Lessons || Anthony & Benedict Bridgerton

Lessons Taught

"Are you seeing this, brother?" Anthony asks discreetly, tipping his head over his shoulder in your direction.

Benedict hums in the affirmative.

"Well, what are you going to do about it?" Anthony challenges.

"Me?" Benedict frowns in surprise, "I thought she was your girl?

"She is. But you said you wanted to be more involved in teaching?"

"Well, yes..."

"Then I think you better be the one to tell her this sort of thing isn't acceptable to us," Anthony says pointedly, raising an eyebrow.

Benedict nods, comprehending, "Right, you are, brother."

"And Benedict..."

"Yes"

"Happy birthday"

___

All you can think to yourself is this plan had better work.

It's been a month since your last encounter with both Bridgerton brothers, and, well, to say you are looking for an encore is an understatement. They've both been out here in their country retreat while you've been stuck in London. Now you're here at the fabulous Aubrey Hall for the annual Hearts & Flowers ball, and you've come prepared. Or, more precisely, underprepared—-in that, you wear no underwear, chemise or stockings—just your thin dress and stays. An extra frisson of excitement for you and hopefully them too, if they're amenable.

You're not sure the other part of your plan is working. You're trying to get their attention. So you're being risqué with your behaviour. Flirty, laughing slightly too loud at the jokes of men you couldn't care less for, filling your dance card and drinking perhaps a touch too much champagne. Hoping to make them just a little jealous and realise what they are missing out on. Hoping maybe they'll teach you a lesson not to do this sort of thing in future. God, you really hope they do that. Your mind reels with possibilities of just how you would like them to tell you off and discipline you for such behaviour. You crave it.

However, they seem to have left the room. Disappointed, you take your leave from the main ballroom, heading to reapply your rouge when a hand suddenly grabs your arm and drags you into a hidden alcove in the hallway. Your back is pulled tight against a warm solid mass.

"What do you think you are playing at?" A familiar voice snarls in your ear from behind.

Benedict.

Oh yes, please.

"I'm not doing anything... Sir," you answer, pouting to stop the huge grin you feel tugging at your lips.

"It doesn't look like nothing to me; it looks a lot like you are behaving like a wanton little hussy. Is that what you are?" His voice is a sharp hiss.

"No, sir," you respond, pressing back against him, already feeling breathy from this encounter.

"Are you sure?" He questions, "if I find your nipples are peaked, I know you're lying to me," he argues, sliding a hand into your dress.

Of course, they are—they pebbled the instant he touched you.

"Well, what do you know," he purrs dangerously as he lightly runs a finger over it, "a liar and a hussy."

You whimper at his expert touch but make a performance of resisting his hold a little bit, squirming, playing up as if this isn't exactly where you want to be right now. Your thighs sliding easily against each other, already slick.