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somedaylazysomeday · 1 year ago

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A Grand Deception - Part Two

Some weeks after your infiltration, your shop receives an unexpected visitor.

Continued Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Rating: Explicit. Minors, please do not interact

Word Count: 4,600

Warnings: Money concerns, overworked employees, lying, discussions of sexual experience, discussions of keeping a mistress, kissing, fingering, unprotected sex, handjob.

Previous | Masterlist

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The weeks after your excursion passed in a rush of activity.

It had been simple to burn the gown you had worn to the masquerade. The day after the ball, you cut it into sections of fabric, disguised those in baskets of scrap material, and sent all of it to a nearby furnace. Your mask had ended up in the Thames.

Speaking officially, it was not the time of year when your dress shop was busiest. The late months of winter saw a few requests for dresses and other articles of clothing, but most ladies had already purchased a full wardrobe by the mid-point of the season. Other than the occasional wedding trousseau, you would not see more orders until the weather began to grow warmer.

However, you found yourself busier than usual in early February because one young lady had worn a dress with a particularly daring neckline to a recent ball. She had been met with censure by mamas in the ballroom, but had received some six proposals the next day. Young ladies and their mothers across the ton were demanding gowns altered to feature a similar neckline.

It was a simple enough alteration to make, but time-consuming with the delicacy of the fabrics. You and your two assistants found yourselves occupied with sewing from sunup until your eyes could no long bear sewing by candlelight in the evening.

“I cannot stop crying,” Beatrice announced, rubbing at her watering eyes. Lottie reached out without truly looking, preventing Beatrice’s dropped garment from falling to the floor. “How many more dresses need to be altered?”

“Seventeen,” you answered without counting. The ever-shrinking number had been your sole source of motivation, and yet it was still a terribly large number.

A stunned silence met your answer. You sighed, lowering the dress you held onto the table you were all sharing. “Finish the dresses you are working on, ladies. After that, you may go home for the evening.”

“It is but six,” Lottie objected. “And we have seventeen-”

“I am well aware, trust me,” you interrupted. “We will not finish our orders this evening regardless, and we only risk ruining fabric if we continue to work while our eyes are weary. Finish what you are working on and I will send messages for the remaining fourteen. I will offer them a lower price for a later completion date. We will start work a half hour before dawn tomorrow in hopes of finishing sooner.”

“Can we afford to accept a lower rate?” Beatrice asked softly.

The impertinence of the question was excusable with how hard you had all been working, but even more so because you were warmed by her use of ‘we’. The business was yours, but it was wonderful to have two assistants who cared as much as you.

“We shall be fine,” you assured her, smiling. “Come now, finish that gown. We cannot have you weeping on the fabrics.”

Beatrice wiped at her streaming eyes, smiled, and bent back to her work. Lottie had been sewing steadily while you spoke and finished setting her stitches first. You examined her work, deemed it perfection, and dismissed her for the evening. Beatrice was not far behind, though you had to stop her from trying to surreptitiously pick up another gown.

“The work will be here tomorrow morning,” you promised. “Good night. Be safe.”

The gust of winter chill that blasted through the back room of your shop pulled you from the comfort of your seat. You needed to search for the names attached to the gowns that were not finished, then send notices to them.

It was no easier to write by the trembling candlelight than it had been to sew. You closed your eyes when the notes were finished, stealing a moment to breathe.

You would never burden them with your worries, but you had not been entirely truthful with Beatrice and Lottie. The shop could survive discounting your rates for the unfinished necklines, but your funds were already low. You needed whatever business you could steal until the spring brought a flurry of orders for light weight dresses.

The spring inventory had been ready months ago, and you were pleased to see that they were still on-trend. Your store had only to survive until the days grew longer and warmer. It was your responsibility to see that your doors were still open in two months.

When you felt worry shift toward self-pity, you cut the thoughts short. You gathered your stack of notices and stepped out into the piercingly cold night, waving down a few messenger boys and instructing them where to deliver your notices.

The cost of the deliveries was unavoidable, yet you felt the weight of your financial struggles bear heavier on your soul as you returned to the warmth of your shop. Perhaps you would attempt to finish another neckline or two before you closed up for the night…

The bell above your door jangled cheerily and the cold of the night rushed in, turning the warmth of your stove to something barely above freezing. You turned, striving for an even tone as you requested, “Please close the door.”

