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intothefairiesland · 4 days ago

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Chapter VIII ― willow

Life was a willow and it bent right to your wind Head on the pillow, I could feel you sneaking in As if you were a mythical thing Like you were a trophy or a champion ring And there was one prize I'd cheat to win The more that you say The less I know Wherever you stray I follow I'm begging for you to take my hand Wreck my plans That's my man

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"Are you alright, brother?"

Benedict had given his word to his mother that he would fulfill his social obligations this season, but more than anything, he had promised his sister Eloise to be by her side at every ball, to protect her from the “foolish suitors,” as she liked to call them. That also meant being more present in family life—something he had never truly resented, as there was no company he cherished more than his family. But that company took on a different meaning after a sleepless night, plagued by confused thoughts and the lingering taste of alcohol.

The night before, Emma had left him a little too soon for his liking, and he could still feel the imprint of her hasty departure on his lips. He hadn’t expected her leaving to affect him so deeply, nor that her general absence would create in him a void he was not prepared for. He had misjudged himself, and he realized it bitterly. He sought nothing more than her simple presence—a presence that calmed him instantly. She could have simply stayed there, silent and focused on her drawings, and that would have been enough.

That was, in fact, exactly what he wanted at that very moment. Breakfast had just been served at Bridgerton House, and the conversation was in full swing, everyone speaking at once, their voices blending into a joyful and familiar cacophony. But Benedict, caught in this whirlwind of voices and laughter, felt that nothing could soothe his mind like a single glance from Emma. But she wasn’t there. How could she be? He knew well that, even if he held no contempt for those of lesser social rank, he himself, by virtue of his family name and wealth, had never had to concern himself with societal constraints. Yet, he was keenly aware of the world’s cruelty towards such uncertain and undefined connections.

But what kind of relationship did he truly have with Emma? He had no idea. What he did know, however, was that he adored her presence, her sharp wit, her contagious humor, the delicacy of her hands when she drew, and her lips—and he suspected that he would grow to adore much more of her.

Benedict, his gaze slightly lost in space, seemed out of sync with the lively atmosphere around him. His thoughts were far from the noisy, sunlit breakfast.

It was then that his brother, Anthony, observed him with amused, slightly mocking eyes.

— "If I didn’t know you so well, I’d say something’s troubling you," he said with a smirk.

Benedict, as if pulled from his thoughts, vaguely raised his eyebrows and muttered distractedly as he reached for his fork:

— "I’m fine, thank you."

Then, without another word, he resumed eating, quickly swallowing a bite of scrambled eggs, as if trying to keep his mind busy with something else. Anthony watched him, amusement flickering in his eyes, but said nothing.

Just then, a light, insistent cry rose from the other end of the table. It was drowned out by the complaints of their sister Hyacinth, who excelled in the art of speaking fast, loud, and often. Benedict felt momentarily relieved to be freed from his brother’s attention and allowed himself to sink back into his reflections.

But the peace was short-lived. A few moments later, Eloise emerged from behind her book, toast in hand, and with a near-innocent tone, asked:

— "Do you know Emma Watts?"

The question struck him like an intrusion into his inner world. Benedict, mid-motion, about to pour some tea, nearly spilled the cup. He caught himself and, with subtle caution, replied quickly:

— "Yes, I…I’ve seen her around."

But already Hyacinth, ever eager for gossip, cut in before he could take another breath:

— "Who is this Emma Watts?"

The conversation immediately caught the attention of their mother, who, without saying a word, listened closely.

— "She’s Miss Louise Braybrooke’s maid, but she also takes evening classes at the Academy," Eloise explained casually.

At those words, a curious smile tugged at Anthony’s lips, and he raised an inquisitive eyebrow:

— "Since when can women paint at the Academy?"

Benedict, momentarily frozen, said nothing, but Eloise, always ready to defend any cause she found just, fired back without hesitation, her mouth still full of toast:

— "What’s the problem, brother? Afraid women might outshine men in painting?"

The remark made their mother twitch slightly, who, without abandoning her dignified expression, exclaimed sternly:

— "Eloise, mind your manners!"

Eloise rolled her eyes in exasperation but sat up straighter, her eyes alight, ready for debate, and replied with conviction:

— "I think it’s an excellent idea to open the Academy to women. I’m sure she’s very talented."

