#i'm still doing marvel my guys just.... on a bridgerton kick too lol

[murdockparker]

Foolish Endeavor - Part 1

Benedict Bridgerton x Reader

Summary: Benedict Bridgerton was certainly no fool. Bad at cards, sure, a bit taller than most, that was a given, but he was seldom called a fool. Though, one could argue that falling for your best friend was a foolish endeavor, indeed.

Word Count: 4.9k

Warnings: mix of book/show, mixed canon, tried my best to be time-accurate but even the source material isn’t so.... bon appetit!

next part

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Of all the charming places in the world, London seemed to be at the height of that list. True that many in the ton were used to the daily life of the fair city, but far more found the simple pleasures of the life to be more than suffice, the joys of society far too enjoyable.  

Lady (Y/N) (Y/L/N) was decidedly not one of those few people.

Daughter to the Earl of Kent, the only child he had sired, she grew up rather lonely within the walls of their lavish homes—the one in London, Tonbridge and the estate near Scotland. It was not as if the earl and his wife longed for more children—no, they had tried their hardest to conceive a son to pass the title and fortune on—the countess could simply not carry another child after the miracle of their only daughter. This not only left (Y/N) terribly lonely, but felt the largest sense of duty to fulfill, to provide her parents with a grandson to continue the lineage before the earl should pass. Her father had no brothers, nor male cousins to his name, all records of distant and far-off relatives were coincidentally destroyed in a fire many years ago—her grandfather would deny any accusation that was thrown his way. Because of that tragedy, the earldom would all but disappear should an heir not be procured.  

(Y/N) did not consider herself to be of the maternal type, but as her duty required, she would have to muster any bit of those fleeting feelings to provide for her parents, for their title. How she loathed the system in its entirety for that sole purpose. Naturally, she could not acquire the title for herself—a woman in society could never have that privilege—so she must begin to court, to find a husband to provide her an heir. Of course, this brought a great laugh to Lady (Y/N), as it was of the normalcy that the men in the ton required such a thing as well. 

Courting was, in every word imaginable, boring. None of the eligible men in the ton seemed to strike (Y/N)’s fancy—no matter how hard they tried. Each ball was filled with strife, meaningless conversations and rather terrible company. The keen fact of the matter was that (Y/N) couldn’t simply marry any man in the ton, but a man of no title. Once again, a laughable endeavor as many eligible bachelorettes were seeking the opposite—a man of nobility and the deepest pockets to provide for their full life.

Thankfully the infamous gossip rag, Lady Whistledown, had not yet caught wind of the (Y/L/N)’s true reasoning to the desperate need for their daughter to marry, lest the ton be any of the wiser. Of course, those with half a brain would still want their title-less or less fortunate son to marry a well-off young lady such as (Y/N), considering she would potentially have a rather large dowry and welcome the son into the rather influential family, the point was moot.

So here she was, at one of the many balls of the season, the Cowper ball, standing terribly too close to a refreshment table, hoping not a soul would notice her. Of course, her mother had prepared for such an attitude, having (Y/N) dress in a ghastly pink dress to catch the eyes of suitors from around the ballroom. She was practically fluorescent, shining like a candle in the night. When her eyes locked with a man coming her way, she nearly downed her glass of lemonade.  

“Lady (Y/N),” the man bowed, out of politeness. (Y/N) could all but roll her eyes at the sight. She bit her tongue at the thought.

“Lord Greenwood,” (Y/N) nodded back. 

“Truth be told, I did not expect you to be at this event tonight,” Lord Greenwood said, his hand finding his pocket effortlessly. The man was the older type, not nearly as young as (Y/N) with a good fifteen years difference between them at the least. He had a wife once before, both her and their heir dying during childbirth, so the Lord had no choice but to begin to court again, to hope for an heir again. It hadn’t been a love match, to (Y/N)’s knowledge, but they seemed to care enough about one another to equate such a loss. 

“If I must be truthful, neither did I,” (Y/N) replied honestly, grabbing another glass of lemonade, her silk gloves tracing the delicate pattern on the glass. “I do rather hate these dances.”

