—gasped for air, “we can stay in London—together—and build a life with one another.”

“I-I can’t—”

“We can elope,” he said quickly, rising back to his feet, pulling her up with him, “take a trip to Scotland and be back by the end of the week—wedded and happy.”

(Y/N) shook her head wildly. “No, Benedict, you misunderstand,” her eyes met his, “I can’t marry you—elopement or not—I simply have to go, my family…”

“You cannot marry me or you do not wish to marry me?” Benedict asked, his voice nearly broken.

“There is nothing more that I would do,” she said, raising a hand to meet his cheek, “than to marry you, Benedict Bridgerton. I love you, truly and wholly, I do, but my brothers need me—need their elder sister. My mother…” she sighed, hand sliding down to his chest. “She would be crushed, I do not think she’d fair well with my absence all the way across the sea—”

“Then I shall come with you,” his hand met hers once again, “I will follow you to the Americas, we can start our new life there.”

“No.”

“I…” he was taken aback, “no? You do not wish—”

“As I cannot be parted from my family, you certainly cannot be parted from yours,” (Y/N) said slowly, insuring her words were taken only in the most sincere of regards. “You also cannot just abandon the academy, Benedict. You spent so much time getting accepted—to build and learn your craft, you can’t just give up and run away with me.”

“But I would,” he said, his voice firm, “I would give up everything—everything—to be with you.”

“And that is simply something I cannot ask of you,” she shook her head, “as placated and happy as we would be, the guilt—heavens the guilt—would consume me, Benedict,” a tear rolled down her cheek. “Holding you back from greatness, it would be too much for me to bear.”

“That is not your call to make, my love,” he tried to reason, “if I am to live a life with you, I would never regret it, not even for a moment. You could never hold me back.”

Gently, oh-so-gently, she rose to her toes, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. It was sweet and light, the calm before the storm.

A goodbye.

“I’m leaving, Benedict,” (Y/N) said, a finality to her tone, a sternness to her words, “and I will miss you with everything I am and everything that I will be.”

Her hand left his chest, sliding completely off his form. She tried not to look him in the eye, knowing if she were to do that, she would fall apart at the seams.

He knew that she was right, of course, she usually was. He simply couldn’t leave his family, uproot his life and move to an unstable and unknown way of living across the ocean, worlds apart from the people he cared about most. Benedict couldn’t make her stay, he knew that much.

But she couldn’t stop him from waiting.

—

The salty sea air made her sick. After far too long on yet another boat—even though she swore to herself to never travel such a distance again—she had arrived back to England. It had been well over a year since she had traveled in the rather untrusting transportation across the water, so to finally step foot on dry land—on her homeland—was reassuring.

Something was nagging in her heart, a hope, perhaps. She had tried to keep in correspondence with Benedict, hoping to still have a piece of him all the way across the sea, but he never sent her as much as a note back. In total, she sent fourteen letters, each more lovely than the last. It was no surprise that he refused to respond—she had broken his heart, after all, but she persisted.

Thankfully, a few dear friends of the ton had kept her up to date—as much as one can, of course—with everything and anything that had happened in town. Sometimes they would include the elusive Lady Whistledown in their letters, just to keep things fresh. Normally though, they would keep tabs on Benedict, whether (Y/N) had asked them to or not.

So, thanks to her new knowledge and forced invitation by her dear friend she had been staying with, Miss (Y/N) (Y/L/N) was standing in the back of the room, awaiting the unveiling of Benedict’s latest works of art. He had become somewhat of a notable name in the ton—something she knew he could always achieve—and this was his first true gallery. Granted, it was held at Bridgerton House, so the gallery wasn’t known for being spacious, but it was impressive nonetheless.

How she managed to arrive at Bridgerton House without any sort of announcement or acknowledgement is beyond her knowledge or comprehension, but it was a good chance to be the first to let Benedict know she had returned. He was mere steps away, tucked into a small room off to the side, eyes fixed on a singular landscape, everyone seemingly enjoying the party elsewhere instead of congratulating the man of the evening.

