Coal Among Diamonds │Benedict Bridgerton

Chapter Seven: What Happens in Somerset House... [Part Two]

"Nevertheless, I would certainly miss your sarcastic remarks, so we must strike the right balance," he winked at her playfully.

"Believe me, Mr. Bridgerton, sarcasm will be the last thing that leaves me on my deathbed."

"Hmm," Benedict's eyes shifted to the left, towards a room Franny was eager to avoid. Before she could distract his attention, he turned his way and stepped in. Franny did her best not to even glance in the direction of the painting that meant the world to her, afraid that if he said anything bad about it, her world would collapse, and she could never forgive him. Benedict noticed how quiet she grew.

"Is everything all right?" his dark blue eyes scanned her curiously, with a touch of worry in his voice.

"Yes, I feel that I am reaching my wits' end."

"I am sure Miss Granville that is nearly impossible," he commented with an infectious smile on his face, kind, supportive and Franny felt her lips twitching upwards.

"How curious," he started, as his eyes shifted to the right. In effect, it was almost impossible to miss the picture as it stood out brightly, created for the very reason to attract attention.

Standing an inch away from each other, they both gazed up to an oil painting, strikingly beautiful, a rich image of a daisy meadow on a warm, summer night, just before twilight descends on the land. The sunset bursting through the trees with various crimson, orange, and yellow-coloured rays, mixed with smoky black, the sky mirroring the orange colour of the stamen of the daisies. Franny's eyes softened, as she was drawn into the warm embrace of the memories. Looking at the picture with Benedict, she felt more vulnerable than ever, as if the painting was a glimpse into her soul: teeming with colour and life, forceful, fighting a constant battle against oblivion, eager to be admired and loved. She'd rather have the picture hidden from the world so no one might inflict any danger on it. Half dreading, half expectant, she was curious of his opinion, and yet feared every unspoken word.

"How do you find this painting, Mr. Bridgerton?" she inquired, her voice slightly trembling.

"I find this painting..." he started but grew silent as he clutched one of his hands to his jaw, frowning pensively. He felt that the picture was so complex, it required deep elaboration so his comment might be worthy of it.

"The most riveting. I can hardly tear my eyes away from it. It stands out amongst all the other paintings, the orange is the most striking... It feels almost as if the picture was breathing, alive, wanting to be discovered, demanding to be admired. Most curious," his eyes met Franny, whose heart skipped a beat, "...Almost as if I have seen it before."

"Where?" Franny's voice was no louder than a whisper, fragile, vulnerable.

"Here," guided by a sudden and unexplainable force, he reached for Franny's hand, gently grabbing her wrist, and lifted her forearm. Their gazes locked, as navy met grey Franny shivered in expectation. Slowly, gradually, as if waiting, daring to be stopped, Benedict lifted her white forearm to his lips, placing a small kiss on her bare skin, between her glove and the hem of her sleeve. As his lips connected with the sensitive spot on her skin, Franny closed her eyes and let out a small breath. Standing in the Somerset House, in front of the painting that meant the world to her, they shared an intricate yet delicate moment. Benedict twined his long, lean fingers into Franny's, and they lowered their hands slowly, in close embrace. Not daring to meet his gaze, Franny opened her eyes and fixed them in front of her as she forgot to breathe.

"Is it your work, Miss Granville?" he inquired, also staring blankly ahead, drunk in the moment.

"No, my mother painted it," she confessed.