。.✧ ゜ ⋆ . 。・゜⋆。. ✧・
BENEDICT COULD NOT PAINT.
Since he left the Royal Academy, he tried and tried to put oil to canvas and graphite to paper, but each time, he became enraged as his self doubt overtook his mind. Nothing was ever going to be good enough. He was not good enough.
The weight of the Bridgerton name was becoming too much for him. He needed to slip out of society's grip and explore something a bit more sincere.
That is how he found himself at Henry Granville's door once more.
The courage began to leave him the moment he could hear the chatter from within. The last time he had engaged with the Granvilles, he had gotten himself into quite an embarrassing predicament. Though he enjoyed the parties, he was concerned for what trouble he might get himself into after a few drinks were in his system.
Nonetheless, he knocked. No sooner did he do so than a woman wearing a coat with feathers on it opened the door.
"Oh, uh—" he started, but the woman ushered him inside.
"Come in, handsome."
Benedict did as he was told. He breathed in the smell of liquor and lust. Walking down the hall, he was hit with memories of the things he had once done and seen in this house. He could already feel his heart racing.
He thought it better not to engage with the women draping the chaises and went straight to the studio in the back.
Benedict walked into the familiar room and instantly noticed the changes in some of the many paintings that littered the room. As always, the floor was covered by a sheet splattered with paint. To his surprise, he found a woman on the far side of the studio painting, her hair loose and paint on her cheek.
"A newcomer?" she said, not taking her eyes off her painting. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" A lopsided grin graced her lips.
Benedict cleared his throat. "I'm not exactly a newcomer."
The woman narrowed her eyes at him, biting her lip in thought.
"I have been previously acquainted with Mr. and Mrs. Granville," he said cautiously.
"Oh," she said, tilting her head and then returning her attention to her painting. Benedict could not help but wonder what sorts of ideas she was forming in her head.
Benedict took a step towards her. He was thinking of what more he should say, and also examining her brush techniques, when she disrupted his thoughts.
"You're a Bridgerton," she said matter-of-factly. Benedict parted his lips.
"How ever did you guess?"
"I was once embedded in your society, if you can believe it," she said, dipping her paintbrush into her palette again.
"I'm not sure if I can. This is not the most appropriate place for a lady."
"Well, I am no ordinary lady."
Benedict walked all the way over to her. "Oh?"
"I have practically been deemed a spinster. There is little use for a lady like me in good society." He could sense a bit of frustration in her statement which she quickly dispersed into rough brush strokes on the canvas.
"And why are you here, Mr. Bridgerton?" she asked, startling him.
"I've been feeling lost and thought I would come back to where it began," he stated earnestly.
"Retracing your steps back to the seeds of your passions?" she conjectured.
"Something like that. But let's not talk about me. What does your mother think of you coming here?"
The woman scoffed. "Obviously, she does not know. But there is not much she could do about it if she did. She has accepted that I will not marry."
"So what's the story?" he said, folding his arms.
"You really want to know? It is truly pitiful."
"I sense that it is not so horrid as you make it out to be."
"Fine, then. My mama married for love."
"It always begins like that," Benedict said. The woman laughed.
"Well, she married a man who was not even a nobleman. I don't think your mama did that."
Benedict chuckled. "Touché."
The woman continued. "My mama never met hers. Her mother died giving birth to her. So my mama lived with her aunt all her life. When it came time to debut, she did not make a match during her first season, which was disgraceful for my great aunt, the daughter of a baron. In my mother's second season, her aunt decided to match my mama with an old earl to secure her future. But my mother had fallen in love with a shopkeeper in secret, so she eloped the night before her arranged wedding. Needless to say, my great aunt was furious.
Well, when my father passed and left behind a 13-year-old daughter and grieving widow, my great aunt opened up her frigid heart and took us in. Though she might never forgive my mama, I was her only child and all that was left of the family legacy. My aunt taught me etiquette and supplied me with pianoforte lessons, the standard for any young miss. She sponsored me for one season, then another, then another, to no avail. There was not one lord I would settle with, so she gave up on me. Now I am three-and-twenty and my mama hopes that I might still find a love match. I have disappointed her just as much as my great aunt."
Margot looked back at her canvas with a sad smile on her face, taking the brush and making a broad stroke over one part of the painting.
"How can you call yourself a disappointment when you are merely following your heart as your mother wants?" Benedict said.
"Oh, if she truly knew what was in my heart, I think hers would break a little."
Benedict examined her carefully, not knowing exactly what she meant. As he tried to decipher it, another thought came into his head.
"You remind me of my sister."
She gave him a disconcerted look. "I am afraid to know if that is a good or bad thing, Mr. Bridgerton."
"It is more good than bad," he said with a smile. "She is quite disillusioned with this society's expectations, far more than me if you can believe it. Perhaps you could show her what life is like for an unmarried woman."
"As a cautionary tale or an inspiring one?"
"That is entirely dependent on how you wish to frame it."
✦ 。⋆ ゜・✦ .
"I JUST REALIZED YOU NEVER told me your name," Benedict said when they were halfway to Grosvenor Square.