All eyes turned then to Benedict, who, despite his apparent indifference, had already seen Emma’s work. He had even, on several occasions, allowed himself to leaf through her sketchbook—an act he knew was forbidden, but couldn’t resist.

— "She is."

The words fell, clear and sharp, into the air. His gaze remained fixed on his plate, but his answer, almost imperceptibly steady, did not go unnoticed. — “How do you know that?” Eloise insisted, intrigued. “You said you only knew her by sight.” Benedict hesitated for a split second, then added, in a hesitant, awkward tone: — “I’ve seen her work.”

A subtle tension filled the room, everyone trying to decipher the meaning behind his confession. Eloise raised an eyebrow, ever so slightly, piqued by her brother’s reply. Her eyes, locked with his for a moment, returned just as quickly to the pages of her book, as if the conversation had been nothing more than a passing breeze between two chapters. Her voice, light and almost indifferent, rose again without the slightest quiver: — “Very well. If you see her, give her my regards.”

Benedict remained still for a moment, caught in the fleeting glint of his sister’s gaze. He understood then that she had seen right through him — that she had uncovered the lie before he’d even had a chance to disguise it. And yet, she said nothing. She was offering him the silent luxury of choosing the moment for his truth. However, many days or weeks it might take, it didn’t matter.

Later that day, as he walked the long corridors of the Academy, bathed in the pale afternoon light, Benedict couldn’t stop replaying Emma’s words in his mind. She had told him she would see him today — he was certain of it, would have sworn it. And yet, there had been no sign of her silhouette, no spark of her laughter around any corner.

As the hours passed, a dull frustration began to gnaw at his calm, like a rope pulled taut in silence. It wasn’t just the waiting that troubled him, but that faint tightening lodged somewhere between his throat and his stomach — a worry he refused to name, but that crept in with every heartbeat.

The unease lingered even as he stepped into the Flynn reception hall. The hushed conversations, polite laughter, clinking of glasses: all of it slid over him, never quite touching. He was there, but not really — a figure passing through a painting he hadn’t chosen. He knew Emma wasn’t one to lose track of time or let the day slip by without cause. She didn’t have the luxury to dawdle. Every piece of her time was accounted for — between her work, her responsibilities, and the rare slivers of freedom she devoted to her art. But she never missed class. And it was precisely that “never” that fed his growing unease.

Benedict spent most of the evening with his sister’s arm tightly looped through his, like a limpet clinging to its rock — or rather, like a sister clinging to her escape plan. He silently thanked her for every tour of the room, every dodged curtsy. Thanks to her, he avoided endless dances, calculating glances from young ladies, and — worst of all — the mothers. Ah, the mothers — armed with affable smiles and marriage strategies sharper than blades. The word marriage alone sent a cold jolt down his spine, as if someone had poured ice water down his back. He wasn’t ready. He didn’t want to be. He couldn’t even see why he should be. It all felt so... foreign.

He had danced only twice that evening — a distracted quadrille, a lacklustre cotillion. So, when the first notes of a waltz rose into the air, he decided it was time. With a composed step, he approached Miss Louise Braybrooke, bowed with grace, and offered his hand. — “May I have this dance, Miss Braybrooke?”

It was not a love for the waltz, nor a desire to become acquainted with Miss Braybrooke that brought him to her. But she knew Emma, and that single thread — however thin — was enough to justify this dance.

It was the only thing tonight that might bring him closer to her.

Louise wasn’t surprised by the invitation. In truth, she had seen it coming from the first moments of the evening. Benedict Bridgerton, who in two entire seasons had never granted her more than a polite greeting, now looked at her with calculated attention.

She understood. She didn’t take offense — on the contrary. This renewed interest wasn’t for her, but for what she represented: a bridge, perhaps, to Emma.

As they began to dance, she locked eyes with him, and without giving him a chance to start the conversation, she said with sly confidence: — “You know,” she said, eyes fixed on his as they followed the rhythm of the waltz, “you didn’t need to invite me to dance in front of half the room just to ask about her.”

Benedict furrowed his brow slightly, caught off guard, but twirled her without saying a word too many. — “I beg your pardon?”

Louise lifted her chin with a graceful poise. Her voice, soft yet pointed, held steady. — “I’m sure I’m a fine dancer and, indeed, perfectly decent company… but don’t pretend this invitation was purely social. You’re not going to try and explain the rules of courtship to me, Mr. Bridgerton. If you’re here, dancing with me, it’s because you have a very specific intention.”