“But with a beautiful presence such as yours, surely your dance card must be keeping you busy, no?” Lord Greenwood motioned to the card hanging from her wrist, trying to eye the list of names written on the back. (Y/N) grabbed the card quickly from his prying eyes.

“Y-yes, of course my Lord,” (Y/N) faked a smile, “my dance card always seems to be filled, never giving me the proper moment of respite I so desperately need…” She eyed the man briefly, hoping her point would catch. He seemingly did not. “That moment, of course, being right now.”

“Ah,” the Lord nodded, “apologies for interrupting. I was just to see if you had but a line left on your dance card. I would be most pleased to share a dance with you this evening.”

“I’m afraid my card is full,” (Y/N) gave the most forced smile she could muster, one hopefully read as sympathetic. She hoped deeply that it worked. “Perhaps you should find me earlier at the next dance?”

“Of course, I will surely have to do just that,” Lord Greenwood nodded, his eyes dancing right behind her head. He found himself glancing at a group of young ladies, all looking pleasantly alone and oh-so beautiful. “If you must excuse me.”

(Y/N) let out a caught breath, finally able to release the card from her hand. Her dance card hadn’t been filled at all—not with genuine names at least—she had taken a moment to fill nearly every spot with a believable name so she could have one free evening this season to relax and enjoy the music. Of course, she had left one line free, just in case she were to find a man worth her time and breath. As if that would ever happen. 

“Turning away a viable suitor? I can practically see the steam rising from your mother’s ears.”

(Y/N) found herself turning her head, only to be met with the eyes of Benedict Bridgerton, a friend, thank God above. “Well, hello Mr. Bridgerton. Fancy seeing you this evening.”

“Fancy indeed,” he hummed. “I must say, it was quite hard to not see you this evening.” Benedict smiled at her dress, eyeing the bright fabric with a casual intensity. 

“Mama thought it be best I wore something eye catching,” a sigh almost escaped her lips. “She believes no suitable man would possibly see me otherwise.”

“Now why on earth would she think of that?” Benedict laughed lightly. “It is not as if you try to hide by the refreshment tables or in the hallways, is it not?”

(Y/N) fought back a grin, the corners of her lips turning upwards ever so slightly. “You think little of me, Mr. Bridgerton,” she took a sip of her lemonade, “I would never try to hide, I am rather good at it, so there is no need in trying.”

“Hiding will not find you a husband.”

“Perhaps that is the goal?” (Y/N) eyed Benedict lightly, her brow arched upward. “You see how these ladies throw themselves about the room, going from suitor to suitor,” she pointed across the way, “take Miss Harrison for example, her mama has her in such an ill-fitting dress, her bosom is practically falling out of it.”

“I do not see your point? Miss Harrison has an ample bosom, surely that is what could bait her a husband, no?”

“I could never stoop so low as baiting a man,” (Y/N) nearly shuddered. “If I ever were to marry—and my mama is hell bent on making that so—I would want it to be of my own volition and choice, not because I was merely charmed during a waltz.”

“I once again fail to see your point,” Benedict smiled lightly. “You do not wish to marry, yet you would if a man were to charm you somehow else?”

“If I were to find a man worth marrying,” (Y/N) corrected, “it certainly wouldn’t be within the social setting the ton seems to have everyone wrapped around.”

“Because you despise these gatherings?”

“Precisely that.”

“If I may be so honest,” Benedict leaned closer to her, “I too despise this setting.”

“You share that as if I didn’t know that much,” (Y/N) teased. “You seem to forget that we have known each other for many years.”

“We have,” Benedict nodded, “but ever since your debut, we have seldom chatted, especially at events such as these.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want the ton to think we were courting, would we?”

“Would that be the worst gossip to come about us?” Benedict asked honestly. It wouldn’t be, he had decided. “I can think of, at the least, five other juicy morsels that Whistledown could choose to publish instead. Why, I rather think that your dress this evening would be a key topic of conversation.”

“You couldn’t possibly wish to court me, the ton would know it too,” (Y/N) waved him off, simply ignoring the rightful jab at her dress. “You only jest.”