Your guest did as you asked, turning to pull the door shut against the wind. You took the moment he was facing away as an opportunity to gather yourself.

What Benedict Bridgerton could be doing in your dress shop, you hadn’t the slightest clue, but he did not know your true identity. He could not.

When he was facing you once more, your expression was politely neutral. “How may I help you, sir?”

“I- am looking for silks,” Benedict said, his explanation disjointed. “For my sisters, of course. I have been tasked to find someone who can create garments for them. Do you-? Is that a service you provide here?”

“Yes, sir,” you agreed. “I am no modiste, but I can shape silk garments well enough. Do they need only custom items? I have a selection of pre-made garments ready for sale. Gloves, scarves, bonnets..?”

“I believe they need custom garments,” he told you, peering at you far more intently than was necessary from the question. “What is your name?”

You smiled, leaning forward to ask conspiratorially, “Did you not see the sign above the door?”

Benedict looked stunned, then a wide smile broke across his face. “You are the owner?”

“None other,” you confirmed. Who else would you have named the store after, if not yourself? It had been your labor that brought it into existence, and you had thought it only fair. “It is my greatest accomplishment.”

“It is very impressive,” he agreed, looking around appreciatively. “Though I believe your greatest accomplishment was fooling a ballroom of people into thinking you a member of the Sharp family.”

You had expected this, but you had also expected that he would hint about it more subtly. You stared at him in a silence that stretched far too long. “I do not understand.”

“I recognize you,” Benedict said simply. “You wore a mask, but nothing could disguise the intelligence in your eyes or the strength of your wit. To find that you own a successful business is wonderful, but far from surprising. I expected nothing less of you.”

The compliments mollified you slightly, gave you hope that he did not intend to drag you into the street to be accused of trespassing or worse. “Why are you here?”

“We did not finish our conversation.”

It was a simple answer, but it still made you laugh aloud. “That is true. But what could a Bridgerton care for the opinions of a dressmaker?”

“Let us forget, for a moment, Bridgertons and ballrooms and social status,” Benedict suggested. “I greatly enjoyed your company when we met. I would like to spend more time with you. Do you feel the same?”

You could not lie to him: “Yes.”

He nodded, though he was already smiling again. “Good. That is… good.”

“I must ask, though…” You lifted your chin, staring him in the eyes. “Precisely what would you like to do in the time you spend with me?”

Benedict hesitated for only a moment. “Whatever you would like to do together. I will not pretend I do not find you desirable, but I would never push that on you.”

“Benedict, I am no blushing virgin,” you warned. “I am no whore, but I have known men. Does that bother you?”

“Not in the slightest,” he said instantly. “I am experienced as well. Why should it bother me that you are not untouched?”

“The motivations of men are beyond me,” you said with a shrug.

Benedict smiled at your faux-despairing tone. “On the topic of male motivations, I will state mine plainly: I wish to make you my mistress.”

You considered the proposition for a moment. It piqued at your pride, though you had no objections to Benedict as a partner. “Why can we not simply enjoy each other without worrying about what we call our dalliance?”

“I would prefer to have an arrangement between us,” he revealed. With an apologetic look from under his lowered brows, he added, “I fear I might become rather jealous of your time.”

Men, you thought irritably. Why could they not allow something to exist without attempting to own it? “I do not believe-”

“I would provide you with all of the usual benefits of being a lord’s mistress, of course,” he interjected.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “And let us suppose that I am unfamiliar with the customs surrounding the practice of keeping a mistress. What benefits?”

“I will rent an apartment for you. I will meet you there,” Benedict explained. “I will provide for your needs - food, clothing, and whatever else you may require to live a comfortable life while you are my mistress.”

A sudden inspiration overtook you. “I have a counterproposal. I would like you to invest in my shop. It would not be charity, nor would you be purchasing anything untoward, but I would furnish you with a percentage of my profits at the end of each year.”

Benedict eyed you. “You… want me to support your business. Instead of supporting you?”

“Yes. I can support myself and, if we decide to form an attachment, you are more than welcome in my home. But this is what I value the most.”

You gestured around the room. It was warm and cheerful, a candle reflector spreading the light of a long taper. That golden glow lent an intimate illumination to the finished dresses and bolts of fabric around the room. A mirror triptych with a stool in the middle helped you with fitting in the daytime, but after dusk, its reflection served as another light source for the room.