Benedict stayed silent a second too long. She had seen through him — completely, neatly, without malice but without mercy. He had prepared it all: an innocent conversation opener, a delicate approach, phrases vague enough to hide his true motives. He’d rehearsed every word in his head.

But he hadn’t prepared for Louise Braybrooke. She knew. How? He had no idea. And he wasn’t sure yet whether to be worried… or relieved.

She ended his silent struggle with a calm, almost weary voice: — “She told me everything.”

Then, lowering her eyes, thoughtful, she added in a whisper: — “Well… not everything, I suppose. But enough to know that if you asked me to dance tonight, it wasn’t for the pleasure of my company, but to get information about my lady’s maid, Mr. Bridgerton.”

Benedict gave a sheepish smile and let out a quiet laugh, caught red-handed: — “Caught in the act, it seems.”

— “Forgive my bluntness, but you’re not very subtle,” she replied with a wry smile. “I can already see tomorrow’s headline in Lady Whistledown’s column.” — “Forgive me,” he murmured, sincerely. “I didn’t mean to draw attention.”

Louise gave a quick glance around them. A few eyes were indeed watching their exchange, some amused, others speculative. — “Mmmh… I fear it’s already too late,” she said lightly. “So, we might as well make the most of it. What did you want to know?”

Benedict hesitated a moment, searching for his words. When he spoke, it was with raw honesty, stripped of pretence: — “She was supposed to meet me at the Academy today… But she didn’t come. I just wanted to know if she was all right. That’s all.”

At these words, Louise seemed more moved than she expected. Her gaze softened, and when she answered, her voice had lost some of its earlier mischief. — “Yes. Miss Watts had a bit of bad luck, you see. She’s been assigned to one of the most coquettish debutantes of the entire season. I’m afraid I made her run ragged today…” — “I see…”

Louise, without hesitation and with a steadiness nothing seemed able to shake, spoke again, her eyes gleaming with resolve: — “I won’t claim to understand your intentions, Mr. Bridgerton, but I know your reputation well enough to form an idea. And while I may be young, and perhaps a novice in your eyes, that does not mean I lack judgment. As for your interest in Emma… know this: I would not hesitate to follow you into the darkest corners of your dreams and nightmares if any harm were to come to her.”

Benedict looked at her, stunned. In a flash of clarity, he realized just how deeply he had misjudged her. He had naively imagined that Louise Braybrooke would offer nothing more than a simple reassurance — that Emma was fine, nothing more.

But in front of him stood a young woman who, far from being naive, was fully aware of the games and schemes men of society played. The realization, both surprising and comforting, brought him a sense of peace. He was reassured to know that Emma was not alone — that she was surrounded by people worthy of trust.

In fact, in that moment, she seemed even more precious, more admirable to him, in the light of the fierce protection she inspired.

At a loss for words, he fell silent. The waltz, already nearing its end, seemed to end, and with sudden clarity, he realized that Emma’s absence was not an act of avoidance, but a forced one. Louise, observing his silence, gave him a mischievous smile before speaking again, her tone light but tinged with irony: — "Sometimes, I begin to understand my mother, who says I shall never find a husband unless I learn to hold my tongue. But... I fear my nature is stronger than good sense."

Benedict, unwilling to dwell further on Emma, chose to steer the conversation away. — "You would get along famously with my sister, Eloise," he said, trying to find safer ground.

Louise turned her gaze toward Miss Bridgerton, her expression bright with amusement. "I adore your sister’s company. Beside her, I almost seem demure," she replied, a glint of mischief in her voice.

A moment of silence passed between them, and as the waltz drew to its close, Louise, with unexpected seriousness, added, "Promise me, you won’t hurt her."

Benedict immediately understood her meaning, and discomfort stirred within him. The idea of promising he wouldn’t hurt Emma felt odd, even unnecessary—of course, he’d never act with bad intentions. But such an absolute vow? He couldn’t quite bring himself to utter it.

—"I shall do my best, if that brings you any comfort," he said, hoping to ease her concerns.

Louise, however, didn’t seem entirely reassured. She raised an eyebrow, her expression sceptical. "That’s not a very convincing answer, Mr. Bridgerton," she observed with a subtle irony.

"But it is an honest one," Benedict replied with a faint smile, aware of the simplicity of his words, yet also of their truth.

