Bridgerton One Shots

Benedict Bridgerton- Margaret

Margaret

Margaret had always been a beauty. Graceful, kind, and serenely composed, she drew admiration without effort. She adored children, sang like a songbird, and bore the poise expected of the eldest daughter of Duke Monroe. With her came not just charm, but inheritance and the promise of a title for any man lucky enough to wed her.

Which made it all the more perplexing that she remained unwed.

Each season, she entertained a string of suitors. Yet none ever managed to pass her silent, discerning tests. One by one, they gave up, retreating to easier prospects.

All except one.

Benedict Bridgerton.

Persistent. Unshakably so. Much to Margaret's dismay.

She lay stretched across her bed, a book in hand, the afternoon sun bathing her in soft gold when a knock sounded at her bedroom door.

"Come in," she called, eyes never leaving the page.

"Miss Monroe," her maid began hesitantly, "there are flowers again. From—"

"If they're from Benedict Bridgerton," Margaret sighed, "you may toss them with the rest."

"Yes, ma'am." The maid curtsied and departed.

Mere seconds passed before another set of footsteps approached.

"You cannot reject his affections forever, you know," came her mother's amused voice.

Margaret finally looked up, a half-smile tugging at her lips. "I can certainly try."

Her mother joined her at the edge of the bed. "What is so objectionable about him? He seems perfectly respectable."

Margaret slipped her thumb into the crease of her book and arched a brow. "Do you truly believe Benedict Bridgerton is prepared to become a duke?"

"So, it is about that," her mother mused. "You're choosing a husband for the role, not the man."

"I'm choosing both," Margaret said firmly. "I will carry our name into another household. I will not hand my sisters' futures to a man unworthy of the title."

Her mother took her hand gently. "Your father was not the duke you see today when I married him. He was... a disaster in polished boots. But love teaches. Patience shapes. I made him the man he became, and I have no doubt you'll do the same with whoever you choose. You are your mother's daughter — any man you love will rise to the occasion."

Margaret softened, a smile curling at her lips. "Then perhaps... I shall grant Mr. Bridgerton one chance. Maybe tonight. At the rooftop ball."

Her mother beamed. "Perfect."

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That evening, Margaret wore white — simple, yet ethereal. She floated through the ballroom like a dream come to life.

"Do you see her?" Benedict whispered to Anthony as the Bridgertons entered.

Colin groaned. "Please tell me you are not talking about Margaret again."

"You know he is," Eloise muttered. "He's utterly obsessed."

"I'm not obsessed," Benedict replied, though his gaze never left Margaret. "I simply think... she would make the perfect wife. She would support my art, challenge my mind, and—"

"—you got all this from one conversation years ago?" Daphne interjected with a teasing smirk.

"I—"

But his voice failed him as Margaret turned. Their eyes met. And to his utter astonishment, she smiled — warmly, unmistakably — and made her way toward him.

"I might be in trouble," he murmured.

"Who's got their money on Benedict getting punched in the nose?" Colin asked.

All his siblings raised their hands, grinning.

But when she reached him, she did not strike. She smiled, radiant as the moonlight on the terrace.

"Bridgertons," she greeted.

"Miss Monroe," Benedict said, stunned. "You look- well- ravishing."

A blush colored her cheeks. "Would it be terribly improper if I stole Mr. Benedict Bridgerton for a dance?"

Their jaws dropped — all of them, including his.

"They won't mind at all," Benedict replied breathlessly, taking her hand before she could change her mind.

As they glided across the dance floor, she spoke softly, "I received your flowers."

His eyes brightened. "Yes—uh—I tried to find out your favorites. Although, now that I say it aloud, it does sound a bit—"

"Weird?" she giggled.

He winced. "Terribly."

She smiled, then her tone turned sincere. "I was hesitant to respond. Honestly, I wasn't sure if you were ready to be a duke."

He spun her, catching her eyes again as the music swelled. "And now?"

"Now..." She paused, her voice quiet but sure. "Now, I hope you prove me wrong."

He held her gaze. "I'll spend every day trying."

She smiled — not with skepticism, but with the tender flicker of belief.

"Then I suppose I shall have to let you."

Their hands tightened, and as the final notes of the waltz faded into the night, Maraette remained in his arms a heartbeat longer than propriety demanded.

And for the first time, she did not look away.

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I am aware how long it has been since I posted and I am sorry. I have been plagued with what they have cslled on TikTok as the Writers Curse. I posted fan fiction and my life got craziness, I am hoping this does not happen again so I can post much more. Loves you allllll