Chapter Text
Benedict is guided to the garden as soon as he arrives, where you're waiting with a vast variety of tools that ignite his inspiration. He has trouble reigning it in, he's here to teach, not to have fun.
"Good day, Mr Bridgerton," you stand to greet him.
Benedict feels a sense of giddiness at the sight of you in trousers, though his gaze lingers on the braid descending over your shoulder. He's only seen you with your hair down and the classical up-do all ladies of the ton fashion, so the new hairstyle catches his eye. "Good day to you, Your Royal Highness," he tears his gaze away with some amount of difficulty. "I see you've gotten a full arsenal."
"I have news," you say, visibly eager to share them.
"Concerning our lessons?" He asks, examining each tool with care.
"My parents are returning to Genovia," you inform him. "My great-grandmother got sick. A real pity, given my parents's interest in seeing more of your country. My sister and I are staying to assure the Queen of Genovia's commitment to being friendly with the British crown."
"I'm sorry to hear it," Benedict replies, without either specifying what he's sorry for or looking up from what he's doing.
"Yes, you look it..." you mutter sarcastically.
He glances at you. "If you and your sister are staying, that must mean your great-grandmother will recover. And as far as I know, you're enjoying yourself here in London, I'm only matching your tone."
You scoff. "For someone who complains extensively about my attitude, you sure have the talent to correspond it."
The man smiles stiffly and you know he's holding a snarky retort. "Yes, well, there can only be one of us, that's the real problem," he straightens his posture and faces you. "I'm not allowed to give my opinion on your affairs, Princess, it's basic etiquette. I fail to understand why it bothers you."
You can't help the dry chuckle you utter. "Well, I... I don't know why either. I suppose I have no one else to tell the news."
Benedict looks at you. There's a blush on your cheeks and you're gazing down at your sketchbook while fiddling with its spine. He's seen this kind of unrest in Eloise now that she doesn't speak with Penelope Featherington. "You haven't been away from home for long periods of time until now, have you?"
You shake your head, still staring at your lap. "No. And now I haven't much of a choice."
"For a young lady that has to be frightening," he takes his seat.
You laugh, but when he stares at you like your reaction doesn't match the tone of the conversation, you frown. "I'm five-and-twenty, Mr Bridgerton."
Benedict shrugs. "It matters little when you've spent all those years tucked in the safety of your home, don't you think?"
"To be sheltered does not make me vulnerable. All royals would be cowards if that were the case."
Benedict can't help laughing. "Oh, but they are! Just not your family, it seems," he adds, eyeing you with fascination. "I think your Queen is incredibly brave in her fight for progress. I have high hopes for your country, Your Royal Highness, if you're anything like your mother. And I'll believe you shall be fine on your own here, in London."
You fix your posture. "I've been told I am just like her. But please, do not speak to me like that, you sound like the old men in my country's council."
"Old?" Benedict asks in mock outrage. "I'm twenty-nine."
"Practically thirty, then," you tease him, "I'm to be crowned at thirty so my parents can enjoy retirement. When my chosen heir reaches thirty, I'll do the same. My mother will initiate the tradition. I think it's wise," you get stuck in a ramble, "to have everything figured out by thirty. Your aspirations, your life plans— I bet your mother was married by thirty, and you haven't felt the need to go to her when trouble comes. I envy you."
"Aspirations and life plans?" Benedict echoes with cynical amusement. "If I ever acquire those, you'll hear my mother wail in utter joy and my older brother sighing so heavily he'll blow off every candle in London."
"Surely you exaggerate," you retort with a hesitant smile.
"It's true," he opens his sketchbook and starts doodling mindlessly as he speaks. "Tweny-nine years living under my mother's roof, no way of moving forward... It paralyzes me to think I never will."
You mimic his actions even though you have no idea what you're supposed to draw, then you reach for one of the pencils and start drawing the flowers around you. "But you have plans, Mr Bridgerton. You love your art..."
He scoffs, doodling rough, angry lines. "My art. The nonsensical attempts of it hardly mean anything outside myself."
"Several people of the ton are contemplating commissioning you for a piece before the season ends," you say, gauging his reaction. "Doesn't that mean something?"
Benedict makes a face, his eyes glued to the sketchbook. "They only want one because I'm the latest story, not because they think I'm good at it. As soon as Lady Whistledown moves on from us, they'll forget about me. For the better, since I highly doubt I'm capable of making anything worth a lord's money."