“This is what I would choose for you to support if we were to be man and mistress.”

“For a second time, you have sounded uncertain of this,” Benedict pointed out. “If you have doubts about this arrangement, I will not force you into anything.”

“I simply believe it would be wise for us to see whether we are well-matched in the bedroom before we make commitments of any kind,” you said.

Benedict’s look of shock was strong, but it melted into a lascivious smile soon enough. “You need not convince me. But first, I should ask… How many investors does your business have?”

“You are the only one.” You paused. “Or perhaps you were asking about other relationships in my life…”

“No, I truly was asking about your business,” he hurried to say. “And I am honored that you are allowing me to take part in something of such importance.”

“I have no other lovers,” you clarified, on the chance that was also a concern for him. “Not for a while.”

“Neither do I,” he murmured, stepping closer to you. “May I kiss you?”

“Yes.”

The last sibilant letter had scarcely touched the air when Benedict pressed his lips to yours. One of his hands rose to cradle your jaw while the other cupped heat against the side of your neck.

His lips were gentle against yours, asking for your acceptance instead of demanding it. You met his kiss softly, but your eagerness shone through the way you leaned closer. In the tightness of your grip against his forearm as you steadied yourself. In the way you were the first to deepen the kiss.

Benedict made a noise of surprise, but it was clearly not one of displeasure. His hand tightened against your jaw, tilting your head to a better angle. The brush of his tongue against yours was welcomed, and you gave a satisfied sigh even as the furor inside of you raged higher.

Time passed by as it ever did, yet you both seemed unaffected in the peace of your shop. It seemed a mythical burrow of some magical creature - a warm, quiet hiding place allowing some comfort against the chill pervading the busy street outside.

When you finally parted, Benedict wore a dazed expression, and you were certain your own face mirrored it. Neither of you spoke immediately. For your part, you were entranced by Benedict’s reddened lips and the quickness of his breath.

Your voice was low enough to keep the scene intact instead of bursting it like a soap bubble. “I do not believe we need worry about a lack of compatibility.”

“No,” Benedict agreed, his eyes crinkling with his smile. “How much experimentation do you intend to do tonight?”

“I would prefer to have a final decision before you leave my shop,” you answered honestly. When he seemed surprised, you hesitated. “If you object, of course, we can plan to meet up another time…”

Benedict shook his head immediately, the motion strong and certain. You were relieved; the ache that had been building between your legs would have left you very unhappy if it were not sated.

“Forgive me for asking yet again, but I must know that you are certain. I am willing to wait as long as you require-”

“I am certain,” you interrupted, laughing softly. “I truly am, Benedict. In fact, I am nearing desperation.”

His eyes went dark. “We cannot allow that. Where should we go?”

“One moment,” you requested. He waited patiently as you locked the door, then beckoned him toward the back room where you had been working with Beatrice and Lottie.

The back room was smaller than the main shop, but even warmer. The lack of a large mirror in that space left it slightly dimmer, more intimate with the shadows filling the corners of the room. There were designs hanging on the walls, bearing your theories of what fashions might change between this season and the next. Scraps of fabric overflowed from a basket in one corner. Lottie had sewn together a charming little dog out of some extra fabric one slow day, and he presided over the basket.

“I like this room,” Benedict announced as he followed you in. It did not appear to be false flattery, as he studied every detail he could. He seemed particularly enamored by your designs. “These are quite good. You have a particular talent with lines.”

You laughed despite yourself. Even before you offered an explanation, Benedict was smiling at you, sharing in your joy. “I should hope so. What is sewing if not a collection of lines?”

“I believe you are right, though I’ve never considered it before,” Benedict admitted. He reached out to tangle his fingers in yours, tugging you closer with your joined hands. “You must forgive me. I find my interest thoroughly captured by one thing in this room above all else.”

“The patchwork dog,” you guessed. “His name is Scrap. You needn’t be embarrassed; he captures the interest of all.”

You had never before had occasion to be kissed while smiling, but you found it intoxicating.

It seemed you had only just begun when the kiss began to change into something far more intense. While your previous kiss had been lovely and glimmering with tension, this was filled with intent. You stroked over the muscles of Benedict’s jaw before weaving your fingers through his hair. From there, it was a simple thing to walk him backward until his legs met the edge of your worktable.

He made a noise of surprise, eyes opening to search yours. You glanced behind him. “The table is full, but I believe we can make good use of that chair.”

