The Muse // Benedict Bridgerton

The Duality of Femininity

She understood where he was coming from – his reasoning made a lot of sense. If she could prove to society that she was not with child, then that would definitely do her a lot of favors. But another part of her was... angry? No, not angry, irritated was the better word to use. She understood that he was just trying to be a gentleman and do what was best for her, but she just wanted to feel needed. And she wanted to feel his touch, a touch that still felt so forbidden and sent shivers up and down her body.

"You are right, I suppose. It is an open invitation, though," Lucy replied softly. Benedict's own cheeks flushed as she spoke her final words of the night and retreated into her room, leaving traces of her floral-scented perfume in the hall.

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A petite feminine shadow moved across the floor of the modiste, only weakly illuminated by the candlelight present inside. Benedict straightened his frame, bracing himself for what he was about to do. All he felt, since the day he had married Lucy, was shame. Before that day, all he had felt was lust. His inappropriate relations with Madame Delacroix began what felt like an age ago, when he was experimenting and discovering himself. He was trying to find inspiration, a muse. He searched everywhere for it, indulging his every curiosity. Whether it be in the arms of a woman, or man, or taking a suspicious concoction given to him by an equally shifty acquaintance – he would do anything. To feel the lightning strike of inspiration is one he longed to feel, ever since he took up art, and it was something he had not achieved. Well, not until a certain Blackthorne had re-entered his life at the beginning of the season.

Lucy had captured his attention before, it was true, but he had never given the thought of the two of them together much notice. She was a little bit younger than him, and he always doubted that she viewed him in the same way he viewed her. That changed, though, when the Blackthornes returned to London. He could not be sure, of course, but he felt their dynamic shift. She spoke to him differently, with a new air of confidence and intelligence. He finally saw her for what she was – an opinionated and smart woman. Not to mention breathtakingly beautiful. Although, he supposed she may have always been that way and he had just never noticed, because they were never that close – that was something he knew he would regret. Not paying enough attention to her, not speaking to her as much as he should have. If he had been accepting of his feelings towards her sooner then they could have been married sooner. One simple fact was that he was smitten with her, and jumped at the opportunity to marry her. He wanted to be her knight in shining armor, even though he knew she didn't need him to be, he knew she would have worked out a way out of a marriage with Bancroft. She was a resourceful woman, after all. The fact that she agreed to marry Benedict showed him that she could picture a life with him, just as he could with her – a happy and peaceful one, filled with love. She took the chance and said yes, even though the action had the potential to ruin her.

That was why he felt so bad about what he was doing, mere minutes after sending his wife to bed. He walked up to the door and knocked it discreetly. A few seconds passed by, and the short silhouette inside the shop approached the door, opening it slowly.

"Mr. Bridgerton, I was wondering when I would see you again," the sound of a familiar French accent filled his ears.

"May I enter?" He asked politely.

"Of course," she responded. Madame Delacroix led the second-born Bridgerton boy into the shop, and then to a more quiet and secluded location.

"I did not expect to see you so soon, but I cannot complain. Is your new wife not as... attentive as I am?" She asked, her voice in a tone of seduction. Benedict looked everywhere except at her. He noticed a bunch of new fabric sitting neatly on a desk, a notebook opened to a page halfway and filled with names, and a candle that was nearing the end of its wick – how ironic. The white wax had dripped and dripped off the candle, onto the wooden table, leaving a mess that would not be easy to clean up.