The dance ended on this note of subtle exchange. Louise, after offering him one last smile, turned toward him, stepping a little closer. "Very well then, follow me," she said, and with determined steps, she walked toward one of the ballroom doors.

Benedict, momentarily puzzled by this invitation, took a few seconds to think. He knew he couldn’t follow her immediately. If they were found together without a chaperone, a scandal would surely follow. So, he left the dance floor, made a loop through the room to greet a few gentlemen, and after a few minutes, made his way to the same door Louise had taken.

Upon entering the entrance hall, he found her already by the door. She turned toward him, ready to leave, and said plainly, "Very well, I shall go now. You can leave the ball in twenty minutes and meet Emma at the corner of the street with your coachman."

She turned briskly, prepared to slip away.

Benedict, somewhat thrown by this unexpected plan, raised an eyebrow and stepped toward her. "I… I beg your pardon?" he asked, his surprise unmistakable.

Louise turned back, a fleeting smile on her lips. "You still want to see Emma, don’t you? She’s not asleep, she’s waiting for me to come home so she can help me. I’ll tell my mother I came home early because I was feeling unwell, and then I’ll tell Emma that you’re waiting in the carriage."

Such a bold, yet strangely reassuring plan began to form in Benedict’s mind, and without a word, he followed her into the shadows, confident now in the quiet friendship that seemed to be blossoming between them.

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Emma was slumped in the servants’ small drawing room by the fire, on the brink of well-earned sleep, when Emily burst in: "Miss Louise is already home, she’s waiting for you in her room." Without a second’s hesitation, Emma pricked the needle into the dress she was mending and rushed upstairs.

Louise rarely returned early from a ball—or any social gathering—and a strange premonition made Emma wonder what might have brought her back so suddenly. Not that she minded. She welcomed the prospect of an early night.

As soon as she entered the bedroom, Emma saw Louise, visibly more excited than ever. The young woman was already undressing, casting aside her jewels, gloves, stockings, and delicate shoes. Louise walked quickly toward Emma and, without a word, turned her back to her friend, clearly indicating she wanted help with her corset. Emma obliged without hesitation, though part of her wondered what was going on.

—"Right. Grab your coat and anything you need to paint... though I suspect that won’t matter much. And—" Louise’s voice was hurried as Emma finished loosening the corset’s laces. She suddenly turned around, eyes sparkling with excitement. "Benedict is waiting for you at the end of the street, in his carriage. Hurry."

Emma frowned, confusion written all over her face. "I’m sorry?" she said, slowly realizing the situation. "What have you done, Louise?"

Louise shrugged, feigning nonchalance, though her smile gave her away. "Weren’t you meant to meet him for painting tonight?"

"Yes, but—" Emma couldn’t finish her sentence, her surprise giving way to rising confusion.

"Exactly. So hurry before my parents return and the house is swarming with people again," Louise concluded with cheerful urgency, already pulling Emma toward the door.

Emma, caught off guard, let herself be led while still protesting. "I don’t understand..."

Louise, visibly impatient and in a rush, sighed. "Honestly, no one understands anything tonight, it’s maddening!" She suddenly blocked Emma’s path, giving her no time to think. "We danced together, he asked about you—well, no, not really, I guessed it myself," she said as if pondering the memory. "And I remembered you were meant to teach him painting tonight. So go!"

Emma, swept up in Louise’s whirlwind energy, barely had time to respond. They were already in the hallway, heading for the staircase that led to the Braybrookes’ front door. Louise, without a second thought, grabbed her cloak and threw it swiftly around Emma’s shoulders.

Emma, surprised, offered a soft protest. —"Louise, I’m not sure this is a good idea. Your parents may notice I’m gone, or worse my parents."

"Oh, come now!" Louise said with confidence. "I’ll tell them you went to bed early after helping me. And tomorrow morning, you’ll have nothing to fear. Benedict’s coachman will bring you back whenever you like, I’m sure of it."

They reached the door. Louise clasped Emma’s hand with a reassuring, conspiratorial smile. "Go on!" she urged, her excitement tangible.

Emma, smiling slightly, quickly opened the door. Before stepping out, she looked left, then right. At the end of the street, she faintly spotted a carriage, and a smile spread across her lips. Whether it was the heaviness of the evening, the rush of the moment, or the anticipation of seeing Benedict again, something made her heartbeat faster. Whatever it was, the air suddenly felt lighter.

