Witty, daring and with a secret knack for painting Frances Granville arrives at London with two convictions: one, that she is not interested in men, especially not in lords who parade impeccably around courting innocent young ladies at balls only to...
Dearest, Gentle Reader, it seems that we have all been deviously fooled, for all along our eyes were on the wrong (nonetheless most charming) Bridgerton! The gathering at Somerset House has provided us with the greatest surprise. The infamous, spunky Frances Granville and the most mysterious Bridgerton, Benedict, were seen criticising pictures together (for which the Author cannot blame them) and giggling so infectiously that the warm ambience could hardly escape anyone's attention. The two certainly complement each other, as probably the first time ever Miss Granville could not deliver an insult, but Mr. Bridgerton came willingly and brilliantly to her rescue. Some say they were seen in a heated argument thereafter, but we do know that one cannot argue passionately with someone for whom one has no feelings.
Lady Whistledown
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Franny was lying on her bed, her long limbs thrown to the sides, the upper two smeared with various layers of paint, her wayward hair all over the place, forgotten how it felt to be combed, altogether giving her a look as if she had just been to war. Letting out an indignant grunt, she slid down to the floor and threw her head backwards. In the bottom of her fireplace were remnants of the latest Whistledown issue which she burnt the day before with great pleasure. Her room was filled with canvases, some even had brushes poked through them, but all were finished. Painting offered the only relief to her racing mind. However, she had run out of both surfaces to paint on and material to paint with, but she would not for the world ask for more because that would require an apology, something she was definitely not ready to give. Therefore, nothing was left to do but sulk. She was furious. Absolutely, utterly and gut-wrenchingly furious. Or no, maybe it was not anger she felt, but hurt, and there was a world of difference between the two feelings. Her anger was like a summer storm, came out of the blue, covered everything in its way, but was gone as quickly as it started. But hurt, she stored hurt, deep down in her guts; it was constantly eating her away, turning and churning, until its hunger was satisfied by lashing back, by inflicting damage. And Benedict found her weakest point: her fear of not being good enough. Of not being beautiful, kind, or good enough to be loved and appreciated. Her fear of not meeting the standards set by society and lifted to an almost unattainable height by her. How could she yearn and detest fitting in so deeply at the same time? But that all didn't matter because he has hurt her. He listened carefully, promised to keep her secret, offering companionship and discretion only to turn them against her. Franny rarely shared her fears and inner thoughts with anyone, and just when finally got herself to, her trust was shattered to dozens of pieces. She has learnt the hard way not to let anyone close, by being put down again and again, so she chose isolation instead of possible pain. And that has worked fine, up until the point he had come around, and of course, he had to notice the picture and then go boldly ahead and place the smallest of kisses on her forearm that sent shivers across her spine. But that was it, she promised to herself, she would never let herself be vulnerable again.
