Benedict Bridgerton Regency Imagines || Benedict Bridgerton

Safe

He is your safe harbour. Your home away from home. The family friend you have known for as long as you can remember.... And he is engaged to another woman.

It was, in hindsight, a foolish idea to go into the gardens unaccompanied during the ball, but honestly, you needed the air. The stuffy room, the awful suitors, but most of all, having to watch him dance with his intended. An oily feeling in your stomach that you know is jealousy, making the champagne you drank sit uneasily.

You kick off your silken shoes and sink your toes gratefully into the slightly damp verdant grass. Rolling your toes into the lush turf, letting it tickle your arches. A satisfied sigh escapes your lips as you finally feel your jaw unclench, your temperature lower.

"Miss y/l/n..."

You knew the fleeting moment felt too perfect to last.

The oafish toad that is The Earl of Bradshaw is staring at you like a gift under a Christmas tree. Your skin crawls.

Snaggle-toothed, red-faced, likely inbred and sure to inherit his late father's gout in the next few years, he is an 'eligible bachelor' who embodies the most ironic use of that term.

"Scandalous of you to be out here unchaperoned," he smarms, drawing closer, "anyone would think you are asking to be compromised. Is that what you want, Miss y/l/n?"

"Certainly not," you sniff affronted, flinching away from his ham-fisted grip. It smells like he's had enough brandy to fell an ox, which gives you the tactical advantage of swift movement. You attempt to ensure your exit point is behind you, moving outside his peripheral vision.

Sadly he is lighter on his feet than your credit, and just as you think you are free, a vice-like grip wrenches your arm and you are pulled into the most awful damp blubbery embrace.

"Oh, I do so love them feisty," he spittles as you make all efforts to escape him.

"Unhand me at once!" You exclaim, stamping on his foot, but you are barefoot, and he has on riding boots—it barely even dents the leather.

There is a heavy hand pulling up your skirts as you push and fight against him. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, and you gag at the sensation of his wet tongue licking your skin.

"You will be mine," he gruffs.

"Never!" you assert, and with your final ounce of strength, you stumble free of his grasp and run. Run as far as you can. Tears now staining your face.

You know your hair is askew, your dress torn in places. You cannot run back into the ball. It will be your fault for entering the garden; such is the burden a young woman must bear for daring to wish for a modicum of free choice.

So you run around the side of the house, hoping to find your carriage not far away. As you round a corner, there's a movement in the shadows under a jasmine-vined pergola.

"Y/n?" It's the voice that inhabits your dreams. So much that you swear your mind is playing a cruel trick until a familiar shape emerges from the shadows.

"Benedict," you stutter, relief cresting hard in your veins.

"What on earth? Are you alright?" His voice is concern and affection personified, and you want to wrap up in it like a blanket. He lightly grips your arms and steps closer.

"I'm alright now," you exhale shakily, curling your hands around his elbows, tears turning to sobs of relief.

You watch as he catalogues your appearance with a glance. "You are bare feet! Your dress is torn! You have a mark on your neck! Your hair is...." he stops mid-sentence