Fife had marched over to the unsuspecting couple, their backs turned, before Benedict had even had a second to protest.
"Fife–" He stammered out, but it was too late.
"You must be new to court, my dear lady," the man stated with finality, without so much as clearing his throat to announce his presence, which would have been an affront in itself. "Allow me to be the first to cordially welcome you to London."
There was absolutely nothing 'cordial' about Fife's introduction. The older man accompanying the Duchess sharply turned to face Fife, blatant disapproval staining his features. He ran his eyes over the younger man and leaned in to whisper something to his ward, before she turned around as well.
From what Benedict could deduce, the Duchess looked to be a few years older than most of the other freshly debuted girls of the Ton. And it was with this added maturity that her gaze was so fierce, tempered with an air of confidence and assuredness that only women of a certain status and age could master.
Her deep chestnut - almost black - hair was swept out of her face into an elaborate updo, though the curls around her face fought to break free from it. The lady's skin was clear, unmarred by freckles, besides a small mole next to her top lip. Her eyes were green, vibrantly so, bordered by thick, dark eyelashes.
She was pretty, very pretty - so much so that it made his stomach flip and hands twitch with a yearning for his paintbrush - but maybe she would have been moreso, if her features weren't so pinched in obvious annoyance.
Benedict's mouth fell open slightly to say something, to introduce himself, but Fife beat him to the punch.
"My name is Lord Fife," the man began with a quick bow of his head, his focus entirely concentrated on the lady before him. "Apologies, I could not quite catch your name when you were announced."
Fife's face was moulded into a smouldering smile that might have made simpler women crumble, but instead only served to annoy the Duchess more.
She looked reluctant to acknowledge someone who had so rudely interrupted her previous conversation, but she curtsied nevertheless, her face blank. "Josephine Howard, Duchess of Norfolk, My Lord."
The Howards were known. Their house had produced royalty, prized mistresses, famed scholars. 'Howard' blood was liquid gold - old money - its power untouched, unknown in its entirety perhaps even by the Howards themselves. They were the 'crown jewels' of the Ton, the epitome of high society.
And Fife had just accosted two of them in the middle of a crowded ballroom, in front of the Queen, no less.
Oh Lord, Benedict thought. He thought that Portia may have misspoke earlier, but this woman really was a Howard as the ladies of the Ton had suspected. And Fife had insulted her indefinitely through his immense lack of tack.
The Duchess was rungs above Fife - a mere lord - on the social ladder, let alone Benedict, untitled as he was. It felt like an indignity to the Howards to have even had ambitions to converse with them before the more noble of the Ton had been given a chance.
They were out of their depths, massively.
He wondered if he should tell Fife to throw in the towel right away before the man embarrassed himself further, but Benedict knew that his overzealous companion was not in the habit of being rational or seeing sense once he had set his sights on someone. Somewhat reluctantly, Benedict decided that he was content to let Fife dig his own proverbial grave, as retribution for being such a poor conversationalist earlier that night.
"'Duchess', did you say?" The man questioned, his smile wavering as he considered her response. "You are married?"
Benedict's head whipped around to look at Fife, mouth agape in shock that he had said something so uncouth to a stranger, to a noblewoman, no less. It was astounding how someone so "refined", with a wealth of private education at his fingertips, could have such a blatant disregard for courtly etiquette sometimes. It seemed that Fife did not care about title nor status, but the women themselves, or rather what was underneath their skirts.
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𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 | b. bridgerton
Fanfictionjosephine howard, duchess of norfolk, was destined for greatness. that was what she had been told from a young age. that was what she had been assured through her birthright. and precisely why she thought it unnecessary to partake in london's social...
