benedict bridgerton has been looking for a new muse, where better to look than the delicate fingers of the new harpist who he keeps seeing around town?
if he is apollo, then maybe this time he will catch this falling icarus
| benedict bridgerton x...
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From the wings of Sadler's Wells Theatre, he watches as the audience take their seats in the semi-circular pit, or the tiers of boxes where the most wealthy of the London ton pay to watch the show, or the galleries where they can command a full view of every part of the stage. His hands twitch around the heavy velvet curtain blocking him from sight. It is far too late to turn back now, but there is something cold and heavy gnawing at the bottom of his stomach.
There, near the front, Lady Mondritch and her daughters. They have already opened their playing cards, spreading them over the table sat in front of them. She was there three years ago. Will she remember? Will any of them remember? Lady Danbury and Viscountess Bridgerton in the same box, of course, their seedy eyes ready to burn a hole right through him as soon as he takes a seat on the stage. They'll hiss at him as soon as they see him, the waves of his brown hair, the newly grown moustache above his lip, they'll see the browns of his eyes and know exactly who they're staring at. His name was not on the poster.
He's going to shock the ton into forgiveness.
Or, that's what the members of his company said when he spoke to them about his fears. Stepping onto that stage in front of the very people who had thrown him into the fire, shrieking as his skin peeled back and showed off the very worst parts of himself. He has not seen any of them since. They have not seen him, until this very moment, when he will walk onto that stage, where his glistening gold harp awaits the feather-light touch of his fingers.
They may not even notice him. Siena Rosso is the soprano, the one who all the eyes will be on, and he will be forced into the darkness of the background. That is solace. That is torment.
A long-fingered hand wraps around his elbow and wrenches him away from the curtain. He stumbles backwards, but quickly fixes himself, turning around to shake off whoever's hands are on him. It takes him back to a time he had tried to forget. Too many hands. Pulling. Prodding. Pushing. This way. That way. Go away. Go Away. GO AWAY.
His voice is clipped. "Lord!" The pianist for their small company, Romil Mishra, stares back at him, half-smiling his usual goofy grin that spreads across his brown skin, half-hidden by the shadows of the wings. He'd come all the way from India to teach and was faced with the idea that nobody had wanted him, except for their small company of musicians who'd wanted to make it someplace in this big, bad world. This is their first time on a stage to fit all of them and more, Cornelius' hands won't stop shaking.