Emma climbed swiftly into the carriage, and no sooner had she settled than Benedict’s silhouette emerged from the shadows, his smile glowing like moonlight. He looked at her, his smile widening just a touch more, and Emma shivered slightly. There was in his gaze a rare warmth, a sincerity that left no room for doubt. This quiet tenderness, paired with his natural elegance, unsettled her more and more. She couldn’t tire of watching him, as if each detail, each movement, were its own kind of enchantment.

His attire was flawless—a deep blue that highlighted the clarity of his eyes, a cravat seemingly chosen just to complement it, and a waistcoat embroidered with gold thread that shimmered faintly in the light. He was stunning.

—"You… here?" he said, his voice light, touched with jest.

Emma smiled, her gaze locked in his. —"I don’t know what sort of spell you cast on Louise, but bravo." Her voice trembled slightly with emotion, though she tried to keep her composure.

—"My exceptional charm, perhaps," he answered, mischief dancing in his eyes.

Emma, amused despite herself, gave him a look. "You’re rather full of yourself, Mr. Bridgerton. Don’t get carried away."

"Indeed not. Louise frightens me almost more than my own mother," he said, a genuine smile curving his lips.

"And you are right to fear her," Emma replied, perhaps a little too seriously. She glanced briefly out the window, her mind still flooded with questions.

Benedict was quiet for a moment. Then, in a gentler voice, he resumed, "I’m sorry. None of this was planned, but I took the chance when it came." There was a slight hesitation in his tone, as if every word was weighed carefully.

"What did you say to Louise?" Emma asked, raising an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued.

"I could ask you the same." The smile on his lips grew just a little more enigmatic.

"That’s none of your concern." Emma’s reply was sharp, though she knew it wasn’t entirely true. Louise had intervened for a reason.

"No, it’s not." Benedict shrugged, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "But judging from what she told me, I can only imagine what you must have said about me."

—"You shouldn’t have asked her to dance. Now everyone will talk, including Lady Whistledown. I don’t want her tangled up in my affairs." Emma shook her head, her gaze lost again in the darkness outside. She knew once rumours started, they spread like wildfire.

—"I needed to know if you were all right." Benedict’s voice was softer now, almost a murmur, as if he wished to soothe her.

Emma finally looked at him, a glint of irony in her eyes. "I am fine, as you can see. Don’t take it personally, Mr. Bridgerton. I don’t have the luxury of meandering through life."

A smile of relief ghosted across Benedict’s lips. He sat a little straighter, visibly more at ease. It was as if a weight had lifted from his shoulders.

—"Where are we going?" Emma asked suddenly, curiosity in her voice as she glanced out the window to guess their destination.

—"To my home." Benedict answered simply, his gaze resting on her with such calm certainty that it seemed perfectly natural.

—"Your home?" Emma raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised. She hadn’t expected that.

—"You didn’t think I could paint dressed like this, did you?" he replied, his smile growing more impish as he gestured to his impeccable attire.

Emma, slightly thrown, let out a soft laugh. There was something more in this exchange—a quiet complicity weaving itself between them. And despite the odd circumstances, she felt strangely content.

—"You have no regard for rules, nor for my sleep, apparently..." she said, half-serious, half-amused.

A mischievous smile played on Benedict’s lips. "First of all, no. And secondly, Louise assured me you’d have the whole morning to recover from the sleep I intend to steal."

—"Fair enough," she murmured, resigned.

The easy silence between them was broken by the carriage’s sudden stop. Without a word, Benedict stepped out with graceful assurance. Once on solid ground, he turned, arm outstretched, palm open—a silent invitation.

Emma placed her hand in his without hesitation and allowed herself to be guided down.

No sooner had her feet touched the cobblestones than she tried to slip her fingers free. But Benedict gently tightened his hold—not roughly, only to convey, with that masculine delicacy he mastered so well, that he had no desire to break this quiet bond. Emma didn’t protest. She simply followed his lead, hand in hand, to the door of his home.

Or rather, his bachelor pad. A man’s lair, an elegant jumble filled with the heady scent of leather, brandy, and dried ink. The place held that indefinable charm of rooms inhabited by tormented souls: richly decorated but subtly neglected, seemingly in order yet cloaked in a tender chaos. The servants surely did their best to maintain the illusion of tidiness. Yet wherever the eye landed, it found signs of life—clothes draped over a chair, open sketchbooks, books precariously balanced on armrests.

