Moments || Benedict Bridgerton

Chapter 4: Moments from a drawing room

Mid-morning the following day, after a restless night of haunted dreams, your butler informs you of a visitor.

"There's a Mr Bridgerton here to see you, my lady."

Oh, good grief. You wouldn't mind the ground swallowing you up right about now, but sadly no such convenient fate awaits you.

"Send him in," you sigh, smoothing down your dress, knowing you will have to explain what happened last night.

"Lady Darby," he bows politely, entering the room. He, unfortunately for you, looks stunning in the signature Bridgerton blues today. Your body still reacts as it did years ago, as it did last night. He's so much closer than he was yesterday. Within a few feet, too close. Danger, danger is all your mind is screaming.

"God's sake Benedict, just call me y/n," you bemoan, already frustrated with yourself.

He frowns, slightly perplexed by your outburst "y/n" he amends slowly. "I just wanted to check you are well after you left the Danbury Ball in such a hurry last night; we didn't even get the chance to greet each other."

"I am fine", you reassure, gesturing for him to sit opposite you, which he does. "I'd forgotten what a whirlwind those events can be. I've been used to the quiet country life for too long, I suppose. I haven't been to London for years, and I just found it all a bit too much after the journey down yesterday." you shrug, knowing you are babbling nervously.

"Yes, that's understandable. So there was no other reason?" he inquires pointedly.

"No, why would there be?" Your reply is a little sharp as you distractedly play with a loose thread on your dress.

"No reason," he schools his expression with a bite of his lip and downcast eyes. Oh, the cocky bastard. You definitely won't give him the damn satisfaction of admitting that, yes, seeing him was part of the 'all a bit too much' you alluded to.

"Hubris doesn't suit you, Mr Bridgerton", you admonish, slightly playful, despite yourself.

He shoots you his signature crooked smile of old, and quite suddenly, all the air has apparently left the room. The warning sign in your mind flashes brighter as your eye contact lingers. Good god, you itch to touch him.

But there are also so many questions. Who was that woman he was with at the ball? Are they a couple? If so, why is he here with you today, flirting as no time has passed?

The noise of a door opening loudly down the hallway breaks the spell between you.

"Well," he clears his throat, "I just wanted to drop by and check on you briefly, say hello properly after all these years - hello, by the way. I'm on my way to a family lunch; well, actually, I'm already late for it. So I won't bother you any further," he states, going to stand up again so soon, to your relief and consternation.

You hear a rush of tiny footsteps approaching outside the room and realise there is nothing you can do to stop what is about to happen next.

"Mama, mama, look at what I made!" James comes running into the drawing-room holding aloft a piece of paper, brightly daubed with red, green and blue paint. The paint is still wet and is all over his hands and wrists.

Benedict freezes as James runs by, rooted to the spot. It's the moment you've been dreading and anticipating for more than five years.

James smears paint on his forehead absentmindedly as he pushes a lock of hair away and leans into your knees to show you proudly what he has painted.

"That is a kite, and that is a flower," he says, getting yet more paint on his fingers as his pointing presses into the paper.

"It's lovely, darling," you kiss his cheek indulgently, "but we have company," attempting to shush his enthusiasm.