To Paint With Shadows | Benedict Bridgerton

The Ever Unraveling Thread: Part Two

He had not mentioned it, nor asked her; in fact now she had time to think on it, it was preposterous of her to assume he would: after all, he did not even remember the woman's face, and Benedict had probably encounter thousands of ladies in silver dresses in his time. So that is why she decided it best not to say anything.

Pulling herself together, she allowed a simple compliment to stumble from her tongue: 'It is remarkable.'
Benedict wrapped his hands around her waist, leaning down so his head rested on her shoulder.
'You truly think so?' He asked gently, his lips meeting the skin of her neck.
He smiled cunningly, watching how her eyes fluttered shut as a result. 'I say.' He exclaimed mockingly, 'You are more extraordinary than I once thought, I have met no other person who can judge a painting with their eyes closed.' He teased, yet he never ceased his attack on her neck.
Sophie could do nothing but whine in response; his effect on her clearing her brain of its doubts. She gripped his hand, hoping she would get his attention.
'I mean it, Benedict.' She said weakly, as she tried to look up at him, 'My words of your talents, are spoken only in candor.' She told him clearly.
'That is why you are the only person to have seen them.' He explained, his voice quiet and hoarse, 'Because your opinion is most valuable to me.'
Sophie smiled gently, as her fingers wandered the contours of his face.
He took her hand, kissing each finger briefly. 'Let us not do this tonight.' He stated abruptly, yet his voice still remaining low. 'We have both been rushed off of our feet, and there is nothing I want more, right now, than to lie with you, and hear of those wonderful thoughts that fill your mind.'
'Okay.' She nodded, the intensity and earnest of his gaze, causing her knees to grow rather weak.
Slowly, he spun her out of her grip, causing her to giggle; before he walked her to his bed, his hand never leaving hers, as they got comfortable. They stayed like this for a minute, her gaze lingering on the ceiling.
'Will you tell me more of your mother?' He asked tenderly, his thumb massaging circles on her palm, 'You rarely speak of her.'
His question took her by surprise; her past was was a part of her that she did not reveal openly, but the mildness of his grasp on her hand reminded her that she had shared more of herself in the time together, than she had anyone else: if she was to be vulnerable, he was the one to be it with.
She sighed, her gaze still fixed on the ceiling.
'That is because I have so often been told not to.' She responded, a hurt to her voice. She paused before continuing, the regularity of Benedict's breathing calming her, 'My mother was the kindest person I have ever met.' She spoke, her voice beginning to catch in her throat, 'She loved me, so dearly... Every memory I have of her, I carry with such fondness.'
'What happened to her?' Benedict spoke carefully, his eyes watching her.
'She died a decade or so ago... syphilis.' She stated defeatedly.
Having heard the words echo around the room, she could no longer contain her emotion: sighing sharply as tears filled her eyes.
'They never spoke of her again.' She choked, an anger to her words, 'The only conversation ever spoken of her, was in ambiguous whispers... As if she was not worthy of a name.'
Benedict's eyes too became heavy, as he positioned himself closer to her, gently wiping the tears from her face. He could have sworn his heart crumbled within his chest when she met his gaze: her delicate features strained with grief.
'After my father died.' She began, feeling the need to explain, 'We did not see a penny of his fortune... my mother had no choice but to find work wherever she could.' Benedict hung on to her every word, 'I remember how thankful she was to have found work as a barmaid in the local gentlemen's club, she thought it would be enough to give me a life: yet, there we still so many nights when we would go without dinner... So when she was offered money to provide "additional services", she did.' She let out a shaky breath, 'Every night she would ensure I was safely asleep, doing what she could to protect me, but there were so many nights in which I was awoken by her cries and screams as they abused her for their own pleasure... I watched my vibrant and adoring mother wither away, with every touch, with every drunken kiss. Her story was halted every so often by gentle sobs.
'After she died, I was returned to England, under my guardianship. It was arranged that I would be employed by a wealthy couple, who would teach me the ways of a servant, so that I could work under their employment, And I have worked as such every since.' She concluded.
Benedict stated at her, his eyes wandering his face, as he analysed her every word.
'You are incredible.' He simply said.
Sophie shook her head, as much as he could, with his hands still holding her face.
'Please, do not pity me, Benedict. My story is just one in thousands.' She pleaded.
His mouth fell upon slightly, as he quickly stopped her: 'No, I do not pity you, believe me.' He clarified, his tone bearing more clarity now, 'I sympathise with you, and in truth, your story tugs at the strings of my heart, but I do not pity you.' He spoke rather quickly, 'I revere you.'
Sophie's eyes flooded once again.
'It causes me to wonder how I, of all people, have had the privilege of befriending the most remarkable woman.' He lectured her earnestly, 'I will not claim to know your mother, but I think it impossible for her not to be proud of the person you are.'
His words struck her like a thousand bullets, and she could not help but cling to him in response, her face burrowing into the crook of his neck, as his hands wandered her spine. They remained in each other's embrace, until exhaustion consumed the both of them.

As the morning sun tickled at her cheek, she could not longer fight the involuntary opening of her eyes. Confusion riddle her mind for a split second, the room she found herself in seeming unrecognisable; that was until she looked beside her. There, she was met with the sight of Benedict Bridgerton sleeping peacefully, his arm still wrapped around her, causing her to recall the previous night. The way in which he had listened to her free of judgment, and comforted her so easily, caused the blooming of a warmth in her chest, and the appearance of a smile on her face. The last few days with Benedict seemed to linger with her more than usual: perhaps that was due to the feeling that now seemed to overcome her when she was with him; it was not one that she seemed to recognise, until now, as she watched him: she loved him...
As the thought formed in her mind, she could no longer deny it: she had fallen in love with Benedict Bridgerton.

The truth was comforting at first, until her eyes began to inspect the room once more: now everything felt frighteningly alien. She did not belong here, she did not belong in this bed, beside him. The ache in her head only growing when she caught sight of his painting: striking all of the air from her lungs as she studied it.

What was she doing?

As she looked at him once again: the advice she had given Elouise returned to her.

'If this man truly cares for you, well, he would sooner let you go, than rob you of your aspirations and dreams.'

It was if thunder had struck, and she could not remain in that room any longer. Quietly, but swiftly, she released herself from his grip; fleeing to the door as the opened it slightly, ensuring he was still sleeping before shutting it in the same manner she had opened  it. She then wasted no time in making her way downstairs, her mind spinning as she did. Yet, in all the commotion, she had missed none other than Anthony Bridgerton watching her flee his brother's room.