"And you never told me yours," she said back, "though I believe it is Benedict."
"Correct again. If you had not told me you were a lady of the ton, I might've believed you to be psychic."
"I have squandered an opportunity," she exclaimed dramatically. "But you are no psychic, I presume. Well, my name is Margot Blackwell."
"Are you aware you have paint on your face, Miss Blackwell?"
Margot smiled and wiped her cheek and chin forcefully in hopes of getting the oil paint off. Her efforts left a smudge some shades darker than her skin.
"You know you do not have to call me Miss Blackwell," she stated.
"I know, but I thought it made the situation more ironic."
"Is poetry another one of your passions?" Margot asked with her brows scrunched.
"I would not call it a passion."
"Good. It would be best if you stick to art."
Thankfully, Benedict laughed at that.
They soon arrived at the Bridgerton house. Margot marveled at its stature. Their echelon of status oozed from it.
"I can hardly believe I am at the Bridgerton house," Margot said. "Do I get a prize?" she joked.
Benedict chuckled. "Let's see how you feel once you meet my sister."
They entered the house and stopped in the drawing room. Benedict intended to procure his sister from her bedroom momentarily.
"It is quite late. Do you think she will be awake?" Margot said before he could climb the steps.
"Oh, I have had many a conversation with her at an hour later than this," he said with a smirk. Margot looked a bit shocked, albeit impressed. She did not expect such mischief from Bridgertons, but she was glad to find like-minded people in the confines of society. Margot's mind could still use some expanding, it seemed.
Benedict knocked once on Eloise's door, but there was no response. He hastily knocked again, a bit more rapidly this time. He heard the faint shuffling of covers.
"Eloise, I know you're awake," he said.
He heard her feet against the floor and the door finally cracked open.
"What do you want, brother?" she said with annoyance.
"I would like you to meet someone," he said, trying to seem nonchalant as though this was an everyday occurrence.
"I'm busy," she said, waving her book in front of him.
"I think you'll find the company more amusing than your reading," he said.
"If it is company you are bringing at this hour, I doubt that," she said with her arms crossed.
Benedict clenched his jaw. "I'll buy you cigars for a week," he said.
Eloise looked smug. "Make that two and I'm all yours."
"Absolutely not."
"Well, then, I'm going back to my book." As a display of her determination, Eloise began to close the door slowly.
"Fine," Benedict said.
Eloise grinned. "Well, what are we waiting for?" She walked past her brother to descend the steps, leaving him to trail after her with regret as to the deal he had made.
Her pace slowed down as she reached the end and saw a lady turn to her. The woman smiled softly up at her.
Finally, Benedict caught up to his sister and rejoined Margot.
"Eloise, I'd like to introduce you to my friend, Miss Margot Blackwell."
Eloise perked up. "A friend?" she asked knowingly.
"Not that kind of friend," he said to her through his teeth.
Margot looked between them. "Is my friendship so unsavory?" she asked.
"Oh, on the contrary, it is my brother who you may want to be wary of. He is quite—"
"That's enough, Eloise," Benedict lightly interrupted.
Eloise cocked her head. "See?"
But Margot's focus was no longer on the banter between the siblings. She was looking at the book in Eloise's hand. A Vindication of the Rights of Woman.
"You have great literary taste, Eloise," Margot said.
Eloise's eyes lit up. "Are you also interested in the advancement of women's rights?" she said.
"One could say it is my favorite subject," Margot said enthusiastically.
Eloise grinned in shock and delight. "Well, it is nice to meet another intelligent woman."
"Another?" Benedict said with his brows furrowed. "I think you're overcounting, sister," he teased. Eloise rolled her eyes at him, but her glare was disturbed by laughter.
Unwillingly, Margot had guffawed quite loudly, causing both Bridgertons to turn to look at her. She covered her mouth in shock, but light chuckles still slipped out.
"I'm sorry, I— do not think I am agreeing with your brother. But your dynamic is quite enjoyable," Margot admitted.
Eloise did not know whether to be delighted or offended. Margot's reaction was too strange to comprehend.
"She is an only child," Benedict told her sister with pity in his voice, as if it were an affliction.
"Ah," was all Eloise said, immediately comprehending the girl's behavior now.
Margot admired the playful yet supportive relationship the two seemed to have. They were lucky to sympathize with each other's plights, and she hoped she could be a part of that, too.
"I must go before my mother notices I have been out all night," Margot said. "It was lovely to meet you, Eloise. And you, Benedict."
The two bid adieu to Margot, who insisted she return home alone as she actually lived not too far from the Bridgertons.
After Margot left, Benedict turned to his sister with a knowing smirk on his face.
"What?" Eloise asked, feeling wary of the glint in her brother's eye.
"I was right, was I not?" Benedict said, feeling proud of himself.
"Well, I did not realize you had such friends, brother. If I had known, I might have been more willing to meet her," Eloise said. "This does not change our arrangement, by the way," she added.
Benedict sighed. "I would not expect anything less, El."
。.✧ ゜ ⋆ . 。・゜⋆。. ✧・