daylight | b. bridgerton

xviii | prayers, persistence

The duke had found her. They were in the middle of a dance, when he noticed she was acting off.

"Vivienne, is something wrong?"

She shook her head. Everything is wrong. "No sir, I am quite alright."

He smiled innocently. "Do not feel the need to spare my feelings, dear. We can stop dancing right now if you wish it."

She hesitated. "Let's finish this one. It would be a spectacle if we left in the middle of a waltz."

"It does not matter what the ton thinks," Sebastian said with concern, "If you are unwell or unhappy we must attend to that first."

There it was again. His complete kindness and compassion. She felt so guilty. If only her heart could relent to this man, and away from the other, perhaps she could find it in herself to be happy with the duke.

So she forced a smile, and told him to continue the dance.

—

Later that night, for the first time in a long time, Vivienne found herself kneeling on her bedroom floor, her hands clasped and resting on the bed, holding her rosary in between them.

"Dear father, who art thou in Heaven," she mumbled, in focused prayer. "I humble myself before you. I first ask for you forgiveness, for my doubt in you, and for my speculations of those who worship you. And I also am sorry, because I must ask you for something despite my lack of total faith.

I need guidance. It may seem like such trivial matters, but I truly do not know what to do between the duke, Mr. Bridgerton, and my father. This whole situation, especially with the added pressures of the ton, are pushing me further and further from you, and I feel as though I am losing a bit of myself in the process."

Vivienne sighed, her eyes shut and her breathing ragged. Who was she to ask anything from God? And who was He, if not a mirage and a made up oasis humanity conjured for comfort, to answer her? She began to regret many things tonight.

She could stand it no more. "Thank you for listening, dear father," she concluded, her guilt eating away at her prayer, "and thank you for the fortunes I experience every day. Bless my mother, Henry, Ambrose, and especially watch over Theo during these times. In the name of the father, the son, and the holy ghost, amen."

She made the sign of the cross, and stood up, depositing her rosary and sitting at her piano.

And she just sat there for an indefinite amount of time, simply contemplating. The music left open on the stand was her own composition, her waltz inspired by the feeling she couldn't help but revel in.

Slowly, she raises her hands to the keys and set them in position.

Vivienne played the waltz, romantic as ever. And she played and composed, and wrote it down, and played and composed more more. It was a waltz, played in F major, widely regarded to be the happiest key.

Her soul poured into the keys, and she was very glad to have her room far away from anyone else's, as to not wake them up with the emotion spilling into her melodies.

Then, she heard an all too familiar tapping on her balcony doors, and her heart stopped. She stood tentatively, and moved to confirm her dangerous suspicions.

Dear father in Heaven, she thought, seeing that stupidly mischievous crooked grin below her. She pinched the bridge of her nose, and closed her eyes. This is not what I meant.

Benedict shifted his weight between his legs, anxious. Had he made a mistake? Vivienne Maeve did leave him at the ball earlier.

But oh my, her on the balcony above with the moonlight casting a heavenly glow on her. My god, does she look ethereal.

"Angel," he said, his voice clear and unwavering. His confidence surprised even him. "Please, darling, may I come up?"

And how could she say no to that? Against her better judgments, she relented, and threw down the rope ladder.

He held a small bouquet in front of him. "For you, Vivienne Maeve," he scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, "I would have brought tulips, but this visit was so impromptu and I didn't have time to procure them. I picked these from the flower garden at Bridgerton House, and my sister Eloise would have had head my if I picked the tulips—"

"Sir, it is alright," she interrupted his rambling, "Those are lovely carnations."

He frowned. "Dash it, I thought they were peonies."

Vivienne smiled. He was so effortlessly charming. She couldn't stay away. So she moved closer, taking the carnations he held in his outstretched hand. "Peonies are a bit bigger," Vivienne explained, "and they have less ruffles."

"As long as you enjoy them, Vivienne Maeve, that is all that matters to me. I'd pick you the prickliest cactus if you'd like that more."

"I love them, Benedict." She affirmed.

A flash of shock passed through his eyes. Finally, finally, she said his name without him correcting her.

Perhaps she wasn't upset with him after all. There was hope!

"I'm sorry," he said hurriedly, after a beat of silence. He mentally scolded himself for ruining the moment.

Vivienne cocked her head to the side, "Whatever for?"

Benedict took a cautious step closer to her. "If I did something to upset you during our dance earlier. You left a bit abruptly?"

"Ah," she acknowledged, now avoiding his gaze. "Do not apologize, Ben, that had nothing to do with you."

He took another step towards her. "Nevertheless, I never got to thank you for the dance. Or," he continued, taking another daring step, "have the chance to ask you for another."

If Benedict were correct and she were truly an angel, Vivienne may have just floated away right then.

"Then it appears I must apologize—" she said, bashfully to the ground.

"—Unnecessarily so."

"—And perhaps suggest the potential prospect of that second dance?" Good lord, what was she doing— except digging herself deeper and deeper into a grave she wasn't quite sure she was against eternally lying in?

He raised a brow, crookedly grinning. "Right now?"

"Why not?" she countered. She never seemed to compose herself around him.

And he smiled again, and it was pure joy. "Well then Vivienne Maeve, may I have this dance?"

Vivienne took his hand, and they began to dance, right there on her balcony. The moonlight and the starlight and the light in his eyes was wonderful. Even his skilled hand at painting could never depict on a canvas how she saw him. Benedict was lovely.

"I meant what I said earlier," Vivienne said, as he led her through a completely unorthodox slow waltz. They were making it up as they went.

"And what would that be, angel?" He murmured, taking in every detail of the moment.

She looked up at him, her eyes twinkling like the stars above them. "You truly are revelry."

Benedict chuckled. "You give me too much credit. I am simply a man adoring an angelic spirit.  You are the remarkable one, Vivienne Maeve."

What could she have said in response to him? She wanted to cry, to scream, to do anything other than remain in his arms and dance with him. To Benedict's complete obliviousness, she was at war with herself. 

Don't touch me anymore, one part of her said. Hold me closer and never let me go. Please.

But as she looked at him, his messy brown hair, his adoring blue eyes, and his stupid, stupid crooked smile, she realized that the war was entirely unfair, and one side was fighting an entirely futile effort.

So, she continued to dance with him, to the rhythm of her accelerated heartbeat and the music of the night. She reveled in defeat.

notes.
lowkey i am not catholic? i am however so wooed by my own writing HIGHKEY