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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Cornelius Howe found himself sticking to the edges of Queen Charlotte's ballroom, which was not an unusual spot for him to be found, much rather enjoying the cool breeze that flitted through the open windows, delicate silk curtains the colour of dandelions in the wind fluttering around his body. He runs his fingers over the floral embroidery closest to him, his other hand twisting around a flute of claret he plucked from another debutant he'd managed to trick into conversation moments ago.
It isn't that Cornelius doesn't like parties, he can usually be found in the middle of the dancefloor with everybody else most nights, drunk on dark red claret and ending up in a stranger's bed by the end of the evening. Normally, he'd never be off the dancefloor. There is no better way to stop a girl's affection growing for you than spending your time dancing with other ladies. Without the affection of a lady, then there is no hope for marriage on the horizon. Bliss.
He could write a guide on how best to avoid getting married since his father says he is so good at it. Maybe that is his rise to glory and fame.
Step 1: Have a fondness for men.
Well, that was quite easy, wasn't it?
Lady Seymour's Waltz starts up and Cornelius watches, from the edge of the ballroom, as the couples swing their partners around the dancefloor. His favourite, really, for no reason other than he gets to dance with a man at some point.
A voice comes from the other side of the curtain he still hasn't let go of. "Mr Howe." His eyes flicker from the dancefloor to the man standing next to him. Just a little shorter than him, just a little younger, eyes bright and shining, hair tucked gracefully behind his ears. There's a little bit of hair growing above his top lip, a little bit darker blonde than the gelled hair on top of his head. Emerald eyes that are too big for his face. Slim nose, delicate jawline, hardly any bones in his cheeks. He's wearing the official wear of the Queen's servants. Cornelius knows it rather well by now, too many dark corners some might say.
Cornelius leans a little closer.
"I haven't seen you before," he quips. The gentleman usher blushes a deep shade of pink and ducks his head as a greeting.
"Forgive me, Sir, for my–"
"For your lack of decorum?" Cornelius lets out a cutting laugh. "Do not bother yourself. I am not one for decency or courtesy. Which you must know if you are here." His eyes wander down the poor boy's suit, to his shaking knees, and back up to his striking green eyes. Pretty for one of the Queen's ushers certainly.