He hadn’t changed since she had seen him last—save for the sideburns, he had grown them slightly, she noticed—but it had only been a little over a year, a drastic physical change was a bit foolish to be prepared for. But, it comforted her to know that Benedict Bridgerton was the same man she left all that time ago.

She could only hope his heart held the same impression.

A quick deep breath and a shaky sigh, she stepped forward. “Benedict.”

His face dropped, his mouth slightly agape, his piercing eyes meeting hers for the first time in a long time—a sight he truly never anticipated to see again. “(Y/N).”

(Y/N) wanted to run right into his arms, feel his embrace as she welcomed him again, but something seemed off.

“I-It’s good to see you,” (Y/N) managed to squeak out, pressed firmly to her spot on the floor.

“How…?”

“Father has found great success in the mines,” (Y/N) started, inching closer to him, “so I managed to convince my parents to allow me to return to London unaccompanied.”

Benedict’s eyes flicked to her hands—wrung with anxiety—searching for something intently.

“And your husband has allowed this…?"

(Y/N) allowed a small smile to curl her lips. “I am not yet wed,” she moved her left hand—so that is what he was searching for. “I came here on my own volition.”

“Your parents would have never allowed you to come alone,” Benedict shook his head, “you’re an unwed lady—”

“Perhaps I snuck off, then,” (Y/N) said, waving her hand, “regardless of how I came to be here this evening, I’m here, Benedict.” She had managed to step nearly to his side, looking directly up into his stare. “I came back.”

“You did,” he let out a shallow breath, “you came back…”

“Are you in disbelief?”

“I am,” Benedict laughed humorlessly, “I nearly mourned your departure on every passing day since you left, only for you to be standing in front of me,” his hand reached out to graze her cheek—to prove she was real and she was there.

“I came back for you, Benedict,” tears were welling in her eyes, she had held them back for so long, “should you have me, of course.”

“I…” he sighed, posture deflating, “I wish it were that easy, (Y/N).”

“I am not sure I understand?”

“You left,” his tone was pointed, “a-and you wanted nothing to do with me—”

“Nothing to do with you?” (Y/N) raised her voice. “Are you mad? I wanted nothing more than to stay and be with you, Benedict. It just…” she ground her teeth, “wasn’t in the cards.”

“And yet you cannot just show up—announced I might add—and expect me to just willfully forget all of the anguish I had suffered in your absence,” Benedict’s voice was firm, he was serious.

“It is foolish of me,” (Y/N) nodded, “I will admit my faults in that regard, but if I could have stayed—”

“I proposed to you, (Y/N),” Benedict said sharply, “I lowered myself to one knee and bore my heart out to you that night.” She stood silently, unsure of how to respond. “My God, I even begged you to elope with me,” he laughed, “if you truly wanted to stay and be wed, you had every opportunity to do such a thing.”

“That is unfair and you know it,” she sneered, “I couldn’t just leave my family—to go and elope with an artist.”

Immediately did she want to take her words back, shove them down to the depths of regret and anguish—but it was far too late for that. The damage had been done, Benedict’s face taking the toll, the brunt of the turmoil.

“Yes,” he said cooly, face unchanging, “I am an artist, a successful one, too.” Benedict dug one hand into his pocket, the other flying wildly to his side—gesturing to the landscape beside them. “Unless, you couldn’t tell.”

“Benedict, you know I didn’t mean that—”

“You were gone, for a year, thousands of miles away from me—from London,” Benedict sneered, his tone downright hurtful. “You had all of the space in the world to figure out what you wanted and yet you come to my home to insult my craft? The very craft you did nothing but support?”

“You’re right!” She had enough, reaching her breaking point. “I did have all the space in the world—the universe! Because of that space, Benedict,” she flailed a finger in his face, “I realized what I wanted and I was hellbent on working for it!”

“And whatever,” he said cooly, pushing her finger out of his face, “could that be?”

“You, Benedict. You are what I want.”

Benedict blinked once. Twice. He stayed silent, watching carefully as her chest heaved with every deep breath she took, she was serious. He turned on his heels, facing the lavish landscape he had been admiring earlier.

