The Second Born Bridgerton // Benedict Bridgerton

Bare babies with wings

"I do believe I can think of many things that I would consider to be more embarrassing than that situation. For example, the hideous yellow dress that your mother has forced your sister to wear. It is almost as though she wishes she will not find a match." Benedict laughs a little, taking a sip from his own glass and encouraging me to do the same, which I do. It is the first time I have ever had champagne and I cannot say that I care for it much. It is certainly not to my taste. It is the first time in fact that I have had anything alcoholic whatsoever, that is not exactly something my mother should allow me to do between chastising me, forcing me to stare at her miniatures, or when I am hiding from her so that I may paint.

"I do feel pity for Pen. She does always get the most awful dress. I do feel I am rather lucky with purple, although it is still hideous. I think that the modiste should immediately ban colours as garish as the one I sport tonight." I respond, looking around the ballroom. I find nothing as fascinating as I find the paintings on the ceiling. "It is beautiful, is it not? Houses such as this one?"

"It certainly is." He follows my gaze, looking at the ceiling with intensity. "It is wondrous. In my dreams, I paint this ceiling, or perhaps the one that is in the palace. Or perhaps over my own portrait which is on display at our home, I find having paintings of my own face on the entrance to the house rather... well, arrogant. I do not think I would draw naked cherubs if the design was my own, however."

"Not for me either. I would do something much more elegant than bare babies with wings." This causes him to snort, and so I find myself laughing a little as well, although quickly composing myself as my mother had always told me to, just in case she was watching. "I have never seen the attraction with those. I think them just as awful as my mothers taste in colouring, or your mother's insistence to have your own portraits on display."

"I would not disagree, miss Featherington. I would certainly not disagree. Do you paint yourself?" Breaking his eyes away from the sky, he looks back towards me.

"I do. Although I do think I most likely overestimate my talents. I enjoy painting nature more than I do people, I suppose. I have tried, but I always fail when drawing hands. They are ever so complex. Flowers and trees and lakes do not have hands and so I do not have problems when it comes to those. Although I am attempting to become better at that, but I am finding it rather taxing." I finish my glass, glancing around for somewhere that I can set it, but I can see nowhere and so I continue to grasp it in my hand. "And what of you, sir? Do you paint and sketch or do you find yourself much too busy with duelling other noble men, or perhaps shooting helpless animals?"

"You think more of my brother Anthony than myself, I fear, Miss Featherington. I did think you, of all ladies, should understand the importance of not being considered simply by our siblings." He raises a gentle eyebrow as he too finishes his drink, glancing around the room subtly for philipa and prudence and Penelope and it does not take long, their dresses allow them to stand out from any crowd. Of course, this is exactly what my mother wanted, but she does not understand that it does not work in the way that she intends it to.

"You are right, Mr Bridgerton. Of course. I do not ever wish to be spoken of in the same way as I know they speak of my sisters."

"Yes, perhaps the difference in yourself and your sisters is that you are at least pleasant in conversation. I did have the misfortune of speaking to Prudence, I believe, when she came to collect Penelope. It was not a conversation of much substance or wit or, well, anything whatsoever."

"That seems as though it represents all conversations that one would have with Prudence. Although I do believe it was Philipa that you shall have met. They are one in the same." I am careful as I meet his eye, his face creasing up as he laughs once again, wrinkles by his eyes. "I am glad to hear I do not resemble my sisters."

"Neither in conversation nor in appearance. I should tell you that you do rather suit purple, which is not a sentiment I thought I should ever give. Purple is not a colour I should call myself a fan of." He glances up again at the decorations of the ceiling. "I do try to sketch, I do not fancy myself much of an artist though. I do worry that you should laugh at my humble work if you were to see it."

"Perhaps you shall show it to me some day, and I shall critique it, and you shall tell me what you think of my landscapes..." I trail off as I see my mother striding towards the pair of us. "Well, as pleasant as this conversation has been, and as sure I am that it will be the most wonderful conversation I do have this season, I should take my leave. My mother is walking directly towards us, and I do not wish to subject you to her nonsense."

"It has been a treat, Miss featherington. Peaches." He bows his head, placing his hand out in front of me. I am unsure what for, until I see that he is waiting for me to offer my own to him, and so I do. His hands are gentle as he takes mine in his own, lifting the back of my hand to his lips as he places a soft kiss on my skin. I must ignore the way that my heart seems to skip a beat as his lips meet my hand. Retreating quickly, so that he must only greet my mother, I watch as he goes.

I should be so lucky as to find a husband such as Benedict Bridgerton. It would be foolish of me to imagine such, however, since their family has always been held in much higher esteem than my own. As well as this, Anthony must only get himself killed in some half witted duel before Benedict would become the viscount, and that means that he would surely be deemed much too important to be allowed around me. And therefore, I do not allow myself to dwell anymore on the matter, I must not allow myself to.