Moments: One-Shots || Benedict Bridgerton

Moments: An Art Lesson

"What is all the noise?" You call as you walk down the hallway towards Benedict's art studio at the end of your home. You can hear giggling, shrieking and crashing noises. You assume the children are running amok in Benedict's supplies after their art lesson.

When you round the corner, the first thing you see is multi-coloured paint splatters everywhere. Not only on the floor and walls - which are luckily covered in paper - but also on the French windows and even the glass ceiling. You see fabrics draped over the soft furnishing saving them from ruin. In the midst of this, there are four wriggling humans in what used to be white paint smocks but are now absolutely streaked from head to toe, pealing with laughter and flicking paint at each other from loaded brushes.

James Darby, Isobel Bridgerton, Amelia Bridgerton and, most surprising to you, your husband, one Benedict Bridgerton.

You clear your throat loudly and pointedly.

The noise and movement cease as they all separate and look suitably abashed as you wander in from the safety of the doorway. There is paint in all of their hair and even between their toes, a rainbow of mess.

They all give you the pleading puppy dog look, knowing they have been caught doing something they probably shouldn't. Dammit, why did all of your children have to inherit that look from their father?

"I thought this afternoon was supposed to be an art lesson," you say archly, but there's a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

"Daddy started it," Amelia immediately confesses, pointing at him.

"Amelia! My heart, how could you? I thought we agreed to keep that a secret," Benedict cries in mock betrayal from his spot sitting cross-legged, his grin giving him away.

Amelia giggles and launches into his arms, "Daddy in trouble with Mummy," she singsongs, tapping her finger onto his nose.

Benedict kisses her paint-covered cheek, then looks up at you. "Am I In trouble, Mummy?" He asks, looking up at you through fluttering eyelashes. He knows he wins every time with that face.

You roll your eyes. "Stop with that look."

You look at each of your children in turn. "All of you, stop with that look," you add, shaking your head.

"But mummy, you love us, don't you?" Isobel pipes up, "we will clean up all the mess, we promissssse."

"You had better," your voice carrying no heat.

"Daddy put paper and cloth everywhere so we could have a paint fight. He called it new art. Says each piece will hang in a gallery one day when we are all famous artists like him," James argues.

"Oh, did he now?" You raise an eyebrow at your husband, who is biting back a laugh, looking down at the ground.

"Children, why don't you go paint on your easels?" you nod towards the circle of child-sized easels untouched in the far corner of the room.

They follow your advice, bumping shoulders and smiling, knowing they have gotten away without a telling-off.

"Husband, a word?" You aside as he gets to his feet in one swift, athletic movement.

"Yes, wife," he simpers, moving close, aiming for flattery.

"I do not think it's fair to ask the staff to clean up this mess, my love. I assume you will be doing so, seeing as this was all your idea?" You chastise gently; your eyebrow raised again.

"Yes. That's fair," Benedict huffs genially.

You cast your eyes up towards the glass ceiling. "Better get a ladder, Mr Bridgerton," you smirk.

"Yes darling, I will," he promises, moving closer with a look in his eye you have long since labelled as troublesome; when he shoots you that look, you somehow mostly end up naked and often pregnant. The latest example of this is upstairs asleep in the nursery. You waggle a finger as he goes to touch you.

"Not with all that paint, Mr Bridgerton," you cluck, although he does look particularly kissable, all streaked in paint, the colours making his eyes shine so bright.

"Darling wife, you didn't seem to mind paint getting everywhere three nights ago when I was running my brush between your legs," his voice low and sinful.

"The children!" You admonish under your breath, "they are within earshot."

"Oh please, look at them; they are totally absorbed in their own world," he points out as you glance and see them each at their easels, oblivious and calmly painting, little tongues sticking out the corner of each of their mouths, almost comically in unison.

"The girls may look like me, but there's no denying they take after their father in the art studio," you concede, your heart always swelling for these wonderful little humans who run your world. Without thinking, you crowd against him for a hug.

"Your dress...." He warns, but his arms wrap tight around you.

"Isn't one of my favourites," you assure with a defeated sigh and grab his face, bringing his lips to yours. He won again. But seeing as you get a wonderful kiss, it's hardly a defeat for you.

When you emerge from the kiss, you are almost as paint-streaked as the rest of them, but there's a grin on your face.

"Care to join us in making some new art, my love?" he murmurs against your lips, "it is just so much fun."

To answer, you reach over and grab a loaded brush and flick it at him, the splatter painting a royal blue diagonal streak from the tip of his left ear across his forehead and into his hair.

His eyes dance with mirth. "Oh, that means war," he rumbles with amusement and releases his hold, grabbing a brush and firing a huge red streak that runs from your chin down to your waist.

"Children," Benedict calls, his gaze still on you, "looks like Mummy wants to be a new artist after all" he raises an eyebrow as you just shake your head affectionately.

They all cheer and clamber back into the melee.

It takes you and Benedict most of the evening to clean up the glass once the children are bathed clean, and sleeping soundly. He does strip you down and take you hard against the ladder, though, so that's at least partial compensation.