“You’re a big piece of inspiration for this, you know,” Benedict nodded to the painting, “for this and practically the entire gallery.”

She looked at the canvas carefully—it was a beautiful rendition of a garden, the sunset practically glowing against the blues and deep hues of the foliage. It had looked just as if it were a normal garden of the ton, but something was nagging at her, a familiar feeling. It wasn’t until her eyes locked into the statue in the far right side—Cupid—that she realized what exactly this piece was. Where exactly this piece was.

“This is… my garden.”

“The day you left.”

“It’s lovely,” she hummed, her heart somewhere between deflating or dropping, “the sunset… it looks just like it did.”

“It was hard for me to forget,” Benedict nodded, “the name of the piece, do you wish to hear it?”

“That depends,” (Y/N) looked to him, “will it hurt me further?”

“I called it ‘Love and Loss’,” he continued, “no matter how many times I recalled that evening, how many times I was angry or disappointed in how things left off, I still longed for you. Mourned your loss, wishing you to return.”

“A-and the love?” (Y/N) squeaked out.

“Well,” Benedict laughed lightly, “I hardly think it is impossible to imagine that I loved you—that I still love you.”

“You still love me?” Her voice was hopeful, suddenly feeling as if she were walking on air.

Benedict enveloped her hands with his own. “Of course I do, I never stopped.”

“But you said that you mourned—”

“And I did,” he said curtly, “but even when one mourns, it does not mean that the love was entirely lost, my dear.” Benedict ran his thumb carefully over the back of her hand, tracing small circles as he went. “But you made your way back to London, back to me, even if you had done so without your parents knowledge or consent,” he pointed his brow, a trademark smirk enveloped his lips.

“I did,” she smiled, “how foolish of me it was to believe that I could continue my life without Benedict Bridgerton in it.”

“We are all known to be foolish at times,” Benedict nodded. She slapped him playfully.

“This is the part where you disagree and profusely tell me that I am not a fool!”

“But that would be a lie,” he mused, “because it was quite foolish to leave a man such as myself behind, I do believe I am quite the catch, would you not agree?”

“You are quite full of yourself Benedict Bridgerton,” (Y/N) smirked.

“But you love me for it,” his smile softened, “do you not?”

“I do,” she hummed, feeling herself grow closer into his touch. “I love you for everything that you are, everything that you will be.”

“So… it is suffice to say that you love me?”

“I…” a rolling laughter escaped her lips. “Is that not what I just said?”

Benedict leaned down, closer to her, inching his way into her personal space. “But my dear, after a year of a deafening silence and lack of your presence, I do think I deserve to hear it once more.”

“I love you,” (Y/N) said, pressing her forehead against his own. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

In an instant, Benedict closed the gap between the two, pressing his lips against her own. It felt like the entire weight of the world was sealed in this kiss, and in a way, it was. After a year apart—separated by an ocean and familial duties—the two souls found their way back to one another, destined to reconnect, to love again.

“I want to take you up on your offer,” (Y/N) said, hesitantly pulling away from Benedict’s embrace.

“My offer?”

“To marry,” she smiled lightly, “I do think my parents would find solace in knowing that while their daughter did flee the country and new home without their knowledge, she had a husband to take care of her in their absence.”

“A husband, you say?” Benedict grinned.

“Yes, I do suppose you know where I could find one?”

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t find you a husband here in such short notice,” Benedict hummed, tapping his foot lightly. “Not here, anyway.”

Her eyes landed on his expectantly, a glimmer of hope residing.

“But I suppose if we were to travel to Scotland, we could solve this issue rather quickly,” he nearly rubbed his chin in thought—a rather jesting gesture. “Do you not agree?”

“I do,” her left hand gripped his, holding it firmly, “I agree wholeheartedly.”

#benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton #bridgerton #bridgerton x reader #reader insert #is the title based on the greatest showman?? yes. yes it is #will i be changing it?#no. no I will not #ah so anyway... this hurt #but it's okay!! they good #they're probably living it up happily ever after and all that jazz #am i posting this on fourth of july and the reader moved to america?#ironic innit?

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