Benedict looked back as well, taking in the sight of a dozen neatly written dress tags, an assortment of sewing needs, and a diagram of how to alter the necklines of the gowns you had been working on. His gaze traveled last to the chair you had indicated, excitement flaring in his expression when he faced you once more.

“I believe we can,” he agreed, voice low and intimate. “Shall we… oof!”

Shoving a gentleman forcefully into a chair was inelegant. From the surprise on his face, this was the first such encounter Benedict had experienced and you were likely not doing credit to your social class. Unfortunately, you were far too impatient to allow for anything more leisurely.

You straddled him a moment later, hastily shoving at your skirts to keep from sitting on them. There were far too many layers of fabric between you as it was.

Benedict recovered quickly from his shock, his hands roaming eagerly over your body as you kissed once more. Your fingers were busy unfastening the row of small buttons holding his waistcoat closed, then worked on the ones fastening the neck of his shirt. You pushed the fabric away the moment you had finished your task, luxuriating in the feel of Benedict’s bare chest. Coarse hair met your fingertips and you kissed him harder as your body realized what was about to happen and responded with a surge of excitement.

“Wait,” Benedict urged, catching your hands in his to still your explorations. “You have yet to lose a single stitch. And, if my sisters are any measure, undressing a lady requires time. We must hurry; I am desperate for you.”

You considered undressing, but discarded the idea after a single moment. While Benedict was quickly stripped, you were wearing far too many layers to allow for such a thing. At any rate, the air in the shop was cool and exposing yourself to it entirely seemed a poor choice.

“Allow me to compromise,” you proposed, tugging at the skirt of your dress until you were pressed against the fabric of his breeches.

Benedict still wore a confused expression, and you took his hand in yours. It took little urging for him to put his hand under your skirt and run his fingers over the cloth covering your mound. When he found the slit in your drawers and his fingertips made contact with your folds, he released a choked gasp.

“One moment.”

The next instant, you were were back on your feet. You had no recollection of standing, but Benedict’s hands on your waist told you that he had likely towed you upward. Without you blocking his access, he worked efficiently at the buttons of his breeches, quickly freeing himself from their confines.

You caught a single glimpse of his cock, rising hard and proud from the puddle of the clothing that he had hastily shoved aside. Your study was cut short when he hauled you back onto his lap.

“Allow me to ask a final time,” he started.

“Yes,” you interrupted, kissing him again as you stroked him. The texture of a man was one you found incredible - hot velvet over unimaginable hardness. His tip was leaking liquid, ready to ease the push of him inside of you. From the state of your underclothes, it would be unnecessary, but the response of his body told you that his hesitation stemmed from consideration for you rather than from misgivings of his own.

There was some amount of fumbling in getting yourselves positioned perfectly. Benedict tore a section of your skirt. You lost your balance twice. He ensnared himself in your drawers while trying to sheathe himself in you. During that last misstep, Benedict treated you to a blistering curse at his own foolishness while you laughed.

“I vow to you, I am not as clumsy as I appear,” he explained. Embarrassment was not an emotion that seemed to come easily to Benedict, but color had risen in his cheeks.

“Have you already forgotten our evening spent together?” you asked. “Of the two of us, I was by far the clumsier. Allow me.”

You reached between you, nimbly avoiding both your skirts and his breeches to take him in hand once more. Benedict twitched in your grasp, thrusting helplessly into your palm as you guided the flushed head of him against your entrance.

If pressed, you likely could have deciphered which of you had moved first. However, in the moment, the magic of you lowering yourself and him arching upward thrust him into you in a long, slow stroke. It felt as if the moment would last forever, and yet you would never tire of feeling him stretching and filling you.

When you blinked, you were sitting on Benedict’s lap once more, your body working to reconcile itself with the pleasurable invasion. Your chest rose and fell with your quickened breaths, your toes curled against the chill of the floor, and your hands were fisted in the unbuttoned halves of Benedict’s waistcoat.

“‘S everything well?” Benedict asked. His voice sounded strangled, and you felt less embarrassed by the tremble in your own.

“Yes.” And because of the expressions playing over his expressive face, you returned, “And you?”

Benedict gave a short laugh. “I believe ‘well’ would be understating the way I currently feel. You are… incredible.”

Heat rose in your face. You had not been complimented for quite some time, especially not in such a blunt way. Still, you sought to brush it away as if you were unaffected by Benedict’s praise.