“Perhaps this is true,” Benedict laughed hesitantly. The truth behind his words was shaky at best. “It would be like courting my sister, even if my sisters are mostly wonderful ladies.” He tapped mindlessly against his newly-refreshed lemonade glass. 

“How is your mother dealing with Eloise’s debut? I’m sure that your sister is just loving her time in the season.” (Y/N) was genuinely curious of how the middle Bridgerton daughter’s debut had been going, knowing from their time growing up that Eloise seemed rather… against everything the season had to offer. The earl and the late viscount were great mates from their schooling, the families growing up not too far away from one another while the (Y/L/N)’s were in London. (Y/N) found herself at the Bridgerton residence more often than she’d ever admit, finding great company in the eldest four Bridgerton siblings. She also found comfort in the youngest four, too, almost as if she was their older sister. It felt nice, to feel like she had siblings, and the Bridgertons had quite a few to spare. 

“Mother has her head in a tizzy,” Benedict sighed, a hand resting on his pocket. “She wanted Eloise to debut sooner,” he hummed, “Anthony is rather cross about how she’s been acting.”

“Eloise is younger than when Daphne debuted, no?” Benedict nodded lightly. “Well, Daphne debuted later and found a husband with no problems,” her mind drifted to the rumored duel between the Duke of Hastings and Anthony. “Few problems, I imagine. Best to start early in the seasons, though.”

“You,” Benedict poked her shoulder, “debuted at two and twenty if my memory serves correct.”

“And I,” she poked back, “held off on that front as long as I could,” (Y/N) held back a grin. “I am nearly considered a spinster now, currently on my third season.”

“Just as you’d like it, I presume.”

“You know me too well, Mr. Bridgerton.”

“Ah, must we be so formal?” Benedict sighed, his head cocking ever so slightly. “I do understand the prying ears and eyes of the room, but I do rather hate it when you are so formal.”

“Apologies,” (Y/N) sniggered. “I did not know that would cause such a great offense.”

“Minor offense was taken,” Benedict hummed, rocking slightly on his heels. His eyes followed the dancers around the center of the room, watching the new couples and courting prospects alike twist and turn. “But I do miss being called ‘Benny’, if you must know.”

“Certainly your youngest siblings still call you that?” (Y/N) nearly snorted. “I haven’t even dreamed of calling you that since we were out of our leading strings,” she scanned her eyes quickly around, “and even so, I wouldn’t be so keen on using it here.”

“You simply didn’t know me whilst we were in leading strings,” Benedict laughed. “And no, Gregory and Hyacinth simply call me by my given name, as one would expect.”

“So it must be Eloise who still calls you that,” (Y/N) sharpened her gaze at the tallest Bridgerton. His cheeks flushed at the notion. “Ah, I see I’m correct.”

“Eloise is known to be quite teasing,” Benedict coughs, trying to hide his embarrassment. “Particularly with me, so it seems.”

“You are one of her favorite brothers,” (Y/N) hummed into her lemonade glass, nearing the bottom. Soon enough the glass would be empty, leaving her with no reason to stand off to the side. A large sigh escaped her lips.

“I didn’t know my presence would be such a bore to you,” Benedict said, a lopsided smirk following.

“No, trust that it is not you but the dreaded fact that my mama is to find me soon,” (Y/N) finally finished her glass. “I have not taken to the dance floor all evening and—” 

“But your dance card is full?” Benedict grabbed at the card dangling from her wrist, reading the names carefully. His grin grew wide, face twisting in amusement. “You mean to tell me that you haven’t shared a dance with a one R. Montague?” (Y/N)’s eyes were fixed on the floor, a smirk dancing across her lips. “I’m sure that C. Worthy is practically crestfallen to not have waltzed with you.”

“You mustn’t forget I. Lash, he was a rather persistent fellow, rather handsy,” (Y/N) tried to sound sincere, failing miserably.

“So pray tell, what if your mother asks to meet any of these viable suitors?” Benedict asked. “Or asks why you hadn’t been on the dance floor?”

“You must have missed the blank line, Benedict,” she cautiously used his given name, almost in a whisper, “I had planned to make at least one dance this evening.”

