Coal Among Diamonds │Benedict Bridgerton

Chapter Seven: What Happens in Somerset House... [Part Two]

"What about this picture? Surely you find it familiar, Miss Granville," Benedict's question broke Franny out of her reverie. The picture in question captured a lady in a room full of flowers of all types and colours one could imagine. Franny could almost smell the heavy mixture of scents hanging in the air.

"To be frank, Mr. Bridgerton, this picture reminds me of squandering."

"Is that so? I thought it would remind you of the life of a young debutante amid the season."

"Yes, of course, albeit... Each day suitors give her a bouquet, the next day they do the same, and it continues on and on. Until, of course, she finds her betrothed. The day before yesterday I had 32 bouquets in my living room, and it made my heart sadden. For me, it seems such a waste of flowers and money. Do not get me wrong, I appreciate the gesture, but I wish we were more... conscious."

"Hmm," he cocked his head slightly and surveyed her curiously.

"Even so, I support local businesses, after all, flower shops owners do need to put food on their table, and I have the utmost respect for people who work for a living."

"I do, too," Benedict commended in a serious tone.

"Then we are in agreement once again, Mr. Bridgerton," she cast a sweet half-smile at him while her eyes darted to the next picture. Benedict's attention, however, remained fixed on her, examining her deep in thought. She was awfully clever, that much was clear from the very first moment, her sarcasm and humour both attested to it. Her eyes, the colour of the cold, winter sky, were in constant motion, examining and analysing everything around her, her mind never at ease. When she spoke, clear and loud, she did in a tone that commanded attention without her noticing it. Her way of thinking was strikingly different from the rest of the ton, enlightened, critical, she did not take anything at face's value and while she did tend to disapprove of many, many things (and never missed a chance to voice her opinion), she came alive when she was passionately explaining something close to her heart, her eyes burning with icy fire and even her hair, always everywhere, seemed to sparkle. Benedict has felt intrigued over and over. Her mind has fascinated him, however, could he be attracted to her mind?  Could sheer intellect be this attractive?

"I find the way you think the most unique, Miss Granville. Your convictions are refreshingly different."

"Is that a compliment, Mr. Bridgerton?"

"Yes, I definitely meant it as such."

"Thank you. Albeit, you must not think of me as one who never has anything nice to say. Criticism tends to come easier for me than praise."

"And why do you think that is?"

"Hmm," Franny wondered, and before she could think twice about her answer, the words seemed to leave her mouth, "Maybe if I gave a glimpse into the things I feel passionate about, I would open up the chance of having my wings clipped. And then I could never fly again," she cast her eyes down, surveying her feet for she could not meet Benedict's gaze, but still felt the intensity of it.

She had no idea what came over her. She seldom bore her soul to anyone, except her uncle and aunt and usually only in the aftermath of a big fight. It was unlike her to open herself up like this. Why did Benedict make her feel like this, always at ease, safe to share her secrets with this man, who was almost a stranger? Or was he a stranger? Was connection measured in time spent together?

"Hmm, that is very wise and self-aware of you, Miss Granville. As always, your secret is safe with me and I promise not to ever discourage you when you are speaking passionately. Indeed, I believe that is one of the cruellest things to do, to clip someone's wings when they are speaking their mind." He always seemed to know the right thing to say. When Franny gathered the courage to look up, he cast her a heartfelt smile, his eyes wrinkling in the sides, dimples in the corner of his mouth and a warm sense of contentment came over her.