“And I believed the flattery would stop when we shared a bed.”

“Flattery? My lady, I speak only the truth.” Benedict tilted his head back, all the better to stare up at you. “Though you have made a grave error. If this is the only way I can convince you to continue our arrangement, I will do my utmost to win you over.”

“Then do,” you challenged.

Benedict grinned, though it went a little slack as you lifted up on your toes to start riding him in earnest. His hands rose to your waist, helping you rise and fall on him in an ever-quickening pace.

Your panting was loud in the quiet room, drowning out all sound from the street outside. Benedict was breathing heavier as well, matching you as your shared pleasure grew. Occasionally, a sound would escape one of you, spurring the other to repeat what they had done.

You found that tightening the muscles of your core when you were at the bottom of each stroke drove Benedict wild. He twitched inside of you each time, the muscles of his chest jumping under your palms. For his part, Benedict had discovered that tilting his hips changed the angle at which he reentered you. His constant experimentation kept you from growing accustomed to the sensations of your joining, and each thrust was new and different yet managed to build on all of those that had come before.

The slow and steady movement of you atop him had increased in pace and grown unsteady with the combination of weary muscles and need. Your thighs were trembling, and Benedict’s guiding hands had shifted to half-lifting you. The desire had grown thick inside of you, solidifying low in your belly as it wound tighter and tighter. The tension could not twist much further before it snapped entirely.

Benedict’s hand wriggled roughly under your dress once more. It was not subtle - you watched, dazed, as he fought past the layers of skirts and petticoats until he reached you - but you still jolted with shock when his fingers made contact with you. Dextrous fingers parted your damp folds, pressing between them until he could stroke gently over the sensitive button at the top of your slit.

You jolted again, tipping your head back to release an animalistic cry. That simple touch had snapped the tension entirely, and you were blinded by pleasure. Your body tightened and relaxed around him again and again, your inner muscles working over him even as the rest of your body continued to mindlessly shudder and thrust.

When you at last fell still, your core continued working around Benedict’s length. His hand rose to cup your cheek, and you glanced up to find him watching you with warmth in his eyes. “You are beautiful.”

You smiled at him, pressing briefly into his hand before gathering your strength. You lifted yourself from his still-hard cock, but did not retreat far. You sat slightly further back on his lap and began working your fist over him. The shine that you had left on him aided your efforts, and you soon found a speed and grip that made Benedict’s breath catch in his throat.

His hips danced subtly beneath you, working him through your hand until he gasped. Benedict’s hand wrapped around yours, tightening your shared grip as he sank his teeth into his lip and tried to contain a groan. His release burst from him a moment later, thick ropes of milky liquid coating your hands and leaking onto any clothing that had not been pushed far enough away.

When the tension in Benedict’s grip eased, you followed suit. Some men could not bear to be touched so soon after they had reached completion. It was best to take your cues from your partner until you learned what he liked.

There was a pensive sort of look in Benedict’s expression as he caught his breath. You reached over and snagged a scrap of fabric from what had been removed from the altered necklines and used it to wipe Benedict’s release from his skin. You took care to be gentle on both his manhood and his hand, then took the same care with your own fingers.

When you were both clean, you glanced up to find him watching you with a smile playing around his mouth. It was a common expression for him, but you could not help but think it looked lighter than you had ever seen it before.

“Cleaning us with silken handkerchiefs?” he teased. “What luxury.”

“I should rather think the son of a lord wipes his bottom with silken handkerchiefs,” you fired back.

“What an idea!” he said, pretending to consider it. “Perhaps I should suggest that when I return home.”

You hummed noncommittally.

Benedict allowed you nearly a full ten seconds of peace before he spoke again. “And? What is your verdict on our compatibility? I believe we are exceptional together.”

“I believe… we could be very well matched, indeed,” you admitted. You did not hold misgivings about Benedict save that you could already feel your attachment to him growing stronger. When your dalliance ended - and it would - you would be left shattered.

If only that seemed justification enough not to go through with it.

“I agree,” Benedict said, leaning forward to capture your lips in another kiss.

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Author's Note - Thanks for reading! I would feel too weird about having a story so close to canon for me to continue writing this fic, but I can't let it end without explaining that Madame Delacroix is the one who 'helped' Benedict find the reader.