“With whom?”

“That, I’m not sure,” (Y/N) all but shrugged. “I have to take to the dance floor at least once, lest my mother be any the wiser. I figured that I would find some suitor I did not particularly hate to twirl around with, one to fool the masses.”

“And Lord Greenwood was not that suitor?”

“Please,” (Y/N) snorted, “Lord Greenwood could practically be my father. No amount of wealth around could get me to play pretend and feign interest with him.”

“This just brings me back to my earlier point, hiding will not find you a husband—or a dance partner.”

“I am not hiding, you seemed to find me quite well.”

“I can always find you.”

“If that is clearly the case, why do you not add your name to my dance card?”

Benedict’s eyes grew wide at his friend’s boldness. It was customary for the man to ask the lady for a space on her dance card, not the other way around. “But I am not a possible suitor for you, is that not correct?”

“No, you’re correct,” (Y/N) said quickly, as if it were obvious. “But I’d much rather spend my one dance of the eve with a friend than someone entirely too vexing.”

“You don’t think I’m vexing?” Benedict threw his hand to his chest in mock offense, a small gasp exiting his lips. (Y/N) narrowed her eyes at the gesture, her smile not dropping in the slightest. “I should take that as a compliment, but somehow my heart hurts.”

“As I said, I would appreciate,” she punched her words, “to spend my dance with a friend.”

“Well, I’m sure your mother would find it most pleasing to see you dancing with a Bridgerton.”

“So you understand?”

Benedict offered his hand gently, awaiting (Y/N)’s to join. “I understand completely.”

—

The evening at the Cowper residence was one of infamy. It is in This Author’s opinion that many a love match were made in the very halls the ton found themselves in last eve. It is on good authority that the elder Lord Greenwood has charmed Miss Alice Harrison and a courtship is surely soon to follow. 

But that, dear readers, is not the high of the evening’s events. Benedict Bridgerton, second eldest of the Bridgerton brood, found himself scarce as always until the eleventh hour, finding his way amongst the dance floor with none other than with dear family friend Lady (Y/N) (Y/L/N). Lady (Y/N), of course, being the daughter of the esteemed Earl of Kent, is rumored to be making haste on finding a marriage partner this season. Could her dearest friend be that candidate? Their dance only had happened after a prolonged conversation nearest the refreshment table, perhaps Mr. Bridgerton found a way to finally charm her in the ways only a suitor could. This Author is inclined to keep a watchful eye on the handsome couple, lest we miss a love match right under our noses. 

Lady Whistledown Society Papers

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Benedict felt his eyes nearly pop out of his head, reading and re-reading the small pamphlet that had been delivered to the Bridgerton residence in the early morning hours. He normally did not entertain himself with the gossip paper, but when Eloise nearly spat up her first cup of tea amongst the column, he grew interested.

“Brother, it could be worse,” Eloise tried to reason. “You rarely are mentioned amongst her ramblings, if this is to be the worst—”   

“It is not me I am worried about, sister,” Benedict sighed, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose tightly. “(Y/N) is to find a husband this season, for Lady Whistledown to insinuate that we are courting—”

“It will not hurt her chances,” Anthony chimed in, having been sitting in the room the entire time. “Besides, if I recall correctly, you yourself had once said that a rumor of a supposed courtship with Lady (Y/N) would not be the worst in the world.”

“I was merely saying that in jest, brother! I did not think that it could possibly come to fruition, especially with everything else that happened last eve. Lady Cowper nearly fell into the lemonade bowl, at her own ball, surely that could’ve made some sort of impression.”

“You two did look rather taken with one another on the dance floor,” Eloise said, playing with the threads of her pale blue frock. She had dressed up nicely for the morning, much to her disdain and her mother’s persistence. Perhaps she’d have a caller in the morning, crazier things have happened. “I’ve known her forever, she’s never looked at anyone like she looked at you.”

“You don’t know of what you speak,” Benedict waved. “Sister, I have known her just as long as you, she was merely playing the part of a devoted debutante at a ball to appease the countess.”

