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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SUNLIGHT dapples across the path set out in front of Benedict. He keeps his eyes down on the honeyed walkway in front of him, every so often having to step out of the way of the roses starting to fall from the untrimmed bushes, as if God is lighting up his path for him. Maybe, this is what he was always supposed to do, to walk up this short path towards the brown brick townhouse waiting for him, with the pretty white windows and the sage green painted door.
He gulps, hand shaking around the brown paper-wrapped sketch he'd spent the past two nights staying up trying to finish. And yet, as the hours grew longer and the stars in the night sky vanished behind early morning fog, all Benedict could think about was the beautiful smile on Cornelius' face as he said his name for the first time. He could never get that down on paper. Not with that exuberance carved into every line of his skin. That joy poking through like sunshine desperately trying to peek through heavy winter clouds.
How can he hand this over when he knows it will never be good enough?
His free hand wraps around the brass knocker. Cornelius had sent an invitation to their townhouse the day after Henry's party. His name had been scrawled over the front in looping letters, obviously the hand of a man who had been raised just like him, day in day out seated in front of the fire letting his hand swoop the letters of the alphabet over and over and over, until cramp took over his fingers and his mother made him stop for dinner. He had traced Cornelius' writing of his name for hours, when he was meant to be drawing, letting his finger smudge the ink until it was completely ineligible. Mr Benedict Bridgerton. He can still hear the way Cornelius says his name. Like a whisper. Like a shout. Like a prayer sitting on the tip of his tongue. And it flew through Benedict's ears like a holy revelation.
"Mr Bridgerton!"
Did he knock?
He stares at the woman standing on the doorstep. Warm dark brown skin, pretty black curls piled on the top of her head, and a smile brighter than even the warmest Summer day. Warmth breeds warmth, breeds kindness, breeds family. Cornelius must surround himself with people who feel like sunlight. The kind of man who dunks himself in wax and flies into the sun, because it is better to burn for one moment of your life than to stay hidden in the shadows forever.
"I'm Adelaide Lovell." She throws her hand out for him to shake. Benedict hesitates, eyes flickering from her dainty hand back up to her round face. The smile on her lips starts to falter, and he throws himself forward to shake her hand as enthusiastically as possible. If his mother saw him, she'd be mortified. But, how can one act conventionally when you're surrounded by people who do not exactly conform to tradition? He barely dipped his toe into this sort of lifestyle at Henry's party. Now, he is diving headfirst into a society he has no idea about as he follows Miss Lovell into the crowded townhouse. With six musical residents, there is almost no free space for anybody else to partake in.