I never do this, but I've gotten a good response from this fic, and I feel a little guilty because this is very much not my typical subject matter. If you like my writing and want to read more stories of this nature, you might enjoy Captured, which is written like an old pirate-themed bodice ripper. Or Dreams, which is similar to this in descriptions and certain themes, but is more supernatural. Both of the stories I've listed are a little darker than this one. I also have two Hobbit fics (A Boon and Dexterity - featuring Thranduil and Thorin, respectively) which have some Regency-ish manners and themes, but with a fantasy tilt. As always, check the warnings to see whether it's something you want to read.

Thank you for reading! I appreciate the kind words about yesterday's chapter. They really made me smile!

#fanfic february #fanfic february 2024 #bridgerton #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x you #fem!reader #reader #reader insert #reader insert fanfiction #reader insert fanfic #reader insert fic #spicy #lemon #not suitable for minors #minors dni

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bcbliophile · 1 year ago

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@3katanas asked:

There you are. I’ve been looking for you. - (for Penelope)

"Sorry-- I didn't mean to keep you waiting, my fitting for our engagement ball ran long" Penelope was flushed from having to rush from the dress maker's shop. She was working on the dress for their announcement, wedding and her bridal trousseau. They had gotten so caught up talking and planning she hadn't seen the time until another client walked in for their appointment. The redhead was in high spirits though as she got to see him today for a walk and some wedding planning with their families.

"Were you standing here long?" She asked, smiling warmly up at him, her maid keeping a respectable distance as to offer them some privacy while still acting as the chaperon.

#penelope's answers #3katanas #v ; secrets of the ton ( bridgerton )

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graceandfamily · 9 months ago

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Member of the wedding… Actress Grace Kelly (right), who took time out from Trousseau shopping to attend the March 23rd 1956 wedding of her fellow actress Rita Gam (left) and book publishing executive Thomas Guinzburg, stands with the happy pair after their marriage here at Guinzburg’s father’s Sutton Square apartment. Mrs. Guinzburg, nee Gam, will be a bridesmaid at Grace’s wedding to Prince Rainier at Monaco next month.

#grace kelly #rita gam #1956

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gracie-bird · 8 months ago

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Princess Grace of Monaco and her daughter, Princess Caroline, leave the Quincy market area in Boston on May 2, 1978, after having lunch in the historic area. Princess Grace denied they were shopping for her daughter's trousseau for her impending wedding to Philippe Junot.

#grace kelly #princess grace #turban #philippe junot #1978 #boston #quincy market

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connectingconstellations · 2 months ago

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Again! Again! 14.

14. Coming of Age - Maisie Peters

The AU where they aren't friends. Also timelines aren't real.

September 1780.

In the months since she's returned from London, James has hardly spoken to her. He's shrugged off her offers to help with the day-to-day workings of the print shop, even though before she left he used to occasionally give her some menial task that Henri had not yet completed.

She knows he thinks her flighty and shallow. Ever since she first arrived in the colonies he's always seemed vaguely irritated with her, even though she can't for the life of her work out what she's done that's quite so objectionable. He's an out-and-out patriot, to be sure, but it's not as though he's rude to every loyalist he encounters.

She hates the small part of her that expected some sign from him that he was happy to see her again.

Peggy, at least, had greeted her warmly, showing off her wedding band and the elaborate clothing and jewelry from her trousseau chest.

"An American officer?" Sarah had asked. "You're quite sure?"

"Well," Peggy had said conspiratorially. "They aren't all bad."

And now, in the aftermath of everything, Sarah has lost her only real friend. She doesn't even know what to say to Peggy. Peggy, who used to window-shop with her along market street, who would complain about the war making everything dull and expensive, who accompanied her on trips to New York to visit with Mrs. Radcliffe and imagine the young soldiers -- always uniformed in red, naturally -- that they might someday marry.

Well, Sarah supposes that Arnold will wear a red coat from now on. So Peggy was right on that count, at least.

"Did you know?"

Peggy huffs. "What does it matter? He's come around to the right side, hasn't he?"

When Sarah speaks, her voice sounds callous. "He hasn't changed his mind, Peg. He's committed treachery. Major André will be executed for it."

Peggy is angry now. They're only two years apart in age, but not for the first time, Sarah thinks of how young Peggy really is. Even now, with a disgraced husband and a condemned friend, she doesn't know whether Peggy understands the magnitude of what she's involved herself in.