The sitting room opened into a modest library, and further on, a large half-open door revealed a bedchamber—his bedchamber. He stopped on the threshold, turned back toward her briefly.

"Don’t move."

Then he disappeared inside, closing the door with a soft click. Probably to change.

Emma found herself alone, enveloped in the muted warmth of the room. She took the opportunity to step closer to a table cluttered with papers, ink and charcoal sketches, and half-finished canvases propped against the walls. She brushed her fingers lightly over the still-fresh lines of a drawing, lingering on the details. Some paintings seemed barely begun, others nearly complete, but all carried the same unfinished fervour.

When Benedict reappeared, he had exchanged his elegant attire for simpler clothes—though no less refined. His step remained confident, his gaze bright. He ran a hand through his hair, deliberately tousling it—a calculated gesture, almost theatrical, as if to better fit the image of the artist.

Emma glanced at him, then gestured toward the scattered canvases.

—"Either you’re incredibly impatient… or perpetually dissatisfied with your own work."

A smile spread across Benedict’s face as he gave a slight shrug.

—"Both, I’m afraid."

Emma moved closer to the canvases, scanning them with focused curiosity. What she discovered surprised her: only landscapes. Sun-drenched countryside scenes, glimpses of cities at dawn or dusk, solitary trees, forgotten paths. Not a single face. Not a single gaze.

—"No portraits, I see," she remarked, slightly intrigued.

Benedict, already rummaging through a polished wooden box, replied without turning around:

—"When I said I was hopeless… I meant it."

Emma smiled faintly.

—"Very well. Let’s get to work."

As she spoke, she slowly removed the cape draped over her shoulders—Louise’s cape, sumptuous and clearly precious. Her gaze swept the room for a safe place, far from paint splatters, charcoal dust, or oil stains. She finally laid it gently on a sofa near the window, sheltered from the creative chaos. Then, in one fluid, unselfconscious motion, she gathered her hair into a loose bun, with strands already slipping free to frame her face.

"We need a battle plan," she said, hands on her hips. "I can’t promise I’ll be available every day. Between my work at the Braybrooks’, my classes, and my hours posing at the Academy… I’ll soon be leaving for—"

"Kent," Benedict cut in from across the room.

He had stopped, a brush in hand. "Louise told me. But we’re not there yet. What days’ work for you? I can be more flexible than you."

Emma didn’t respond immediately. She watched him silently as he moved with quiet yet confident efficiency. He had cleared a corner of the room, set up a second easel, arranged a set of brushes and palettes where colors blended into deep, rich shades—far more refined than those she was used to. Every movement betrayed a habit, a mastery, but also a barely concealed nervousness.

"I think Louise might allow me a few hours if I ask," Emma said, crossing her arms, her gaze still on the freshly arranged brushes. "But the simplest would be to meet after my evening classes at the Academy. Would that suit you?" She paused briefly, then added with a sly smile: "There will be exceptions, of course… like tonight. But I suppose you’re also doomed to attend those dreadful balls, aren’t you?"

Benedict rolled his eyes theatrically, a weary smile on his lips.

—"I fear I won’t survive the season if I don’t show my face..."

Emma laughed softly—a light, intimate sound that melted into the warm air of the room.

—"Very well. Then it’s settled."

Her gaze drifted around the room, across the canvases, the furniture, the dim light falling diagonally through the window. Then, in a gesture both casual and deliberate, she nodded toward the room.

"And if the opportunity arises… in other circumstances, we can always meet here."

There was no overt insinuation, no clear promise. Just an opening. A sliver of possibility.

Benedict simply nodded, gently, as if sealing a pact.

"Very well."

Emma’s eyes wandered around the studio, then settled on a portrait of a woman hanging above a dark wooden chest of drawers. Intrigued, she stepped closer, her brow slightly furrowed.

"Who is she?" she asked, pointing at the painting.

Benedict looked up, then shrugged with nonchalance.

"No idea. I bought it at a salon recently."

Emma moved closer still, captivated by the painting’s aura. She placed her hands on the frame, trying to take it down despite its height. The piece was clearly heavy, firmly attached—and far too high for her to reach.

Seeing her stretch precariously, Benedict rushed over to help.