You're surprised by the contempt he holds for his skills, you'd pegged him for a confident artist who had felt insulted by his brother's actions, not a man with a lack of faith. After a moment of careful contemplation, you try a different approach. "There are people out there who like amateur art above the classics, Mr Bridgerton. There always is."
"Insane people," he comments offhandedly. "Idiots."
"You forget I saw your pieces at the academy and liked them. Now I'm ill-bred, insane, and idiotic."
Benedict doesn't flinch, getting used to your poking. "I think you agree with me on all, critter."
You laugh, which surprises you. No one but your family has ever pulled such a genuine reaction without trying and while insulting you. "If I do, it wouldn't be polite of you to point it out." Benedict smiles faintly without looking up, and this time she sees real merriment in his expression.
The fresh morning has turned into a humid day, and Benedict, unable to split his focus, forgets about propriety and takes off his suit jacket, hanging it on the back of his chair. The man draws until he remembers he's supposed to be teaching you, and he closes his sketchbook requesting to see what you've done so far.
"You put too much pressure on the tip," he points at your shadowing once he starts reviewing your work. "The lining shouldn't be so thick. Try it this way..."
He draws at the top of the page since you took all the space at the bottom, but his sleeve continues to brush against your heavily shadowed sketches and they threaten to make a pitch-dark stain on the fabric, so he places the pencil between his teeth and unbuttons the cuff to roll his sleeve up to his elbow.
You watch him hold the pencil again, his arm tensing the moment he leans on the paper. Your gaze falls on the veins that travel up the smooth skin, your head tilting as you follow the uncharted path of freckles until they disappear under the fine cotton. Your eyes leap to his profile, his seriousness and the informal way he's presenting himself stirring something no one outside of the romance novels you devour had ever been capable of. Your tummy flutters, your face flushes...
"See the difference?" He tilts the sketchbook so you look at it.
You nod promptly without processing his question, taking the sketchbook back unable to meet his gaze and attempting to copy his technique without knowing what to do. He leans back on his stool but doesn't fix his sleeve, instead, he reaches for his left cuff to undo it in the same fashion. You fight against the urge to look while he does this.
"Life is not easier when you're a thirty-year-old," he says out of nowhere, giving you an excuse to look at him. "Nor is leaving your childhood home."
"It's not?" You reply, tongue heavy. "I see... Well, I suppose my situation is easier than yours," as you speak, you doodle little hearts in the corner of the page to keep yourself from rambling. "All I have to do is prepare to be queen. I'll never leave my childhood home... And that is what I find challenging. I'm being asked to grow up without changing anything except the way I view the world, but the world has always looked the same since I was a child."
Benedict crosses his arms, distracting you more. "Huh... leaving home as part of the process, I always assumed getting your own home was the terminus. But you're being far too unfair with yourself, Your Royal Highness. You're preparing to rule a country, which is far more significant than just moving out of a family home."
"I suspect that's why my parents handled this voyage as a priority that could not be deferred. I'm not getting any younger, my baby feathers are all gone and I still can't fly..."
Benedict watches you doodle. There you are, cross-legged in a way that you probably shouldn't while in the presence of a man, with baby hairs slipping out of your braid and framing your forehead. You look a bit childish but you're a grown woman. He looks like a man but still sneaks out and fibs like a boy. "Not all birds fly, that doesn't make them any less capable of looking after themselves," he reasons.
You look at him with a hesitant smile. "Are you comparing me to a penguin?"
His crooked smirk appears. "No. We'd previously settled on a delightfully vague critter, remember? Not all critters fly, you need a change of perspective."
"Perhaps," you chuckle, glancing down at your piece. "Slowly, I'll take myself to where I need to be every time," you smile at your doodles. "I should value what I do with effort."
Benedict looks at you as if you've just said the most bewitching thing he's ever heard, and his expression twitches with amusement. "Why don't you give it another try with the technique I showed you? Those daisies you drew could look even more beautiful that way."
You ponder if you should admit you didn't pay attention. You choose the easier path and pretend your feminine mind has trouble retaining the knowledge. "Could you show me again?"
Benedict chuckles without teasing you, reaching for his sketchbook and guiding you a second time. Your body, which until now had existed without rebelling once against your wishes, tugs on its restraints wantonly, longing to meet Benedict's.