Moments: One-Shots || Benedict Bridgerton

Moments: James' Societal Debut

Viscount James Darby sets tongues wagging as soon as he lands on the London social scene. It's the spring of 1836, and a twenty-two-year-old James enters the annual Sotherby Ball, heads almost snapping.

Tall, handsome, intelligent and, most importantly to many mamas, titled and extremely rich—he instantly draws a crowd. The season's most eligible bachelor, indeed.

Some older members of the Ton can also be seen whispering behind their hands. Gossip-mongers speculate how the son of the late John Darby can look so very much the spitting image of his step-father, Mr Benedict Bridgerton. Still, in the cutthroat marriage mart, there will always be rumours swirling about the most eligible men, often started by the parents of their rivals.

"Mother, must we do this?" James grumbles, eyes pinging around the room, assessing everyone with trepidation.

"Yes darling, we must. You have to join society at some point; it might as well be now," you respond, politely nodding at passing acquaintances.

"Father, you didn't have to partake in this farce, did you?" He looks over your head at Benedict, standing at the same height.

"No, son, I did not," he admits, "I met your wonderful mother here at a party actually. A very fun artistic party," he looks wistful in his recollection, smoothing a hand over his slightly greying temple.

"Well, why can't I do that? That sounds a darn sight more entertaining than whatever this is," James opines with disdain.

"Because, James, he was untitled," you sigh. "As Viscount, sadly, you must be more... particular... in your choice of wife."

"But he met you, and you are the very picture of grace and elegance," James fawns.

"Son, attempted flattery will not get you out of this. Still, that charm will take you far," you concede, picking an imagined piece of lint from his lapel.

He pulls an exasperated face that makes you laugh.

"Now go," you shoo him, "dance, enjoy, and meet some people. I'm not asking you to get married tomorrow, not even this year. Just, see who is out there."

He sighs heavily but acquiesces to your request out of love more than duty.

——

For James, the crux of the problem is not the marriage mart as a ritual; it's who it involves. Try as he might, given the expectations for a titled man to continue his lineage, James Darby cannot picture himself settling down and having a traditional family. He suspects his father already knows, his mother perhaps less so.

James glances back to see them whispering, arms entwined, heads together, as if in the first flush of love rather than approaching their seventeenth wedding anniversary. Part of him longs to find such a connection for himself, but a larger portion of him suspects he won't. At least not in a way that society deems acceptable or continues the Darby name.

He takes a deep breath and allows the approach of various mamas, signing dance cards and feigning interest in the various young ladies thrust in front of him.

It's when he joins the dancefloor for his very first dance that he knows he is in trouble. He catches the glance of the person standing next to him, and time freezes. Gentle hazel eyes and almost cherubic curls frame quite the most beautiful face he has ever seen. He barely notices the girl opposite him, the one he is supposed to be dancing with, even as the music starts.

"My lord?" The girl questions, and James has to physically shake his head to bring himself out of the reverie.

"My apologies Miss," he rumbles, "this is my first dance, and I fear I am already rusty." He turns on the smile he sees his father use and watches as the girl almost physically melts, her eyes dilating, her breath quickening. How easy it is to charm a young lady, he thinks to himself, almost disappointed in the lack of challenge.

There is a laugh to his right. "I can't believe that actually worked," the beauty opines, voice laced with amusement.

Before James can retort, the dance takes them in different directions. But still, he watches out of the corner of his eye. Occasionally their gazes meet, and he feels something akin to a fire in his belly. The girl he is dancing with barely registers in his regard.

As the music ends, he excuses himself and follows the retreating figure of the enigma who only spoke a handful of words to him.

He finds himself on a torch-lit terrace with a slight breeze in the air.

"I suspect this is not your scene. Would that be accurate?" A cool voice catches him, holding out a cigarette case in a gloved hand.

James smiles. "That would certainly not be inaccurate," he replies, taking the offer and leaning in to catch a light, his breath catching as he does.

"Hmm, very much the same, Viscount Darby."

"How do you know who I am?" James queries, giving a sideways glance to his new companion as he exhales a cloud of smoke, the tobacco calming his nerves.

"Your reputation precedes you, my lord," the smooth voice teases.

"Well then, I should have your name; 'tis only fair," James opines, surprised at the low, almost flirtatious register his voice takes.

The pretty face morphs into a smirk. "Granville," comes the reply, "David Granville."

"Well, it is most definitely a pleasure to meet you. And call me James."

"Likewise, James, likewise." There is a pause as David looks up at the stars, "Tell me, do you paint?"

James' heart races. "I most certainly do," he responds, trying to disguise just how breathy he feels.

"Mmm, same. I do believe this could be the start of a beautiful... friendship," David replies, his hazel eyes dancing.

And right at that moment, James knows his life will never be the same again.

Author's Note: David Granville is Sir Henry Granville's nephew :-)