"Are you planning to redecorate the entire room?" he asked, laughing.

"Put the portrait on an easel, please. Since we don’t have a live model, we’ll work from this one."

Caught off guard but amused, Benedict complied. Under Emma’s amused gaze, he set the painting on a free easel, moving a few things around to make space. When he straightened, the two artists found themselves side by side, facing blank canvases. Arms crossed, expressions focused, they stood in silence for a moment, like two generals surveying a battlefield.

"Alright then, let’s get to it," Emma said, picking up a pencil with confidence. "The most important part of a portrait is the proportions."

Benedict watched her with near-reverent attention. His gestures, usually somewhat clumsy, were now calm and precise. She drew with an ease that betrayed experience and control. This was a different Emma—focused, methodical, almost solemn.

"You need to structure the face with guidelines: an oval for the head, a vertical axis for the nose and mouth, horizontal lines for the eyes and ears," she explained as she drew. "Only after that can you add your style, your intention."

He nodded slowly but said nothing. It wasn’t the words he was absorbing—it was the way they formed on her lips, the way her fingers brushed the paper. She was beautiful when she painted. Beautiful in a different way.

And he felt, even before he had made a single stroke, that he was already learning something precious.

Benedict followed Emma’s instructions with dedication, though he noted—half amused, half frustrated—that his sketches had none of her grace or precision. But he was no fool: one didn’t surpass the master in a single evening.

The hours slipped between them like whispers—quiet and swift—until neither noticed how time had passed. It was only when Emma stifled a yawn behind her hand that Benedict, fingers smudged with charcoal, set down his pencil with an apologetic smile:

—"I’ve kept you far too long. Forgive me."

Emma shook her head softly, her eyes still bright with concentration.

—"It’s nothing… I lose track of time when I draw."

"So do I." He replied with a frank, slightly weary but contented smile. Then, after a moment:

—"Would you like me to walk you home?"

She stood, stretching lightly like a cat waking from a long nap.

"No, thank you. I’m just nearby."

Benedict watched her for a moment, as if another idea had already taken root in his mind.

—"You could sleep here."

She raised an eyebrow, half-surprised, half-amused. He quickly clarified:

"I mean… you can take my room. I have everything I need to sleep here, in the salon."

Emma smiled and shook her head, mock exasperated.

—"Be serious. With my height, I could sleep ten times over on your sofa. You, on the other hand..."

Benedict glanced at the infamous sofa and had to admit, laughing:

—"You’re not wrong. But I insist. Take my room. I’ll fetch you something to change into."

She narrowed her eyes, teasing.

—"Let me guess… a nightgown left behind by one of your past conquests? How sweet."

He burst out laughing, genuinely amused, though slightly wounded by the jab.

—"Alas, I fear all I have to offer are my own shirts."

Emma shrugged with feigned nonchalance.

—"That will do just fine."

They washed their hands in a small basin of clear water, a remnant of the impromptu studio. Emma cleaned and tidied her workspace with quiet precision, unable to stop herself from smiling at Benedict, who left everything as it was, as if tidiness never crossed his mind. Of course.

He returned a few minutes later with a white shirt in hand—slightly wrinkled, but clean.

—"Here. You can change in my room. I’ll close the door," he said softly, handing her the shirt.

Emma thanked him with a simple look and made her way to the bedroom, the shirt clutched to her chest. As she crossed the threshold, she turned slightly—just enough to see him keeping his word: he had turned his back and was tidying his brushes.

With a quiet, meaningful gesture, she closed the door behind her.

Inside the room, Emma was struck by the contrast between the salon’s lively chaos and the quiet intimacy of Benedict’s bedroom. The space was spare but warm—dark wood, thick drapes, a few books stacked by the bed. There was a chair with a half-buttoned waistcoat draped over it, a cravat tossed nearby, and the faint scent of paint lingering in the air, blending with something subtler—soap, perhaps, or the faint musk of worn linen.

She hesitated for a moment before slowly unfastening her dress, folding it carefully over the back of the chair. She slipped Benedict’s shirt over her head; it hung loosely on her frame, the fabric brushing her bare thighs. The collar was wide, the sleeves long, and she had to roll them up a few times to free her hands. It was far too large, and yet oddly comforting—like being wrapped in something that still held traces of warmth, of breath.

