Book of Requests

Off to the Races [Benedict Bridgerton x Fem!Reader; Bridgerton]*

Summary: the royal ascot races take a turn when Benedict pulls you under the grandstand and lets his artistic hands wander [warnings: 18+, minors DNI, smut].

----

It was hot––unseasonably so.

The grass that surrounded the royal ascot fields was sweltering. The bits of water that had yet to dry up in the heat trickled down each blade slowly; creeping down its green stem toward the brown earth to be swallowed and drank. And welcome it was. The earth drank it greedily—an attribute the sprinted summers London had been experiencing as of late.

You fanned yourself rapidly at the fact.

Conversations that excited the ton filled the air. Debutantes and seasoned women whispering about the newly minted diamond, the drama of their neighbors but certainly not their own households. Mamas held their daughter's arms tightly, smiling boldly at each suitor as if screaming "the wealth is in our pocket, no one else's." However, at some point, wealth was only so important. It's the attraction–as the water to the grass–that influences the longevity of a match; the lust and love that grows when two people combine their beings like magnets unable to separate.

Any woman would fan themselves at the prospect. If only every season guaranteed a match so worthy of passion–scandal would surely ensue even if the mind pursued impure thoughts.

Lifting a hand to your eyes, you shielded them from the sun as it beat down on you. The fan doing little to relieve the heat, the looks on other guests' faces was a testament to that. Women with rosy cheeks, men adjusting their kerchief's wound tightly against their necks; the smallest beads of sweat building their brows with a sheen only seen during these trivial seasons of matchmaking. From the Featherington's to Sharma's–the latter of which was taking the London weather swimmingly–each family unit gathered on the fields of the royal ascot races to find their purpose but you, you already knew yours.

Time, however, was not always on your side.

Fourth season, fourth. Your reputation was beginning to take a hit and the time spent ignoring men's advances was beginning to cause more harm than good. No one wanted a tease anymore; they wanted a wife to secure them a lifetime of riches and when each offer was turned away, fewer callers arrived at your door and the sofas had settled with dust.

And finally, Anthony Bridgerton, after years of declining to find a wife, decided that he would join the social season to do such.

While the eyes lingered on Anthony–the famed Viscount who defined the term "rake," the other Bridgerton brothers were left to celebrate their final years of freedom before marriage and commitment came to them. But unlike Anthony, you knew one brother had already declared his intentions. The right moment, nonetheless, had to wait after the Viscount found his Viscountess.

The Bridgerton family arrived at the crux between the high noon sun and the serving of the furtive snack–refreshing cucumber sandwiches, fruits, and most certainly champagne to flow. Debutantes fawned; sticking their gaze onto Anthony Bridgerton as if he were meat for the picking while he searched for the diamond Lady Whistledown had informed the ton he was willing to wed. In his stead, Violet Bridgerton held the arm of Colin, while Eloise and Benedict followed in tow.

The dew from the grass reminded you of Benedict–the sweet drink, forbidden fruit so delectable that even the most parched would not have enough after one sip. His top hat high, the light blue waistcoat, and mustard kerchief that made each inch of him mysterious yet welcoming; delighting the slightest waver in your heart as it ached for a touch. You thought, for a moment, to leave the group of women you had been in conversation with for a brief time before fate appeared before you.