“(Y/N) must be a fine actress, then,” Eloise said, sitting on the couch beside Benedict with a flop. “She seemed to fool the entire ton with one dance.” Benedict’s face fell like stone, hardened in thought.

“You cannot possibly be angered that this rumor would be the worst to come of you last evening,” Anthony laughed at his brother’s demeanor. “How unfortunate that you’re supposedly courting a fine young lady.”

“But I don’t wish to be courting anyone, let alone a good friend of mine.”

“You mean to tell me that your long-time crush on (Y/N) has simply dissipated?”

Benedict grew silent. It was true, he had been infatuated with the young daughter of the earl since they were children, her demeanor and way she held herself was unlike any of the other children the Bridgertons found themselves in company with. She had a quick wit, a sharp tongue and the prettiest eyes Benedict had the pleasure of viewing. Of course, he knew she was meant to wed an influential man one day, never could she entertain the idea of courting a second-born son, let alone a man she saw no more than a friend.

“Those feelings were merely those of children,” Benedict assured his older brother, if not, assuring himself also. “I’ve grown since then.”

“If you say so, Brother,” Anthony said. He decided to drop the topic altogether, noting Benedict’s demeanor on the conversation at hand. The energy in the room shifted, it was obvious. Eloise looked beside herself, almost biting back words she desperately wished to share. Anthony shot her a stern look, a wordless plea to not push her brother’s buttons further. The look didn’t work.

“Benedict, (Y/N) is a wonderful friend. I’m sure if you were to court her—”

“I am not courting!” Benedict shot up from the chaise, the eyes of his siblings all locking onto him, Eloise instantly growing silent. His fists were clenched, knuckles turning white. “I have little desire to wed, let alone court a dear friend,” he paused, as if to get his point across, “I wish you would not speculate any more about it, it makes you no better than Lady Whistledown.”

“Benedict, we were mostly doing it in jest,” Eloise quietly added, almost afraid to set her brother off again. She hardly ever went quiet.

“Eloise is right,” Anthony rose to Benedict’s side, a hand placed on his shoulder. “It was mostly in jest.” Benedict shoved his brother’s hand off his shoulder, finding himself storming off to his bedchambers, away from his various siblings.

“What did you all do to Benedict?” Colin asked, having just joined the family from breaking their fast. “He looked as if he was ready to kill.”

“Kill Lady Whistledown, no doubt,” Eloise said, handing Colin the latest gossip column. Colin took a moment to graze the first article, having noted Benedict’s name rather quickly. 

“Ah. I suppose he is.”

—

Across town, at Kent House, a similar conversation was taking place over their breakfast, a feast fit for, well, an earl. (Y/N) felt as if she wanted to crawl inside herself, away from the prying eyes of her mother and father, afraid to even be seen amongst the ton at all. She instantly dashed any plans to be had that afternoon, she simply could not bear to be the topic of gossip amongst the masses. She was hardly the topic of conversation in Whistledown, anything said about her was usually a compliment, but the occasional singe of scandal graced the text of the gossip rag every now and then, but then again, it had for practically everyone in the ton as well. 

“Benedict would be a perfect match for you,” Lord Kent nearly grunted. “He’s the second born Bridgerton. He’s not to be the next viscount, should his brother have sons, leaving the opportunity for heirs to inherit our family’s title—”

“I understand that, papa,” (Y/N) groaned, shoving the fork into the mush on her plate. She hadn’t had an appetite since reading Whistledown. “But Benedict is a friend!”

“Your father and I were friends first,” Lady Kent spoke up, “I don’t see you having any other suitors lining up. You hadn’t had a gentleman call upon you since the first ball of the season.” Her mother continued to eat their meal, taking almost dainty bites of the toast. “How have we not thought of the Bridgerton boy before?”

“Benedict is not a viable suitor,” (Y/N) pleaded again. “He agreed to dance with me last night—as a friend,” her voice was pointed, “nothing more, nothing less. He is but a good friend to me.”

“I wouldn’t push the Bridgerton boy aside so quickly, dearest,” Lady Kent said, blotting the corner of her mouth with a pure white cloth. “Why, any of the Bridgerton boys would be quite the match indeed. They all are the epitome of excellence, great looking and great manners, Edmund and Violet did them well.”