And then she says, "Arnold is a hero for the Crown." She meets Sarah's gaze. "At least I don't have to dart back and forth across the ocean because no one wants me."

They are no longer on speaking terms.

Sarah misses a stitch in her embroidery and stifles a curse. Without Peggy, she doesn't know what to do with herself. She should have stayed in England.

"Did that fabric do something to offend you?"

She doesn't want to give James the satisfaction of getting a rise out of her, but she's worried that if she doesn't say anything she might start to cry.

"It doesn't signify," she mutters, though her next stitch is still exerted with more force than strictly necessary.

It's unseasonably warm, the last vestiges of summer making themselves known before the autumn chill sets in. James has rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, and Sarah finds herself momentarily distracted by his movements about the press.

Huh. She's not sure she likes the way it makes her feel.

She continues with her pattern, a ring of flowers to frame... something. She hasn't quite decided yet. She's keenly aware that James keeps looking at her in between the pages he prints.

He's probably thinking of another snide comment to make.

Instead, he asks, "Why did you come back?"

"I told you. My mother will soon join us in New York. The trees are very beautiful upstate."

James is looking at her with a strange expression on his face. "But... you're not in New York. And your mother isn't here."

Sarah squirms under his scrutiny. "Well. She will be. Eventually."

It's not a very good lie. They both know it. But he doesn't press her further, and she's grateful for it.

Instead, he says, casually, "Haven't seen Miss Shippen around here lately."

He has to know that he's picking at an open wound. Obviously Peggy's social calendar has been busy of late, what with her husband facing whatever punishment the Continental Army and Congress choose to impose on him, and with her dear friend sentenced to be executed as a spy. James is either unbelievably dense or he's bringing the topic up deliberately.

Something must register on her face, because he says, "I'm only making an observation."

"My heartfelt congratulations on your visual acuity."

"I thought your friend would want to see you now that you've returned from England."

You dart back and forth across the ocean because no one wants you.

He's needling her on purpose, she's sure of it, but before she can think better of it she says, "I don't make it a habit to become friends with traitors."

There's a pause. "I would think you would have been pleased with Arnold's actions." The condescending tone in his voice is gone. He seems genuinely shocked by her choice of words.

"I--" she hesitates. She feels unmoored. It's the most attention he's given her since she's arrived back in Philadelphia, and she doesn't know what to make of it.

So what if she thinks Arnold a traitor? The man was a turncoat who gave up his principles for money. That has nothing to do with her allegiance to the King and everything to do with Arnold's lack of dignity.

James is still staring at her.

"It does not signify," she says instead.

James purses his lips and returns to his position at the press. For a moment, she thinks he's decided to drop the subject.

Until he says, quietly, "Sometimes, things signify."

#liberty's kids #james hiller #sarah phillips #my writing #fic writers asks #okay but this AU is actually really fun to play around in?#iyowag takes priority but i might flesh this out more at some point #hmmm

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shaadidukaanseo · 2 months ago

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shaadiwish · 1 year ago

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jewelhousechandigarh19 · 2 months ago

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#sell gold #cash for gold #gold buyer #cash for gold near me #jewel house

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silverhallow · 2 years ago

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Could you please write something about Sophie going dress shopping with Kate and Violet before the wedding and going to Madame Delacroix and the awkward situation that Sophie is in as Benedict has told her that him had a fling with Madame Delacroix

So I’d done something similar in another story, another life I think… but I’ve had a go… it’s taken me a few days my muse has been a bit fickle so I hope it’s okay…

It’s below the cut just cause it’s about 1k so a bit long x

Sophie hadn’t expected Benedict to sit her down after breakfast before she was due to be dragged shopping by his mother and his sister-in-law, to get everything ready for the wedding on Monday and tell her everything about his past.

His roguish ways, his nights at Henry’s parties, his night with Geneveive and Lucy, his affair with Geneveive and then with Tessa and all the women before. It had almost blown Sophie’s mind and when she’d asked why he was telling her this he’d replied “I don’t want any secrets between us”

And Sophie hadn’t thought much about it, that was until the carriage pulled up outside of Madame Delacroix’s shop and Sophie felt her stomach drop.

Was that why he’d told her?

Did the seamstress still have feelings for him? Had the affair been more than he’d let on…

Had he been intent on flustering her… had he wanted to warn her, there were a million questions running through her head as she was helped down out of the carriage.