Emma caught her reflection in the small mirror above the dresser. Hair half-loose, feet bare, skin pale against the crisp whiteness of the shirt—she looked like someone else. Or perhaps she had never looked more like herself.

She stepped out of the room with quiet steps, holding the edge of the shirt so it wouldn’t trail on the paint-splattered floor. Benedict had changed, too—now barefoot, sleeves rolled up, seated on the armrest of a chair with a sketchbook resting on his knees. He looked up when he saw her, his pencil pausing mid-line.

His gaze flicked briefly over her—the way the shirt fell, the lightness in her step, the strands of hair escaping her bun—but he didn’t stare. Not exactly. His eyes held something softer. Something still.

—"You look..." he began, but stopped himself. A smile ghosted across his lips instead. "Very artistically dressed."

Emma rolled her eyes with a huff of amusement, crossing the room to the sofa.

—"I expect a new portrait of me like this by morning, then."

—"Only if you promise not to laugh at it."

She gave him a long, considering look.

—"I wouldn’t."

Silence settled again—an easy, natural quiet. The kind that stretches comfortably between two people when the night is late and the world has softened.

—"Do you do this often?" she asked eventually, her voice low. "Invite women to sleep in your bed while you take the sofa?"

He let out a quiet laugh. "No. In fact, I think this might be the first time."

—"Mm. A scandal, then."

He looked over at her, expression unreadable for a moment.

—"Only if someone finds out."

Their eyes met, and something unsaid hovered in the air between them. Not a question. Not yet. Just a flicker of awareness—delicate, deliberate.

Emma yawned again, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. The fatigue was setting in now, heavier than before.

—"You should sleep," he said gently. "I’ll be here in the morning."

"You’d better be," she murmured, already shifting onto the sofa. "Or I’ll steal your brushes."

He smiled. And she suddenly thought of his lips on hers, and the image struck her as both familiar and distant. Like a dreamed memory.

Then, in a rush that surprised even her, she asked, her voice barely above a whisper but steady. — "Benedict… would you sleep beside me?"

————————————————————

Emma climbed silently into the bed, settling without so much as brushing the covers—whether it was the warmth of the room, or perhaps the more subtle heat of the moment, it seemed enough. She curled into a foetal position, arms folded against her chest, her breath already soft and even. The gentle glow of the moon filtered through the curtains, casting a pearly light across her figure, tracing the silken sheen of her hair and the quiet curves of her skin.

Benedict entered the room and climbed in on the other side of the bed and turned toward her. She already seemed far away, almost unreal in that silvery light.

He hesitated. Should he simply lie down, keep a respectful distance, let sleep come without disturbing the silence? Or yield to that quiet, irresistible pull drawing him toward her, steady as a tide?

Every part of him longed to be closer—to hold her, to feel her breath against his chest. And so, without a sound, he inched toward her. He nestled behind her, moulding his shape to the curve of hers with restrained tenderness. His arm slid around her waist, and his fingers sought hers in a natural gesture. Emma, wordless, laced her fingers through his, as if the gesture had been waiting for her. As if she had missed it.

They stayed like that, unspeaking, their breaths aligned.

Benedict gently buried his face in her hair, breathing in her scent—a mixture of soot and something else, something that belonged only to her.

A rare peace settled over him. A stillness so deep, it almost ached.

Silence now wrapped the room. And yet Benedict could feel, against him, that Emma’s body had not fully surrendered to sleep. Her breathing, though steady, carried a subtle tension—barely perceptible.

He whispered, his voice like a breath: — "Will you come visit me in Kent?"

She took a moment to reply, as if she were weighing the exact weight of her words in the delicate balance of the moment. Then, just as softly:

— "Yes. Gladly."

A smile, unbidden and boyish, touched Benedict’s lips. One of those rare smiles reserved for suspended moments, for tender beginnings.

He replied simply: — "Goodnight, Emma," and, without waiting, pressed a kiss to the back of her head, just where a few strands had slipped free from her bun.

— "Goodnight, Benedict."

He froze for a second. That name—spoken in the dark—resonated through him with the quiet force. It was the first time she had said it.

And in the silence that followed, complete once more, Benedict thought— with the unreasonable, unshakable certainty of a heart in love— that he could die happy, if only she would grant him, again and again, that simple miracle: to hear his name born from her lips.

————————————————————

Disclaimer: I know Kent isn't next door to My Cottage or Aubrey Hall, but we'll pretend it is

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