“They did,” (Y/N) agreed quickly, nodding her head. “Although, Anthony is a viscount—also terribly loathsome,” (Y/N) ticked off, one, two, three, her fingers pointed to the ceiling. “Benedict is out of the question,” she pointed to her next finger, “and Colin? He practically still a boy.”

“Colin is your age, is he not?” Lord Kent asked.

“A year or so younger, dear, I believe,” Lady Kent tried to correct. “Or, perhaps,” she thought for a moment, “you may be right, dearest.” 

“The Bridgertons are a perfectly suitable family, anyone would be lucky to marry into it,” It wasn’t as if she had never thought of the notion, marrying any of the elder Bridgerton boys. As a young girl—a hopeless romantic one at that—she practically saw herself with nearly every boy around her age, wondering if they were to be wed in the future. As time passed, the notion about marrying into the Bridgertons became laughable, almost a farce.

“I’m sure if we were to strike a deal with the Viscount Bridgerton…” Lord Kent trailed off, nearly to himself. His wife nodded in earnest. 

“Yes, I am quite certain that the viscount would agree to such a match for his brother.”

“Papa! You cannot be serious!?” (Y/N) nearly screamed.

“Lady (Y/N) (Y/L/N)!” 

“I was merely thinking aloud, flower,” Lord Kent assured her. “You know how badly we need you to marry and produce an heir. You also know we agreed on no forced arrangements until your fourth season, should there be a fourth.”

“Nearly a year to go,” Lady Kent sighed. “You must make haste if you wish to not have your father’s hand in your match.”

(Y/N) mirrored her mother’s sigh. “I am well aware, mama,” She pushed her plate away from herself, almost disgusted by the thought of taking another bite. Not that she had eaten much of it anyway. “It is not that I don’t entirely wish to marry, I just don’t want to find my match at those boring events.”

“Those ‘boring events’ are where matches are made, dearest,” Lady Kent said. “It is simply how things are done.”

“Just because it is ‘how things are done’, does not mean that one cannot go off the beaten path,” (Y/N) droned, falling back against her chair, a rather unladylike motion. Her mother’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. She straightened up. “Trust that I’m working on finding a husband, please, on my own terms.”

“Well,” Lady Kent sighed again, a rather common reaction this morning. “If anything were to come from Whistledown, it at the least makes you more desirable. With a Bridgerton supposedly interested, the rest of the ton is sure to follow.” 

“I’m sure that you’re only saying that—” 

The doors to their dining room swung open, the family butler, Franklin, stood in the dead center. “My Lord,” he bowed lightly. “I’ve come to announce a number of callers for Lady (Y/N),” Franklin said, holding a small stack of cards. “Should you wish to hear their names?”

“How many?” Lord Kent asked, his interested peaked greatly.

“Six so far,” Franklin gave a small smile. “I’m inclined to believe more will be following—”

“Is the Bridgerton boy among them?” Lord Kent asked again. 

Franklin shook his head lightly, double checking the cards in his hand. “No, your grace, it seems as if Mr. Bridgerton is absent from today’s callers.”

“Pity,” Lady Kent said, tapping her fork against her plate lightly. “Well, dearest, I suppose you should find yourself presentable and entertain our guests?”

“Don’t I need a chaperone?” she narrowed her eyes. “Wouldn’t want another scandal to come of our family name, would we?”

“I will be joining in a moment to continue my embroidery,” her mother waved her off, “trust you will not be alone. Though, I do hope Benedict comes around.”

It took everything in (Y/N)’s power to not groan at the thought. To see Benedict amongst her callers—suitors wishing to perhaps ask for her hand—was a laughable endeavor. Sure, he would certainly stand out amongst the masses, his height making it easy to spot him from even the farthest of distances. She always loved his height, how even at their somewhat of a height difference, he never made her feel small. He always had appreciated her presence and opinions, never allowing her to fall to the sidelines…

But she couldn’t possibly bear to see him with the fools waiting for her in the drawing room. No way.