“Madame Delacroix is the best seamstress in London, she will have dresses ready that we can have altered to make up your trousseau, and with a little extra I am sure she can have some new things made” Violet said.

“It seems like such a short time…” Sophie said

“Oh Madame Delacroix manages this all the time, she managed it for me, I am sure she can sort something for you” Kate replied cheerfully, looping her arm into Sophie’s and leading her into the shop.

Sophie felt sick as they crossed the threshold into the shop and were greeted by an elegant looking woman, her greeting with the French accent was obviously fake and Sophie raised a brow.

She’d heard enough fake french accents from maids she’d worked with over the years to know a fake one when she heard one but it wasn’t her place, she was just working on just trying not to throw up.

What on earth was a woman meant to do when she is face to face with her future husband’s ex-lover…

“Ohhh Madame Delacroix, thank you for agreeing to see us on such short notice. Sophia here is in need of a full wardrobe and trousseau as soon as possible, she is to marry Benedict on Monday” Violet said brightly as she wandered into the shop.

“But of course, I have some dresses nearly ready that were meant for another but they have changed their mind, I think perhaps a few adjustments will fit and they look like the right colours, come through Mademoiselle, I can take your measurements” Geneiveve said, trying to keep her own voice breezy and polite.

“Go on, we’ll have a look at some materials, you’ll be fine sweetheart” Violet said encouragingly and Sophie had no choice but to go through.

She assumed that Violet had no idea about her son’s past with the seamstress so she followed her through to the back and within 10 minutes she was out of her dress and in her really old stays.

Sophie felt incredibly awkward, “I…” she stammered

“It is okay ma cherie… I have seen worse” she smiled softly

The two stood there for a few moments as Madame Delacroix grabbed her tape measure before Sophie couldn’t keep it anymore.

“Benedict told me about the two of you��”

Madame Delacroix froze but felt a small smile form on her face “that doesn’t surprise me… he is an honest person. I cannot imagine he would want to keep secrets from his wife, but do not worry, we have not been together for a long time. It was a bit of fun, nothing to worry about” she said politely.

“R…really?” Sophie asked

“Yes, we are nothing more than friends, we have not been for two years… we have spoken at parties, where he was there for the art, not for the women or anything, he went to paint, he spent a lot of time painting… well he painted you… in a silver dress” she said. “Even if I wanted to, he only had eyes for you, so please… do not worry, he loves you very much” she said “your stays, your past… nothing matters, after tomorrow, your future is brighter, you will be a Bridgerton… and we will make you look like the part”

“Thank you… truly, I was a little worried, I had no idea why he told me, I thought perhaps he wanted to warn me that you were still interested in him… I don’t know” Sophie said with a sigh of relief.

“Benedict is an honest man, i cannot imagine that he would want to keep his past secret from the woman he wants to spend his life with, and if he knows your past… then I am sure he would want you to know his”

“You know about my past…?” Sophie asked confused

“A woman’s stays says a lot about her. These are not the stays of the ladies of the ton, I know enough of the maids… and besides, I recognised you, you brought in a couple of Lady Penwood’s daughter’s dresses, but your accent it says as much as your stays do”

“Your accent tells me a lot about you too…” Sophie said with a small smile.

Genevieve chuckled and dropped the French accent “well yes, it was easier to take over from Crossy’s daughter’s if I pretended to be French, to blend in… something I am sure you know well”

“French is easier to use than to learn to drop the accent you knew for years but please do not worry, your secret is safe with me… I hope… that mine will be safe with you?” Sophie asked

Genevieve smiled “I hear things that I do not repeat, what happens in here, stays in here… it is not my place, besides, you are a lady of the ton, that is who you are, who you were born to be, you just got a little lost finding your way there… now…” she said with a pull of the tape measure and putting her accent back on as she heard the footsteps of the two Lady Bridgerton’s “let us show the world the latest Mrs Bridgerton!”

Sophie beamed, letting out a deep breath “Si-vous plait!”

The two women shared a smile as Kate and Violet walked in, unaware of what had passed and Sophie spent the afternoon being fitted with new stays, having dresses readjusted and some new ones designed and Sophie promised that she’d be back for more once she was settled.

#bridgerton #sophie beckett #benedict bridgerton #benophie #Benophie drabble #benedict x sophie #genevieve delacroix #ask ash

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